You sit across from your brother and simply stare at him. You've been waiting him out since he could get himself into trouble. Your Ma always said it was the one thing you could be patient about. This is your wheelhouse. This room is your domain. You're in charge. And as far as he knows, you have all the time in the world.

You can feel the seething rage floating off of him and it threatens to suffocate you. But you just cross your long legs at the ankle, lean back in your chair, and let him know you're just getting comfy. Appearance is everything in the interview room, and you're a natural at adopting the right persona.

Finally, just as you're wishing you'd brought your coffee with you, he breaks. "I didn't do this."

You raise an eyebrow in disbelief and pull the folder toward you. You fight the urge to scoff at his poor defense. "What didn't you do?"

He shakes his head. "I didn't do anything."

You sigh and the exhalation is full of disappointment. "Tommy, please, stop being an idiot and insulting my intelligence. I taught you how to play chess. But I still always beat you. Don't play games with me," you caution.

His eyes meet yours furiously and you can almost hear him trying to stamp down on the feeling.

So you pull out photos from various crime scenes. The FBI has compiled quite a photographic journal of your brother's exploits. You lay them in front of him one by one, calculating the time he lingers on each and how his pupils dilate. You have Maura to thank for that last observation. She's the one who told you, time and again, that people's pupils dilate and the eye lingers on those things which mean something to the person.

His eyes react most to the pictures of the biggest crimes he's committed. You only show him two pictures of his murders, but there are more in the file. You don't need to bring them out to know that his reaction would be the same for those photos as well. Pity and confusion swirl in your mind. You never thought he was capable of this.

You and Dean deal with serial killers and at the bare bones of it all, Tommy has become one. It's not that he's a psychopath, not as far as you know – he'll be tested for that after the two of you are done here. It's that murder goes hand in hand with mob work, and Tommy is absolutely up to his eyeballs in that.

"I didn't do anything." He repeats, but even you can hear the rehearsal in his voice. He knows you don't believe him. It's a small victory.

"Why'd you do it, Tommy?"

You ask and you wait, leaving his crimes between the two of you.

"It's your fault, you know," Tommy mutters angrily. "It all fell apart when you left."

You work hard to control your breathing. Your heart hammers in your chest, your fist clenches underneath the table. Everything you're thinking is full of self-loathing. You snap your gaze to the mirror and shake your head the slightest. And then you continue with your job. You'd told everyone you could handle it, and now you are staying true to your word.

"How is it my fault that you were caught up in this?" You let disbelief and trace of condescension enter your tone, knowing it will only enrage him.

He has the audacity to roll his eyes at you.

"I made her happy, Jane. I kept my promise. And then you left and you fucked everything up!" He roars at you, glaring down his nose at you. "You told her that I knew you loved her and she blamed me!"

So that's where he's going with this. "Thomas Rizzoli," you enunciate clearly, sternly. "I would not call getting to live in that nice house and be around the mother of your child and your child to boot as everything having been fucked up."

It takes every ounce of willpower you possess not to throw him against the wall, get up in his face, and put the fear of God into him. But this case, this trial, is possibly the biggest one you've ever been a part of, Hoyt included. Everything needs to be by the book. One slip-up could keep the charges from sticking and you would never, ever forgive yourself.

He's huffing at you, "I may be there, but I am not loved. I am a tool, a responsibility, and you screwed me into being that for her. We were happy. I loved her, she loved me. And then you-" he's so wound up he can't finish his sentence. The fact makes you almost happy.

He calms himself enough to speak clearly. "Tua culpa."

Your fault. Except it's not your fault. If they couldn't survive your departure, they weren't meant to last after all. Despite yourself, despite all the shit that's happened, a pinprick of hope ignites itself in the farthest crevice of your heart.

A knock on the glass draws you from your thoughts. You glare at Dean through the glass, or you hope you do. Then you gather up the photos, tuck them back in the file, and get up to leave.

Before you go, you have one thing to ask. "So what was she dragging you over the coals for in the garage?"

You smirk at his icy glower. It freezes in place at his response. "Family business." The implication obvious. He has a ghost of a smirk of his own to match yours.

And you leave a man who is not your brother to wait in the room alone.

Dean meets you at the door, your old partners lingering behind him. "A couple of uniforms will be up soon to take him to a cell and then he'll have his psych eval," he informs you, even though it's just a regurgitation of protocol. You nod, and know he's watching your every move for signs of discomfort or weakness. You show none.

"That's it for today," you say to Frost and Korsak and they nod, unsure of what to do with themselves.

You're turning to go with Dean to the SUV and then back to the hotel when Frost stops you.

"Jane," he calls and you turn automatically. He attempts a smile. "Do you two wanna go for a drink?"

"Hell yes," Dean accepts for both of you. You could use a drink, especially with what you know is slated for first thing tomorrow morning.

"Okay," Frost agrees easily, "Robber in ten? You're buying."

You chuckle. "Sure I am."