Chapter 1

The streets of Boston are busier than normal. September always feels different, especially with the Boston Marathon looming around the corner. The city, already somber and thick, sits heavy in a light shade of gray, rain soaking into every crease and crevice it can find. The usual crisp air has been replaced with a damp chill that seeps into your bones. There is a closeness to the city now, a feeling of being hemmed in by the crowds. It should feel like a community coming together, but instead, it feels like the walls are closing in.

The marathon always brings a unique tension. An influx of people, increased activity - it's a recipe for disaster and chaos. Under relentless rain, every street and corner is packed, it feels suffocating. Crime rates always spike this time of year adding to the unease. The atmosphere is thick with an anticipation that knots in your stomach and keeps you on edge. It feels restless, wary, waiting for the storms to pass.

Jane's faint reflection stared back at her, morphed by raindrops pattering the glass violently. A cup of black coffee steams below her nose, its bitter and smoky aroma wafting around her. It was her first cup of coffee in months that she hadn't made herself from instant powder at her apartment or poured from an overused and probably half molded pot at the station. It was the first morning in months that she felt like the world outside of her existed again.

For eight long months Jane spent hours behind a computer screen, her eyes fixed on crime scene photos she could paint from memory, police reports she could recite in her sleep, and witness testimonies she struggled to make sense of. Meanwhile, there were people out there living peaceful lives—parents who lovingly kissed their children goodnight, couples who prepared dinner together and enjoyed their favorite shows before retiring early and waking up late. It was a routine that felt alien to Jane, a routine foreign to any homicide detective who took their job remotely seriously. Jane, however, being the first female detective in Boston, took her job too seriously. She didn't have a choice.

Following her therapist's instructions, Jane decided to try out a new coffee shop as part of her effort to establish "fresh" and "new" habits. To be fair, the therapist had recommended creating new habits without specifying this particular café, but Jane discovered that it was conveniently located within walking distance of her apartment, making it an easy choice for her contemplative thoughts. Initially hesitant, Jane saw this as her only pathway back to field duty. Sitting behind a desk, working from home, and engaging in ordinary activities was not suited for her. She had learned this lesson over the course of these last three months.

"You were supposed to drop her off at practice... Well, how was I supposed to know you had a meeting? Did you put it on the calendar?" A red-faced, red-haired woman stormed out of the café doors. Jane observed her effortlessly hail a taxi, as if she had done it countless times before. The woman plopped down heavily in the backseat, her lips moving silently as she continued her expressive phone conversation. Goosebumps prickled Jane's neck, and she suppressed the urge to sprint towards her, to warn her, to yank the driver out of the car and make sure... make sure it wasn't him.

Three months ago, Jane had successfully apprehended a man whom the City of Boston had dubbed "The Boston Ripper," though she disagreed with the newspapers' practice of giving catchy names to serial killers, as she believed it only encouraged the behavior. Like his predecessor, the man targeted vulnerable girls with no support system, believing no one would care if they went missing. Patiently, he waited for his victims in a yellow taxi, with the license plate number 376-YTKL and car number 564. He watched for young girls seeking a ride home, waiting for a raised hand or a whistle from their lips—either of which would seal their fate. Once he'd secured a victim, he set his yellow death car into motion, later discarding their lifeless bodies somewhere around the city hours later. No one cared about these girls. Not their pimps, not their families, assuming they still had any left, except for his final victim—the one that would lead to his downfall, and nearly Jane's as well. As for the others, it seemed only Jane and her team cared about them. Jane knew the few hours between life and death must have been unimaginably terrifying. The crime scene photos that haunted Jane's dreams and the notes from her therapist could never fully capture the extent of their suffering.

However, the months had begun to pass since Jane witnessed the cold handcuffs snap shut around his wrists. The months had passed since she locked eyes with him, experiencing a mix of rage and relief that another killer was off the streets, yet also feeling sorrow that she hadn't caught him sooner. Lives could have been spared if she had. He was just another repulsive excuse for a human being now behind bars. It was the first time in her career that she wished she had pulled the trigger when she had the chance. The perfect opportunity had presented itself. She had pressed the gun against his forehead, that soft temple of his skin pounding back against the barrel, her finger poised on the cold trigger. She was so close. Dangerously close.

She also knew that her reprieve from him would be brief, lasting only a few short months while his lawyers and the city prepared for his trial. Soon, she would have to relive every excruciating detail she had memorized about him. For now, whenever someone attempted to broach the topic, she swiftly changed the subject. When a reporter or an eager 20-something year old true crime enthusiast from a distant state called, she promptly hung up. None of it changed the fact that she laid awake at night, haunted by the shadows cast in her bedroom, shedding tears for the victims she could have saved, and lamenting that her job was more reactive than proactive. The truth remained that she saw him in every tall, dark-haired man turning the corner, or in every charming individual flirting with a young girl, or even smiling at her. It all caused the hair on the back of her neck to stand on end and made her gun, holstered at her waist, feel unbearably heavy. Though behind bars for now, his face and his heinous crime would haunt her for a very long time.

Today, Jane decided to take a longer route to the department, again seeking something "new." It struck her as strange how unfamiliar she felt in the midst of normalcy. Wasn't this what everyone did? A leisurely walk through the park might serve as good medicine for most people, but unfortunately, Jane wasn't like most people. She paused near a small playground, observing a few carefree children jumping and sliding around. She couldn't help but wonder if she had ever been that carefree as a child. Her mother would likely disagree, recalling how she and her brothers raised havoc. Jane smiled to herself, reminiscing about the days when she and her brothers played as if the world had no dark corners, as if monsters didn't lurk in the shadows.

"Hi."

Jane caught the attention of a young girl with dark skin, her hair pulled back into two tight pigtails atop her head. Jane maintained her distance. "Hi," she responded, offering a genuine smile.

"Are you a police officer?" the girl asked in a small, sweet voice, her eyes fixed on the badge hanging low around Jane's neck. Jane glanced down, clutching her weighty badge in her hands and swiping it absentmindedly with her thumb.

"Yes, I am." The girl reached through the bars, as if requesting to hold it. Jane surveyed the other children, cautious not to attract unwanted attention. She stepped closer to the girl, leaned down, and gently placed the badge in the small hand stretched toward her.

"Do you catch the bad guys?" the girl asked innocently, toying with the badge in her hands.

Jane's mouth instantly grew dry, a lump forming deep in her throat, and her palms turned clammy. She cleared her throat and forced a smile, but before she could respond, a woman shouted from across the park

"Aaliyah!" The young girl promptly released the badge and dashed towards the young woman who had called out her name. The woman appeared too young to be her mother, possibly a sister. She regarded Jane with suspicion, but Jane didn't take offense. It brought her comfort to see that the little girl had someone looking out for her well-being, unlike many other young girls Jane had encountered throughout the last year.

Jane's cell phone vibrated in her pocket, and she retrieved it, slid open the screen and read a message from Dr. Maura Isles, the Boston Medical Examiner and Jane's fiancé.

Today is the day! Come see me when you have some time.

Before she could answer, her partner's name flashed across the screen. "Morning, Rizzoli. What time are you coming in today?"

"Hey, Frost. I thought I was allowed to be a little late on my first day back? Or is that just you... every day?" She chuckled.

"Haha. Very funny." Jane could almost hear Frost rolling his eyes. "But seriously, when are you coming in?"

"I have my last required meeting with Dr. Chen this morning, but I'll be upstairs after that." Jane replied confidently.

"Good. Glad to have you back. I know it's probably not the welcome you imagined, but we got a body." His voice deepened as he finished the sentence, hating having to pass on the news so early in the morning.

Jane sighed. This job doesn't wait for you to be ready.

"Korsak and I will go check it out this morning though and brief you when you're done with Chen. Glad to have you back, partner." The line clicked off on the other end.

"Yeah... love you too." She smirked. Maura's message reappeared on her screen, the little blue indicator blinking patiently, waiting for Jane's response.

Okay.

Jane frowned and slipped her phone into her back pocket, casting a final glance at the playground. Most of the children appeared to have scattered, returning to their homes or, hopefully, school. Jane checked her watch. It read 8:15.

"How was your weekend?" Dr. Chen crossed her legs professionally as she settled into the chair next to Jane. A young and beautiful doctor, she exuded determination in her job. Dr. Chen was dedicated to her work, embodying the same energy that Jane had felt when she first joined the homicide division. Chen was a leading researcher focusing on the effects of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), specifically in police officers and detectives who dealt with cases like The Boston Ripper. She understood that PTSD wasn't limited to veterans returning from war; it was an increasingly prevalent issue within police departments across the country. She recognized that investigators, like Jane, may not be fighting in a foreign war, but they were fighting a domestic one—one that required them to protect their own neighbors, and one that could spawn demons in their minds that should not be battled alone. For the past 12 years, Dr. Chen had dedicated herself to serving the Boston Police Department. She had listened to countless stories, often in agonizing detail, yet she showed up every day with a smile on her face, ready to bear the burdens of these officers. Jane admired her.

At that moment, all Jane could think about was what awaited her upstairs once she finished her session. Another case. Another murder. Another death.

"Normal, I guess. I took a different route to work today, like you suggested," Jane responded.

Dr. Chen jotted down a note. "That's good. How did it make you feel?"

"It was fine," Jane replied, shrugging. Nervously, she twirled her engagement ring around her finger. She wouldn't admit it made her nervous, uneased by the number of strangers she encountered this morning on her walk to work. Any one of them could be another victim, another "bad guy" as the little girl, Aaliyah, said. Do we catch bad guys? Or do we run damage control?

Dr. Chen made another note. "Jane, we've been meeting for nine weeks now. Do you feel like we've made any progress?"

Jane bit her lip. She truly didn't know what kind of progress she was supposed to expect. If Dr. Chen was asking if the nightmares had diminished, then no. If she was asking if she could take a taxi by herself, no. Even if she was inquiring about her strained relationship with Maura, the answer would still be no progress.

"Do you?" she countered.

Dr. Chen smiled. "Considering that you pretty much cussed me out for the first few weeks every time I asked you a question, I'd say yes, some progress has been made." They shared a brief moment of laughter, but Jane found herself staring down at her knees, lost in thought.

"Do you still think about her?" Dr. Chen asked once again, as she's asked every time Jane drug herself to these sessions. As much as she admired Dr. Chen, she despised even more talking about her feelings and processing her emotions.

For a fleeting moment, Dr. Chen seemed to dissolve from Jane's sight. Her presence faded like an echo dissipating in waves, resembling the rhythmic beats of a heart. The once vivid room transformed, as if infused with a darker essence. The deep red wallpaper appeared more foreboding, casting an ominous shadow over the smooth cream carpet. It became a canvas that depicted the haunting thoughts that consumed Jane's mind. Every fiber of the room seemed to emanate the headspace crafted by countless hours of investigative work, leading to the capture of a dangerous man. A man whose existence Jane grappled with daily. A man whose mere thought now instilled a deep-rooted fear within her.

The casualness with which Dr. Chen referred to "her" felt disrespectful to Jane. She despised how, every time she walked into this office and spent an hour there, it was Dr. Chen's duty to delve into the pain—this pain in particular.

"Yes, I still think about Rebecca," Jane admitted, her tone blunt.

"What do you think about when you think of Rebecca?" Dr. Chen inquired, seemingly undeterred by the change in Jane's tone.

Jane took a deep breath, gathering her thoughts. "I remember what her room smelled like," she said, her voice filled with emotion, and she closed her eyes.

Dr. Chen nodded, understanding the significance these sensory memories held. She refrained from interrupting, recognizing the importance of allowing Jane to create and express her own thoughts without excessive questioning.

"I remember her blonde hair, her blue eyes," Jane continued, her voice tinged with sorrow. "I remember the pink shirt she was wearing. Her room was painted blue. I can still see the color of her fingernails—she had painted them white the night before, and the nail polish bottle was still on her bedside table next to her Winnie the Pooh clock. There was a pink journal on her desk that she wrote in every day, but not on that day. And I can picture her smile in the small picture on her parents' fireplace..." Jane shook her head, her eyes welling up with a surge of emotions at the memory of The Boston Ripper's final victim. One that she entirely blamed herself for. "Why the hell do we still have to talk about this?" Jane's grief became masked with anger, a defense mechanism that Dr. Chen was well aware of, as evidenced by the notes in Jane's file. "Doesn't talking about it just make it never go away?" Jane rubbed her eyes, frustrated with the persistent thoughts plaguing her mind.

"Do you want her to go away?" Dr. Chen asked.

For the first time in weeks, Jane found herself without an immediate response. Or rather, she didn't want to admit the true answer. She would never admit that she didn't want it to go away, that she didn't want to let go. Instead, she wanted to harness it as fuel.

"What does this have to do with me getting back in the field?"

Dr. Chen concluded her note, clicking her pen closed. "Jane, this is directly related to your return to your job. It's inevitable that Rebecca won't be the last victim you form a connection with. It's not uncommon for the guilt you feel about her death to carry over to your future cases. I need to ensure that you can handle that appropriately while maintaining professionalism. I'm here to protect you. Believe it or not, protectors like you also need protection, often from yourselves more than anything else." Dr. Chen clicked her pen, signifying the end of her sentence.

"I can do my job," Jane stated firmly, her teeth partially clenched. Her temple throbbed on the side of her head.

"Yes, you can. And you're one of the best at what you do," Dr. Chen smiled. "That's why I've cleared you for duty. However, it doesn't mean you're back to a hundred percent. You'll need to ease into things. What happens when there's another Rebecca? You must have healthy coping strategies because, one day..." Dr. Chen paused and clicked her pen again, contemplating her next words. "Look, Jane, you've survived by compartmentalizing over the years, but eventually, you run out of compartments."

Jane let out a sigh, leaning forward and wiping exhaustion from her face. She glanced at her watch. It read 9:30.

"I'll make a deal with you," Dr. Chen continued, adopting a more relaxed posture and lifting her voice from its previously serious tone.

Jane rested her heavy chin in her hands, intrigued by the proposition.

"You've already completed the required number of visits with me, and I've cleared you for duty after this final session," Dr. Chen continued. "Besides, I understand how politics work. It wouldn't look good to keep the best detective in the department hostage for therapy. No one would trust me. However," she paused for effect, and Jane listened intently, knowing that this was her only path back into the field, "you have to continue seeing me."

Jane let out an exasperated sigh, falling back onto the couch. "Ugh," she groaned. "Do I have to?" Her tone was sarcastic, but hinted at the frustrating thought that Dr. Chen was right.

"Do you hate me that much?" Dr. Chen teased, rising from her chair and heading towards her desk. She sat down and began filling out Jane's release paperwork. Jane followed, leaning over the desk to watch, as if it wouldn't feel real unless she witnessed it. "You don't have to see me as often," Dr. Chen said, focusing on her perfectly scripted signature. "My professional recommendation would be to come see me at least once every week or two."

"Is there anything in there about my mother giving me more distance? I think that would definitely be good for my mental health," Jane suggested with a raised eyebrow.

Dr. Chen chuckled. "Unfortunately, the only person in this room who can issue a restraining order is you."

Jane nodded, considering her options.

"But I'm serious, Jane. I believe that you thrive when you have a purpose, when your work truly helps people. You don't like to focus on yourself. When you're putting away the bad guys, when you're protecting others, that's when you're at your best. Sometimes, it's okay to be at your best for yourself too," Dr. Chen explained. The image of the little girl from the park flashed in Jane's mind, serving as a reminder of why she needed to carry on, as if she had to justify it to herself. "We need to keep this line of communication open, or else you may find yourself in a situation that could spiral out of your control."

The thought of losing control unsettled Jane. "I'll consider it," she conceded.

Dr. Chen stood up and handed Jane a copy of the release form. As Jane grabbed it, Dr. Chen held onto it a little tighter, their eyes meeting with a sense of seriousness that Jane rarely witnessed.

"I'll consider it," Jane said, her voice slightly more tense. Dr. Chen released the paper with a genuine smile. When they approached the door, she held it open for Jane.

"Oh, and maybe bring Dr. Isles. I haven't spoken to her in a while. I'd like to catch up," Dr. Chen mentioned nonchalantly.

Jane turned towards Dr. Chen with a smirk. "Are you trying to bait me into pre-marriage counseling?"

Dr. Chen raised her hands innocently before closing the door between them. Inside the elevator, Jane rubbed her eyes as they burned with sleeplessness. Despite the stronger coffee she had this morning, which was a departure from her usual weak brew, exhaustion still weighed heavily on her. The new victim flooded her thoughts. Maura flooded her thoughts. Rebecca flooded her thoughts. A stinging sense of tension rose around her neck and she rubbed it forcefully, pushing it all away as she always had. She needed to be clear headed for her first day. She could never be the cop that couldn't come back. She wouldn't be the cop that couldn't come back.