It's a brisk Boston evening, particularly in the chilly atmosphere of the cemetary, but this has become a tradition that cannot be ignored. Once a month, Detective Jane Rizzoli makes a pilgrimage to the site of baby Maura Doyle's resting place. She wrings her hands around the small bouquet of flowers she's carrying as her feet carry her the final few steps to her destination. Out of habit, she scans her surroundings, never off the clock.
Finding no one, she crouches down and lays the flowers gently in front of the stone marker. The bouquet is not only a matter of respect, but also an offering to offset the crippling guilt that has solidified itself within Jane's chest ever since she and Maura discovered the truth about her birth. Because as sad as Jane is for Maura, for the life she was robbed of, for the mother she was taken from, Jane can't help but feel an immense sense of gratitude towards Patrick Doyle. The man did everything he could to protect that baby girl, to protect Maura. She wouldn't be who she is, she wouldn't be Maura if she hadn't been raised by the Isles', if she hadn't been that socially awkward kid in boarding school, or if she hadn't been dubbed "Queen of the Dead". So Jane was happy. Jane was happy that Maura Doyle was dead, though she's too ashamed to admit that.
She sighs softly as her eyes trace the familiar letters of the first name, altogether ignoring the surname. It's a ritual now, one that Maura has no inkling of and if Jane has her way, she never will. When she arrives home tonight, if Maura asks where she went to after work, she won't lie. Maybe she'll say she was paying her respects to a fallen warrior; not entirely untrue. Maura Doyle would have been a warrior, forced into her family business. Possibly not even against her will because she would've been born into it.
The thought gives Jane pause. How different their lives would be if life had gone that way. Jane wouldn't be going home every night to her best friend and partner for life; she'd be returning to an empty bachelor pad. Perhaps she'd even be on the hunt for Maura Doyle.
It's not a pleasant thought. It seems inconceivable, actually, to imagine herself hunting Maura down as a killer. Maura, the pathologist who's almost afraid to work on living patients regardless of her vast spectrum of ability, the woman who cares for a pet tortoise, the murderer? No. Jane shakes her head, hoping to throw the thought physically from her mind. She huffs out of annoyance with herself. Always gotta bring yourself down, don't you, Rizzoli?
Abruptly she rises to her feet, finished with this place for the moment. She'll be back in a month's time, but she has the real, live Maura waiting for her at home and she doesn't want to keep her waiting. Walking away, she tosses a last thankful look in the direction of the grave.
The truth is that the death of Maura Doyle gave birth to Maura Isles, and Maura Isles is everything to Jane. Maura Isles is hers.