Author's note: thank you very much for the reviews and indeed Jane didn't not receive threats but it's not that either. ;)

Chapter Twenty-Six – Poetic Reminiscence

Whenever the doors of the elevator opened – the sonorous alarm resounding loud – a strong smell of coffee embraced her, carried along by the brouhaha of conversations and machines. By night the noises subdued but the exhalation of the drink remained. And it took her aback, used as she was to the bleach of the morgue.

She walked down the corridor with haste, passed a few offices already abandoned to the late hours of the evening and plunged in the dark; the streetlights piercing through the windows, sliding along the impersonal furniture in golden, pale shades. Stifled voices slowed down her pace. She cast a glance in their direction and saw a couple of young police officers laughing lightly by a coffee maker.

They owned the enthusiasm of novices, the precarious one that would end up fading away at the same time as the innocence of their features. They would see too many things, untold atrocities that would steal their nights away before breaking them down into pieces through an oppressive whirl. It always happened at some point. They acknowledged her presence of a vague nod and she resumed her way to the homicide unit open space at the very last end of the floor. Jane was sat at her desk, staring blankly at photos and notes pinned on a glass wall. She looked defeated and exhausted. A sharp contrast with the two rookies Maura had just seen.

"Prune-stuffed gnocchi, Colorado lamb loins and coconut layer cake... A 2009 Verdad Tempranillo "Sawyer-Lindquist Vineyard" seemed the best option to accompany the dinner as much as gnocchi are usually recommanded with a demi-sec champagne like a Veuve Clicquot. I hope you won't mind this little... Deviating."

Maura took the ceramic plates out of the bag she had brought along and settled them on the Italian's desk with a complete casualness if it weren't for the timid smile of satisfaction that curled up her lips.

"N°9 At The Park? You got a delivery from N°9 At The Park?"

Jane's utter surprise made her smile melt into a grin as a warm feeling spread in her lower stomach. The wine embraced of its purple shade the transparency of the glasses, its aroma spread over the desk.

"I am an A-list client. They would get me a delivery to Paris if I asked it."

Without paying much attention to the few officers passing by the area – yet aware of their confused and amused gazes over the scene – Maura grabbed a chair and sat next to Jane. Both were on a night shift – except the detective would have to stay at the BPD headquarters if they were called to retrieve the head of the fourth victim – but the truth was that the honey blonde needed a break. A sweet parenthesis.

For some reason, the night was weighing on her more than it usually did.

"What frenzy in my bosom raged, / And by what cure to be assuaged? / What gentle youth I would allure, / Whom in my artful toils secure?"

The gnocchi melted in her mouth – slid on her palate and spread their delicious aroma – as Korsak's voice resounded loud and sent an icy shiver down her spine.

The contrast troubled her, the way pleasure had no difficulty whatsoever to join a quiet sentiment of fear.

Without a word, Maura looked up at him enter the open space a sandwich in hand. His eyes stopped on the dishes laid on Jane's desk. Surprise caught him, a light envy as well. The brunette's snort dragged her back to reality a bit harshly.

"You're in a poetic mood, now?"

Maura kept on eating in silence but the sudden dangling of her stiletto betrayed her nervousness soon accompanied by her breath turning rough. Sat on his chair, Korsak grabbed a book and waved it. It did not take Jane a long time to swallow hard and let a darkness fight away the precarious serenity of her features.

"It was on Catherine Banks' bedside table, with plenty of annotations in it. Looks like she was quite in Sappho's poetry. Especially Anactoria, her side-notes are numerous and rather incomprehensible."

As much as the wine was of a refined quality, its effect turned poor as Maura took a sip of it. Perhaps she should have asked Jane to join her downstairs in her office instead. They would have been alone and none of this would have happened. Not that she blamed the brunette's colleague. He couldn't guess anything.

"In Antiquity, Sappho was commonly regarded as one of the greatest lyric poets. Horace wrote in his Odes that her lyrics are worthy of sacred admiration."

But Maura's piece of information vanished in an inaudible whisper as images of the secret club rushed to her mind through a series of delicate flashbacks. Catherine was cautious. She would have never left any hint about Anactoria at her place nor anywhere else. She not only respected the rules but actually needed them herself.

Nothing had leaked regarding her private life after her murder. Her sexual orientation hadn't made the headlines. Perhaps Bella Hartman had made sure that a silence would remain over this side of her life. Out of respect and to protect all the other influential women who shared the same secret.

"Is Sappho linked to any kind of symbol, Dr. Isles?"

Maura shook her head and looked down at her plate. As much as it seemed now obvious that the killer focused on his victims' sexual orientation – the coincidence was too much to be one – the symbol left on their forehead didn't make the slightest sense. Or at least not yet.

"And they were all single, as far as we know..."

Since Jane's outburst at the crime scene, Maura wondered if their colleagues had guessed something. None of them had made a single allusion. Nobody had said anything whatsoever. Yet it weighed a tad insidiously on her mind and spread – second by second – an invisible strength over her actions.

Did they know that she used to kiss every single inch of Jane's skin – caress her curves – and nourish herself of the brunette's sighs? Her quiet moans. Her unique smiles.

Did they know about that?

A source of heat took her out of her wonders. It came from her knee and spread to her whole body with a quiet desire; lustful fantasies. Maura looked down and smiled at Jane's hand on her skin. The gesture was barely hidden and seemed protective; sweet.

"What does their relationship status have to do with Sappho's poems?"

Korsak shrugged. Chewing on his sandwich, he rolled his eyes and motioned at the transparent wall by his right side.

"A victim's partner always comes in handy in a case. He or she can bring information that relatives do ignore at times. Unfortunately for us, it's not how it's going now."

Jane hid her embarrassment behind her glass of wine. She had taken his previous statement too personally. Korsak was right yet all she had thought about was her very own relationship with Maura. Her dark eyes stopped on the anthology on her colleague's desk. The poetic reminiscence of the club made her feel uncomfortable. For obvious reasons.

"Anyway the..."

Maura's voice died in a gasp as all of a sudden the lights disappeared and the building plunged in the dark. A brouhaha of stifled voices – hasted steps – came from the corridor.

She felt Jane's hand get tense on her knee, her breath turning sharp. An alarm set off. Blaring sound in the night.

If she had been told to run, Maura would have been unable to move. She was petrified in her seat, a fork in hand. The lights of the street slid in ghostly shadows over the room. Icily. She counted until three but the lump in her throat won over her desperate efforts and she felt the tears run on her face.

She wasn't panicked. She had succumbed to a deep, atrocious fear.

And then the light. Red. Embracing the confusion of their faces as the alarm reached a higher level; doors getting slammed loudly in the background. Hands on his ears, Korsak looked around – frowned – then stopped his eyes on Maura as he realized that she was crying uncontrollably. Next to her, Jane was livid.