*33 months ago*
Once more, it's deep into the night.
Hours after sunset, the sky now belongs to darkness, with the moon hidden behind thick clouds. With the departure of the sun, the corridors of the Boston Police Department's forensic lab have emptied as well. The staff, having bid each other farewell in small gatherings, have stripped the space of its daytime vibrancy.
Maura Isles is solitary in the lab again, enveloped by rows of advanced technological instruments and the muted hum of computers. In this quiet, devoid of company, she finds a peculiar comfort, encased in the order and rigor of her surroundings, where data and diagnostics rule.
Turning in her seat, she attempts to peer through the glass panes, but reflections from inside the lab obscure her view, showing only her pale reflection amidst equipment like microscopes and genetic analyzers. She rises, the sound of her movement breaking the silence, and walks over the chilly, stark floor to step out onto the balcony. There, she releases the day's accumulated burdens—the solved cases and uncovered crimes—and breathes in the chilly night air, letting it sweep her thoughts clear. She appreciates that her workspace, once a gloomy basement now reserved for autopsies, was moved up to the building's top level months ago.
Leaning on the railing, she stares upward. The moon is obscured by clouds, and even though she tries to spot it, the sky remains an impenetrable dark. On nights like these, she particularly misses the comforting presence of the moon, like a lighthouse lost in the fog.
As a child, she spent countless nights gazing through her family home's large window, memorizing the names and features of the moon's landscape—Mare Tranquillitatis, Oceanus Procellarum, Tycho, and Copernicus. To her, it was more than just a celestial body; it was a map of dreams and stories, a silent guardian of the night.
If there's one truth Maura Isles holds, it's the power of symbols—they chart the course of your existence, your destiny. The moon, with its craters and seas, was her symbol of constancy in a chaotic world.
Many nights were spent softly casting her dreams toward the moon, imagining them landing in the Sea of Serenity or scaling the heights of the Apennine Mountains. Tonight, as she looks upward, those dreams form silently on her lips. Yet, she acknowledges her age, her maturity, diminishing the childhood belief in their magic. With a sigh, she pivots on her stiletto heels, shuts the balcony door behind her, and slips into her coat before exiting the lab.
Heading toward the parking garage, she lists the necessary errands in her mind and decisively climbs into her vehicle when the bright digits of the dashboard clock catch her eye: 10:58 PM. The 585 horsepower of her sleek, black electric Mercedes G-Class purrs to life like a quiet beast, speeding her slightly faster than usual out of the garage, like a dark ship navigating the night's sea.
xxx At the same time, nearby xxx
With a dull thud, she lets the bronze-green bag drop to the floor and steps into the dark, cramped apartment with her heavy, black boots.
She closes the door behind her, and the darkness envelops her like a suffocating shroud. Her breathing quickens, and it feels as though an invisible hand is pressing down on her chest. Hastily, she flips the light switch to her left. Too soon, she thinks, pushing away the rising panic with a few deep breaths. Right now, she can't handle the darkness; the memories are too fresh. She blinks a few times until her eyes adjust to the harsh light of the bare bulbs, still hanging like abandoned cocoons from the ceiling.
"Home, Sweet Home," she murmurs, and the slight bitterness echoes through the narrow rooms, stretching over the furniture covered in white sheets and swallowed by the black curtains, which seem to stand guard like dark sentinels before the tall windows.
She opens the refrigerator and wrinkles her nose. The sharp smell of cleaning fluid is a harsh reminder of her hasty departure a few weeks ago, when she spilled milk on the top shelf and had to clean the entire fridge in a rush. She reaches for the only item inside, standing like a solitary soldier on a deserted battlefield. With a pop, she opens the small beer bottle while absentmindedly running her fingers over the rough, matte brown surface of the aged kitchen counter. After missions like these, finding her usual stoic calm is like trying to catch a fleeting shadow. The tranquility that usually surrounds her is elusive, slipping through her fingers like sand. It's a battle she fights only in the solitude of her own walls. Perhaps it's the weight of years, perhaps the accumulation of missions. Eight years, over 35 deployments. The material under her fingers soothes her, helping her focus, grounding her like an anchor in a storm. It reminds her of...Stop. You're home! She shakes her head vigorously to banish the thoughts of the past few days that have clung to her like persistent ghosts since her arrival on the tarmac.
A glance at the oversized, black Luminox on her wrist, with its scratched bezel and worn brown strap, a constant reminder of her other life, pulls her out of her lethargy. 11:05 PM. Quietly cursing, she hurriedly leaves her apartment, the door closing behind her with a finality that feels like a gate shutting on her fleeting peace.
xxx 23 minutes later xxx
Maura Isles has never been fond of convenience store shops. It's not just the subpar quality of the food, but also the way the employees are often treated: long workdays, poor pay, and little to no prospects for the future. In her own workplace, she ensures her employees are treated fairly. It deeply goes against her principles to support such exploitation with her purchases. But it's Thursday, after 11 PM. The restaurants are closed, her fridge is embarrassingly empty, and hunger after a long, demanding day forces her to reconsider her standards.
She parks her car right next to the entrance and checks the battery gauge one last time. It's unlikely her driver left the car with a dead battery, but not impossible. To her relief, it shows 72%.
With a satisfied glance in the rearview mirror, she confirms that her makeup and hair are still as perfect as they were when she left her house that morning. She opens the driver's door and gracefully steps out of the black leather seat, reaching for her Louis Vuitton bag with one hand. The chime of the doorbell accompanies her entrance into the shop, bathed in harsh, artificial light. The small selection of fruits and vegetables glows in unappetizing, almost radioactive colors. A soft sigh, meant only for her ears, escapes her subtly tinted lips. She startles as she hears a whispered "I hate it too" right beside her ear and turns to respond, but the person has already walked away, leaving her staring at a tanned back clad in a white tank top. She shakes her head and steps into the first aisle.
Jane wanders hungrily through the aisles of the cramped, nearly suffocating shop. Pasta and some kind of ready-made sauce will have to do tonight. She smiles whenever she catches a glimpse of the coat of the woman whose sigh in the entrance had resonated with her own frustrations. Another lost soul, wandering into this hell of bad food, cheap alcohol, and expired canned goods at almost midnight.
Standing in front of the shelves, she searches restlessly through the various types of rice, past the flour, and over to the instant noodles. Finally, she spots what she's looking for and reaches out. But her hand grasps at air. Turning in disbelief, she looks into guilty, wide eyes that can't seem to decide whether to focus on the box in their hand or Jane's intense, chocolate-brown eyes.
"I…uh…" the woman stammers, then briefly closes her eyes. When she opens them again, it's as if Jane is speaking to a completely different person.
"Please, take it," she says smoothly, the words flowing from her smiling mouth with ease. They are kind but spoken with such firmness that Jane, who had been about to argue, simply closes her mouth. She accepts the last box of fettuccine that the unknown blonde offers. When their fingers briefly touch, Jane pauses. The woman holds her gaze for a fraction of a second too long before saying, "Thank you for your service to our country, Commander," and walking away, the click of her high heels echoing. Jane looks down and sees the patch on her camouflage pants that gave her away. "Thanks!" she calls after the woman, unsure if she's been heard.
Empty-handed, Maura leaves the shop and gets into her car. A frustrated scream builds in her lungs, clawing its way up her throat, desperate to escape. It takes all her willpower to swallow it down. She presses her fingertips into her thighs until she groans from the pain. She is an Isles, for heaven's sake. An Isles doesn't lose her composure over a box of pasta. Maura lets her head fall forward, resting it on the sports steering wheel of her car. The cool leather calms her thoughts as she gently massages her throbbing temples.
Suddenly, the driver's door of her Mercedes is yanked open, and a vice-like grip seizes her upper arm. She is roughly pulled from her seat, stumbling and nearly falling to her knees before she feels the cold metal of a blade against her throat. "Hand over the cash, you rich bitch." The stench of cheap vodka, mixed with stale sweat and cigarettes, makes her gag. She takes several deep breaths through her mouth to suppress the urge to vomit, thanking her iron self-control honed over years as a medical examiner. For the first time, she looks up. She scans the unshaven faces of the three men encircling her car. Her brain goes into autopilot, cataloging her attackers: all between 5'7" and 5'11", slightly overweight. Their clothes are torn and dirty, likely homeless. One wears newer clothes, clean shoes. New job, perhaps, but old friends. Two weapons: a gun and the knife still pressed to her throat. She turns her head away in disgust as one of the men runs his finger down her face. His finger is rough, feeling like sandpaper against her soft, perfectly cared-for skin. Her mind races. Would she get away with just an empty wallet, or was there more to fear?
"Hey, get lost!" The voice booms across the empty, dark parking lot, accompanied by rapid footsteps. "Leave the woman alone!"
The brunette soldier, to whom Maura had lost the box of pasta just minutes earlier, stands a few meters from the three attackers. They look at each other with raised eyebrows. They laugh derisively, holding their stomachs. "Oh look, guys, two for the price of one, who would've thought?" One draws his pistol and motions the brunette over. "You're making a mistake. Get lost now, and we'll never speak of this again." They laugh again, and the man with the pistol aims it at the woman. "Stand next to the rich bitch, or I'll shoot you, now." "Last chance," she says calmly, hesitating briefly before complying.
Maura watches the scene. The woman's confidence in her perfectly fitting military pants and tight tank top would have been a turn-on in any other situation. Even with the gun aimed at her, she doesn't flinch. Her face is as stoic as a marble statue, but there's a threat in her eyes, something dangerous lurking in her voice. As she closes the distance and steps without hurry beside Maura, her movements are like a predator stalking its prey. Maura sees the muscles in her toned, perfectly sculpted arms flex.
Suddenly, everything happens quickly, and later Maura can't recall the exact sequence of events.
The woman disarms the man holding the pistol, striking him hard in the throat, causing him to stumble to the ground. Almost simultaneously, she brings down one of the attackers with a swift kick to the knee and reaches for the pistol when the man with the knife lunges at her. She is just a millisecond too slow. Maura sees it happen before it does. Her warning scream catches in her throat as she watches the knife plunge deep into the brunette's left side, and she momentarily freezes. "Fuck, you asshole," the woman hisses, striking him on the head with the gun. She fires three shots, hitting each attacker once in the right leg. With each shot, she stumbles back a step. On the last shot, she falls backward against Maura, who stands with her back to the car. Instinctively, Maura opens her arms to catch her. The impact knocks the wind out of her, and she sinks to the ground with the injured woman in her arms.
"Shit, sorry. I'm bleeding all over you." The woman's weak voice jolts Maura's brain out of its shock. She tries to stand to examine the wound, but the woman's pained groan stops her.
"Please…can you…can we just…sit here for a moment?" There's a plea in her voice. Her head falls back onto Maura's right shoulder, her body trembling. "It's been…a damn…hard week. I just need to…breathe." Her breathing is shallow and labored. The words are more gasps and grow increasingly quieter.
"Okay. I'm here," Maura replies, stroking the woman's goosebump-covered, bare arms before cautiously exploring the extent of the injuries. She feels the warm liquid flowing from the woman's side and presses her flat hand against the wound.
"I'm a doctor. I need to look at this." Maura hears the slight panic in her voice.
"Just five minutes, Doc," the brunette whispers, gasping in pain as Maura presses her hand more firmly against the wound.
In the distance, sirens wail—a common sound in this city. Normally, they're swallowed by the night and disappear into the intricate structure of the city's bricks and stones, steel and concrete. But now the sound grows louder, echoing across the empty parking lot. Maura has never been so grateful to hear the deafening alarm of the emergency services.
"I…am…Jane," the bleeding woman murmurs in her arms.
"Maura. My name is Maura," she responds, a wave of relief washing over her as she finally sees the approaching paramedics.
The next minutes blur into a chaotic jumble of voices, commands, and squealing tires. Moments and minutes merge into a black hole of memory, missing pieces that Maura can't recall. She comes out of her trance-like state standing in front of the large, softly lit mirror of her luxurious bathroom. She looks at her red-stained hands, tugs at the blood-soaked collar of her formerly white Valentino blouse. Blood. So much blood. The flashbacks hit her suddenly and forcefully, like a tsunami of emotions. Tears, hot like the lava flows of Stromboli, the volcano she visited years ago in Italy, stream down her cheeks. Sobbing, she steps into the shower, scrubbing every inch of her skin as if she could wash away the memories along with the blood. The white tiles of the spacious rain shower are tinged with light pink, and it takes all of Maura's strength to stay on her feet. She steps out of the shower and wraps herself in the sinfully expensive bathrobe, clutching it, snuggling deeper into the soft fabric as if it could soothe her raw soul. Her breathing steadies, and she dries her hair with a towel. She brushes her teeth and washes off the remaining makeup. The routine gives her a sense of control.
Barefoot, she walks downstairs and crosses the smooth, dark hardwood floor of her house. She pours herself a glass of Bordeaux and swirls the ruby-red liquid in the large glass. Standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, she looks out, but instead of the city lights she usually sees from this part of her house, she sees the reflection of a woman staring back at her with tired, exhausted eyes. She was an ER doctor, for heaven's sake. She worked with Doctors Without Borders. Blood shouldn't unsettle her this much. But there's a reason she no longer practices with living patients. A reason she stays away from those who might die under her care. With a disdainful hiss, she drains the glass in one go and turns away.
After the police interrogation, they wouldn't tell her where they took the other woman—Jane, she corrects herself mentally. "National security," they had said. Maura recalls Jane's last, dazzling smile, the sexy dimples and the piercing gaze of those chocolate-brown eyes as she was loaded into the ambulance.
"National security," Maura scoffs softly. Isles aren't easily deterred. As the daughter of a mob boss, she carries enough criminal energy within her to not be stopped by such clichés and regulations. She has fought against this dark side of her DNA for a long time—until she recognized its advantages. Neither Isles nor Doyles stand idly by, waiting for fate to turn in their favor. With this thought, she grabs her laptop and sits down on her dark sofa with the absolute certainty that within a few hours, she will have found out Jane's whereabouts. After a few calls and some research, she has the answer she needs.
xxx Seven days later xxx
"Commander Rizzoli, you have a visitor. I've sent her away at least ten times in the past week, but she's really persistent."
Jane's mouth twists in disbelief, one eyebrow arching. When did her visitors start getting announced so formally? Frost, Korsak, Frankie, and even Cavanaugh usually barge into her room with the casual ease of those who think they own the place. And who on earth could be so insistent that the sight of the desperate soldier makes Jane feel a pang of sympathy? She glances at the clock—just before noon. Her eyes drift to the small window in her room on the 25th floor. The sun stands high above the city, casting it in a golden glow. The sky is crystal clear and deep blue, decorated by a few perfectly shaped clouds. If Jane didn't know better, she could swear it was a painting.
The soldier's clearing throat brings her back to reality. "Commander?" She nods, signaling that she will see the visitor—whoever it is. She has already spoken to Angela, who is currently on vacation in Europe and wouldn't be flying back now that the immediate threat to Jane's life is gone. Absentmindedly, she touches her left side, just below her ribs. The knife had penetrated deeply, injuring her spleen and puncturing her lung.
The human brain is a strange organ, capable of being frighteningly masochistic one moment and fiercely protective the next. At the moment of the stabbing, her brain chose the latter. Confronted with excruciating pain, it decided to erase those memories from Jane's mind. As she reflects on this, a young woman with honey-blonde hair steps into the hospital room. She stands awkwardly in the oversized doorway, greeting Jane with a hesitant "Hi, Jane?"
Jane looks up, her thoughts interrupted. Her brain takes a moment to place the face among the fragmented memories it has allowed her to keep. She tilts her head. Where does she know her from? It takes a moment. Then her face breaks into a smile.
"Maura!"
Maura's face lights up, like the sun breaking through a sky shrouded with dark clouds. Bright, radiant, warming. Jane pushes aside the warm feeling without giving it much thought.
Maura is abruptly shoved aside with the words, "Careful, hot food coming through." Jane rolls her eyes as the unfriendly nurse sets the tray on the small table in the center of the room without a word.
"Oh…I don't want to disturb you…" Maura's uncertainty is palpable, and Jane quickly raises a hand. She makes a gagging sound. "The food here is so awful, you couldn't possibly disturb me." Maura laughs.
"Do you have to stay here?" Maura asks cautiously. Jane tilts her head again, as if trying to understand what's going on in Maura's mind. She slowly shakes her head.
"There's a little Italian place just around the corner…do you want to…?" She's abruptly cut off. "Oh God, YES!" Jane gets up slowly and carefully. She's already torn her stitches once, and Frankie's scolding was monstrous. Even though she isn't technically a prisoner here, she'd still have to explain her disappearance later. But the food over the past few days has been so bad that Jane almost lost her appetite—which has never happened before. "Let me just…" and the rest of the sentence fades as she disappears into an adjoining room.
A few minutes later, they walk into the restaurant. It's small, with only seven tables, and although it's shortly before noon, all the tables are still empty. Jane marvels at the colorful lamps hanging from the ceiling and inhales the aroma of freshly cooked food. She groans with pleasure, which brings a gentle smile to Maura's face. They sit at a table by the window and peruse the menu.
"Yeah, pasta," Jane exclaims, pumping her fist triumphantly. Maura looks up from her menu, raising an eyebrow. Jane watches Maura as she studies the menu. Her skin is smooth and pale. Her light eyebrows furrow slightly, and she bites her subtly painted lips. Her eyes…are they brown? Or maybe green? Jane can't decide, and her eyes once again fixate on Maura's full, pink lips.
"Jane?" Maura looks at her questioningly, and it takes Jane a moment to realize she's supposed to order. She orders spaghetti carbonara. Maura orders the mixed salad with grilled chicken. Of course, Jane smiles inwardly. She could have sworn the perfectly dressed woman would order a salad. The young Italian waiter leaves their table, and a silence settles over them.
"I…" Maura closes her mouth again and lowers her head. She chews on her lip, a nervous habit she never managed to break despite years in boarding school and many spiteful comments from her classmates. Maura learned early to control her facial expressions, training her features to reveal nothing. This ability earned her the nickname "Queen of the Dead", among other things. But in moments like this, when the insecurity of the little girl still hiding behind the facade of the strong Dr. Maura Isles slowly creeps up her spine like a demon from the past, when the carefully crafted mask of self-confidence falters despite all efforts, Maura reverts to old habits. Her hand rests on the table, tracing nonsensical shapes with her fingers while she struggles to find the right words.
A warm hand covers hers, and she looks up. Jane smiles encouragingly. The rough, scarred feel of Jane's palm against the back of her hand and the gentle, reassuring pressure of Jane's fingers help Maura finally find her voice.
"I wanted to thank you."
"It's okay." Jane smiles.
There are a thousand things Maura wants to say. That it's not okay, that Jane got hurt because of her. That she didn't have to care about a stranger. She looks down at her hands. Jane's hand is still on hers. Slowly, Maura turns her hand over and looks up. Jane has tilted her head to the side, as if eagerly waiting to hear what Maura will say next. The pleasant sensation of Jane's fingertips lightly brushing against her palm and the inside of her hand makes her look down again. She curls her fingers, entwining them with Jane's, and as if it's the most natural thing in the world, Jane mirrors the movement. Her thumb gently strokes Maura's soft skin. Soothing. Encouraging.
Maura lifts her head again. There's so much to say. But instead, words slip out whose meaning she only understands after they've been spoken.
"I've never been worth protecting before," she whispers softly.
The moment is abruptly interrupted as the waiter approaches their table. They quickly withdraw their hands while the waiter places their plates on the table and rushes off with a "Buono Appetito." Maura looks around and sees that the restaurant has filled up in the last fifteen minutes, with all tables now occupied. There's a brief, awkward silence. Until Jane lets out another groan, theatrically leaning back in her chair with her head tilted back. Maura laughs, "Do you two need a minute alone?" she asks with a teasing grin. Jane's ears feel hot, and she's sure they're bright red. "Easy for you to say, you didn't have to endure hospital food for days," she replies with a playful pout.
The conversation remains light and easy. They talk about everything and nothing. Favorite foods, favorite restaurants in the city, favorite dishes to cook, and the best places to buy groceries. They avoid heavy topics, and Maura brushes off questions about her job with a simple "I work in public service." The fact that Jane apparently doesn't know who she is gives Maura a long-forgotten sense of freedom. The moment Jane discovers her true identity would come soon enough.
Maura glances at the round face of her slim, gold Rolex. She needs to get back to the office; she's already going to be about 30 minutes late. She waves the waiter over and pays the bill after a brief argument with Jane, which she, of course, wins.
Together, they step out into the afternoon sun, and Jane tilts her head back, enjoying the warmth on her skin. Maura looks at her from the side. She's a bit pale. Paler than a week ago. The hospital air doesn't seem to be doing her any good — getting stabbed probably doesn't help either, Maura finishes the thought. "We should do this again," Jane says with a lightness in her voice that makes Maura envious. Just moments ago, Maura had wanted to say the same thing but had kept reformulating it in her mind. She didn't want to sound too needy. Or pushy. But the fear of potential rejection kept her silent, the demon of her own insecurity firmly perched on her shoulder.
She turns and, in a moment of bravery, hands Jane her iPhone. "Would you spare me the hours of searching for you next time?" After a charming smile, she has Jane's number and is typing her own into Jane's phone.
"Should I walk you back?" she asks hesitantly. But Jane shakes her head. "You need to go; I can feel how nervous you are."
They embrace to say goodbye, holding on a second too long. The hug is gentle, to avoid stressing Jane's wound, but Maura finds it hard to let go. The warm breath against her ear and Jane's words, "For me, you're worth protecting," make Maura freeze. All the words she had wanted to say as a farewell stick in her throat. "Thank you," she murmurs as they finally break the embrace. She waves to Jane one last time before getting into a taxi. Her mother and her driver are going to kill her.
xxx Three days later xxx
The following days are nothing short of chaotic. Maura rushes from meetings with the police department, the district attorney, and her colleagues in pathology. She juggles conference calls with forensic institutes across the US and Europe, and personally oversees several intricate autopsies after discovering errors in her assistant's reports.
It's 10 PM, and she's just finished a grueling, nearly three-hour session with the mayor, discussing quarterly figures, a pay raise for her staff, and the desperately needed expansion of the forensic labs. As the chief medical examiner, she has the authority to make many of these decisions herself—but it's politically savvy to have the mayor's backing. So, she endures the bureaucrats' shallow arguments, only to corner them with facts and figures until they surrender in exasperation.
"What a glorious waste of time," she mutters under her breath as she steps into the elevator to the parking garage. She glances at her phone. No new messages. She puts it back in her bag and drums her fingers on the metal railing of the elevator. Once again, she checks the display. She unlocks it and opens the messaging app. She scrolls through the hundreds of messages exchanged with Jane over the past three days, rereading each one until she reaches her message from this morning.
"Do you have time for lunch today?" That was nearly 16 hours ago. No response from Jane. She had tried calling her just before noon. The call went straight to voicemail. Jane hasn't called back.
She types a message, then deletes it. For what feels like the thousandth time today. Did she say or write something wrong? Did she, Maura Isles, once again ruin everything with a bang and a crash? Was she too weird? Or too boring? Or did Jane find out who Maura really is and decided to cut off contact? Frustrated, she leaves the elevator and walks across the cobblestone courtyard in front of the Boston Police Department. The majestic building looms behind her against the dark night sky, its upper floor silhouettes reflecting the city lights. Maura climbs into the car where Thomas is already waiting. She despises that her mother insists she, as the heiress of the Isles empire, requires a proper chauffeur.
"Is everything okay?" Her finger hovers over the send button. She sighs and presses it. Then she tosses the phone into her bag with a huff and stares absently out the window.
The city's lights blur into a hazy mosaic as they drive through the streets, her thoughts drifting like flotsam on a turbulent sea of uncertainty. The rhythmic hum of the engine is almost soothing, a stark contrast to the tempest inside her mind. Each unanswered question is like a stone thrown into a pond, sending ripples of doubt and anxiety through her consciousness.
I'd really reeeally appreciate your thoughts on this one - shall I continue?