A/N: Thanks SO much everyone for your kind words regarding this story! You all made me smile a LOT.

I don't get to send a reply to guests so if you left me a guest review thank you VERY much, please do so again! To Y who asked about Maura's age, I am writing this as if she is around 16. As to whether she has any pets, at this stage no.

Warning: This chapter is a little heavy (just a bit more than usual I mean) but trust me when I say there's a reason; I have a very specific scene in mind (one that I'm in love with) and this allows for a lead up to that. Enjoy, and don't forget to leave your thoughts! D.G.I.K.


She checks the regular places but they're empty. They are never empty. Not on a Friday.

Her heart feels weak. Like the muscle has suddenly turned to paper.

Two days. Only forty eight hours. Only two thousand eight hundred and eighty minutes. That's all.

Just make it to Monday.

Her fingers tremble slightly. She did the odds in her head on the way home. This weekend she is forty percent less likely to be hurt if the woman is not under the influence of alcohol.

So the minute she got off the bus she ran. She ran until her feet hurt and she couldn't breathe. All she was doing was running toward pain but in her head she was running towards Monday.

You promised her you'd make it to Monday.

"Find the bottles, pour them out." She repeats it, over and over and she can barely hear herself but she knows she sounds flat, hopeless, because there aren't any. There are always bottles on a Friday, but they're not here and that means the woman has found a new hiding place.

The stairs behind her creak and she slams the cupboard door faster than she's ever slammed anything in her life. She doesn't turn around though. She can't because the second she turns around is the second that she says goodbye to Monday.

Another creak.

She waits. Waits for her hair to be gathered in a fist behind her head. Waits to hurt.

Goodbye Monday.

But the hurt doesn't come and all that's waiting for her is three dirty faces. Three dirty faces that say, "We want to help," and start looking in cupboards.

Her paper heart explodes.

And it feels good.


In biology she watched a video of a lion hunting a gazelle. The lion was bigger but the gazelle was faster and he was going to live. He was going to live until the lion decided he wasn't. He was going to live until the lion leaped on top of him and snapped his neck. He was going to live until he died.

They sit in silence. They wait. They watch.

The woman's skin is waxy, transparent, and her eyes are bloodshot even from where Maura is sitting across the room. She moves jerkily, desperately pulling at the floorboard that Maura didn't know to look under, and she comes up victorious.

A squeal of delight intrudes on the silent documentary Maura is playing in her head, "Find bottles, pour em' out! Find bottle-"

Anna, the pale girl, has her hand clamped over a tiny three year old mouth. All nine of the children seem to collapse in on themselves. A futile effort at non existence.

Maura is frozen. She can't look away from the excited three year old bouncing in Anna's lap. The child who thinks that this a game.

In biology when the lion was finished with it's feed, it left. Got up and walked away. Ready for the next kill. Eventually a pack of hyenas came along and stripped the gazelle carcass until it was nothing but clean white bones.

Maura looks away from Anna back to the kitchen. Two obsidian, leonine eyes are fixed on her face. Ready for the kill.

Goodbye Monday.


The quarters that rattle in her pocket remind her of chains. To her they sound like the clinking of shackles. To anyone else they would just sound like four quarters in a pocket.

She sees the world in pieces. Like a puzzle before it's been put together. Like a stained glass window, shattered on the ground. Her breath condenses in front of her, sparkling and beautiful, because she knows that as long as she can see the tiny crystals suspended in the air she's still breathing.

The woman walks toward Maura, a glint darker than coal burning in her eyes.

"Go," Maura barely murmurs the word but the children hear and obey, sliding away, out of the room like wraiths.

The woman is so close now that Maura can see the slight beading of sweat on her forehead. A weathered hand swings back almost gleefully. Hungry, reaching, she only falters when even quieter than before Maura says it.

"No."

She stumbles across the frozen ground, feeling the crack of frost through the thin soles of her shoes. The barbed wire fence keeps her straight, lets her know she's going the right way. Her hand stings, and the red that drips down her fingers is dull. It drips on the bare dirt, a splash of color against a dark canvas.

The cackle at Maura's defiance rings out, harsh in the silence. She lunges, reaching for her familiar purchase in Maura's hair. Maura always fought this, always tried to stop her gaining a hold, she was never successful.

Until today.

She can't tell how long she's been walking but the weak sun has started to throw pale orange shadows across everything. Should she have reached the road by now? She wrenches her eyes up from the ground in front of her, expecting to see an expanse of fence still stretched before her. A tiny candle ignites itself in her chest as she stumbles onto tar.

Almost there.

Her nails dig into Maura's cheek as she reaches, grasping and pulling, trying to get a hold. Maura spins desperately trying to avoid the clawed hand that seems to be everywhere.

Another minute. One more minute is all she needs. One more minute until the children will be safely locked in their rooms.

The woman knows this as well. Knows her bargaining chips have run upstairs, knows that if she is to be successful she has to grasp Maura right away.

A blow comes from above and Maura ducks, shielding her face with her hands. She learned to protect her head long ago.

Fingers twist in her dress and Maura's heart jumps into her mouth. GET FREE. Adrenaline sears through her veins and she jerks, arching her back, swinging her arms wide. Impact. Hissing the woman releases her hold and Maura takes her chance. Lunging for the stairs she pulls herself higher, scrambling to the top. She knows she will be followed but she lurches down the hallway and into her small room at the end. She slams the door shut and listens to the howl of triumph just outside her door.

"You can't stay in there forever."

She stumbles into the petrol station, shaking, four quarters clutched in her hand. There is only one woman at the gas pump and she stares open mouthed at the frozen figure that approaches the pay phone, leaning against it for support.

Maura feeds her quarters into the machine and fingers slick with blood tries to dial the number that she memorized only hours ago. She can taste metal in her mouth and she wills herself not to pass out before she hears her voice.

"Rizzoli."

She hesitates, just for a second and then she swings down hard. The glass shatters cutting into her hand, but she doesn't feel that until later. Clearing away the debris she hoists herself up and squeezes out the tiny window, tearing her dress to shreds. She grips the sill and awkwardly tries to shimmy down the broken rain pipe next to her window. Her hands are wet with blood and she slips halfway down, knocking the wind out of herself at the bottom. Then she's gone.

Maura slides down the phone booth, legs too weak to hold her up. She holds the phone desperately to her ear, like her life depends on it. Maybe it does.

"Maura! Where are you? I'll come just give me-"

Maura closes her eyes, seeing shadows where there aren't any, "No. It's okay I just wanted- I just wanted to hear your voice." As she says it she realizes it's true. Realizes that she just broke a window and escaped from the Home simply to hear Jane's voice.

The line is silent, and then, like fire, like fierce, like love, "I'm still coming to get you."

And phone left dangling from the hook, Maura passes out.