Jane knocked on the open door to Cavanaugh's office. "Sir? I got your email."
"Rizzoli. Welcome back. Come on in." The lieutenant stood and moved to shut the door behind her. "Have a seat."
Between concern, lack of facts, and no breakfast, Jane's coffee wasn't settling well. "What's this about, sir?" She sat forward in the chair, abdomen clenched tightly.
Cavanaugh sighed, staring at his clasped hands on the desk. "Rizzoli, there's really no easy way to tell you this, so…"
"Please, sir, just tell me," Jane begged. She could feel her throat tightening with an unnamed dread. She hated not knowing what was going on.
"Detective Frost is dead."
The breath caught in her throat and her lungs seemed to seize up. "Frost…?" she rasped.
Cavanaugh nodded, refraining from repeating the awful phrase.
Jane slumped back in her seat, stricken. "How…? When…?" she stammered. He was at my wedding, for God's sake!
"Homicide and DCU formed a task force for a big bust. The bust went wrong. DCU lost two of their best. And we lost Frost." He met her eyes, his expression tight and grim. "This was a week after you left," he added to orient her chronologically. He rose, and she stood also, feeling wooden and hollow. "I hate to put this on you the moment you return, but –"
"No, I understand." The words came out mechanically.
Cavanaugh followed her to the door. "If you need more time, Rizzoli, to process…figure things out…you're more than welcome."
Jane paused in the doorway, looking out at the bullpen. Her partner was dead. Gone. She managed to look Cavanaugh in the eye as she stepped out. "Thank you, sir, but I don't think that'll be necessary."
Cavanaugh nodded. He seemed to get it. "The service is tomorrow."
Jane nodded over her shoulder. She'd be there. "Sir?"
"Yes?"
"Did they at least…" her voice finally started to crack, "get the guys who did it?"
Cavanaugh nodded. "All but one. And he's done a real good job of disappearing. But the team reported back that he's likely wounded, and can't outrun us too much longer."
It had to be enough. She couldn't stand to listen to any more. As she approached her desk, her gaze wandered aimlessly, landing on various people and landmarks and seeing them only as abstract shapes with no meaning. The news hadn't hit her yet. She was numb with shock.
Noticing curious, pitying glances in her direction, she realized she had been staring at the elevator doors. Oh God, Maura. I wonder how she's taking it, Jane thought with a weird sense of desperation. She turned to her desk and sat down, now staring at the blank, powered-down monitor of her computer. None of her body's movements made any sense to her. The detachment was disconcerting, but she couldn't seem to gather enough emotion even to process that revelation fully.
The elevator dinged.
Jane didn't look up.
Maura stepped through, manila case file in one hand, coffee in the other.
Out of her peripheral vision, Jane watched Maura approach her desk and come to a tentative halt.
"Jane," came the soft voice.
The detective looked up, just barely beginning to feel something. The soulful, loving, empathetic hazel eyes that met her halfway were more than she could bear.
"I'm sorry, Maura," she choked out and tore from her desk, fleeing to the nearest restroom. She slammed a stall door behind her, locked it, and sagged to the floor, sobbing breathlessly.