Jane finds a job.
The doctor doesn't want to admit it, but she is a little disappointed. They are now one step closer to leaving. The thought makes her sick to her stomach, but Jane says she needs it, and there isn't much the doctor can do to convince her otherwise.
It's a mechanic job at an auto repair shop.
"I didn't know you liked cars."
"There's a lot you don't know about me."
She does not understand the appeal at first, or really at any point. Even as Jane explains to her that she grew up down the street from the family that owned it and that she'd always had a way with machines. Still, the doctor doesn't want to imagine Jane anywhere she can't find her on a moment's notice.
If she had her way, she'd keep Jane in her house forever. Safe. Secure. All hers. No one else's. Not the world's. Not the auto shop customers'. Just hers. As selfish and irrational as that is, the doctor cannot shake the fantasy from her mind. She doesn't want to let her go.
...
They spend a great deal of time in the kitchen selecting a babysitter for the days they both work. Jane suggests they just hire the neighbors' sixteen-year-old daughter a few days a week, but the doctor insists they interview a half dozen others as well. She does not want Sophie and Charly in any danger, no matter how small.
"What about that Caretti girl?" Jane asks, so done, so clearly done with their search. "I liked her."
The doctor wrinkles her nose, "No... She wasn't certified in CPR."
"Okay, then what about that other one? Ricci something."
"She wasn't certified in pediatric first-aid."
"Kelly Perotti?"
The doctor sighs, "I don't know, Jane."
"I remember her being certified in both first-aid and CPR. She was a nice girl. What's wrong with her?"
She leans one hip against the island and taps her finger against the glossy photo on Kelly Perotti's application. Yes, application. Somehow she managed to convince Jane they needed the girls to fill out applications.
"I... I just don't think Sophie would like her."
Charly likes everyone. But Sophie? Not even close. And Kelly Perotti? Sophie would absolutely hate her.
"How do you know that?"
She looks down at her bare feet, toes painted a shiny purple to match the dress she'd worn three days ago and tries to identify what is slinking around her airways. Fear, she decides. She is scared Jane won't understand.
"I don't think she is compatible with… Sophie's needs."
Brown eyes soften, mirroring that first day out in the parking lot of the grocery store. Nearly four months ago, yet still fresh in her mind. The doctor will never forget those first imperative moments of tenderness.
"Because...?" Jane coaxes, voice gentle, words loose and comfortable, not unlike those ratty t-shirts she favors. The vocal equivalent, perhaps.
The doctor is stilled at the inquiry. In truth, she isn't sure why exactly. When they teach you how to navigate, they tell you your map is your most important tool. That maybe you can get by without a compass. They can't ensure you'll never get lost, never get mixed-up and confused by your own human error. But there is no map, no compass rose, no guide to human interaction. In which case, how will the doctor survive?
"I'm sorry," she blurts out. "You can pick her if you want. She's perfectly qualified, and it's..." the next part pains her to say: "it's none of my business anyway."
"Hey." Low. Quiet. Gentle. "Hey. C'mere."
She doesn't move. Maybe she can, but she doesn't even try. Instead, she searches for words to somehow string into the world's most perfect sentence. One that can get Jane to look at her like she isn't spineless delicate or more things she probably is anyway.
"Hey, you." You're stuck inside your head again, you know that?
A step closer, dark eyes warm and inviting. Just two more steps and they will touch. Hands might brush. Arms. Shoulders. Or maybe they will skip over limbs altogether. Another step and the doctor lets out the breath she has been holding since the last time she spoke. She tries her hardest not to flinch as Jane's hands come to rest on her upper arms.
She is unsuccessful. Always the impractical navigator.
Flinching is ugly. It is a disgusting reflex. Something so ingrained in her muscles, she is sure she will never overcome it. Jane shouldn't have to see her when she does something ugly. She deserves the very best version possible. Not the grimy truth.
Hands grip her forearms, sliding up and down as if they are parts in a factory making liquid comfort to bottle and sell. So long ago, the doctor cut out all her soft parts and left them to wither away, so no one else could do it themselves. But now she wants them back. She wants to be soft and beautiful and right. Good and okay and everything.
"It is your business. They are your business. You just want what's best for them, and so do I, alright?"
They haven't been this close since the night Crowe dropped her off. At first, it's unnerving, then it's ten times worse.
She pulls away from Jane, wrenching herself out of her grip. Away. Away. Away. It's another ugly reflex. Like flinching but worse. Uglier. Dirtier.
No... no... nononono. Please. Please...
"Hey." Again. "Hey, Maur. Come back to me... I'm not going to hurt you."
But everyone does. Everyone has. Indirectly. Directly. But all intentionally one way or another. Maybe they will never know. She would never tell, and they never live long enough to find out for themselves.
"Maur?" Worried. Why is she worried? "It's okay. I'm not mad at you."
Her hands find Jane's chest, fingers splayed wide like get back. She thinks of the last time she felt so vulnerable, but the memory falters. She has destroyed it in an effort to keep the doctor in one piece.
Destroy the soft parts, so there's no way to die.
Fingers curl into Jane's t-shirt. Careful and gradual. The words leave her mouth slowly, but she is determined to get them out. To get it right just once.
"Help me." Make it go away. You're so good at that.
"Okay. How can I help?"
She untangles a shaky hand from Jane's t-shirt and reaches for her hand. Fingers brush and entwine gentle at first, but the doctor doesn't need gentle. She doesn't want gentle.
"I'm here for you."
Then prove it to me. I don't know where I am.
Crush me. I want to feel you in my bones.
She presses the back of Jane's palm against her chest, breathing too quickly. Her other hand shakes free of Jane's shirt and pushes harder against their hands until the emotional ache in her chest becomes incredibly, physically real.
She presses harder.
"Maur?"
Harder. Her arms are quaking with the exertion.
Jane tears her hand away, but before the doctor does anything she will regret, Jane captures her entire body at once. Tight and all-encompassing, it is a severe embrace. The kind that might just be able to hold her together until she figures out how to do it on her own again.
"There are better ways to feel. You don't have to hurt," she whispers fiercely, and it's wonderful because sometimes it's the broken glass that saves you.
The doctor buries herself in Jane, taking in every part of her because she knows they will have to let go. At some point, Jane will let her go.
"Jenny Mead, she mumbles into Jane's shirt.
"What?"
She dares reach out with one hand and point to an application atop the island. "I want Jenny Mead to watch the girls."
Palms press more firmly into her back as Jane shifts their weight to glance at the application. The doctor can tell she doesn't so much as look at the picture before meeting her eyes again.
"Jenny Mead it is."
...
Jane works on her only day off. They see each other every night and a little more on the weekends, but she misses those lazy Fridays they all used to spend together in the living room or the backyard. The days she would spend inching closer to her on the couch, while the televised cartoon devoured the girls' attention.
Friday morning, she intentionally wakes before Jane and the girls to make them breakfast. Jane has always been the one to cook. There was no rhyme or reason, she just wanted to. But today would be different.
She wants to make them the most beautiful breakfast they have ever seen.
Only she doesn't know where to start. She grew up with chefs and nannies to cook for her, and even now, she goes out to eat or Jane cooks. Once, when she was seven, Rosa taught her how to make pancakes. But she has long since forgotten.
She can't do this. What was she thinking?
But I want to do something for them...
"Then you cook for them, lucero."
She jumps and spins around, eyes landing on the wrinkled, smiling face of her childhood nanny. She forgets all about her screwed-up head and rushes toward the woman. That scared six-year-old child takes over her limbs as she launches herself into a hug that can't exist.
"Rosa!"
Her hands pass right through the elderly woman as if she is a mirage, and her heart drops into her feet. "You're not here." Crazy. Crazy. Crazy.
"No. You're not crazy, baby," she says, moving closer with that limp the doctor remembers well, though not a story Rosa was ever willing to share. A hand raises to touch her face, and for a moment, the doctor swears she can feel those familiar rough fingertips against her face.
"Yes, I am. Look at me. You're not really here. I'm talking to myself."
Rosa shakes her head, "Maybe not as bad as you think. Come on. I show you."
"Show me what?"
"What you know, lucero. We cook."
...
They cook. Or at least the doctor does. Rosa merely tells her what to do, and before long, she can pick the steps out of her brain. As she remembers it, pancakes are not terribly complex. She makes Jane a heaping stack, one-half that size for herself, and singles for the girls.
The sound is what she remembers most. That hiss as you pour the batter and the way it quiets down into a sizzle more and more with each use of a spatula. She remembers Rosa used to let her try her hand at flipping them and that it almost always ended up with pancakes kissing the floor. But Rosa never scolded her. Not even once.
"I'm done," she says to Rosa as she begins to transfer the pancakes to plates. But it wouldn't be the work of an Isles if she didn't stage it a bit. Even if it is just breakfast. She decorates each plate with bananas slices, strawberries, and even a few blueberries. She has just recently trusted herself enough to buy perishable foods. It was a leap of faith, but with Jane by her side, she knows she won't fall into another episode of eating from the trash or worse.
The change in diet has her feeling stronger than ever.
At some point during her fretful decorating, Rosa slips her mind for just a moment, and when she looks up wanting to show off her handiwork, the woman is gone.
"Rosa?"
[Gone.]
Oh... you're back.
[Yes.]
Please... we're just going to have breakfast.
[Know.]
Please… don't hurt them.
The doctor feels Her annoyance, like a child who has been told something he already knows. And as the feeling begins to fade, she notices the voice receding with it. Surrendering just like that.
She hears the floorboards creak far behind her in the back rooms, telling her Jane must be getting the girls up. The doctor can barely contain her excitement as she flies down the hall to meet them.
...
"You made all this?" Jane's eyes are wide.
"I... I did. Is it wrong? Are you tired of pancakes? It's just that I only know how to make pancakes, but I could always tr‒"
"Maur, stop," she says, amused and smiling. "It's perfect. Thank you."
Charly and Sophie sit beside each other, the former drenching her single pancake in maple syrup, the latter weakly resisting just falling back asleep right there on the table.
"Doctor! How didju know I love bluesies?" Charly asks, happily popping one into her mouth.
"Blueberries," Jane clarifies, but the doctor thinks she may be getting the hang of the way they speak. It's fascinating, really. A language within a language all its own.
Sophie, however, does not look as impressed as her sister. She pushes vibrant chunks of strawberry around her plate, looking about ready to fall asleep right in her chair. The doctor tries not to take it to heart, but it's difficult to watch the child neglect the food made specifically for her. But god, she tries her hardest to keep it out of her features.
It doesn't work.
Jane notices her downhearted expression just like she notices everything. And for once, the doctor is not glad she is so easily read.
"Eat, Soph. Doctor made it just for you."
"I don't wanna," she mumbles, monotone. Sophie doesn't whine. She drones. It's a thousand times worse.
"Soph." Stern.
"Jane, it's okay. She doesn't have t‒"
"Sophie. Just eat your breakfast," Jane says with a hint of finality. But even the doctor knows this is nowhere near over.
"I don't wanna."
"Why not?" Charly asks, eyeballing a blueberry on her sister's plate.
"Because."
"Hey," Jane says, getting the girl to look up at her. "Because why?"
The child huffs and points forcefully at the doctor, "Because she made it."
"Oh." She feels like she's been shot straight through the heart. Stabbed at the hand of a four-year-old. All she wanted was to do something nice for them, but it was a mistake. A huge mistake. She must have overstepped a line, crossed some boundary.
How had she not seen it before? Something so completely apparent. "I'm sorry," she says, sliding her chair out and getting to her feet. "I should have asked."
"Maura, wait. Don't go." She turns fiery eyes back at her daughter, "Tell her you're sorry."
"No."
This was a mistake.
Charly's eyes widen at the scene unfolding before her. "Soph, that's not nice."
"Be quiet, Charly."
"Hey." Jane's voice comes out low and angry, "Don't talk to your sister like that, and tell Maura you're sorry. Right now."
"I'm sorry, Doctor," she child practically growls. Her insincerity is not lost on the doctor.
She drops her eyes to her feet, unsure if she is angrier with herself for making the assumption or for letting a little girl's comment hit her so hard. She just wanted to make them happy. "I forgive you."
Another chair slides out, and moments later she feels arms wrap around her from the side. It's not Jane, but instead little Charly, standing on top of a chair. Now this little girl. This little girl loves anything and everything, including one nervous, fearful doctor.
"Don't be sad, Doctor. Sometimes... Sometimes she bees mean, but you can't cry. She doesn't mean it. I don't think," Charly puts her hands on both sides of the doctor's face. "Be happy, Doctor."
How could she not be with this little girl's reassurances?
"Okay."
Okay.
...
Of course, Jane doesn't want to leave for work with Sophie's rude outburst hanging in the air. She apologizes dozens of times, hoping she can make up for her daughter's behavior. But honestly, the doctor no longer feels the sting. Over the years, she's developed a special way of handling pain only felt in the heart: Let it hurt, but only for a moment. Then forget it with all your might. Because everyone else has already moved on, and you should too.
"We can call Jenny." Their official babysitter‒ who is just as amazing as promised on paper‒ "I don't want Sophie to think she can talk to you like that."
"Jane, it's fine. Go to work. There's no need to call her."
"I can take the day off."
"You don't have to do that."
Jane shrugs, "It's been awhile since we spent the whole day together."
She wants this. Oh god, she wants this more than anything. A whole day with Jane. No work. No babysitters. An unwarranted smile breaks across her face just thinking about it.
"I take it you agree. How about I call in?"
"Jane, I couldn't ask you to do that. Really, it's okay. We can find time another day. I don't want you to miss work."
"Giovanni won't mind. He owes me a couple... dozen favors. Might as well collect." Jane takes a step forward, smiling that slight smile that seems to take away the doctor's sense of balance. "Besides, I want to. I feel like I haven't really seen you in forever."
Don't do that. Don't do things for me.
Be careful with anything you do for me. Even the smallest thing.
Because I might just
fall in love with you.
...
Sophie is interested in books.
Jane takes them both to the library every week, so Charly can play in the kids' area and Sophie can check out another stack of colorful children's books. The doctor often looks forward to stories of Charly's adventures in the play area, but Sophie is never willing to share anything about any of her books. She supposes she knows why now that she knows the child simply hates her.
Jane calls in, telling her boss and childhood friend that she is taking a sick day. And when she hangs up, she clarifies that it is, in fact, a sick day. A sick-of-Sophie's-attitude day.
The four of them take up her living room‒ Charly with her train set from that very first visit, Sophie curled up in an armchair with a brightly-colored book in her lap, and Jane stretched out on the couch with her feet in the doctor's lap, staring lazily at the sitcom flickering across the flat screen.
It's perfect, save for the waves of hate she can feel radiating out of the not-so book-absorbed four-year-old. Not real waves, that would be ridiculous, but she can feel that things are not as at ease as she thought they were just last night.
Sophie moves her fingers over the words in the book, mouthing the sounds she knows from what she has learned from those semi-educational TV shows they seem to live off of. Combined with the pictures decorating the pages, the doctor believes the girl can understand much of what is going on in the story. At least enough to get the gist of it.
Charly makes more train noises, or what she thinks to be train noises. In her world, train tracks are prone to violent explosions. She whispers to herself as she plays, something most children do regardless of who is listening. Her game involves some kind of diamond thief, a princess, and a talking dog. Irrational and very, very entertaining.
"Mom?"
"What, Soph."
"What's this word?" she turns the book towards Jane and points to a word at the bottom of the page.
Jane pretends to look at the word, "I don't know. Ask Doctor."
"Never mind."
A few minutes later: "Mom? What's this word?"
"I don't know. Ask Doctor."
"Never mind."
"Mom?"
"Ask Doctor."
Sophie groans, "Fine!" She climbs out of the chair and sits heavily next to the doctor. She sets the book in her lap and points to the word that is giving her so much trouble.
"It's..." she bites her bottom lip, fearing the child will snap at her again if she even says it. "It's caterpillar."
"Calipitter?"
"No... cat-er-pill-er."
"Cal-i-pitt-er?"
"Tried. It's impossible." Jane says, grunt-like. "Calipitter‒ caterpillar. Skapetti‒ spaghetti. Cuitar‒ guitar. Buhllerfly‒ butterfly."
"Uh, thanks, Doctor," Sophie says quickly, already dashing back to the armchair.
"You're welcome."
It doesn't take long for the child to come crawling back to her to ask for another word. But then it's right back to the chair. Then again and again... and again. And then finally:
"Will you read this to me?"
The doctor looks to Jane, unsure of what she should say. Jane gives her a smile and a nod, and that's all the confirmation she needs. Sophie leans in, careful not to accidentally touch the doctor, but still staying close enough to see the pictures as she reads about the adventure of a caterpillar and her friends.
Before long, Sophie just gives up trying and lets her head fall against the doctor's arm. She stops reading then, wondering what on earth she is feeling inside her chest. It's like a twinge of pain, but it doesn't hurt. Whatever it is, she's sure she doesn't want it to stop.
She reads on, finding herself slightly enjoying the quirky‒ yet terribly silly‒ story of a set of unlikely friends. But when she finishes, she hands the book back to the girl and waits for her to put up her angry walls again.
"Wow! You know all the words," Sophie says instead.
"I do."
Sophie grabs a different book off the coffee table. "This one."
"Okay."
Jane moves her foot against the doctor's thigh to get her attention. When their eyes meet, Jane gives her another nod that feels a lot like progress.
Sophie settles against her arm again and shakes the book, telling the doctor to start reading already And for a moment the doctor believes everything is going to be okay. It might be. She's optimistic.
...
Later that evening a thunderstorm encroaches.
About an hour ago, they moved to the patio furniture outside to watch the girls in the backyard. The doctor had been thinking about just how boring her yard must be to them. She even made a mental note to ask Jane about picking out some outdoor toys for them the next time they run to the store.
But now sandboxes and inflatable pools are the absolute last thing on her mind.
As thunder explodes in the sky, she flinches uglier than ever before. She has never been outside during one. The Rizzolis had her so distracted in the moment, she didn't even notice the grey clouds invading the summer sky.
Charly stops dead in her tracks and throws her hands up in the air. "Didju hear that!"
"Yeah! It was like crrrrrraaaaaaaasshh!" Sophie says, motioning almost wildly with her hands. Almost.
Be brave.
But she can't. She can't stop her hands from flying to her ears. Or the whimper that escapes her lips as another thunderclap booms in the distance. They were having such a wonderful evening, and now it's ruined. Ruined because she can't face the things that frighten her.
It's okay. It's okay. I'm okay. I'm okay.
It's okay.
I'm oka‒
Hands. Strong hands, pressed gently to the sides of her face. She opens her eyes, and Jane is there. Kneeled in front of her, hands steady, eyes concerned. "Maura."
Don't let go.
"It's okay. You're safe."
Safe.
…
.
Twenty-Seven Years Ago
...
At three years old, the child is full of life. A storm rages outside. Loud and powerful, but she doesn't notice. She is busy playing, spelling out her full name in alphabetical blocks on her bedroom floor, creating songs with the letters. The golden retriever puppy her father bought her for her birthday last week is curled up beside her, receiving strokes every time she remembers him over her blocks. She has named him Arthur after her father. Artie for short.
He nuzzles into her leg, tail wagging in contentment. She pats his head gingerly, "I love you, Artie. But I'm singing. Would you like to listen?"
Arti barks in what she interprets as affirmation.
"M is for Maura. A is for... apple. U is for umbrella. R is for‒"
Her closet door creaks open, bringing her little song to an abrupt end. She thinks it's her nanny. The one that doesn't love her. The one who makes her go to the bathroom when she doesn't have to, and yells when she forgets to pick up a doll or book.
"Amelie?"
But it's not Amelie. Not her mother. Not her father.
"Hello?"
Thunder shakes the world outside, and the door inches open a fraction more. Ever curious. Ever foolish. Artie springs up, barking and snarling towards the closet. She climbs to her feet and crosses the room to her closet. She throws the door open and peers inside.
It's empty. Dresses, shoes, and nothing.
Another rumble. Behind her, Artie whines. A sound more shrill than anything she's ever heard in her short years.
She turns away from the closet, eager to get back to her song. She turns, but that's as far as she gets. The R block drops from her hand. A scream rips from her throat.
Flaming red hair, white-less black eyes, and skin like porcelain wrapped in a pink dress stand over the body of her once breathing puppy dog. Crimson leaks from Artie's neck, and in the girl's hand is a knife from the kitchen.
She collapses on the ground and gropes the air in the direction of her dog. Her birthday present. Her only friend.
"Artie!" but the little dog isn't responding. "He died?"
The red-haired girl merely shrugs, "Yes," she says with too many voices.
"Wh-why?"
"Loud."
"But... you can't do that!" She remembers her parents' message from earlier that morning. They are coming home for dinner. They can't see this! A dead puppy and... and a stranger.
"Who are you?"
The girl reaches for the bag used for storing the blocks and stuffs in Artie as well as the knife inside. She shoves the bag at the distraught child.
"Hide."
"But..."
Something flashes in those light-devouring eyes, and faster than possible in any form, the girl crosses the room and wraps her hands around the child's neck.
"Hide!" she orders, slowly choking the life out of her. Pitch black eyes on fire, red hair, darkening vision.
The world fades out like somebody turned out the lights.
"O-okay." The terrified child barely manages to spit the words out.
The red-haired girl releases her and takes a step back, smirking, "Yes."
...
The child mourns for her puppy as she tosses him and the knife off the edge of the bridge into the river just outside her house. She only had him for a week.
"Don't you have a name?" she asks the other girl. The killer.
No answer.
"Why are you at my house? Where's your mom?"
Nothing.
Tired of getting nowhere, she reaches out and grasps the girl's hand. The instant their skin touches, she falls to her knees, hands pressed tightly to her temples, her skull on fire. Thunder rips the sky into pieces above them, and for the first time, the child is afraid.
"STOP!" she screams, but the girl just smirks at her.
"No."
"Please!" The pressure inside her head becomes too great. She falls onto her back near the point of unconsciousness.
"I. You." The girl moves closer, aligning her body with the breathless child's. Curly red hair falls over her face, blocking out the sun. She drops all her weight onto the fallen child.
[I am you.]
...
She wakes shaking. Body moving back and forth, but not from her own doing. She opens her eyes, shocked to see her mother and father looking down at her. Worried. Frantic. Pale.
"Maura, darling? Are you alright?" Her mother's voice is panicked.
She takes in her surroundings. It's dark, but she knows exactly where she is. Her closet, beneath a pile of coats. She sits up and pushes herself into her father's arms.
"Daddy, she scared me."
"Who? Amelie?"
"No. No. No. The girl."
"What girl?"
"The girl in m‒"
[No.]
Her heart picks up, double time. She shakes her head violently, trying to rid her brain of the girl's harsh whisper.
"Maura, darling. Stop that. You're going to hurt yourself." She feels a hand placed gently on her back.
"There was a g‒"
[No.]
She points to her head, tears streaking her cheeks, "She's in here, Daddy."
"In... in your head?"
"Yes! Yes! She kill‒"
[No tell.]
She opens her mouth to tell on the girl for taking her puppy away. But the words don't come. It's as if she never learned them in the first place. Frustration grips her tightly, pushing more tears from her eyes.
"What is it, Maura?" her father asks, rubbing her upper back lightly as if he is afraid to touch her, let alone give her the hug she so desperately needs.
[No tell.]
The sky tears itself apart outside, and now she feels it. The dull ache in her head as if it's too full. The world starts to spin, a vacuum sucking all the air out of the terrified child. A metallic taste fills her mouth as she crumbles into her father's chest.
[No tell.]
The child fades.
…
.
Present Time
...
Jane's arms tighten around her midsection, pulling her from the fuzzy memory. They are on the floor, the doctor's back flush against Jane's chest, legs running each other's length. Jane's back is against the sliding glass door as if that is as far as she could get them before the doctor could no longer move.
"Maura, breathe." A command.
"Jane." A whisper.
Jane tenses like she wasn't expecting a response, but she recovers just as quickly, her arms pulling the doctor closer.
"Yeah?" Soft. Gentle.
She wraps her own fingers around Jane's forearms, "More."
Somehow, Jane understands just what she wants. She slides her arms up just below the doctor's breasts and squeezes her tighter. So tight, breathing becomes laborious, but the doctor would rather suffocate right there than have Jane let go.
Peering at them over the back of the couch, Charly‒ or maybe Sophie, she is too confused to tell‒ is the picture of fear. Her eyes are wide and glistening with what might already be tears. "Doctor? Are you o'right?"
Charly.
She can tell by the way she looks about ready to vault over the couch should Jane give her the green light. Sophie shows less of her thoughts within her facial features.
"I… I'm okay."
It's half-true, at least until the sky makes its anguish known. The fiery redhead contained within the roar, inside her head, in the sky. Everywhere.
Focus.
Jane's heart beats against her shoulder blade. Rhythmic. Regular. Calm. Despite the storm on all fronts, she is composed. Why on earth wouldn't she be? The doctor slows her own breathing, memorizing the steady beat of Jane's heart.
"Alright?" Jane whispers softly in her ear. "I had no idea the thunder was so..."
It's not the thunder. It never has been.
It's Her.
It's because there's more to the story than a murderer and a powerless little girl.
I don't even know if you and your girls are really real. I've imagined people just as touchable, just as seemingly real before. And every time it's destroyed me.
"Shh," Jane tries. "I've got you. You're safe with me."
...
What she remembers of her father is limited.
He was a paranoid man, at least when it came to protecting the estate. Even though he and her mother hand-picked their staff, he didn't trust a single one of them. He had security cameras mounted in the kitchen, the halls, the drive, and even one in his daughter's room pointed exclusively at the door.
Years after the death of her puppy, she sneaked into her father's study with a mission: to find out where that girl came from, and how on earth she got inside their home. She found the tapes, alright, and watched them several times focusing her attention one room at a time. And then finally, she spotted movement in the kitchen during the middle of the day after lunch had been served. Yes, a child entered the kitchen. Yes, a child pulled a knife from the rack. And yes, a child left the kitchen and walked the halls with that knife.
She followed the girl's movements through the house as she walked rather slowly through the halls. She ended up in the doctor's childhood room. Artie jumping up on her legs in greeting. Knife poised in the air, the child looked directly into the camera.
At that point, she had lost all hopes of breathing, for that little girl didn't have fiery red curls or a dirty pink dress. There was no proof a girl like that ever existed in their home.
The child who killed the dog was, in fact, Maura Isles.