She stumbled into her apartment feeling equal parts run down and flustered out of her mind. It was exhausting to feel so many things so intensely all at the same time. She slapped the case file for the "garden variety corpse" – as she had come to think of it as – on the tiny breakfast bar and began to pace in tight, restrained circles. Joe Friday yipped as she bounded around the corner, and fell in line behind her pacing caretaker.

"Hey, Joe," Jane said to the dog. Joe seemed to pick up on the lackluster tone in Jane's voice, for her ears dropped and she stopped following Jane. Jane, for her part, was debating on whether to inundate her angst with alcohol or try to spend her last waking hours more productively by studying the evidence and statements that had already been collected.

She decided to compromise.

She stopped in front of her refrigerator and opened the small cabinet above it. Pulled out a bottle of whiskey that had been given to her by a high school friend – an acquaintance, really, whom she no longer had contact with – as a congratulatory gift the year she made detective. As Jane wasn't really one for hard liquor, the bottle had sat up there for years, collecting dust. Some detached part of her brain observed how intriguing it was that this particular set of circumstances had finally prompted her to bring it down and crack the wax seal.

She found a cheesy souvenir shot glass from Las Vegas buried in another cabinet. Poured herself the first shot and slid onto the barstool. She flipped open the case file.

They had come to find out that the victim, Shawn Felton, was the younger brother of the first victim of a previous pair of murders – a man by the name of Drew. Shawn had been a high school lit teacher, and reportedly well-liked by students and fellow faculty members. He had been the last person to student-teach under Mrs. Grace Kuziemski – the retired lady in whose garden Shawn's body had been buried. Mrs. Kuziemski had denied recognizing Shawn when first questioned, but later admitted – once they got her alone – that she had denied Shawn out of fear, and at her son's urging.

"Still miffed about that," Jane growled to herself. She flipped a page.

Shawn's older brother Drew had been found dead about a week prior in a gas station bathroom. Maura conducted toxicology screens and found traces of oxycodone, ketamine, and other illicit drugs in his system. At first it appeared that he had overdosed. Their efforts to dig into Drew's background had revealed his drawn-out struggle with various addictions; he was in and out of rehab his entire adult life.

"Black sheep," Jane muttered as she knocked back the shot of whiskey with a grimace and flipped another page. The whiskey burned fiercely all the way down, but gave her a harsh, perceptual clarity that she felt she'd been lacking before.

Drew had been estranged from most of his family. In general, the Feltons appeared well-to-do, classically middle-class. Shawn was the good kid, Drew the tortured soul. Jane could only imagine what the family dynamic was like behind closed doors. What it was like for Drew, who Maura suggested might have been self-medicating to cope with some manifestation of mental illness.

Maura's probably mad at you. Jane shook her head and rolled her shoulders.

But Maura's closer inspection of his body during autopsy had drawn her attention to a number of recent contusions and other signs of struggle. He hadn't been alone, nor had he drugged himself willingly. Jane had suspected his history of substance abuse had been used by the killer as a cover. She also figured that whoever killed him was connected to him through drugs, perhaps as a dealer or a trafficker.

You hurt her feelings.

Shawn was the only member of the family that had kept any sort of contact with Drew.

And Shawn also had traces of oxycodone in his system. It was mixed with other drugs to form a deadly cocktail.

Jane poured herself another shot. At this juncture it was clear that the two homicides, despite initially appearing completely independent of each other, were related. She wondered, with the drug connection, if they were somehow linked to the courier who had killed Frost. It was a far-fetched idea, but still worth exploring.

She swallowed the second shot and immediately poured a third. Every thought she had somehow led back to Frost.

You're always screwing things up. Focus. Focus. Concentrate. Stop wallowing. Enough is enough.

Fix it.

She jumped slightly at the sound of a key turning in the deadbolt of her apartment door. She tossed back the third hit of whiskey. "Maura, I'm done talking tonight. I'm tired. Can we not do this…?"

"Jane? Jane, can you undo this chain for me?"

"Casey? What –?" She was genuinely shocked to see her husband's face trying to peer between the door and it's frame.

"Please just let me in."

She rose a little unsteadily and strode over to slide the chain free of its slot. She held the door open just wide enough for him to enter sideways, and shut it immediately behind him. He walked into the kitchen, seeming wary of his surroundings. He took in the bottle of whiskey, the shot glass, and the open case file at a glance.

The look of reaction on his face made Jane feel defensive. She tensed, standing awkwardly beside the bottle on the breakfast bar. "You're here – what brought you back?"

"I needed to see my wife. She's been drowning herself in work lately, and won't make time for me." He looked again at the items strewn across the breakfast bar. "Jane, what are you doing?"

"Homework. We've got a case."

He took in the kitchen and living area with his eyes. "I see. Can't imagine you do your best work with a shot of Rough Stock Black Label in your hand. What's really going on, Jane? This isn't like you."

"I don't see how that's any of your business." She crossed her arms tightly over her chest.

"I just," he shrugged and dropped his arms in resignation. "I know losing a partner was hard on you, but I just feel like, maybe – I guess I just thought I'd see you on the mend by now."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Are you actually trying to apply an agenda to my grieving process? Casey, I'm not some military operation where you time out exactly what I feel and when I feel it and where I deal with it. You're treating your relationship with me like some Army thing you signed up for. And I don't appreciate it."

Casey looked taken aback. "This really isn't like you."

"Oh, you know what also isn't like me?" Jane demanded. "Making a lifelong commitment to someone who already has a history of walking out on me when he couldn't have his relationship with me exactly the way he wanted. It's like as soon as things get rough, you back out." She sighed and poured herself another sloppy shot, but didn't drink it back right away. Her husband looked like he wanted to take it away from her, like a parent might want to take scissors from a small child. "We thought we loved each other. We thought we were in love. And, you know, maybe we were. But this all happened so fast, and I realize again and again how we don't really know each other that well." She leaned her forearms on the breakfast bar. "So much happened for both of us in that long stretch of time between high school graduation and when you came back for the medal ceremony. We both saw and experienced things – some good, but a lot that was truly awful – and the awful stuff neither of us are willing to open up to each other about. I just think," tears stung the backs of her eyes now, and she paused as her voice faltered, "if we really trusted each other, we'd be willing to share all the gory details and have those out in the open between us before we dove headfirst into a marriage."

"Is this about Hoyt?" Jane rolled her eyes. "I'm just struggling to understand where this is coming from, Jane. But I gave up asking questions a while back because you're a closed book!"

"Hoyt," Jane scoffed. "You're not listening. This isn't about one solitary, traumatic event in my life or your life that's stirring up all this angst. It's a whole…culmination of things that we haven't said to each other. Whether it's because neither of us felt comfortable enough with the other, or it's a trust issue, or we both just have problems with talking about our feelings…I don't know, Casey. And that's, I guess, the point I'm trying to make." She felt herself softening as she came down from her anger, while his was just beginning to simmer dangerously. "Casey, honey, we don't understand each other. I think we both think we've tried. But it's clearly not enough. We ask things of each other and can't seem to meet in the middle. And I –"

He held up a stiff hand. "Jane, you're not calling it quits, are you? Are you quitting on me?"

"Just…Casey, listen –"

"No, Jane." He held up a hand. "I've heard enough. I gave up the Army for you. I let go of a promising career because I loved you. And you weren't willing to do the same for me. But I decided to roll with it."

"But Casey, as ungrateful as this sounds, it's true: I never asked you to abandon your career in the Army. Ever. Those words never left my lips." The disappointment in his voice and facial expression hurt more than she expected. She could feel the lump expanding painfully in her throat, the waver in her voice.

"But I made that sacrifice anyway!"

Like a bolt of electricity coursing through her body, Jane felt anger and whiskey heat her skin. It felt like sparks of heat were skittering over her hair follicles, giving her hot goosebumps along her forearms and the back of her neck. "What, so you could play martyr later even though you kept pressing me to leave my work while you made the oh-so-silent sacrifice out of your own career?"

She could tell it the moment those words left her mouth. The look on his face said everything. Too far.

A grim silence settled. It wafted through the closed door and sat down between them like an unwelcome spectator to their acrimony. His face was pale and looked unnaturally tight with strain and suppressed rage. Finally, after several tense minutes that felt like hours, he began to nod.

Jane winced, wondering at the conclusion he'd come to.

She didn't have to wait long. "I think you might be right."

She opened her mouth to ask what he meant.

"I think we are done here."

Jane's phone, sitting face up on the breakfast bar between them, chimed once.

Casey couldn't help himself. He glanced down at the notification on the lock screen. He sniffed quietly. "Maura," he said under his breath. His jaw rippled at the corner as he clenched and unclenched his teeth. He looked up at Jane. "Guess this is goodbye. Sorry it couldn't work out between us."

"I'm sorry, too," she whispered brokenly. But some part of her already felt lighter. Relieved.

He paused after opening the door, his back to her. "I'll miss you, Jane. And I…think you're making a mistake. People say and do things when they're grieving…"

"Don't." Jane just leaned over the breakfast bar, over the last shot she still hadn't drank. She couldn't respond beyond that. The moment the door shut behind him, she thought she'd cry. But nothing happened. She felt choked off, dry inside. Hollow.

With a shaking hand, she finally lifted the shot glass and swallowed that burn one more time.

"Jane? Honey, what's wrong? It's one-thirty in the morning!"

Jane's grip on the phone tightened when she finally heard her mother's voice after the fourth ring. She took several breaths, but couldn't bring herself to speak.

"Janie. Tell me what's going on."

"I can't sleep, Ma," she whimpered. "I'm sorry to bother you, but I…I just feel like I'm losing my grip."

"What, are you having nightmares again? Is anybody with you?"

She shook her head even knowing her mother couldn't see her through the phone. She bit her lip. The tears were finally coming. No, I'm alone. In more ways than one. "No. That's what I get for pushing people away." She sniffled bitterly and wiped her nose.

"Jane, have you been drinking?"

She nodded. "Yes." She buried her face in the palm of her free hand. "Yes, because I can't get it together, Ma. I'm screwing up. Again. Always, it feels like. I married the wrong person."

Her breathless confession earned her a few seconds of stunned silence from the other end. "What do you mean?" A rhetorical question. Her mother knew exactly what she meant. "I don't understand. Is there another man?" She sounded truly incredulous, and Jane winced.

"No, Ma, I…no." She sighed, rubbing her temples, the back of her neck.

"Do you want me to come over and talk about it?"

"No!" The last thing Jane wanted was her mother seeing her in this pathetic state.

"Too late. I'm coming over. Stay right there, baby." And she hung up.