This chapter had been written before but was rewritten for very important reasons. I apologize for the wait.

It was bigger than Jane imagined, but the gutters were half off the roof and the lawn looked like it hadn't been cut for a week or more - which, she decided, wasn't all that surprising, since Casey had never quite enjoyed cutting the lawn at the home they had shared, either. Everything about the house seemed old and musty, something that reminded her strongly of her Nana's old house in one of the poorest sections of Boston. The walkway towards the front door was cracked and full of weeds.

"Mama?" It was Clare. Six years old, and her voice sounded many years older for her age; she was Jane's little person, little friend, little stranger, as she always seemed to be thinking of things and nurturing small, harmless secrets; secrets to her world, secrets to this world. She was smart and witty and never without a book. She reminded Jane of Maura, and sometimes when she looked at Clare, her heart stretched thin and wide, as if trying to run in two different directions. Sometimes, Jane couldn't stop the little voice in her head from going, she could be our daughter...

"Mama?" Clare said again, this time with an inquisitive stare at the house. "Is this really where Dad lives?"

Dad. She used to call him daddy. It was so startling that Jane gripped her steering wheel until her knuckles went white.

"Yup!"

Jane tried to sound happy. She tried to make herself smile. Even more, she tried to quell the feeling of bile rising in her throat. Her anger seemed perpetual. She had married for security, for the future that Casey had envisioned for them both.

And now this.

It was Anthony's turn to speak. "It's a dump," he said softly. "It's a rotten dump. Do we have to go?"

In the way that Clare always seemed to look older, Anthony managed to look younger. His eyes were softer, his face wider. He had rosier cheeks and rosier lips, and his sandy brown hair fell flat against his head, so long now that it covered his forehead and tickled his eyelashes. Put his school picture next to Casey's of the same age, and they were identical. It was something that Anthony once boasted about. Now, Jane had noticed, Anthony removed the side-by-side pictures in his room and dumped them in his desk drawer.

"Your father is looking forward to seeing you." She unbuckled her seatbelt. "And besides, I have work."

"We could go to Nana's."

Jane sighed. "No, you can't go to Nana's. Not today."

The three scooted out of the car, Anthony moving at an exceptionally slow speed for what he's used to and Clare moving with precision, making sure she grabbed her bag and had it slung against her chest just perfectly, so it didn't dig in her shoulder or slip off to the crook of her elbow. Anthony grabbed his bag and let it scuff against the ground as they walked up to the door.

There was no doorbell. Jane knocked. The door, she saw, seemed to be the one thing on the outside of the house that looked very new. It still smelled like paint.

Casey opened the door and, for the first time in a very long time, Jane saw him smile; it was the smile she had fallen in lust with, the smile that had assured it they would be okay, that everything would be okay. And though she knew it was not directed at her, she couldn't help but feel nostalgic.

Their marriage was good when things were good, and that was about all she could ask for, seeing as where they ended up.

"Hey!" he shouted enthusiastically, spreading his arms wide for hugs. But neither Clare or Anthony moved. Clare, in her not-six-years-old-voice, said,

"Hello, Dad."

Casey closed his arms. His face flushed, but if he was upset, he didn't really show it. He stepped aside for Jane and the children to come in, and, to each of their surprise, the house itself was very nice. The sitting area had two small, plush love seats (in a color that Jane, or Angela, for that matter, would never have allowed in the house... a deep, puce green), with a coffee table and a small fireplace. The stairs, although clearly very old, led up to what looked like a sunny, yellow hallway, and Jane smelled a candle burning.

She hadn't been expecting the smell of apple pie. She had been expecting the scent of stale beer.

"Like it?" said Casey. "And look, hey, Clare, c'mere," He started walking towards the kitchen, and Clare had few choices but to follow him. Jane, with an arm on Anthony's shoulder, proceeded into the kitchen as well.

It was small but very open, with two large windows surveying a petite yard that was mostly a tree and old, dying flowers. The orange walls warmed the room, hugged them all closer. Casey was pointing towards a little, homemade step-stool, painted in purple, yellow and green, with Clare's name on the very top level.

"Your favorite colors. I figured you could help me cook dinner tonight, like old times. These counters are tall. You're still pretty short." He ruffled her hair, which she seemed downright offended by, but she smiled politely.

Jane knew that those weren't her favorite colors anymore, and Casey, realizing he still wasn't going to get a hug, spoke again.

"I've got bedrooms for you upstairs. You both get your own room. Why don't you go up? There's a present on your bed."

Anthony and Clare turned, but Jane stopped them.

"Here," she said, digging in her wallet. She handed them both a ten. "Maybe you guys can walk down to the market later, yeah? Get yourself something. But Anthony, you don't let go of her hand, got it?" They both thanked her and ran up the stairs, eager both to get their presents and to be away from the tension building in the room.

"I've got money, you know. I have a job. You don't have to give them cash when they come over here."

"Jesus, Casey, that wasn't some personal attack."

"Sure felt like it."

"Mind if I grab something to drink?" Jane didn't wait for his response; she walked to the fridge, opened it, and let her eyes scan each shelf. There was juice, milk and three cans of Pepsi, and the only real food she saw was a carton of eggs, a bag of baby carrots and a tub of butter.

"There isn't beer in there, Jane. I know what you're doing."

Jane closed the fridge.

"Just ask," he demanded. "If you want to ask, just ask. If you want to look, look." His voice rose, and with every louder syllable, Jane grew angrier. She knew Clare and Anthony were listening. They had heard enough of their parents fights. One was too many, and she didn't like to think about what count they were up to.

"Hey!" spat Jane. She kept her voice low, but every word was annunciated perfectly. She made every word crystal clear. "I don't have to be here. They don't have to be here. I could go to a judge and have full custody in a second, Casey, but we're here. They're here. You said you're sober, you showed me your chip, I'm taking your word for it. But that doesn't mean I don't have the right to make damn sure that you are doing what you said you're doing. So I'm going to check your god damn fridge for beer and I'm going to look in every room of this house, and if I had remembered the breathalyzer, you'd be doing that too. Those are my kids, Casey. And I will not this hurt them anymore than it already has."

"They are my kids, too!" he said in the same low, hushed voice. "I love them!"

"Then prove it." Jane whispered pointedly. "Prove that you're a father, Casey. Grow up."

"I'm sick of you being so condescending. I've made mistakes, Jane, I'm not perfect! Maybe if you had stuck around a little longer, you'd see the person that I've become. But no, you just run when things get tough."

"When things get - " Words failed her. She spluttered, her hands tightening into fists. She wanted to hit him. She could have hit him, and not regretted it. And Casey knew that, and Jane knew that Casey knew that, because she saw him flinch. His words hung in the air between them.

The first time it had happened, Jane had forgiven him.

"Hey, hey, hey, don't leave your mitt there, Anthony. Take it to your room."

"K, Ma," said Anthony, tearing his burly winter coat off as he ran up the stairs.

"And don't you dare leave that coat on the floor!" Jane shouted after him. She heard his door slam and the baseball mitt hit the ground. She shook her head and smiled a bit, looking down at her daughter. "Boys are slobs, huh?"

Clare nodded wisely, her dark chocolate curls bobbing at her bright blue eyes seemed to sparkle.

Jane took her daughter's coat and hung it up on the coat hanger by the door. It was old, gaudy and falling apart. Every day she hoped that it would finally be the day that it collapsed and smashed into millions of little wooden pieces. She had hated it since the day Angela brought it in the door, claiming it was an old family heirloom and Jane must put it in the house.

"Tacos for dinner?" asked Jane. Clare looked up, shocked.

"But it's December."

Jane chuckled. "We can have tacos in December."

"We never have tacos in December."

"How would you know? You're barely five. Maybe when you were four or three or two or one, we had tacos every single night in December and you just don't remember."

"Did we really?"

"No," said Jane with an exaggerated, playful sigh. "I really don't think we've ever had tacos in December. It just doesn't seem right, does it?"

"Mama!" squealed Clare, jumping up and pulling on Jane's arm. Jane laughed and dragged her daughter to the kitchen all while Clare continued to giggle. She pushed the swinging kitchen door open with her shoulder. When both she and Clare were inside, Jane's laughter ceased. "Hi Daddy!" shouted Clare. She released Jane's arm and went to run towards her father, but Jane pulled her back.

Casey was slouched over on the table, snoring loudly, a long thread of drool seeping from his mouth. Seven empty cans of beer laid around him.

"Out, Clare."

"Is Daddy sleeping?"

"Daddy's sleeping. Go upstairs and tell Anthony that you two need to do your chores before dinner."

With very little verbal protest, but a significant increase in the thud of her footsteps, Clare stomped out and up the stairs.

First, Jane picked up the cans, pouring them all into the waste bin at the edge of the counter. Casey barely stirred as she moved around him, picking up glasses and dishes that seemed to have multiplied twice over since she took the kids to the batting cages. It wasn't until she whacked the side of the table with an old cooking book did Casey lurch upwards, his eyes glossy and drool crusted to the corners of his mouth.

"Are you fucking serious, Casey?" Jane was seething. She kept her voice low. He looked around groggily. He was still drunk, Jane realized. "You realize you've got kids, right? You realize that you're a father? It's the middle of the day!"

Casey stood, wobbled a bit, then sat back down.

"'Allo," he waved, letting his head rest in his own palm. "Right, sorry. Erm, wot time - is it dinner?" His accent was thicker when he was drunk, and his voice gruffer and deeper.

"Yeah," Jane slammed the fridge shut. "The dinner that you were supposed to get groceries for. We have nothing, Casey. We don't even have milk. How am I supposed to make lunches for the kids tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow?"

"School, Casey." she yelled. "They have school! Look, just, go. Go upstairs once we leave. I'm taking the kids out to dinner."

"Nah, no, no, Jane, I'll go to the store. Just gimme a min-"

"You are drunk. You think you're leaving the house like that?" She grabbed her keys from the counter and took his from the hook. "Go to bed. Get some sleep. We'll talk about this in the morning." She shoved open the swinging kitchen door and stood at the bottom of the stairs. She yelled for her children, who, unsurprisingly, weren't very far; they had clearly been sitting just beyond the wall at the top of the stairs, trying their mightiest to hear the conversation going on in the kitchen. Anthony came trampling down first, leaping off the third step and onto the landing. Clare paused on the last step.

"We're gonna go out to dinner. Grab your coat."

"Zeke's?! Can we go to Zeke's?!" shouted Anthony, already shoving one arm into his coat. "Hot dog and mac n' cheese, please," he repeated over and over again, almost in a rhythmic chant. Clare remained silent, and Jane grabbed her coat, but instead of putting it on. Clare only stared.

"Isn't daddy coming with us?"

"No," said Jane shortly.

"Is daddy still sleeping?"

"Daddy's still sleeping.'

"Why is daddy sleeping? Is he sick?"

Jane saw where this was going. Clare could ask a million questions and never get bored. She wanted answers. She was always wanting answers.

"Daddy's a little sick, but he'll be better in the morning, I think."

I hope, thought Jane.

"I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry. How many times do I have to apologize before you believe me?"

"You wouldn't have to apologize anymore if you'd just stop being such a self-absorbed asshole, Casey. Even now, you're not thinking of me or the kids when you apologize. Listen to your apology. How many times do you have to apologize? How many more times do you have to say those words, even though they're meaningless, before I just let you off the hook? How many more times do you have to waste your breath, waste your time? Save us all a little time, yeah?"

"I lost my friends in the war. I lost my job. I lost my leg." He shook his left leg, where Jane knew there was no longer flesh, but a substitute. "I lost everything, Jane! I was suffering! I made mistakes!"

"You never lost us, though. You gave us away. You made a choice. We all have a choice."

She turned away to walk upstairs. Casey followed, silently, but Jane knew their conversation was far from over. She found Anthony's room first. It was half the size of his room at home but big enough to fit a bed and a desk, similar to the ones he already has. A thick, blue wool blanket covered the bed. There were action figures in the window, and Anthony sat cross-legged on the floor with torn wrapping paper and a new lego set.

"Like it?" asked Casey nervously. "Mom told me you started getting into Harry Potter. That's, uh, that's Diogan Alley, right?"

"Diagon," corrected Anthony, but he smiled. "Yeah, they're real cool, right Mom? We've been reading them at night. Clare listens, too, but she doesn't like them as much." He dumped the contents of the box on the floor and stretched out so he was belly flat and legs kicking against the chair of the desk behind him.

They found Clare tucked neatly in the corner of her bed, a pile of four books next to her, the wrapping paper, though empty, still in a ghostly shape of its previous contents, as the little girl had only plucked the loose tape off and slid the books out. If Jane hadn't of been there for her birth, she sometimes swore that her daughter came from somewhere else.

Clare's room was a little bigger, but not by much. There was a larger window and a few shelves on the walls, but the differences stopped there. A similar, if not identical, desk to the one in Anthony's room was pushed up against the window and the bed was wedged between that and the wall.

"What do you have there?" asked Jane, sliding easily next to her daughter on the bed. She picked up one of the books. "Hm," She hummed, flipping through the pages. "These certainly look interesting." Clare loved to read. Jane was sure that soon they would have to buy a bigger house in order to store all her books - and many of them weren't very small, as she was well above her reading level.

"I know she's only six," said Casey from the doorway. "But the lady at the bookstore said those would make good bedtime stories, too."

"She's been reading most of Anthony's books. She'll probably blow through these no problem," responded Jane, feeling herself glow with pride. She kissed the top of Clare's head and walked past Casey out of the room. She stopped in Anthony's doorway. "I'll be back around seven to pick you guys up, okay?"

"They could stay the night."

"Today's Sunday. They have school tomorrow."

"I'll take them."

"With what license?" Jane could still hear the ringing of the phone, the voice of an old friend at the BPD, "Jane, it's your husband, we've booked him for a DUI...".

"We'll take the bus."

"No."

"Please don't fight." came Anthony's small voice. Both Jane and Casey turned to look; he was standing now, the progress he made on the lego set destroyed by his foot when he stood. Jane's face softened.

"We're not. We won't. Your dad and I are going to go downstairs and talk to a minute. I'll see you tonight, okay?"

"Yeah," muttered Anthony. He kicked at a lego piece. "Okay." Jane bent forward and pressed a kiss to his forehead too, which normally he would shrink away from, but his arms slipped around his mom and he pulled her tight. Jane didn't want to pull away.

Back downstairs, Jane opened the front door herself. Casey called out to her just as she was halfway down the drive, and Jane turned; she didn't want to, but his voice sounded different; it sounded broken, half-dazed. His face was scrunched up and his forehead was crinkled. He was looking down at the ground when she turned to look at him, but when he felt her staring, he looked up.

"Would you have been happier with her?"

Her throat clenched. It was something they didn't talk about. Nobody talked about it. Not Angela, not she and Casey, not her brothers. After Maura moved away. they all moved on with their lives as best they could. And nobody brought up the wedding. Nobody brought up Jane, doubled over in her dressing room, crying into Angela's arms after the ceremony.

"Casey..."

"Could I ever have made you happy? No matter what I did?"

She wanted to say yes. She wanted to scream, to shake, to cry. Everything inside of her wanted to believe that Casey could have made her happy. She wanted to believe that she made the right choice, and that yes, he could have made her happy, if only A, B, and C hadn't happened. Yes, they could have worked out. Yes, this would have been enough for her.

But it was a lie.

"I think we could have had a nice life, Casey," she said carefully, mulling over her word choices. "I think our kids could have been happier than they are right now."

"And us? Would we have been happy?"

Jane frowned. "I think we would have been content."

"But not happy."

"But not happy."

"Mama?"

The room was so dark. Jane couldn't see Clare at the top of the stairs, but she could feel her presence like a warm summer wind, hear her voice blowing through her hair, startling her off balance. Clare was like that. She demanded to be heard and seen simply by existing. It was something Jane loved about her daughter very much. Her footsteps padded down the stairs and thumped softly across the wooden floor. Jane saw her only when Clare stood inches from her face, her tiny, warm hands patting Jane's leg.

"What are you doing up, Mama?"

It was a good question. She had sent the kids to bed hours ago. Her plan was to stay up and wrap their Christmas presents, but in an effort to gather the wrapping paper from the basement, she came across a box of memories that hit her heart like a rod of lightening. She dragged it upstairs and let it drop to the floor in front of the couch. She sank down into the cushions and pulled the contents of the box onto the table, one by one until the room was so dark that she couldn't see, and until her heart was so tired that she didn't have the energy to flick on a light.

"I couldn't sleep." said Jane. It was a lie. She could sleep if she wanted to, but her empty, cold bed would only remind her of how alone she was, and the back of her eyelids would play like a film, rolling a tape of an alternate lifestyle - the one that she could have had, the one that she threw away.

Clare reached for the light. With two clicks, it was on, and the living room was bathed in a soft, yellow glow. She stared at the coffee table. Usually it was very clean, with only a few magazines and some toys littering the hard oak. When Casey still lived with them, there were sometimes sticky rings from a drink at the edges of the table closest to the couch. Crumbs, too, and sometimes a small trail of ants, which Clare always imagined to be singing with anticipation of their bountiful feast. Sometimes, when Jane would vacuum them up, Clare would animate their voices - always high-pitched, and always with a strange, foreign accent. They would yell to their friends to grab as much food as they could before the big wind sucked them up. And inside the vacuum, she said, they would have their feast, as they lounge with their pet dust bunnies.

For all her practicality, Clare still had the imagination of a young girl, which Jane hoped she would never lose.

"What's this?" asked Clare, pointing to a photo album. It was old and there were water stains from the leaking pipe just above the shelf where the box had sat. It didn't ruin the pictures, though, which Jane was very grateful. Clare, being so polite, was awaiting permission to open it, and Jane was wary to give it. How would she explain these people to her daughter? These people that meant so much to her?

How would she explain Maura?

"It's, uh," Jane leaned forward and grabbed the album, letting its weight rest flat in her hands. "It's a photo album from a long time ago. Before daddy and I were married. Before, uh, actually, actually a lot of it is from before your dad and I met up again." She traced the edges with her fingertips, then nodded to Clare to move up next to her on the couch. The front cover opened with a long whine. The binding was stiff.

The first few pages were from her days at the Academy. These friends were long gone, having transferred to different departments, different states, gone into the Feds or otherwise simply vanished without another word. There were only three that she still saw or spoke to at work - Meeks, Vance and Carpenter were their names, all in different departments but all still friendly - and she pointed each of these out to her daughter, giving a little background information.

Meeks was the tall, gangly, goofy looking guy standing next to her in the lunch hall. He had bright red hair, and his first name was Gregory, but everybody called him Meeks and that suited him just fine.

Caroline Vance was very shorter - almost a foot below Jane - and still had her long, fine brown hair, but nowadays it was tied into a tight bun or a long braid. She worked in a special division that helped kids, Jane told Clare, and that she had a daughter about Clare's age, but she wasn't sure of her name.

Nick Carpenter was in the fewest amount of pictures, and Jane attributed that to the fact that she never really liked Nick that much. He was a bit bossy, said Jane, and he didn't like women partners very much, and that bothered Jane a lot and sometimes, due to misfortune or a higher-up that just enjoyed seeing both Jane and Nick squirm, they were teamed together most of the time. He was still working as a beat cop. Jane beat him out for detective.

A few pages showed Jane's graduation from the Academy, and then there was Frankie's. All were mysteriously missing Uncle Tommy, but Jane wasn't sure how to explain that to Clare just yet, so she said he was away, which wasn't technically a lie. And at the end of that section, Jane stopped Clare from turning the page. The rest of the album, more than seventy-five percent, Jane had guessed, was what she had silently called "The Maura Era".

They sat there in silence with Jane's hand resting atop her daughter's. Finally, after five or so minutes, Jane pulled back her hand and Clare, after a reassuring nod from Jane, turned the page.

There she was. Maura Isles. Maura Isles at 31, 32, 33. Maura Isles at her 34th birthday party, which was celebrated at the Dirty Robber with nearly the entire floor of the BPD Homicide Unit. Maura and Jane. Maura, Jane and the team. Maura and Jane sitting in their booth. Maura and Jane dirty in the kitchen, a snapshot captured by Angela as the two fought over who was cooking the right way. It was playful. There was flour caked in their hair. The kitchen, by Maura's standards, was a mess.

And there were photos of family dinners and holidays. Jane's heart ached. She could hear laughter, china clinking and before-meal prayers, led by Angela and followed only by Tommy and Korsak who, surprisingly, was fairly religious, though Jane suspected his sudden interest in Catholicism was parallel to his sudden interest in her mother. In some pictures, they were all laughing. Some they were smiling, their lips on the brink of shattering from being stretched so thin and wide. When had Jane been that happy? When had she felt that last?

The only memories she could equate them with were memories of her children. It spoke very loudly of her failing marriage, even before the alcohol and infidelity.

Ten years.

Ten years without that jaw breaking smile.

Ten years without her.

"What's her name?" asked Clare, pointing to a picture of Maura. It was a beautiful picture. Maura looked radiant. Jane remembered when it was taken. In fact, she was the one behind the camera. They had gone for a run, and they had stopped in a secluded area of the park that they hadn't been to yet. Jane had snapped the picture with her phone. Maura hadn't been looking, but her butterscotch hair was tied back in a tight ponytail, the natural waves still evident even though some strands were painted dark with sweat. The sun sprinkled through the trees and splashed Maura's smooth skin with a honey-gold. She was glowing. She was gorgeous.

"Maura." said Jane thickly. Her mouth was dry. "Maura Isles."

"I've seen her before."

Jane's heart stopped. "What?"

"In your wallet. There's a picture." She blushed, afraid she was in trouble. "When you asked me to get your purse for you one day I accidentally dropped it. The wallet fell out and I opened it. The picture was inside."

"Oh," replied Jane quietly. She had forgotten about that. She had two wallets, one with her work information and one for everyday use. Maura's picture was in her work wallet. "That's okay. I don't mind. Actually," Jane paused. "Actually, you get your middle name from Maura."

"I do?" asked Clare, clearly fascinated.

"Her middle name was Dorthea. Just like you. D- " Jane stopped herself. She was going to say don't tell dad, but she didn't anticipate the kids seeing Casey anytime soon. His rehab treatment wouldn't be over for months. And even then, Casey probably knew. He was shocked when she suggested Dorthea and had asked if it had any meaning. Jane had said no.

"She's in a lot of pictures."

"She was a very important person to me."

"Where is she?"

Jane grimaced. "I don't know where Maura is." What an awful thing to say, she thought miserably. She had never said it aloud. There was never a reason to do so. Nobody talked about the past anymore. Not even Angela, though Jane had long suspected that, at some point, Angela had kept in touch with Maura. But not now. Not anymore.

"How come? Did you guys have a fight?"

She was looking at another picture now. It was of Jane and Maura huddled on the couch after the ski trip that Maura had begged Jane to accompany her on. They were caught in the middle of a laugh. There was still snow in their hair. Jane wished she could remember the joke.

"We didn't have a fight," Jane replied. "We both... it's..." Complicated, thought Jane. It's complicated, Clare, and I can't explain it to you because I don't want you to think that I regret marrying your father, because if I hadn't, I'd never have you.

"You look happy." said Clare quietly. It was such a simple comment. To Clare, it was nothing. To Jane, it was everything. "You should find her, Mama. I want to meet her. We would probably be good friends, since we share the same middle name."

"I imagine you two would be very good friends." Jane was holding back tears. "She liked books too, you know. You're actually a lot alike. She worked with me at the police station."

"Was she a detective too?"

"No, she was a medical examiner. It's like a doctor, but she would help people who were already... well, it's like... you know Heaven, right? And how Mama helps solve crimes that bad people do, that hurt other people? And sometimes those people go to Heaven? Well their bodies are still here, and Maura would examine them, and she would help figure out how the person hurt them, and what it was that sent them to Heaven. That would help us put the bad guys away."

"So she was a detective."

"I guess," Jane laughed softly. "Kind of. Just with a lab coat."

"A science detective!"

Jane stroked her daughter's hair, burying her laughter in the sweet smell of strawberry shampoo. "Yes, I like that. I think Maura would like that too."

"We could be detectives, but instead of finding bad guys, we find good people, like Maura. We can be a team. Maybe we could start by putting up these pictures. Is she lost, Mama? Remember when we lost Sonny?" She pointed towards the light brown dog sleeping in the corner. "And we put photos up everywhere and someone called and said they found him because they recognized his picture. So we'll take these pictures of Maura and put them up and someone will find her and we can go let her know that we have the same middle name. Anthony can help, too, maybe. If he's not being grumpy. I think this picture," She pulled the picture from the park out and handed it to Jane. "I like it. I think other people will like it too."

"You can barely see her face," said Jane, gripping the photo a bit tighter.

"But you can see she's a good person in this picture. It's like you can see something from inside her. People like to help people that look like good people, right?"

And there she was. There was her daughter, older and wiser beyond her years, older and wiser than maybe even Jane herself sometimes. She looked sleepy, but her face was so long and angular, her eyes so bright and alive with her thoughts. Six years old? Jane could hardly believe it. She wrapped her arms around Clare very tightly, pulling her as close as she could.

She had to stop thinking that marrying Casey was the wrong choice. How could that of been a wrong choice when she had two reasons to love life more than anything, one of which was sleeping soundly in his bed and the other wrapped in her arms.

It wasn't the wrong choice. It was the choice that caused pain and heartbreak, the choice that broke friendships and families.

But it was also the choice that brought a lot of love. Most importantly, it was the choice that gave Clare to Jane, her little person, her little adult; the little gift that reminded Jane every day that there was plenty of places in life for laughter, for knowledge, for happiness and for love. Clare was the gift that reminded Jane what she has always needed, and never stopped wanting.

Maura.

She wanted Maura.

"Maybe you're right, Bear," muttered Jane, calling Clare by a nickname that had long been forgotten amongst a barrage of memories. Anthony had such a hard time saying her name as a toddler. "Maybe we should find her."

"Really?" The little girl's messy curls fell over her eyes as she pulled herself away from Jane's chest, so excited she nearly pulled Jane with her. "I think that would be very nice, Mama. I bet she'd like to see you. Can we go tomorrow?"

Jane chuckled. Her daughter's enthusiasm was never-ending, regardless of the task. She dragged the blanket at her feet up around them, bundling herself to her daughter and letting Clare settle in her arms. The little girl's breathing was already becoming heavy, and Jane listened to her quietly rattle all of her ideas for finding the beautiful woman in the photo, and all the things that they would all do together, and, just as her eyes fluttered closed, Jane heard her mumble, "and maybe daddy will help us, too, when he comes home,".

The first thing Jane saw when she closed her eyes was the first and last kiss she and Maura shared.

January in Boston was bitterly cold and so miserable that every year, Jane threatened to move to California and never look back. Randolph, her three-year homicide partner, always rolled his eyes and shook his head, knowing quite well that Jane would never leave Boston, and she knew he was right. There was too much of her invested in every crevice in the city. She bled into Boston, becoming a part of the city, living in its pulsing heart.

But she tried not to think about Randolph much, or the precinct, or the fact that now she worked as a security guard at a mall just outside of Boston. Without a second parent at home, it was too hard to work as a detective and be a part of her children's lives. It was a sacrifice she had been willing to make, but she wouldn't lie to herself or anyone who asked her if she missed it. She did. She missed it very much.

Her car chugged out of Casey's subdivision street and spat out clouds of exhaust. She knew that it was time to find something new, and she could easily afford it, but there was a part of her that couldn't bare parting with something that was older than even her children. She knocked lightly on the dash, almost patting it as if it were an animal or the top of a child's head. You can do it, she thought. You just keep on going.

Casey being out of rehab already was not something she had expected, or necessarily wanted, although the idea of having a few hours to herself was exhilarating and also left her feeling guilty. Her time with her kids was wonderful, but her mind had been elsewhere since that night on the couch with Clare, and there hadn't been a single day that went by where she didn't think about Maura or about finding her.

"Randolph. It's Rizzoli." she spoke firmly into her phone, her stomach doing flips. It was what the kids always called 'her detective voice', and Anthony loved mimicking it while speaking into his hand. That would always send Clare into a fit of hysterics. Randolph greeted her cheerily, and Jane could hear commotion in the background. She was itching to know what cases they were working on, but she bit her tongue and spoke over him. "Yeah, look, hey, did you get that address for me? There was a paper that I left at work before I left. A little stub..." And after a few more minutes of chatting, Jane scratched down an address on a gum wrapped while waiting at a stop sign. They hung up shortly after. She missed Randolph. He was young and reminded her of Barry Frost, who had left five years ago to join the FBI. The only significant difference was that Mark Randolph had a stomach of steel, and Barry Frost lost his lunch over a papercut.

It wasn't a far drive. Jane was surprised; she had imagined the esteemed mother of Maura Isles to have retired to a country home by now, someplace in Europe or down south, but the address was local Boston, in one of the more extravagant neighborhoods. It took Jane a moment to find the house addresses (they ended up being painted neatly on the curb, rather than at the side of the door), and finally she pulled into a long drive that led up to a three story house.

Her hands shook as she neared the door, but she knocked three times, very firmly, and waited, the cold biting at her nose.

Constance Isles hadn't changed a bit.

Her hair was a deep, plum red. She looked a bit older, but not by much, and Jane wondered if Constance was merely lucky or had used their fortune for a bit of subtle plastic surgery. Even at eleven o'clock in the morning, she was dressed as though she were leaving for a business trip or a meeting. A diamond necklace fell gently on her collarbone. She had lost weight, Jane noticed, and a significant amount.

"Constance."

"Jane Rizzoli."

It wasn't friendly. Jane hadn't expected it to be. They had never had much of a relationship and, overall, their interactions were very lacking. Constance was a part of Maura's life in a very small way, and Jane had respected the boundaries Maura placed between them. Some may call it self-preservation. Jane always saw it as well-acknowledged fear.

"I was wondering if I could come in, if it's not too much trouble."

"It is."

For a moment, Jane thought Constance was going to close the door. She figured her saving grace was Constance's insatiable curiosity.

"I'm looking for Maura. I, uh," Jane unbuckled the bag hanging at her side and pulled out a clump of letters bundled together with some kitchen string. "I've sent letters and they all get returned. It was the only address I had for her. I wasn't sure if," she paused, stuffing the letters back in her bag. "I got lucky with your address. I found an article about an art showing that you had hosted here. I was wondering if..."

This time, Constance did move to shut the door, but Jane leapt forward and slid inside.

"Please listen to me."

"You broke Maura's heart." sniffed Constance. There was a look in her eyes. Jane couldn't quite place it; she had few memories of Constance, but what she did have was a memory of a very proud woman, a very happy, self-assured woman. This was a woman that looked tired and sad, and still a little proud, but mostly lonely. "Why should I tell you where she is? Why should you be allowed to know anything about her?"

"Because I'm trying to fix things."

"Ten years later."

"I didn't realize I could fix things. My daughter..."

"You have a daughter?"

"And a son. Anthony and Clare. Nine and almost seven. She'll be seven in a week. And she's smart. Maura Isles smart."

"Is that so?"

"It is." said Jane earnestly. "And she's the reason I'm doing this. She made me realize... I don't know what she made me realize, but I've changed. I'm stronger. I'm braver. I've stopped wasting my time regretting the choices I made and blaming other people. I want to fix everything. I want to take back what I threw away."

Constance stood there, unreadable. Jane wondered if she was going to kick her out, yell at her, scream. Maybe she deserved it. She had waited ten years to find Maura. Maura could be married. Maura could have kids. Maura could be in England, France, Germany. Could she fly there? Where was the line? Ten years was a long time.

But Constance turned around and flipped through an address book sitting on a small table by the door. Jane couldn't read it, but soon she was scribbling down an address, and she folded the slice of paper and extended her hand to Jane. As Jane reached for it, Constance pulled back a little.

"I don't believe a word you say," she uttered. "Maybe you have changed, but you can't expect to walk back in here after ten years and find things as picture perfect as you thought you could leave them. Everything changes. Change is inevitable. And for everything about you that is different, remember that everyone else has changed too." She thrust the paper at Jane, which she accepted and pushed into her pocket. Constance eyed her. "You'll find her at that address. I wish my daughter hadn't loved you."

Jane nodded. "Me too, Constance." She turned and walked out the door, but not before spotting a pair of tiny eyes peeking out from the door of another room, very green and very inquisitive.

She didn't recognize the street. She plugged it into her phone and drove, beating her thumb nervously against the steering wheel. No music. It made her more nervous, somehow, and caused her heart to beat faster, faster, faster, like it was going to explode. Every turn she took made her stomach flip. Would this be it? What about this street? Would she be home? Was her hair still long and wavy? Did her eyes still sparkle?

Jane wanted to hear her laugh.

Her phone spat out the last of the directions and she followed the long, winding road for another mile. There were houses on either side of her and the road was very narrow, lined with thick trees that shielded the homes from prying eyes. A few more centimeters, a few more... her eyes kept glancing down at the phone, looking at the little dot moving down the road.

But then the road opened up. The trees abruptly stopped, and there was a long, black iron fence that ran around the perimeter of an area just to the right of Jane. She looked back down at her phone, then up ahead. There weren't anymore houses. It was mostly fields to her left and, looking more closely, a cemetery to her right. The little headstones looked like the top of popsicles. A few larger, taller monuments stuck out, milky white and topped with melting snow.

Jane's heart stopped. She watched as her little dot got closer to the destination, where a driveway should lead to a house, where a door should be at the end of the driveway, where Maura Isles should be behind a door. And then her dot was on top of the address, and Jane's car was at the bottom of a drive, but it didn't lead to a house, it led to a parking lot, which led to an office, which led to a person behind a desk that was not Maura Isles.

She stopped her car in the middle of the road. Her throat tightened and cold seeped into her like she was a sponge. Snap her in half, and she would crack like an icicle, littering the ground with splices as sharp as glass. The panic came in sharp, heavy waves. Sloppy tears wet the steering wheel, her pants, her jacket - everything, they touched everything, and Jane was sure that she could flood the world. She slammed her fist against the dashboard again and again until the car seemed to flinch under her fury. It gave a puttering, loud protest. She tore open the door and knelt onto the ground, feeling sick. The cold she felt inside of her was nothing for the January wind or the snow clinging to her legs.

Too late.

She was too late.

Ten years was too late, and she heard Constance's words playing in her head like a broken record.

"Everything changes. Change is inevitable. And for everything about you that is different, remember that everyone else has changed too."

She could see her sad eyes, and it made sense, and that only caused Jane to slouch down more, coughing and crying and crying and crying. After a moment, she picked herself up and sat with her back pushed up against the tire. She looked around her. She was in the middle of the road. Behind her was the cemetery. It began to snow, and Jane looked up at the sky and let it wet her face, mixing with her salty tears and cooling her hot, stinging eyes.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this," she whispered, pulling her knees to her chest and hugging them. "It wasn't..."

Not bothering to move her car, Jane stood, shook herself off and walked across the parking lot to the old office building made of white marble. The door jingled when she came in, and an older woman with salt-and-pepper hair stood behind a desk. She looked up and smiled, and Jane couldn't help but wonder how anyone working here could ever smile.

"Can I help you, dear?"

"Maura Isles. I'm looking for Maura Dorthea Isles." she said quietly.