A/N: Thanks for still following along, even if you don't like Jane's current behavior. But what's visible on the surface doesn't always reflect what's happening underneath. :-) (And "Irvine" by Kelly Clarkson couldn't be a better match for Jane's scene in this chapter – the lyrics pretty much say it all.)

…

Chapter 4 - Day 2

...

The Il Camino ruins lay eerily silent when the diffuse daylight of the foggy November morning took over from the bright floodlights just as the CSRU techs and firemen assigned to the early morning shift took over from those who had tirelessly worked all night at the scene. Chunks of debris were still scattered around the bare skeleton of the restaurant, and a thick layer of dust covered the cars still parked in the once lively street.

The first bodies had already been recovered, and every now and then, another bag with a victim's remains would be wheeled off to a former supermarket nearby that had been transformed into a makeshift morgue and evidence collection hall. Shelves that used to hold groceries, and toys, and an assortment of goods to enrich one's daily life would now be filled with pieces of debris, and burned wallets, and fragments of a bomb that had brought destruction and death.

Amidst the post-apocalyptic scene, Michael Welsh, the other candidate for the mayor's office, meandered through the rubble and examined the scene with the superficially worried face of a politician who recognized a perfect PR opportunity when he saw one. Slightly overdressed in his fine threads, he was closely followed by another suited man — his young campaign manager Logan Linklater — who was fending off a small crowd of journalists while at the same time making sure they'd record every word and gesture from his boss.

"How will these events affect your campaign?" one of the reporters inquired, while two photographers documented Welsh's visit to the site of the explosion.

"Will you adopt some of Mr. Connelly's campaign points to address the concerns of the many voters who have expressed their support for your opponent?" another journalist wondered.

Making sure that none of the zealous media representatives interfered with the candidate's photo opportunity, Linklater raised his hands in appeasement. "Mr. Welsh will address all of your questions in due time, but please, allow us a few days to process these terrible news. Mr. Connelly might have been our opponent in this mayoral election, but he was also a valued peer and a friend."

"Mr. Linklater here is correct," Welsh declared as he stepped closer and affirmatively put his arm around his campaign manager's shoulder. "I have always had the deepest respect for Mr. Connelly, and I am absolutely shocked by these tragic developments. My thoughts and prayers right now are with his wife and sons, not with my campaign or the upcoming election."

As Welsh continued his well rehearsed lines and the small caravan of reporters followed his every move, they passed by Lieutenant Cavanaugh, who was standing nearby and barely paid any attention to the intruders at the scene. Instead, he focused on the small gathering of workers and officers around him, who were updating him on the case and awaiting further instructions. Even though he wasn't the highest rank at the scene and had to coordinate his unit with the FBI's local anti-terror squad, Cavanaugh was determined to wave his badge into everybody's face who dared to stop him from investigating the who, how, and why behind the attack that had ripped one of the most promising young detectives from his team.

"Robson, get me an update from the hospital!" Cavanaugh ordered in the direction of a dark-haired patrol officer patiently waiting nearby. "Any word yet from Connelly's staff?" he then demanded to know from a female officer who was holding her phone to her ear.

"They haven't heard from him, sir," she replied. "Nobody can reach him…"

Before the lieutenant could bellow out his next orders, another uniformed officer rushed to his side, the consequences of a long, sleepless night written all over his face. "We've gone through all the surveillance videos," he blurted out. "That guy on the bike with the briefcase is still our best bet."

Cavanaugh nodded. Right after he had been informed of the explosion and overcome his initial shock, the lieutenant had rallied his troops and organized the first investigative measures during the night. They had immediately requested all surveillance videos from cameras in the proximity of the site, including those from the Il Camino webcam that had been stored online, and begun to review the video material to detect potential suspects as well as to get an idea of how many patrons of the restaurant had come and gone before the fateful blast. And even though it was too soon to speculate on the motive behind the attack, a cyclist with a brown briefcase had quickly emerged as their prime suspect.

"Any success with facial rec?" Cavanaugh asked though he already knew the answer. They hadn't really caught the cyclist's face on camera, and thus, even the best facial recognition software in the world would be at a loss.

"No, but the media have been supplied with several stills and a description of the man," the tired officer said and handed the lieutenant a printout showing the cyclist with his briefcase as he was about to enter the Il Camino restaurant. "Maybe someone will recognize him."

"Okay." Cavanaugh studied the printout while his mind was already preparing for the long hours ahead. "How many people in the restaurant at the time of the explosion?"

"About thirty-five, give or take," the officer stated quietly. He clearly hated being the bearer of bad news. "Some could have left through the back, so we can only guess based on the video material we have. Some residents from the apartments above the restaurant are still missing, too. And there's no evidence of Connelly leaving before the explosion."

Cavanaugh nodded and pensively looked around until his eyes caught Sergeant Korsak, who had been talking to several CSRU techs a few feet away and was now hurrying towards the lieutenant.

"Techs have recovered parts of the briefcase we've seen in the surveillance videos," Korsak explained. "Looks like it did indeed hold the bomb. Classic C4 with an electronic detonator. Enough to blow up a whole building…"

"Yeah, I can see that," Cavanaugh grunted at the sight of the Il Camino ruins.

For a brief moment, the two long-time colleagues just stood there and shook their heads in disbelief. Even after several hours, everything still felt surreal.

"Doctor Isles is on her way," the sergeant finally said and nodded towards the dust-covered cars across the street. "Her car's still stuck over there, so we had an officer give her a ride… since Jane's staying home…"

"Is she really?" Cavanaugh squinted. "That would be a first…"

"Yeah," Korsak gave him a worried look. "She doesn't seem to take it very well…"

Before the lieutenant could inquire further, Officer Robson returned and handed him another printout with updated information from Beth Israel. "Two of the critical patients didn't make it through the night…"

Cavanaugh nodded and silently glanced over the numbers on the sheet in his hands.

"They're also ready for your press update, sir," Robson announced and pointed towards a sea of microphones and cameras waiting nearby.

"Alright," the lieutenant straightened up and patted Korsak's back before heading over to the media representatives. "Keep me updated, Vince!"

Seconds later, all the journalists and TV reporters had whipped out their notepads and turned on their cameras in anticipation of the latest information about the fateful attack.

"First of all, my prayers are with those who have been injured or died, and with their families and friends, and with everybody affected by what I can only call an extremely cowardly and despicable act," Cavanaugh began his update. "I'd also like to thank those who have worked hard all night and who will be working tirelessly over the coming days as we're trying to find out who did this and why."

Right when Lieutenant Cavanaugh had finished his introductory statements, Jane returned from her kitchen with a new bottle of beer and sank back down onto her couch, forcing herself to watch the ad-hoc press conference on TV. Even though the mere thought of the attack tore her heart into pieces just as the bomb had torn apart the restaurant, Jane wanted to know — had to know — who was behind this act and the death of her partner. She took another long draft from her beer and leaned back, subconsciously rubbing her sore ribs.

"So far, at least fifteen people have been confirmed dead; thirty-one have been admitted to nearby hospitals for treatment," Cavanaugh continued his update. "At this point, it is almost certain that mayoral candidate Andrew Connelly has also died in the explosion. We know he entered the restaurant shortly before the attack, and neither Boston Police nor Mr. Connelly's staff and family have heard from him since last night. We will—"

"Do you think Connelly was the target of the attack?" a reporter interrupted the lieutenant's speech.

"It is too early to make any definitive statements in this regard, but we do consider it a possibility," Cavanaugh side-stepped the question. "And in order to speed up our investigation, we have put together several images from surveillance cameras as well as a description of our current key suspect. We're hoping that someone out there will recognize that man and help us bring closure to the victims' families and to the people of Boston."

As the lieutenant provided further details on the man suspected of having blown up the Il Camino restaurant, the Boston TV station Jane was watching switched to split-screen mode — one half of the screen stayed with Cavanaugh's press conference, while the other showed a slideshow of several stills depicting the cyclist with his brown briefcase.

"We're looking for a man approximately twenty-five to thirty years old, Caucasian, dark hair," Cavanaugh explained. "He arrived on a high-end bicycle and appears to be a skilled rider, so maybe we're dealing with a professional cyclist, or at least an ambitious amateur. Maybe a bicycle messenger…"

When another freeze frame showed the mysterious cyclist on his bicycle in front of the restaurant right after he had swerved to avoid crashing into Jane, the brunette sat up on her couch and frowned. Up to this point, she had suppressed most memories of the seconds before and after the explosion, but the repeated images of the restaurant, of the cyclist, and of herself suddenly let loose everything she had locked away in the depths of her head. As if a dam had broken, each and every haunting detail poured back into her mind. How she had gotten out of the car. How she had waited for Maura. How she had almost bumped into that cyclist. And how all hell had broken loose a few seconds later.

After the initial wave of regained memories had passed, another wave washed over Jane's mind — one of guilt and regret. What if I had stepped into the street a second later? What if he had crashed into me? What if he had dropped his bag… his bomb… his plan? I could have stopped him… I should have stopped him! Why didn't I stop him?

And thus, while Cavanaugh was finishing his press conference, Jane's mind plunged deeper and deeper into the gorge of blame and despair. Just one step closer… one second later… I could have stopped him… I could have saved you, Frost… I'm sorry… I'm so sorry… And when the TV station began to superimpose images of victims already confirmed dead and a photo of Frost filled half of the screen, all of Jane's anger and pain needed to break free again. Just a few hours earlier, her self-defense dummy had borne the brunt. This time, it was the bottle of beer still clasped in her hand.

With full force, Jane threw the bottle against the wall and smashed it to pieces. A large stain of beer on the wall… A thousand little shards of glass on the floor… And yet her pain was still as strong as before.

Startled by the noise, Jo Friday bolted into the room and immediately began to inspect the scene by licking and sniffing at the odd substance on the carpet.

"No, stop it!" Jane shouted and jumped up from the couch. "Damn it, Jo Friday, no!"

Despite her harsh words, the brunette tenderly picked up Jo Friday, cradled her furry friend in her arms, and shuffled towards the kitchen. Gasping from the sudden activity and the resulting sting in her chest, Jane placed Jo Friday in front of her feeding bowl, grabbed another beer from the fridge, and sank down next to the dog. When her thoughts returned to Frost, she washed down her sorrows with half of the beer and rested her head against the kitchen counter in her back. Absentmindedly caressing her dog's ears, Jane just stared at the ceiling and tried to hold back her tears, too consumed by her worries to notice that her phone was quietly buzzing on the couch table with Maura's caller ID desperately blinking on its display.

…