Chapter I

(Maura)

The last two weeks have been more than exhausting: 14 days of non-stop work, over 15 hours each day, 25 autopsies performed, and still three unsolved murder cases. I sigh as I see the supermarket crowded with people. Why do mothers with strollers, retirees, or teenagers have to shop at 8 PM when they had all day to do it? Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't even enter such a store, as I usually buy my products fresh from the market or from the small, exquisite organic stores of my choice. But the yawning emptiness in my fridge and the relatively short opening hours of my preferred food stores force me to dive into the crowd and make do with the suboptimal quality of most products.

I wrinkle my nose one last time, glance hastily at my shopping list, and recall the layout of the supermarket in my mind. First, I head left to the organic vegetables, then to the back for the soy products, and then out as quickly as possible. Maybe I can grab a pack of toilet paper on the way.

I squeeze through the crowd, trying not to bump into anyone and to avoid a panic attack. A few years ago, it would have been impossible for me to avoid a panic attack in this situation. But now, after many therapy sessions and yoga lessons, I can say with near certainty that I've overcome my social phobia. I still don't feel comfortable, but I really wonder if anyone feels comfortable in this overcrowded throng.

Just as I've left the shelf of canned fruit behind and am searching for the soy milk, I bump into someone.

"Oh, how unfortunate... Please excuse me!" I hastily blurt out and bend down to gather the contents of the other person's shopping basket now scattered across the floor.

"N-...No...Problem?" The rough, somewhat panicked voice and the blood-soaked white bandage wrapped around the hand that is hurriedly trying to put the last items back into the basket make me pause. I look into wide, chocolate-brown eyes, and for a brief moment, the world seems to stop.

After a few seconds, I break the gaze, gently push her basket towards her, and we simultaneously rise from our crouching position.

"Are you okay?" Why is my voice suddenly so soft, and why do I feel so out of breath?

I've barely finished the sentence when I see her face instantly lose color, her eyes roll back, and her body collapses forward into my arms.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

After quickly checking her vital signs and confirming that the fainting spell was due to shock and perhaps the pain in her hand, I assure the approaching people that everything is fine, that I'm a doctor and have the situation completely under control, and politely ask them to give us some space.

Now I sit here, at 8:30 PM, on the dirty floor of the supermarket, leaning against the wall with the head of a stranger, an unconscious woman, in my lap. My thoughts wander back to the moment when I looked into her eyes. I close my eyes and try to recall the expression in them. Was there fear? Panic? Sorrow? Pain?

Just as I open my eyes again and let my gaze slide over her body, her bandaged left hand, and the ring finger clearly wearing a wedding ring, wondering if I should inform someone, she opens her eyes.

"Hey, welcome back," I whisper to avoid startling her. "We're in the supermarket; you fainted after I bumped into you. I'm sorry. How do you feel?" I continue, helping her sit up and settle beside me. I offer her the bottle of water I received from an employee and smile encouragingly.

"I... Jane. My name is Jane." Again, I look into those big brown eyes, swirling with so many emotions that I can't seem to tear myself away. Only the slight trembling of her injured hand, now gently cradled in her healthy one, brings me back to clear thinking.

"My name is Maura. May I take a look at your hand? I'm a doctor." She hesitates for a moment, and our gazes meet again. "Please?" I gently add, smiling at her before she extends her trembling hand to me.

I lift the bandage slightly and see the bleeding cut running across the inside. "Jane, this needs to be cleaned and stitched; you need to see a doctor." I state somewhat shocked. The wound must be really painful.

"You're looking at one." Her mischievous grin and the playful sparkle in her eyes make me smile too.

"We should go to the hospital," I suggest seriously, overwhelmed by the sudden intensity of emotion directed at me.

"NO!" Her voice is firm, clear, leaving no room for argument, and somehow... completely panicked. "No, please. I need to go home now and will re-bandage the wound there. Thank you and goodbye." With these words, she gets up hastily, and I feel like she's built not just walls but an entire fortress around herself in these few seconds.

"Jane. Stop, please." It takes me a moment to catch up to her, and I'm not entirely sure why I'm investing so much time and energy in a complete stranger. I could just continue my shopping and then enjoy the long-awaited bath accompanied by a good glass of red wine. Instead: "I live just around the corner; let's go to my place, and I'll see what I can do for your hand, okay? You'll get an infection or, even worse, sepsis if the wound isn't properly treated. Let me help you, please?"

Yes, I could have just let her go. I could have been annoyed by her abrupt departure and turned away and walked off. But something in those eyes captivated me. Only months later would I realize that I had recognized the gentle, deeply hidden plea within them.

-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-

"There, done." I examine my work and am more than satisfied with it. Everything is carefully cleaned, stitched with eight sutures, splinted, and bandaged. While I pack away the remaining items, I observe Jane out of the corner of my eye. Something is just not right, but since I usually don't listen to my gut feeling and prefer to rely on facts and figures, I quickly push the nagging thoughts aside and instead ask Jane if she would like a glass of wine.

"I'd rather not; I should go home. Ca-... my husband will be home soon, and I still have my car in the supermarket parking lot." With these words, she gets up. Oh, right, married. Someone waiting for her at home. I don't show my disappointment about spending another evening alone and accompany her smiling to the door, where she thanks me again.

An awkward silence falls as we look at each other again. What is it about those eyes that makes me feel so... so... I can't seem to find the right words for my feelings, which is very unlike me. My vocabulary is much larger than that of an average person, yet it somehow seems inexplicable.

"I should go." It doesn't sound very convincing as she stands there, head tilted to the side, looking at me somewhat questioningly.

"In case you need a doctor again, here's my card." Did I really just say that? She must think I'm a total arrogant jerk or completely desperate for friends. Oh God, Maura. I could kick myself, and once again I realize why many people in my circle prefer not to be friends with me.

To my utter surprise, she smiles at me, grabs the card, and says goodbye with an "Alright, Maura..." —glances at the card— "Maura D. Isles."

I close the door and lean against it for a moment before shaking my head and climbing the stairs to my bathroom to enjoy that well-deserved and long-awaited bath. As I sip my glass of red wine, my thoughts wander back to Jane. Again, there are these feelings that I simply can't name and this almost irresistible urge to do something. But what? For what? Against what? Why? Too many questions. My head feels a bit dizzy, and I carefully place the glass on the edge of the tub before laying my head back, holding my breath, and letting my entire body slide underwater. I enjoy the steady rushing sound in my ears and slowly count to ten before resurfacing, significantly more relaxed than a few seconds ago, and reach for my glass of wine.