Chapter 4

Jane didn't bother to strip off before she climbed into the shower. She discarded her suit jacket, but remained dressed apart from that. She lowered her head into the stream and let it pound against her forehead. It stopped her seeing the way the water swirled vermillion around the plughole. There was so much blood that it took a full fifteen minutes for the redness to fade and the torrent to run clear again. After that, she peeled her sodden clothes away from skin that was beginning to wrinkle in the wet and threw them uncaringly on the tiled floor. Each item landed with a loud splat.

She shampooed her hair four times before she was satisfied that the matted lump was gone completely, and scrubbed herself down with most of a bottle of shower gel. However, despite rubbing her skin raw in places, Jane was unable to banish the faint bloodstains that lingered under her fingernails.

When she finally emerged from the bathroom wrapped in the comforting weight of a large fluffy towel, she found that Angela had cleaned most of her kitchen. Her mother had a habit of tidying and polishing things when she was feeling anxious. Jane had almost inherited the trait – she always vacuumed her apartment when she was struggling with a particularly tough case – but she couldn't compare with Angela. Her mother made things sparkle. And although she didn't fully comprehend it, Jane was certainly grateful.

"Heard anything from Frost?" Jane asked, full of both hope and dread.

Angela shook her head. "Nothing yet, but Frankie's gone down there now. He'll keep us posted."

Jane nodded; she was pleased that there would at least be one Rizzoli at the hospital should anything happen before she could get back. She wasn't sure why that was reassuring, but it was. Frankie was always a good man to have around in a serious situation – he was level-headed and could act as her proxy if need be. She trusted her brother, and liked the way he thought. She wouldn't admit it out loud, but she was glad Angela had called him instead of Tommy. She'd never felt like she could rely on her youngest sibling.

As she got dressed in her bedroom, Jane listened to the soothing sounds of her mother bustling away in the kitchen. It reminded her of being a kid back in their busy house, before her parents argued all the time, and long before her father upped and left.

Jane tugged on some slim-fitting jeans, an old grey Boston Homicide t-shirt and yanked her damp hair back into a ponytail. Her bare feet poked from the bottom of her trousers, and for a moment, she wondered how her toenail varnish had gotten so chipped. Ordinarily she didn't give a damn, but now she found it almost offensive. Maura wouldn't let that happen to her feet, she thought absurdly.

With a powerful sigh, Jane flung on some socks, grabbed a black zip-up hoodie, and called herself done.

"Ma?" she called, "Let's go!"

Angela didn't respond – she was busy putting together a stack of sandwiches.

"Ma, what are you doing?"

Her mother gave her an indignant look. "You don't know how long we'll be at the hospital, and I'm not going to sit around eating crappy vending machine food. Besides, I thought it would be nice to bring Frost and Korsak something."

"Well, hurry up, I need to get back."

"I'll just be a few minutes."

Jane swore under her breath, already champing at the delay. She checked her phone – nothing – and began pacing impatiently. As she reached to scratch the side of her nose, she saw the how her cuticles were still lined with blood and flinched away from her face. Quickly, she crossed to the sink and slammed on the hot tap. She coated her hands with soap and ground them together, frantically rubbing around her fingertips. Steam rose around her elbows as the water got warmer and warmer.

"For fuck's sake!" she shouted as the red stains continued to linger. She could have sworn they were getting bigger. Even the scalding water couldn't make them budge.

Angela's gentle hand on her bicep stopped her. "Come on now, Lady Macbeth," the older woman said kindly, "There's nothing there anymore."

"I can still see her blood." Jane whispered. "I can still feel it on my skin whenever I move. Still smell it. It's horrible, Ma. I can't make it go away."

"I promise you, sweetheart, it's gone. Trust me." Angela turned off the tap and took Jane tenderly by her wrists and showed her daughter her hands. "Look, all gone."

Jane shuddered out a wracking breath. Her shoulders slumped; she felt utterly woebegone. "I can't do this. I can't go through this with her."

"I thought the same thing when it was you in that OR," Angela said quietly. "You'd be surprised how strong you can be when it's somebody you love fighting for their life."

Jane stiffened at Angela's use of the word 'love,' unsure of entirely what her mother meant, but she chose not to question it. Those kinds of thoughts – in the brief moments she admitted she had them – took her somewhere she didn't want to go right now.

"Your job is dangerous, Jane, and there are times I'm scared for you. But I know you. And I know Maura. I've been less frightened for you ever since you started working together, because I knew that if something happened to you, she would make certain you were ok. She'd do everything she could, and I've seen you – you'd do the exact same for her."

"But what can I do?" Jane pleaded. "I'm no doctor; I can't stitch her up and make her better. I can't fix her. What the hell am I supposed to do?"

"You just have to be strong. I'm certain you can do that."

"Oh, Ma," was all Jane could say. She took her mother into her arms and held her tight. Angela hugged her back just as closely; she smelt like washing up liquid and home. Jane breathed deep, finding immense solace in the child-like joy of a mum's embrace.

"I'm sorry to be indelicate," a man's voice was saying from somewhere out of sight as they neared the waiting room, "But we need to know now if your friend is an organ donor. Time is critical here, and we can't wait for her mother to get back."

Jane looked at Angela, and saw the same panic she felt etched deeply into the lines of the older woman's face. Jane launched herself forward. Not Maura. Please. The voice was coming from an empty room. She all but sprinted to it and half collapsed in the doorway when she saw a completely different surgeon talking to two distraught teenagers.

"Sorry," she mumbled, and rapidly moved away. She clutched her stomach, waiting for the fear and nausea to subside.

"It's ok, Ma," Jane assured Angela as her mother caught her up. "Not anything to do with us."

Angela hissed out a long breath from between her teeth. "I thought we might have been too late," she said in a small voice.

Tears shone in her eyes. Jane yanked her into an awkward one-armed hug and planted a kiss on the top of her head. Shit, she muttered in the privacy of her own head. That cut much too close to the bone for her liking. She noticed her fists were clenched so tightly that her short fingernails were digging painfully into her palms. She uncurled her fingers and surveyed the half-moon indents; one on her right hand – just next to the scar Hoyt had given her – had punctured the skin, and was beginning to weep a tiny bead of red. Jane quickly licked it away and wiped her hand on her jeans.

"You all good, Ma?"

Angela nodded. Her face was white and her eyes seemed more liquid than usual. She didn't look 'all good,' but Jane knew this was as close an approximation as either of them would be able to manage.

By the time they reached the waiting area, Frost and Korsak had turned the small room into their own miniature office. They'd commandeered a white board from somewhere and had attached crime scene photographs to it, as well as scrawling notes across it. Frost had a stack of statements from the inhabitants of the local area, and Vince was drawing up a timeline to help track the gunman. Frankie was staring at the board with a glazed expression; he looked like he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

Jane took one look at the photo taped to the top of the board – a photo that clearly showed the puddle of Maura's blood – and grabbed a chair. A deep sigh escaped her as she moved the seat out into the hallway. She could bear to look at that blood. Frost watched her go with understanding, as Angela followed suit.

Jane slumped in the chair. "Talk to me," she said wearily.

Angela's mouth moved soundlessly as she groped for a safe subject. "We're trying a new brand of coffee at the station cafe," she finally replied lamely.

Jane snorted.

"A Columbian blend," her mother continued unenthusiastically. "It's supposed to be slightly less bitter."

"Ma?" Jane said, shaking her head. In spite of everything, she couldn't help but smile.

"Janie?" The corners of Angela's mouth twitched suspiciously, as though she was struggling to keep them in line. Mirth twinkled in her eyes.

A chuckle vibrating through her, Jane didn't respond, she simply laid her head on the older woman's shoulder, and settled in for a long wait.