Chapter 10
Rebecca's face flashed in her mind—the way she had sat across from Jane during that first interrogation, hunched and fragile, her long braids draped over her shoulders. She had been so scared, her wide eyes filled with uncertainty and fear. Jane had tried her best to be comforting, to offer Rebecca a sense of safety, but the girl had been hard to reach, always teetering on the edge of something Jane couldn't quite grasp.
Two weeks later, Rebecca had gone missing.
It had been days since the call from Rebecca's adoptive parents, their voices thick with anger and panic. They blamed Jane, accusing her of scaring the girl away, saying that the questions and pressure had been too much. Jane had tried to reason with them, to explain that she was doing everything she could to protect Rebecca, but deep down, she was terrified. Terrified that The Ripper would find Rebecca first.
She could feel it gnawing at her constantly—the horrifying thought of what The Ripper might be doing to Rebecca, what kind of pain and fear she could be enduring if he found her before Jane did. The images in Jane's mind were brutal, unbearable, and no matter how hard she tried to push them away, they stayed, haunting her.
She could hear Rebecca screaming for her. Already locked in that taxi, lost to the darkness of the city. A scream that shattered Jane's ears.
Jane shot up from the nightmare, her body drenched in sweat, Rebecca's scream still echoing in her ears. Her heart pounded in her chest, the fear gripping her like a vice. For a moment, she couldn't breathe, she clutched her chest, her mind racing in panic. She had felt Rebecca's fear so viscerally, it had taken her a few seconds to remember where she was.
Maura lay asleep next to her, turned away from Jane and her breathing soft and even. Jane stared at her in the dim light–praying–that Maura would learn to sleep through Jane's nightmares. That Maura wasn't waking every time Jane's fears tore her from sleep, though Jane wasn't sure how much longer she could hide their intensities.
She wiped the sweat from her forehead, willing her heart to slow down. Unable to shake the lingering fear from her nightmare, Jane knew sleep wasn't going to come easily tonight. She lay still for a moment, watching the soft rise and fall of Maura's breathing, but her mind kept racing, thoughts of Rebecca gnawing at her.
Quietly, she slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb Maura. The last thing she wanted was to wake her, especially after how much Maura had been dealing with herself. Jane padded softly down the stairs, the house quiet and dim, her body still tense with the remnants of the nightmare.
In the kitchen, Jane stood for a moment, leaning against the counter, feeling the cool surface beneath her hands as she tried to center herself. Her eyes drifted toward the kettle sitting on the stove, and with a small sigh, she decided to make herself some tea. She still wasn't quite sure how Maura had managed to convince her to start drinking the stuff—Jane had always been a coffee person through and through. But, in typical Maura fashion, there had been subtle nudges, casual comments, and before Jane knew it, she found herself reaching for tea on nights like this.
Not that she'd ever admit it.
As the water heated, Jane rifled through the tea options Maura had meticulously organized. Of course, Maura had every variety of tea under the sun—her kitchen was practically a museum for the stuff. Jane settled on something that sounded vaguely calming, though she wasn't sure it would actually help her sleep. It wasn't the tea that was the problem—it was her mind.
She poured the hot water over the tea bag, watching the steam rise in gentle swirls. The quiet of the house felt heavier now, like her thoughts had filled the space. Jane leaned against the counter, wrapping her hands around the warm mug, trying to focus on the simple, steady act of breathing. But Rebecca's face kept creeping into her mind, the fear in her eyes, the uncertainty in her voice when Jane had questioned her. She had promised to keep Rebecca safe, but now the girl was gone, and Jane couldn't stop herself from holding on to that guilt.
A few minutes later, Jane heard the soft creak of footsteps coming down the stairs. She looked up, spotting Maura in the dim light of the kitchen. Maura's hair was slightly tousled, her face still soft with sleep, but her eyes were filled with concern as she made her way over.
"Hey," Maura said quietly, her voice gentle but awake. "Couldn't sleep?"
Jane gave her a sheepish smile. "I didn't mean to wake you. Sorry."
Maura shook her head, stepping closer. "You didn't wake me. I just noticed you weren't in bed."
Jane reached up into the cabinet, pulling down another cup. She poured Maura some tea, the sound of the liquid filling the cup a soothing contrast to the silence. "I made some tea."
Maura smiled softly, taking the cup from Jane's hands. "Thank you."
Without another word, they moved to the couch, Jane settling down first and Maura slipping beside her. The quiet wrapped around them like a blanket as they sat there, sipping their tea. Jane felt herself begin to relax, the warmth of Maura's presence easing the tension in her chest.
As they sat together, Jane let her hand rest on the smooth curve of Maura's thigh, her fingers tracing absentminded circles over her exposed skin. The simple touch grounded her in a way words couldn't. She hadn't realized how much she needed this—just the two of them, sitting together, no words necessary.
They sat in the soft glow of the dim kitchen light, the house silent except for the occasional clink of their tea mugs. Jane sighed, finally letting her guard down a little. "I couldn't get that nightmare out of my head," she admitted quietly, her voice barely more than a murmur. "About Rebecca. I'm still seeing her…"
Maura sensed the tension in Jane's voice, the way her words seemed to carry the weight of so much more than just a sleepless night. But she didn't press. She knew Jane had been working through her feelings, especially after everything with Rebecca and the trauma surrounding that case. Dr. Chang had helped Jane make real progress, and Maura didn't want to add to the burden of processing something so raw and painful.
Instead, Maura pulled Jane's hand up to her cheek, holding it there gently for a moment. She pressed a soft kiss to the back of Jane's hand, letting the simple gesture speak for her. It wasn't about pushing Jane to talk; it was about letting her know that Maura was there—always there—for whatever Jane needed, even if that was just quiet support.
As Jane sat there on the couch, Maura's gentle kiss still lingering on the back of her hand, her mind drifted back to the words Casey had said earlier that evening. They played over and over, like a slow echo she couldn't shake: It must be difficult for your fiancée, losing you to work so often. The more Jane thought about it, the more a knot tightened in her chest.
Maura knew her. They had known each other for years, lived through life's most challenging moments side by side even before their relationship turned more intimate. Jane was well aware that Maura had seen the worst parts of her—her intensity, her stubbornness, her trauma. Maura wasn't naive, and Jane trusted that. But now, as their engagement had started to become more real with every passing day, Jane found herself wondering if Maura truly knew what she was getting into.
Jane worked late hours, sometimes didn't come home at all. She could be pulled into a case for days, consumed by the need to solve it. And then there were the nightmares, the demons she had been carrying around for years. The ones that resurfaced every time she thought about Rebecca and all the other victims she couldn't save. What if she never got over these nightmares? What if they haunted her for the rest of her life? Could Maura live with that? Should she?
She glanced down at Maura, who was resting her head on Jane's shoulder, eyes half-closed, her presence warm and steady. A part of Jane felt selfish for even thinking about it. She loved Maura, deeply, in a way she hadn't loved anyone before. But there was also a nagging voice in the back of her mind that wondered if Maura deserved better. Deserved someone who wasn't haunted by old cases and nightmares. Deserved a future that wasn't constantly shadowed by Jane's work or her emotional scars.
As Jane's thoughts continued to swirl, she felt a shift next to her. Maura lifted her head slightly, her gaze soft but attentive as she looked up at Jane.
"Are you okay?" Maura asked gently, her voice full of quiet concern. Her hand reached up, resting lightly on Jane's forearm.
Jane forced a small smile, trying to brush off her worries. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just… thinking."
But Maura wasn't easily convinced. She studied Jane's face for a moment, her brow furrowing just slightly. "You've been quiet. More than usual. Is it about the case? Or… something else?"
Jane hesitated, the words stuck in her throat. Part of her wanted to open up, to ask Maura if she ever worried about their future the way Jane did. If she ever questioned what she was getting herself into by marrying someone whose life was filled with chaos and darkness. But another part of Jane didn't want to burden her with those fears. She didn't want to put doubts in Maura's mind.
Maura, as perceptive as always, could sense Jane's inner conflict. "You don't have to tell me if you're not ready," she said softly. "But I hope you know that if something's bothering you, I'd rather know than not."
Jane exhaled, her heart softening at Maura's words. She took a deep breath and, after a long pause, finally spoke. "Do you ever worry?" Jane asked quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.
Maura tilted her head slightly. "Worry about what?"
"About us," Jane said, her voice tightening with emotion. "I mean… about my work. My family. The nightmares. I'm not always… easy to live with. And I know I get pulled into the job, sometimes too much. I just—" Jane hesitated, then looked down at their hands. "Do you ever wonder if you're signing up for something you didn't really bargain for?"
Maura's expression softened, and she gently squeezed Jane's hand. "Of course I worry sometimes," she admitted, her voice steady but kind. "I worry when you don't come home, when you get too caught up in a case. I worry when you carry all that pain around with you. But I never doubt us."
Jane blinked, her throat tightening at the sincerity in Maura's voice.
"I knew what I was getting into long before we ever talked about marriage, Jane," Maura continued, her eyes unwavering. "I've seen you at your worst and your best. And I chose you, knowing everything that comes with it. Just like you chose me, knowing how neurotic I can be about every little detail."
That made Jane chuckle softly, despite the weight in her chest.
Maura's hand moved up to Jane's cheek, her touch gentle but firm. "I love you for who you are, Jane. Not just the detective, but the person who fights for people, who loves deeply, who's flawed like everyone else. I don't expect a perfect life, and I don't need one. I just need you."
Jane felt her chest tighten again, but this time it wasn't from fear. It was from the overwhelming sense of love and gratitude she felt in that moment. Maura's words settled something inside her, something she hadn't even realized was so restless.
"I don't deserve you," Jane murmured, her voice thick.
Maura smiled softly, brushing a thumb across Jane's cheek. "I think we deserve each other."
Jane leaned in and kissed Maura. She leaned in further, her heart full, and pressed her lips softly against Maura's. What began as a gentle kiss quickly deepened as the weight of their unspoken emotions filled the space between them. Maura responded immediately, her hand slipping around Jane's neck, pulling her closer as the kiss grew more passionate, more urgent.
For a moment, all of Jane's doubts and fears melted away. The warmth of Maura's body, the softness of her touch, consumed Jane completely. She could feel Maura's heart beating steadily against her chest, grounding her in the here and now, reminding her that they were in this together—no matter what.
Jane's hand drifted from Maura's cheek down to her waist, pulling her closer as their kiss intensified. Maura's fingers tangled in Jane's hair, her breath warm against Jane's skin. Everything else—Rebecca, the case, the nightmares—faded into the background, leaving just the two of them, wrapped up in the kind of connection that only they could share.
When they finally pulled back, both of them were breathless, their foreheads resting against each other, eyes closed as they took in the moment. Jane felt her heart pounding, but this time it wasn't from fear—it was from the overwhelming love and desire that filled her for this woman who stood by her side no matter what.
Maura's voice was soft, her lips brushing against Jane's as she spoke. "I love you."
Jane smiled, her voice equally quiet, but filled with certainty. "I love you too."
In that moment, nothing else mattered. Jane rested her head on Maura's chest and she fell asleep.
When Jane arrived at the station, she followed her usual routine—pouring herself a steaming cup of black coffee and making her way to her desk. The bullpen was unusually quiet, and she relished the stillness. Frost and Korsak hadn't arrived yet, which meant she had a few moments of peace before the day picked up.
As she approached her desk, however, something caught her eye. There, in front of her computer, sat a book. It was old, its cover faded and worn, and on top of it rested a white envelope addressed to her.
Jane's brows furrowed as she set down her coffee, her hand reaching for the envelope. It was thick, the kind of paper that felt too formal, too deliberate. Her name was written in neat, elegant handwriting, which immediately made her suspicious.
She glanced around the bullpen, wondering who could have left it. The place was still empty, save for a few night-shift officers wrapping up. There was no sign of anyone who would've dropped off a package like this.
Curiosity getting the better of her, Jane carefully tore it open. Inside, she found a single piece of thick paper, folded with precision. She unfolded it, her eyes scanning the note quickly.
Jane flipped through the book, expecting some cryptic message to follow what they've already seen in this case. Her eyes landed on the title: Little Women. Her brow furrowed in confusion. This was no ancient text about gods or mythology—it was a classic, one she remembered vaguely from high school but hadn't thought much about since.
Jane read the letter more closely.
"Detective Rizzoli,"
"I wanted to offer you something a little different from the usual chaos we both navigate. 'Little Women' is one of my favorite books, and I've always found Jo March to be especially intriguing—someone independent, strong, and constantly at odds with her place in the world. I thought you might find her relatable, perhaps even refreshing."
Jane smirked slightly at that.
"I'm sure you've probably read this one already, and I certainly don't mean to suggest that you're uncultured," Jane could practically hear the polite, self-deprecating tone as she read that line, "but if you ever find yourself needing a break from the case, I thought you might enjoy revisiting it. And if you'd ever like to discuss the book, I'm often at the coffee shop on campus in the evenings. It's a peaceful spot, away from the rush of things."
- Casey
Jane stared at the note, her thumb brushing over the edges of the paper. She couldn't help but feel intrigued by the gesture, though she wasn't quite sure what to make of it. There was something about Casey that was difficult to pin down, something that kept Jane's curiosity lingering.
She glanced down at the worn cover of the book again. Little Women. Jo March. She hadn't thought about that character in years, but now, with Casey's suggestion, she felt a small tug to revisit the story—maybe find something in it she hadn't noticed before.
Still, the invitation to discuss it over coffee didn't go unnoticed. Casey was methodical, deliberate, but this felt more personal. Jane wondered if this was more than just an offer to talk about literature.
Am I getting played, or is she just this good at being polite? Jane thought, smirking to herself.
Frost came up behind Jane quietly, completely unaware of the tension swirling in her head. When he rattled off a tired 'Good Morning", she jumped slightly, snapping the letter shut and shoving it quickly into the pages of Little Women. Frost raised an eyebrow but didn't seem to notice her flustered expression. He was too busy sipping his coffee, looking far more relaxed than Jane felt.
"Whoa, didn't mean to startle you," he said casually. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah, fine," Jane muttered, trying to pull herself back into work mode. The case, not Casey, she reminded herself. "What's up?
Frost took another sip of his coffee, completely oblivious to the note and book Jane had just hastily hidden. "Are we still hitting the library today to meet Hamilton? Or is there something else on your mind?" He tilted his head slightly, as if finally noticing that something seemed off about her.
Jane straightened up, quickly pushing any thoughts of Casey and Little Women out of her mind. She needed to focus. "Now's as good a time as any," she said briskly, standing up from her desk and grabbing her coat.
Frost looked at her incredulously, mid-sip. "Whoa, hold on. I just got here. I haven't even had a chance to get settled. We don't even know if he's working."
But Jane was already out of the bullpen, moving with purpose. "You can settle later. Let's go," she called over her shoulder, not waiting for a reply.
With a resigned sigh, Frost grabbed his coffee and followed her out the door, grumbling under his breath. "You know, some of us need caffeine to function, Rizzoli…"
Jane smirked slightly as she heard him behind her, but her mind was already shifting gears. Hamilton Kilgore was their next lead, and they needed to find out what he knew.
Maura is looking particularly refreshing today. She spent some extra time on herself this morning. Oh, Jane. How it hurts me to take her from you. But it is not my plan, it is HIS plan. If it was up to me, I would just focus on you. But he has other plans. It's clear your suffering is of great concern to his cause. I must not question our lord.
The plan must be set in motion. Our time is limited. It has begun.
Jane glanced at Frost, who was now visibly sulking as they stepped into the library, his precious cup of freshly bought coffee unceremoniously discarded in the trash. His mood had lifted briefly when Jane had treated him to a better cup of caffeine, but that was short-lived. The no-drinks policy in the library had knocked the wind out of his sails again, and now he stood beside Jane, looking like he couldn't catch a break.
They approached the front desk, where an older woman sat, seemingly oblivious to their presence. She didn't even glance up as they approached, her focus entirely absorbed by the large, yellowed book in front of her. Jane cleared her throat lightly, trying to get the woman's attention.
Nothing. Not even a blink.
Jane cleared her throat again, louder this time. Still no reaction.
She glanced at Frost, who looked like he was about to lose the last shred of patience he had left. His lack of caffeine was clearly taking its toll, and before Jane could say anything, he grabbed a nearby book—one that looked heavier than necessary—and slammed it down on the counter with a loud thunk.
The noise reverberated around the library, turning several curious heads their way. Jane winced, already anticipating a stern lecture about noise levels.
Finally, the woman looked up, but she did so slowly, as if the world around her moved at a different pace. Her gray hair was tied tightly in a bun, and her glasses perched at the tip of her nose, giving her an air of complete indifference.
"Yes?" she asked, her voice calm and almost painfully uninterested.
Frost muttered under his breath, barely containing his frustration. Jane shot him a look to keep him in line before turning her attention back to the woman.
"We're looking for Hamilton Kilgore," Jane said, keeping her voice polite but firm. "He works here, and we need to speak with him."
The older woman blinked slowly, as if processing the request was an exhausting task. "Hamilton?" she asked, as though she hadn't heard the name in years. "Oh, yes. He's… around. Somewhere." She waved a hand vaguely toward the back of the library, clearly not invested in helping.
Jane resisted the urge to sigh. "Could you be a little more specific?"
The woman looked at her blankly. "He's shelving books. Somewhere near the history section, I believe. 4th floor." She returned casually back to her book.
Frost, clearly struggling to stay civil, gave Jane a pointed look as if to say, This is going to be one of those days, isn't it?
Jane thanked the woman quickly and motioned for Frost to follow her. "Let's go," she muttered, already feeling the tension rise. "Before you give yourself a headache."
When they reached the fourth floor of the library, the detectives split up to look for Hamilton. Neither of them could determine what mental state he must have been in and Jane wanted to make sure he was approached as casually as possible, so as not to spook him.
Jane mingled by the rows, casually looking for a young male worker stacking books on the shelves. Her eyes began to wander to the books around her. The section closest to her was a Greek Gods section. "Of course." she whispered to herself. She couldn't get away from the imagery.
Then, she heard a commotion a few rows down. Jane's heart pounded as she crouched low, making her way through the aisles of books toward the noise. Her mind raced—if they could speak with Hamilton Kilgore, it might finally give them the link they'd been searching for between Shanice Ellis and Ava. This university wasn't just a backdrop; it was starting to feel like the center of everything.
The commotion grew louder, and Jane's instincts kicked in. She placed her hand on her gun, her fingers itching for the familiar grip, but she held off, keeping it holstered for now. She needed to assess the situation before escalating.
As she crept closer, she heard a series of grunts, followed by the sound of a bookshelf rattling violently. Her body tensed, and in a flash, she rounded the corner, her eyes scanning the scene in front of her.
Frost was already in pursuit of a male suspect, his footsteps echoing through the quiet library as he dodged between the shelves. Jane cursed under her breath, her pulse quickening as she watched Frost's attempts to close the distance. The suspect was fast, and he clearly knew the layout of the library well enough to weave in and out of the stacks with ease.
Jane quickly shifted her position, knowing she needed to cut him off before he could escape. She ducked behind a row of books, her eyes tracking the suspect's movement. He turned sharply at the end of the aisle, and Jane saw her chance. Timing it perfectly, she slipped between two rows of shelves and sprinted toward the corner, positioning herself just out of view.
The suspect barreled down the aisle, his breath ragged, completely unaware that Jane was lying in wait. Just as he passed her, she shot out from her hiding spot, her arm swinging out to clothesline him with brutal precision.
He hit the floor hard, the sound of his body slamming against the ground echoing through the otherwise silent floor. A few students studying nearby quickly collected their things and headed for the elevator. He groaned in pain, clutching his head as he tried to regain his bearings. Jane stood over him, her heart still racing but her breath steady, her hand now hovering over her gun as she assessed whether the situation had escalated enough to draw it.
Frost came skidding to a halt beside her, his face flushed and his breath heavy. "Nice move," he panted, glaring down at the suspect. "I'm getting too old for this."
Jane smirked, though her eyes never left the man on the ground. "You and me both."
The suspect groaned again, trying to push himself up, but Frost quickly grabbed him by the collar and yanked him back down. "Stay put," Frost snapped, still catching his breath. "Unless you want round two with her."
Jane knelt down beside the suspect, her voice low and authoritative. "What's your name?"
The man gritted his teeth, clearly in pain, but said nothing.
Jane's eyes narrowed. "I don't have time for this. We're looking for Hamilton Kilgore. You know him?"
The man winced but remained silent, his lips pressed into a tight line.
Frost, still winded but regaining composure, leaned over him. "You can either talk to us here, or we can take this downtown and make things a lot more difficult for you."
The man's eyes flickered with uncertainty, and Jane could see the wheels turning in his head. He was weighing his options, and she knew they had him cornered.
"Okay," he finally muttered, still clutching his head. "I'll talk. Just… get off me."
Jane glanced at Frost, who nodded and released the suspect's collar, allowing him to sit up, though they kept a close watch on him. The man winced again, rubbing the back of his head, but his eyes darted between them nervously. Jane stood over him, arms crossed, her gaze sharp.
"Start talking," she said firmly. "Who are you, and what do you know about Hamilton Kilgore?"
The man hesitated for a moment, clearly weighing his options, before he spoke, his voice shaky. "Name's Paul. Paul Harding. I work at the library… well, part-time anyway. Hamilton and I… we're not close, but I know him."
Jane raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "And you ran because…?"
Paul swallowed, glancing around like he didn't want anyone overhearing. "I saw you two walking in, and I figured you were looking for Hamilton. I—I know he's been in some trouble lately. Thought you were here for me too."
Frost took a step forward, his voice hard. "What kind of trouble are we talking about?"
Paul hesitated again, clearly nervous. "Look, I don't know all the details, okay? But Hamilton's been acting weird since he came back from his time off. Kept his head low, real jumpy. Shanice—his girlfriend—murdered like that? I–I didn't know what was happening. Especially after Ava…" Paul stopped as if he had said something he wasn't supposed to.
Jane's heart quickened. Finally, a connection. She leaned in closer, her tone unrelenting. "What did Shanice say? What's the connection between Hamilton and Ava?"
Paul shifted uncomfortably, rubbing his hands together. "I don't know exactly. I just overheard them talking one night before he went on vacation. Shanice was upset, asking him why he was spending so much time with Ava. She thought something was going on between them. But Hamilton told her it wasn't what she thought. Something about Ava needing help, being in trouble."
Jane and Frost exchanged a quick glance. This was the break they needed.
"Where's Hamilton now?" Jane asked, her voice calm but firm.
Paul hesitated again, but he knew he had no choice. "He's in the archives. Basement floor. He's been holed up there for a while, said he needed to get away from everything."
Jane grabbed the back of Paul's shirt and hoisted him up. "Take us there." She shoved him. Paul, clearly rattled, nodded quickly, his eyes wide as he led them toward the elevator. Jane's mind raced with the implications of what they had just learned. Hamilton Kilgore was hiding something, and she couldn't shake the feeling that they were closing in on the truth.
Just as they reached the elevator, the doors to one of the secondary elevators slid open with a soft ding. A familiar figure stepped out.
"George?" Jane questioned him immediately.
"Detective Rizzoli," George greeted smoothly, his eyes shifting between Jane, Frost, and Paul. "Fancy seeing you here."
Jane's hand instinctively hovered near her gun, her instincts on high alert. Her voice was tight with suspicion. "What are you doing here?"
George's smile didn't waver as he stepped out of the elevator and adjusted the security badge on his belt. "A few kids reported an altercation on the fourth floor here. I was following up to see what was going on. I see you've met Paul." George's tone was overly friendly, as was his smile. His eyes darted between the three of them.
Jane and Frost looked at Paul, then back at George.
"You know this kid?" Frost asked George.
"Sure. Paul is a good kid. Never any trouble. He's been working here since his freshman year. Isn't that right, Paul."
Paul looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here. "Uh, yeah. Hey, George."
"Can I help you with something?" George asked politely. An uneasiness surrounded them. He adjusted his badge on the edge of his belt again. Jane noticed.
"No," Jane said, keeping her tone measured but firm. "We're fine."
George's gaze lingered on Jane for a moment longer, his eyes flicking to Paul and then back to her. "You sure? You seem a little… tense."
Jane clenched her jaw, her patience wearing thin. "I said we're fine, George. Wouldn't want to impose while you are doing your rounds."
For a split second, something flickered behind George's smile—a hint of something darker, maybe even predatory. But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced with his usual, disarming charm.
"Of course," he said lightly, taking a step back. "Just doing my job, Detective."
Paul squealed. "We're going to the archives to find Hamilton."
Jane tightened her grip on the back of his shirt.
George smiled. "Oh, you need a key to get down there. Luckily, I have one, I'll escort you." He leaned between Jane and Frost and clicked the elevator button.
Of course, George was the only one with access to the archives. She didn't like it, but there was no choice—they needed to get to the basement level, and George was their way in.
With Paul reluctantly leading the way, George unlocked the elevator to the lower levels, and the group crammed inside. The space was uncomfortably small, and as the doors closed with a soft ding, the air grew thick with tension. Jane stood near the door, her arms crossed, eyes fixed on Paul, making it clear she wasn't about to let her guard down.
Frost, standing next to her, could feel the awkwardness growing with every passing second. He shifted uncomfortably, glancing around the elevator, clearly trying to ease the tension. "So… George," Frost started, his voice a little too chipper for the situation. "How long have you been working security here?"
George didn't miss a beat, his smile still in place, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Oh, a couple of years now," he said smoothly. "You know how it is—routine stuff, making sure everything stays in order. People don't realize how quiet a university library can get at night."
Frost chuckled awkwardly. "Yeah, I imagine. Must get kinda eerie sometimes, huh?"
George's gaze flicked to Jane for a brief moment, then back to Frost. "You'd be surprised," he said, his voice calm but with a faint edge. "You never know what you'll find when you're alone in a place like this."
Jane wasn't interested in the small talk. Her eyes stayed locked on Paul, who was fidgeting nervously, clearly feeling the pressure of her intense stare. She stepped a little closer to him, her voice low and commanding. "You better not be leading us in circles, Paul. You know what happens if we find out you're lying."
Paul swallowed hard, his eyes darting toward the floor as he nodded quickly. "I'm not lying," he muttered. "I told you—Hamilton's been hiding out down there. That's where he works."
Jane raised an eyebrow, leaning in just enough to make him sweat. "Good. Because I'm running out of patience."
The elevator ride felt longer than it should have, the low hum of the machinery only adding to the unease. George stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his posture straight and calm, but Jane could feel him watching them, assessing the situation. He was too composed, too smooth, and it made her skin crawl.
Frost, sensing that his attempt at light conversation had only made things worse, shifted awkwardly and gave up on further questions. He glanced at Jane, but her focus was razor-sharp, clearly making Paul as uncomfortable as humanly possible.
Finally, the elevator slowed to a stop with a mechanical groan, and the doors slid open to reveal the dim, dusty basement level. The air was musty, filled with the scent of old paper and forgotten books.
George stepped out first, his keys jangling as he led the way to the archives door. "Here we are," he said, his voice almost too casual. "Let's see what our friend Hamilton's been up to."
Jane followed closely, her hand never far from her gun. Paul shuffled behind them, eyes darting nervously around the dark, labyrinthine hallways. She could feel the tension building—the moment of truth was approaching, and she wasn't about to let anything slip past her.
As soon as the archives door creaked open, the foul stench hit them like a wave. Jane instinctively recoiled, her nose wrinkling as she realized what it was. Behind her, Paul staggered back, gagging before he heaved up the remnants of his lunch onto the cold floor. Jane cursed under her breath, quickly stepping inside to assess the situation.
The room was dimly lit, the dusty shelves casting long, eerie shadows across the walls. But it wasn't the stacks of old books or ancient papers that drew her attention. It was the body hanging from the ceiling—Hamilton Kilgore, swinging slowly in the stale air, his face pale, his lips blue.
"Shit," Jane muttered, the weight of the scene hitting her hard.
Behind her, Frost had followed, his face grim as he stepped carefully into the room. He immediately began scanning the area, looking for any signs of a struggle or something that might explain what had happened. His eyes swept over the desk littered with papers, the shelves, the corners, but nothing stood out immediately. The only thing obvious was that Hamilton had been here for days—likely unnoticed in the darkness of the basement.
Jane, on the other hand, wasted no time. She spun around and stormed out of the room, grabbing Paul by the arm as he slumped against the wall, still heaving. "How long has he been down here, Paul?" she barked, her voice sharp with anger.
Paul flinched, wiping his mouth shakily. "I-I don't know! I didn't—"
"When was the last time you saw him?" Jane demanded, her grip tightening. "How did nobody notice the smell? You've been working down here!"
Paul shook his head frantically, his eyes wide with fear. "I swear, I haven't seen him for a few days! I thought he was just avoiding people, he's been acting weird for a while…"
Jane's frustration grew, the tension in her chest threatening to snap. "Acting weird, how? Why didn't you report this? He's been dead for days, Paul! Days!"
Paul stammered, trying to find his words. "I—I didn't think—I mean, nobody comes down here much! I didn't want to get involved…"
Jane was seething. She turned away from Paul for a moment, her hands resting on her hips as she tried to gather herself. The situation had just taken a dark turn, and the answers she had been looking for were now tangled up in a body hanging from the ceiling.
Behind her, George, who had been standing near the doorway, finally spoke. His voice was calm, though it carried a note of something darker, something Jane couldn't quite place. "Hamilton was a good guy. Quiet. Never did anyone any harm."
Jane shot him a glance, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Then why is he dead?"
George shrugged, his face unreadable. "That's what you're here to find out, right?"
The words hung in the air, and Jane couldn't help but feel the weight of George's presence more than before. Something about his casual attitude toward all of this—toward a man's death—didn't sit right with her.
Frost's voice echoed from the room. "No obvious signs of struggle," he reported. "Obviously could be a suicide, but something feels off."
"Who else has a key to this room?" Jane directed a less emotional question at George.
"The Dean of Libraries has one in his office. That's all I'm aware of."
Jane's eyes narrowed at George's response. "So, only you and the Dean of Libraries have a key to this room?"
George nodded, his brow furrowing as though something had just clicked in his mind. "Yeah, the Dean keeps a spare in his office. Oh—wait." He paused, his eyes widening slightly. "The Dean mentioned a possible break-in about a week ago. He called me to check on things, but when I got here, nothing seemed missing. Just some papers shuffled around like someone was looking for something. I didn't connect the dots until now," George said, his voice steady but with a hint of defensiveness. "But if someone took the Dean's key…"
Before Jane could press further, Frost's voice cut through the tension. "Jane, come look at this."
She turned to see Frost standing at a computer desk near Hamilton's body, sifting through a mess of papers scattered across the surface. Both of them instinctively covered their noses as much as possible, but the stench of decay hung heavily in the air, almost unbearable. Still, the urgency of the moment overrode their discomfort.
Frost pointed to one of the stray papers, and Jane's eyes immediately locked onto it. It was a sketch, hastily drawn but unmistakable. The symbol it depicted—a crude "X" inside it, a spartan-like helmet—sent a cold chill down her spine.
Frost glanced at her, his voice low. "You recognize this?"
Jane stared at the drawing, her heart racing. She knew that symbol all too well. It was the same "X" that had been branded on the back of The Ripper's hand—the notorious serial killer whose shadow still loomed over her every waking moment.
Her mind reeled, trying to process what she was seeing. "No way…," she whispered, almost to herself. She looked up at Frost, her eyes wide with disbelief. "This can't be connected to him."
Frost's expression mirrored her shock. "But it's the same mark, Jane. What if Hamilton was involved somehow? What if this isn't a coincidence?"
Jane took a shallow breath, the weight of the possibility pressing down on her. Hamilton Kilgore—who had seemed like just another piece of the puzzle—might be tied to something far darker and far more dangerous than they had anticipated.
She looked back at the sketch, her mind racing. If this was connected to The Ripper, then they were dealing with more than just a tangled web of university intrigue. They were staring down the possibility that a killer, or at the very least someone tied to him, had been hiding in plain sight.
Jane stood up straight, determination hardening in her voice. "We need to find out how deep this goes. And fast."
Once Maura and the rest of the crime scene unit arrived, Jane and Frost made their way outside, eager to escape the suffocating stench and the dark weight of the scene below. As they stepped into the crisp air, Jane took a deep breath, her shoulders easing slightly. The library was now cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape, a small crowd of curious onlookers gathering nearby.
Almost immediately, Jane's eyes landed on George. He was standing near the edge of the tape, chatting easily with a group of students, his voice calm and reassuring as he explained the situation. "Nothing to worry about," Jane heard him say. "Just a routine investigation. Everything's under control."
Jane rolled her eyes, the sight of George playing the friendly, helpful guard getting under her skin. She crossed her arms tightly, exhaling sharply.
Frost, who had been quietly watching her, picked up on the subtle tension in her posture. "You really don't like that guy, do you?" he asked, his voice laced with curiosity.
Jane glanced at him, surprised by the question but not denying it. "It's not that I don't like him," she muttered. "He's just… overly friendly. And he's always around. Too much."
Frost raised an eyebrow. "Too much?"
"Yeah," Jane said, frowning slightly. "He always seems to be in the right place at the right time. It's like every time we turn around, there he is, just… showing up. And I don't know—something about that just rubs me the wrong way."
Frost considered his presence this last week. "I get it, but think about it—if he hadn't been around today, we might've never found Hamilton's body. He's the one who had the key. What if he's just doing his job? Maybe he's really just a good guy trying to help."
Jane considered this, her jaw tightening. She didn't have anything concrete against George, just an uneasy feeling she couldn't shake. Maybe Frost was right—maybe she was letting her gut lead her too far. But that nagging feeling still lingered.
"I don't know," she finally admitted, her voice quieter now. "Something feels off about him. Maybe I'm just overthinking it."
Frost shrugged, always the reasonable one. "Could be. But until we have a reason to suspect him, we have bigger things to worry about—like how Hamilton's death connects to everything else."
As Jane stood there, staring off into the distance while the crime scene buzzed behind her, her mind couldn't stop circling back to one thing: The Ripper. The odds of this being unrelated to that case seemed too slim. The "X" drawing on Hamilton's paper was identical to the one branded on The Ripper's hand. The stench of that case still lingered in the back of her mind, and this latest twist had reignited all her old concerns.
"Could this really be connected to The Ripper?" Jane muttered, more to herself than to Frost. She couldn't shake the feeling. The timing, the symbols, everything pointed to some kind of link. But what was it?
Frost, ever perceptive, glanced at her sideways. "You think Hamilton was involved with The Ripper? Or maybe he was just… obsessed with the case? It's not like we haven't seen it before. Maybe things got out of hand?"
Jane nodded slowly, her brow furrowed. "It's possible. Some people get wrapped up in high-profile cases, especially the twisted ones. Maybe Hamilton was one of those guys who became fixated on everything. It could explain why he and Shanice were having problems, if Paul was even telling the truth. Maybe she didn't like how deep he was getting into this."
Frost considered her words. "But how does Ava tie into this? Did she and Hamilton work together at the library? That doesn't explain why she'd be involved in something as dark as this."
Jane shook her head, frustration bubbling up. "That's what I can't figure out. Ava seemed like she was just caught up in something bigger than she realized, but now… there's no way she wasn't involved. Whether it was because of Hamilton or something else, she's at the center of this."
She paced a little, her mind racing. "Hamilton's dead, and that drawing connects him to The Ripper, but I don't think Hamilton is the mastermind. He could have been obsessed or just someone who stumbled onto something he shouldn't have. If Shanice was suspicious of him spending time with Ava, there's got to be more to that story."
"Or," Frost grimaced. "We can't forget about Anna. She was at this campus, she was involved in Ava's life or building a life of her own. Maybe that's why Dr. Hughes doesn't know much about her. She was living a totally separate life. Shanice could have known Ava. Mistaken Anna for her sister?"
Jane clenched her fists, trying to keep herself calm. "We need to dig deeper into Hamilton's background, his connections, and see if anything ties him to The Ripper's past victims. And we need to figure out what role Ava played in all of this."
Frost's expression grew serious. "You really think there's a chance The Ripper had others working with him?"
Jane's mind churned with possibilities, none of them good. "I don't know. But the idea that someone else might've picked up where he left off… it's starting to feel more likely."
