Author Note: Thank you all for staying with me, despite my dwindling motivation earlier on.
Do you want the good news, or the bad news?
There isn't any bad news /haha, just good: ONE MORE CHAPTER! I just couldn't wrap it up at the end of this one. Pretty sure the next one will be, though.
Warning: for big terrorist style disasters
Tapping her cellphone, Maura pressed the power button and waited, and waited. Nothing. She slouched back in her seat and glanced around the airport. A woman and four small children sat on the floor, Trunki cases surrounded them, along with toys and sippy cups. A man, his hair dishevelled and his face forlorn walked from a neighbouring desk with bad news. She only knew that from the way the woman stared to him, her eyes glistened under the harsh airport lighting. He crouched down to the children and within seconds their wails filled the space around them.
Maura sighed. She couldn't remember being a stroppy toddler who wailed at the first sign of trouble, but she could empathise with their need to shout their pain loudly for all to hear.
"Doctor Isles."
She stood up and approached the ticket desk. The man, who earlier introduced himself as Claude, smiled at her. "There's an available seat on the next flight to Boston."
"Thank you," she said, emulating his grin.
"Do you need to check luggage?"
"No. My case is carry on."
He handed over a boarding pass. "You can go straight through to departures. Have a safe flight."
"Thank you," she said.
Security was quick, and within the hour she sat in a coffee house sipping a cup of hot Ethiopian coffee. Despite it being just nine thirty in the morning, she felt like she'd been awake for hours. The early morning drama had taken its toll.
She tried her cellphone again, plugging it into a power supply in the desperate hope that it might spring to life. No such luck.
x
Sixteen times she tried to ring Maura, sixteen calls that went straight to voicemail. She considered heading to the airport herself, but traffic would be a nightmare and she knew she'd never make it in time. She had no money for a spur of the moment ticket, not one that would get her through to international departures. By nine, she gave up and headed to work, late, depleted.
A whole day of paperwork, meetings and listening to people she didn't like talk about the organisation she always claimed to hate. What had her life become? Cut off from her family, separated from Maura in space, time and emotion. There was nothing for her in Washington, nothing that she cared for, and nothing that she wanted.
But what else could she do but see it through? She wasn't a quitter. She worked damn hard to get through the academy, even harder to rise up to detective, and she'd thrown it away on a whim. An unexpected call from an ex-boyfriend who didn't even bother to show up and introduce her to the opportunity himself.
She'd been swayed by ideas of grandeur, a whisper from a handsome man who neither satisfied her, nor wanted her. In the month she'd been away, he'd found someone new, someone leggy and blonde, who liked to strut around in tight dresses that barely went below the upper thigh. She wasn't jealous, she was just angry that she got herself caught up in it.
When all she really wanted was sitting on a plane to Paris, wondering why she'd left her again.
If she would just let her know that she'd got the four messages she left on her phone.
She didn't deserve nice things. She deserved to go back to Boston with her tail between her legs and beg for her old job back. The position would no doubt have been filled. They didn't hold posts open for cops who gave up the game, least not those who swanned off to the other side of the world for a brief sabbatical.
x
Home sweet home. Maura entered the house and felt an instant, insurmountable sadness. Jane was not there. She didn't expect her to be, but she still felt disappointed. Anger billowed beneath the surface, bubbling up like a witches cauldron, spewing hot potions out into the world.
"I'm warning you," a voice shouted from the top of the stairs. "I have a gun and I'm not afraid to use it."
"It's just me, Angela," Maura said, pursing her lips. She longed to want to smile, but the whole journey to Boston she felt miserable. "When did you get a gun?"
"Maura!" she screeched, rushing down the stairs and wrapping both hands around her. Maura felt the sting of tears as she sunk into her embrace. "I don't really have a gun, but no intruder's gonna know that."
She forged a smile, the best that she could do under the circumstances, and swiped at her eyes. "Good. I wouldn't want to return to find bullet holes in my walls."
"Oh." Angela pressed her lips together and stepped back.
"What happened?"
"I may have, accidentally, knocked a hole into your bathroom wall."
"Accidentally?" Maura asked, her eyes wide. "What happened?"
"It all started when Frankie brought over a mallet."
"He brought it into my bathroom?"
"No. Into the house."
"Then how, pray tell, did you end up knocking a hole in the wall?"
"Cockroaches."
Pursing her lips, Maura narrowed her eyes. An overwhelming sense of panic passed through her, leaving her sickly. "My house doesn't have cockroaches."
"It didn't."
"How?"
"The exterminator said it was the heat, and the dampness of the bathroom."
"Why was the bathroom damp?" Maura rubbed her temple. The dryness of the airplane and lack of drinking had left her dehydrated.
"I had to move into the main house when the pipe in the guest house burst."
"Pardon?" Maura turned away and headed for the kitchen. She poured herself a glass of wine, noting with derision that it was her Bodega Noémia Malbec, and emptied the contents into her mouth without pause.
"Steady there," Angela said, stepping up beside her. She stepped back when she saw the anger in Maura's eyes. Her cheeks reddened. "Ron came over, we didn't have time to buy wine. He said he'd replace it."
"What happened with the guest house?" she asked, gritting her teeth.
"The water company called to say the water was off so I stayed at Ron's, next thing you know Bobby from next door called me up and told me the garden was flooded."
"Bobby?" Maura sighed. "Robert?"
"That's the one." Angela poured herself a glass of wine. "When in Rome!"
"We're in Boston."
Angela stared her, her eyebrows tugged together. "Never mind that. The pipe under the guest house had become brittle, the whole place flooded out."
"Why didn't you call me?"
"You were on vacation!"
"I was there to work," she said, sitting down at the dining table and running her hands through her hair. "I wanted you to keep me updated on the property. I left it in your care."
"I took good care of it, except for the hole in the bathroom wall, like I said, it was an accident."
"Okay." Maura closed her eyes and burrowed her face into her hands. Exhaustion seeped into her bones. She couldn't move. Tears threatened to fall. The last thing she wanted when she returned home was to share it with someone else. Excepting Jane.
"You look pissed, and upset," Angela said, perching on the seat beside her. She rested the palm of her hand on Maura's shoulder. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you."
"I need some time on my own," Maura whispered, not daring to look up.
Angela's chair scraped across the floor. "I'll tell Ron I'm staying at his tonight, I have work soon, I'll get out of the way."
Sitting up, Maura called to her, until she turned back. "How is the guest house now?"
"Ron's friend Stevie is fixing it up, he knows all about insurance jobs, and he's talked to the insurance company."
The whole thing sounded rather vague, but she didn't have the energy. "Thanks."
"I hope you're feeling better," Angela said, kissing her lightly on the cheek. "I'll see you tomorrow."
Once the front door had closed ten minutes later, fresh tears coated her cheeks. Everything was a mess, and she didn't know how to fix it.
x
Jane stood at the back of a classroom, observing. She'd spent most of the day watching other people doing their jobs, desperate to sink her teeth into…something, anything. Her mind was in tatters, and having little outside stimulation did nothing for her fractured mind.
"Hey you," Agent Davies said, as the class wrapped up and the students filed out of the room. "Not seen you properly since you started, how's it going?"
She hesitated. She could be honest, he was a big boy and he could take criticism. On the other hand, he was effectively her boss, and she wanted to make a good impression. Forcing her lips to curve at the edges, she shrugged. "You know how it is, lots to learn, but I'm sure I'll settle in."
"Great!" They set off out of the classroom and down the corridor. At the entrance to the break room, he stopped, resting his fingertips gently against her elbow. "We should catch up sometime, you know, make up for lost time."
"What happened to Rebecca?"
"Ah, didn't work out." He edged closer, his breath hot against her ear. "She wasn't who I really wanted."
Closing her eyes, Jane tried not to breath in the scent of his cologne, but it attacked her senses leaving her sick to the stomach. She missed Maura. She hated the thought of his body writhing over her skin, the memory of his grunts infiltrated her brain. A moment of passion, a moment of weakness, that at the time felt okay, now felt utterly horrifying.
"Ahh," Jane said, emulating him. "Yeah, that won't work out."
Turning tail, she glanced briefly at his open mouth as she strolled off down the corridor. It took a moment for him to attempt to respond.
"I thought…' he shouted.
She shrugged. "Missed the boat, pal."
x
A bottle of wine, a pile of medical journals, a new cell, and a book on the effect of social media on relationships later and Maura lay on the couch, wondering what to do next. Her day had been productive, and enjoyable, but all in all, she was bored.
The last month and a half had been filled with excitement, and pain, and she didn't know how to move forward. Despite the let down that was her relationship with Jane, she still enjoyed the majority of their time together, and now she was alone.
She nursed the last glass of wine in the bottle, contemplating opening up a second.
"Do I go back to Paris," she muttered, taking a sip. "Do I go back to DC? Do I return to work?"
Carrying her empty glass into the kitchen, she uncorked a Cabernet Sauvignon and settled back in the couch, filling the glass with red wine. Every time Jane popped into her head, she swallowed a mouthful.
"To your inability to commit," Maura said, holding up the glass to the room. She gulped down a mouthful. "To all the times you never said you were sorry."
The more she drank, the more tears streamed down her face, until her cheeks were almost as red as the wine. She placed her half empty glass on the table and curled up on the couch. Her head throbbed.
"Jane," she whispered, dialling her number on her landline and waiting for the voicemail message to finish. "Get a new one, Jane, the Red Sox haven't won the World Series since twenty-thirteen. You really hate me, don't you? Fucked it all up because you don't want me. Maybe I don't want you anymore, maybe I don't want to lick your labia or push my fingers up to my cervix. Your cervix. I'll do my own, until I scream louder than you. You made me want you and then you left, and I hate that you did that."
Squeezing her eyes tightly together, she dropped her cell onto the carpet beside the couch and sat up. Downing the last of her wine, she ambled upstairs.
x
The next morning, Jane entered the break room at work to a crowd of people gathered around a beaten up old television. She clutched her large takeout coffee and approached the back of the group. She didn't really know anybody yet, and despite her outgoing nature, she felt shy and nervous.
"Oh gosh," a petite lady muttered, followed by other such sentiments. Jane tried to recall her name but fell short.
A man entered the room, his broad shoulders and height made him appear intimidating, even to Jane's less than petite figure. "What's with the crowd?"
She shrugged. "Don't know."
"Hey, Celia," he said, tapping the small lady on the shoulder. "What's going on?"
"Massive gas explosion in Paris." Jane's ears pricked up, her blood ran cold. "An apartment building, six shops, and a school have all been damaged."
"Terrorism?" he asked.
"A burst gas mains," Celia clarified. "Someone was working in the area."
"Did they say where?" Jane asked, struggling to swallow the lump in the back of her throat.
"Something eight?" She shrugged and returned her attention to the television screen.
Pushing her way between two people, Jane ignored their protests. She stood front and centre, staring at the screen, her heart in her mouth. She took her cell from the case on her belt and dialled Maura's French number.
"Pick up, pick up," she whispered, but the call went straight to voicemail. She would be there by now. "Maura, I don't care if you're pissed, answer your damn phone. I need to know that you're okay."
"You know someone in Paris?" Celia asked, and the group backed away slightly, giving her the space she needed. A man with glasses and a toupee stood up and offered her his seat.
"My…my…" Jane couldn't find the words to describe who Maura was, something which hurt her more than she realised. "Someone I love."
"I hope she's alright," a portly man said, followed by similar gratitudes from the rest of the group.
"Eight arrondissement," Celia piped up, pointing at the screen. "Right near the big triumph arch."
"The Arc de Triumph," Jane whispered, her voice growing smaller with every breath. She barely noted the perfect pronunciation, as trained by Maura, as she tried her cell again. "Maur, please. Where are you? Are you safe?"
The presenter on the channel filled the screen. "We've got official reports that the gas explosion in Paris has resulted in fatalities, though at this time we have no further information."
Springing to her feet again, Jane sprinted out of the room, not stopping despite her colleagues protestations. She didn't need their support, she didn't want the platitudes of strangers. She needed to know that Maura was safe.
Climbing into her car, she set off across the city, not stopping until she reached the airport. She dialled Maura's number once more, to no avail. She tried her US number again, but it went straight to voicemail.
Inside the terminal building, she stood with a group of tourists watching the ticker tape across the bottom of the news, updating them frequently on the death toll and other significant information. The images on the screen made it impossible to tell exactly where the explosion had occurred.
"Ticket to Paris," Jane shouted to the man behind the counter. He jumped, sitting backwards slightly. "Please."
He narrowed his eyes, watching the tears stroll down her cheeks, before he started tapping at his computer.
"How are you paying?"
She pulled out her wallet, and fished through her cards. "Can I split it?"
"Maximum three different payment methods."
She handed over two credit cards. Chewing on her bottom lip, she weighed up the choice between her bank card and her savings account. A woman behind her squealed. She span around in time to watch the death toll jump by half a dozen people.
"Put the rest on here," she said, handing over the card for her savings account.
An hour later, Jane sat in the departure lounge waiting, desperately hoping that the four hours until her flight would fly by. She tried Maura's numbers again, one after the other, begging the world to let her answer.
"Maura," she whispered, after her voicemail message played again.
The phone went silent. Jane pulled it from her ear and stared in horror at the blank screen. She rooted in her satchel for her phone charger, then groaned. She could see it on the bedside table, waiting for her return from home. The only reason she had her passport was for administration purposes at her new workplace.
With no method of communication, and trickles of news, she waited for her flight, not knowing what faced her on the other end.
x
"Maura!" Angela shouted from the living room.
Hearing the panic in her voice, she rushed down the stairs, tucking her towel carefully around her front and tossing her damp hair back over one shoulder. "What happened? Are you okay?"
"Did you see the news?" she asked, her face paled as she pointed towards the television set.
Gritting her teeth, Maura took a cursory glance at the screen, then stared at Angela. "This is just about news? You scared me!"
"But," she began, drifting off.
Maura returned her gaze to the television long enough to see exactly which news she was referring to. A chill travelled down her spine. She sunk into the nearest chair. "What?"
"They said it was a gas explosion."
"Sixteen people confirmed dead," Maura read, wringing her hands together on her lap. "It's right round the corner from my apartment."
"Aren't you glad you came home?" Angela asked, grasping one of her hands and giving it a gentle squeeze. "I'm glad, I'm sure everyone else will be too."
"I…" Her heart jumped, her mouth went dry. She tried to put force behind her voice, but it came out more of a squeak. "Jane."
"She knows you're here though, doesn't she?"
"Not exactly," Maura said, holding onto the front of her towel and heading back up the stairs. She rushed around her bedroom, searching for her cell. The towel slipped from her body. She sighed and lifted it onto her lap as she pulled the SIM card out of her old phone. Unwrapping the new cell she'd purchased the day before, she waited impatiently for it to complete its set up. A knock at the door pulled Maura's attention away. She pulled the towel around her front. "Come in."
Angela peered around the door. "I can't get through to Janie, her phone must be off."
"I'm just checking to see if she tried calling me," Maura said, placing the cell on her bed. Angela sat down beside her. Maura stood. She slipped into the bathroom with her yoga outfit and came out with a smaller towel wrapped around her head. She retrieved her phone, her eyes wide when she realised how many missed calls she had. "I guess she's tried calling, a lot."
"Why?" Angela asked, standing up beside her.
Maura closed her eyes and shook her head. "She thinks I'm in Paris."
"Oh."
Taking out her American SIM, Maura replaced it with her French one. The most recent missed calls were there, along with several voicemail messages. Maura clicked on them, one by one, her heart ached as she listened to the sound of Jane's voice, desperate to get through. Without caring to switch SIM, she dialled Jane's number.
"Jane, why is your phone off? I'm okay. I'm in Boston. I…" Words caught in her throat, beyond informing her of her current location, she didn't quite know what to say. If Jane had received her last message…her cheeks burned. She shook her head. "Call me when you pick this up."
"She's probably busy working," Angela said.
"I guess so."