Chapter 2

For three days after she shot herself, Jane Rizzoli was in critical condition. So critical, in fact, that the doctors in charge of her care insisted that only family members be allowed to visit her. Frank and Angela thus took turns sitting by the bedsides of their son and daughter, while Maura went back to work. There were autopsies to do, tests to be conducted, and forms to fill out, and while the work kept Maura's mind occupied, worries about Jane filled her heart. Angela called the department at least three times a day with updates on Jane's condition, and Frost and Korsak relayed the messages to Maura, but it was agonizing not to be able to be there tending to Jane herself.

She hated herself for what she had said to Jane. Who stands sat the bedside of a person who risked her own life to save others and tells them to grow up and stop playing the hero, she thought to herself, over and over again. I don't deserve her. Maura knew that she had acted out of fear and exhaustion—there were dozens of studies done on the human emotional response to trauma that would certainly explain and even justify her behavior—but none of that mattered since she could never take those horrible words back. Her only hope was that Jane wouldn't remember.

But Jane did remember. When she was finally extubated and allowed to remain conscious, the image of Maura shaking with anger, berating her for her actions, swam in the front of her mind over and over again.

The worst part was, she knew that Maura was right.

As the only woman in the Boston homicide department, Jane always felt different and inferior—on every case, sometimes every day. In her mind, all of the other detectives—except maybe Frost and Korsak—saw her as the weak link, the one who might fail simply because she was a woman. The physical requirements of her job were substantial and while she did her best to stay in shape she knew that it would never be enough. Everyone in the department knew what had happened to her with serial killer Charles Hoyt—how he had overpowered her and skewered her to the ground with scalpels in her palms. She hadn't been strong enough to stop him, and then he became obsessed with her, killing other women just to make her afraid. Taunting her with threats of sadistic rape and violence. How different would the case have been if she hadn't been a woman? She didn't know it for certain, but she imagined that her colleagues whispered about her behind her back, and perhaps wished that the rule banning women from the homicide division had never been lifted.

Jane didn't let these feelings of inadequacy keep her from doing her job, however. In fact, they only drove her to push herself further. She worked and lived every day as if she had something to prove, and as if she would spend the rest of her career in search of unconditional, ungendered acceptance.

So when Bobby, that bastard dirty cop who got everyone into this mess, tried to use her as a human shield in order to escape custody, she struggled against the vice-like grip he had around her neck and shoulders with everything she had. But she wasn't strong enough. She could see the line of police officers—her friends, her colleagues—all pointing their guns at her, desperately looking for a way out of a seemingly unwinnable hostage situation.

And she was the hostage, again.

So there was no question what she had to do. She screamed at the officers to shoot him, in blatant disregard for her own safety. Then she realized that if she were the one pointing the gun at Bobby, with some other woman as the hostage, she would never take the shot. He had too tight of a grip on her, it was too risky. She knew no one would do it.

She knew she had to do it herself. A shot through the abdomen, angled just right so that the bullet would exit her back and enter Bobby's chest, taking him out. Then there would be enough time to get Frankie out of the building and save his life.

In the mental calculations she made in those few terrifying seconds, as she made the decision to sacrifice herself for her brother and for her colleagues, she never once thought of Maura. Not until she pulled the trigger, fell, and saw a flash of red fabric and light brown hair running towards her. Only then did she remember that she had something new, something deep, and something wonderful to live for.

Lying in her hospital bed with nothing to do but think and worry, she replayed those scenes again and again in her mind, and her lack of concern for Maura at one of the most critical moments of her life haunted her more than anything else. She knew she loved Maura—loved her more than she had loved any boyfriend, or any other friend she had ever had. But apparently that love had not been enough to keep her from destroying herself.

She had said it before, many times—to her mother, to her friends, and to her colleagues, when they asked her why she didn't want to get married: Any man I could love wouldn't want me doing this job. And I love this job. As many times as she had said it, in her heart she had always believed that one day there would be someone whom she would love more than her job, and who would love her enough to accept without question the path she had chosen to follow in her life.

But now she knew it wasn't true. She would always put her job first. And that meant losing Maura.


"Jane, honey, look who's here to see you—it's Dr. Isles! The doctors finally say that it's okay for you to have visitors. Angela Rizzoli gently patted her daughter on the arm until she opened her eyes and looked around the room.

"Maura. It's good to see you," said Jane, rubbing her eyes so as to avoid looking into Maura's. "Ma said you sent flowers—thank you."

"She did much more than that, Jane! She kept you from dying out there! She was covered in your blood, Jane, your blood!" Angela started tearing up, so Maura gave the woman a hug and said, gently, "It's okay, Mrs. Rizzoli. Let's not talk about that right now."

Maura put on a bright face and turned towards her friend. "How are you feeling, Jane? I spoke with the doctor and he said that your prognosis is excellent, considering what happened. Are you in a lot of pain? I'm not sure if the doctor told you, but there are several alternate forms of pain management besides pharmaceuticals that we could try."

Maura took Jane's hand and sat by the bed, hoping that Jane would look at her, but regretted it when Jane finally turned toward her she looked into those deep brown eyes. Jane didn't say anything, and her gaze was distant and distracted. Maura wondered if it was the medication, or something else. She tenderly stroked Jane's forehead and cheek before lightly twining her fingers in the dark brown curls behind her ear.

Angela noticed something wasn't quite right with her daughter, too. "Are you okay, Jane? Aren't you happy to see Maura?"

Jane's eyes snapped back into focus and she looked at her mother. "I'm fine, ma, I'm just kind of tired and I think it's about time for another dose of pain meds. Could you go and ask the nurse?"

As soon as the door closed behind Angela, Jane looked at Maura and whispered, "Did you tell anyone anything? About us, I mean? About what's—about what was going on with us, before this happened?"

Maura withdrew her hand from Jane's face and suddenly felt very cold.

"Of course not. That's not my place. If I had, they probably would have let me in to see you sooner though."

Jane exhaled with relief. If she knew that Maura had intended her last remark to be cutting, she didn't let on. "Oh, good. Please don't say anything, okay? This is all just too much; I don't want anyone to know . . . what happened."

"What do you mean, 'what happened'? You say that as though our relationship is just an incident, a fling." She paused briefly before adding, softly, "A mistake."

Jane was immediately defensive. "Maura, don't make a big deal out of it! It's not like we—

"It's not like we what, Jane—had sex? We were close enough, you know."

"I know—God, Maura, don't you think I know that?"

"I don't know. I don't know what you think. I never know what you think, because you never tell me. You just wrap me in your arms and say that you want to hold me there forever, and then you shoot yourself and try to pretend like nothing happened. Try to pretend that you didn't whisper 'I love you' into my neck every night before you went to sleep—"

"Dammit Jane, I'm in love with you! And I know you know that . . . and I don't understand—"

Maura cut herself off, recognizing that she had let her emotions run away with her. "I swore I wasn't going to do this again, I'm so sorry, Jane." She saw tears welling up in the other woman's eyes, and she feared she might break down into sobs herself at any moment. After a few moments of silence, she mastered herself and decided it was time to just give in and stop arguing for the time being.

"Don't worry, Jane, I won't say anything. As far as anyone knows, we're just colleagues and friends."

Jane closed her eyes. "Would you mind going and seeing what's keeping my mother?"

Maura stood up. "Yes, and I'll talk to the doctor again about pain management, if that's okay."

"Sure, that'd be great." Jane didn't open her eyes.

Maura stopped just before she was about to open the door and step out into the hall. She turned around and said, in a low voice, "Jane, I'm really sorry about what I said . . . before. About you playing the hero? I didn't mean it and I feel awful about it."

"I know you didn't mean it. But that doesn't mean I didn't deserve it." Jane's eyes were open now, but she refused to meet Maura's gaze. "You were right, and I'm sorry."

"Jane—"

"Just get my mother, please?"