A/N: To the guest who said that Tommaso was "the most retarded name" they've ever heard: I would like to politely remind you that although I can abide criticism of my writing - and allow you to do so unedited without me monitoring which reviews are allowed - you should do so in a less ignorant fashion. To be frank, Tommaso is a classic Italian name, arguably an origin for today's Thomas. So while you may not approve of it, using such inappropriate and offensive language is not the way to make your opinion heard. Please and thank you.

You have no idea what just happened. Well, no, that's inaccurate. You know what just happened, you just can't quite believe that it did. Happen, that is. Because you swear you saw Jane get out of a black SUV and arrest Tommy, except that isn't possible.

Tommy had come by, offered to take you to lunch and explain things. You didn't want food, just answers, but you agreed anyway. He'd been gone for two days, doing whatever it was that Paddy required of him. You didn't want to know. Except you did. It's hard to explain.

You couldn't wait until the restaurant to question him. As soon as you were outside BPD in the garage, you let it out. "What was that about, Tommy?"

He turned to look at you. "Listen, Maura, I know I've got some things to explain about the family business and-"

You glared him into trailing off. "Explain to me why you didn't think of your son before you started to work for Paddy? Why didn't you think of me, of your family?"

But then the SUVs had pulled up and any chance you had at getting answers disappeared.

Then she emerged and you couldn't breathe. You vaguely recall Jane saying something about federal agents, and you remember agents moving you out of the way, but no specifics until you finally manage to breathe again. And then you call for them to let Tommy go, because you deserve answers and if they take him you may never get them.

You watch as she arrests her own brother, reads him his Miranda rights. You can't help but wonder if this is really happening, if she's really here. You've had dreams about her before. None of them quite so… real, though, except real is subjective because Jane left Boston and you were certain she wasn't coming back.

Her colleague escorts Tommy inside. Jane looks back at you once and then follows them into the department.

You're still stuck against a cement pillar, despite your restrainers being gone. Confusion is the best word to describe the state of things, and putting a name to it helps you get back in motion. You find your balance again and turn back to BPD, taking the stairs all the way down to the morgue instead of entering the detectives' floor and chancing another encounter.

When you're in your office again, door closed and blinds drawn, you feel yourself really breathe again. You move to your desk, perch on the edge of your chair, and grip the arms so tightly it feels like your knuckles might burst.

You decide quickly, after a few more gulps of air that reaches to the very depths of your lungs, and you tell Susie you'll be available for emergencies by phone. You snatch your things up, almost run out the door, and 'burn rubber' as Jane would say to get home.

Except you don't go home. Not completely. You go to Angela's. Usually you call or otherwise give the oldest Rizzoli the heads-up of your arrival, but to be quite honest, you forgot. Seeing Jane, well, it's making your brain work overtime on the possibilities.

Angela's not alone when she opens the door to let you in; from the shattered look on Frankie's face you know he's seen her too. Her eyes are red and watery, and Frankie's are dry but wavering, and suddenly you're almost relieved because this is exactly the place you need to be to try to make sense of it all.

You open your mouth to say something, not sure what, but when nothing comes out Angela braves a smile and says, "I know, dear. Come in. Have some tea."

But she doesn't know. Not really. And it's not your secret to tell but you're abruptly hit by the overwhelming desire to tell her the real reason why her daughter left. That the reason is you and you don't deserve to be treated so nicely, offered tea and a warm embrace.

You don't tell her. You're selfish, so very, very selfish at heart that you can't find the sacrifice within yourself to tell her the truth.

Instead you nod, slip off your shoes, and join Frankie at the kitchen island. Angela busies herself with the making of tea and gets Frankie a refill on coffee.

It is only once you're all settled that the Rizzolis seem to resume the conversation you'd interrupted.

"How could she do that, Ma?" Frankie implores suddenly, eyes beseeching his mother for an answer, any answer that can make sense of it all.

Instantaneously you can see how a child-aged Frankie would've behaved, young, naïve, and completely confident that his parents had all the answers. It's sad when you realize the confidence is gone now, replaced with a jadedness that only comes with age.

"I don't know, Frankie," Angela's eyes water again and she draws a tissue from her pocket to dry them. "But Frankie, if the FBI want Tommy, that's bad, right?"

He sighs, hangs his head. "The FBI only deal with federal jurisdiction cases, Ma. That either means he's committed a lot of crimes in a lot of states, or that he's committed a lot of the biggest crimes."

Angela's sobs wrack her whole body and straightaway Frankie is there, embracing her and telling her it's going to be alright. He's grown up a lot in the past year. You wish he hadn't had to, because Jane usually dealt with that stuff in the family.

So the three of you talk, they more than you, about what this means. At six o'clock you walk over to your own house, after giving both of them long hugs, to let your son's babysitter go home and resume your mothering role.

When Tommaso is finally asleep, you crawl into your bed and hope against hope that you'll be allowed to sleep. After a few fitful hours you give up and you take a baby monitor into your office with you, spending the wee hours of the morning working.

Then you take care of your son, and ready yourself for another day at work, wondering if you'll see her again or if it was just a bad dream.

There's a knock at the door and you go to let the sitter in, except it's not Lydia, it's Jane.

Your heart stops.

The look in her eyes, full of sadness and guilt, match perfectly with the words that she exhales, "Maura, we have some questions about Thomas Rizzoli's connection to Paddy Doyle. We'll ask you to come with us." Jane says clearly, and then she swallows and her voice comes out even lower, "Please."

Your heart stutters back into action.