Archive of Our Own

Restoring Faith by Emery Fowles

Disclaimer: Rizzoli & Isles is the property of Tess Gerritsen, Janet Tamaro, and TNT.

Chapter One

Strawberries. How long had she been standing in front of her refrigerator looking for strawberries? Judging by the distance that Bass had managed to cover across her kitchen floor, and the goose bumps that dotted her bare arms, she had been standing in place for quite awhile.

She had become numb to time over the past five days: hours spent at the hospital with her mother, hours spent reading during sleepless nights, hours spent in the lab surrounded by bodies. She particularly enjoyed the quiet that descended upon her office after all her techs had left, and the lights dimmed to a mere glimmer in the hallways. It was then that she poured over her daily reports, isolating herself with the simple, logical processes of death, as if reminding herself that the death of her own biological father was simply an act of cause and effect, chance and probability.

The facts, however, drained quickly into a pit of nothingness. It was a place that she knew didn't physiologically exist, but yet she felt it all the same. It kept her from eating, it kept her from returning phone calls, and most painfully, it kept her from seeking comfort from the one person that knew her better than anyone else.

The doorbell startled her out of her trance, and she stared blankly over at Bass, as if he somehow was responsible for the sudden interruption. She glanced down at her watch. It was late. She wondered if she could bypass the front door and sneak upstairs and bury herself under her comforter, at least until insomnia prompted her to open one of the academic journals scattered at the foot of her bed.

But one look out the window of her front door took care of that decision for her. She had no desire to talk to the woman on her stoop, but she knew she would have to display the appropriate social cues: open her door, smile, nod, and tell her that she was fine.

She unlatched the door and pulled it open slowly, comforting herself with the thought that her anxiety was caused by a higher level of cortisol rather than the woman that stood in front of her. "Angela," she said, forcing a smile on her face that she was sure came out as a half-frown. "At the front door. How formal." Her tone was meant to invoke levity, as Jane's mother, after taking up residence in Maura's guest house, was more prone to sliding in the back door whenever she had the urge to organize or to make use of the medical examiner's plasma television rather than relying on the courtesy of the door bell. Angela's gaze, however, was not jovial, but grounded someplace deeper, and Maura thought she detected pity. She didn't need pity.

Angela held up a Tupperware container. "I brought over some spaghetti for you. I even made it with wheat pasta." Her lips turned up into a half-smile that seemed to mirror Maura's own, and the doctor stepped back, gesturing the older woman inside.

"Thank you," Maura said. "I really appreciate the gesture." She reached her hand out for the container, but Angela was already stalking towards the kitchen, her off-brand tennis shoes flapping against the hardwood floors. Maura watched her go, a bit confused as to her sudden presence in her home. She hadn't spoken to Jane since the night of the shooting, and it seemed Mrs. Rizzoli was keeping just as much of a distance as her daughter. Maura couldn't blame them. She couldn't remember much from that night, but she did recall jerking violently away from Jane's touch at the hospital and holing up in her mother's private room, waiting for a trauma surgeon to tell her that her biological father had been pronounced dead. She hadn't even bothered to question him about specifics, or to lose herself in the technical details. She'd just laid her head on her sleeping mother's lap and cried.

Angela spoke, startling her out of her thoughts. "Bass, you're looking fit as a... turtle."

Maura followed the sound of the older woman's voice. "Tortoise," she corrected, automatically supplying the response she'd so often reserved for Jane.

"Well, I'm certainly glad I came…" Angela trailed off as she looked disapprovingly into the empty, cavernous refrigerator. "How does a woman your size need a fridge this big?"

Maura smiled, as if to offer a quipped answer, but realized her gesture was futile. She had nothing to say. Instead, her eyes looked vacantly towards the counter, and she took a seat, no longer relying on her legs to hold her steady.

"Jane didn't send me," Angela asserted quietly as she retrieved a plate from a nearby cabinet. "I'm not on any reconnaissance mission or anything. I just wanted to check in on you." She heaped a large portion of spaghetti onto the dish, and, after glancing over at Maura's slightly sunken cheeks and slumped form, dashed another spoonful onto it.

"How is Jane?" the medical examiner asked softly. Her friend had been on her mind constantly since that night, but Maura had managed to silo her into a space reserved solely for anger, confusion, and resignation. Now, being in the same room with her mother, she felt that emotion blossom into worry.

"Oh you know, Jane," Angela replied with a sarcastic sweep of her hand. "Always such an open book. Tells me everything, exactly what she's feeling." She let out a small smirk, enough to get Maura to mirror it. "I took her a plate tonight, too. She's well enough to yell and send me on my merry way."

The blonde saw the worry in the older woman's eyes, and it was enough to let her know that her friend was doing just as poorly. She relished the sudden guilt she felt, taking pleasure in feeling anything after such the past few debilitating days.

"How is your mother?" Angela asked, settling the plate into the microwave. Maura was secretly glad for the extra layer of noise it created, as if her muddled thoughts were being physically broadcasted through the room.

"Better," she replied, automatically slipping back into her medical world, which at least made some sense to her. "Still some slight swelling in the frontal lobe, but it's decreasing. She's mostly still sleeping, which is best."

Angela nodded. "Is your father with her now?" Her face reddened as she registered her mistake, and she quickly backtracked. "I meant your – "

Maura's face reddened, but she nodded politely. Her adoptive father – her real father, she reminded herself – had flown back from Tanzania several days ago, and had been more than supportive, and she had trouble even getting him to leave her mother's room. "He's at her side constantly," she said with a glimmer of a smile.

"That's good," Angela replied, pausing for a moment, her eyes darting nervously across the counter. "I was thinking of taking another place, and freeing up your guest house for when your mother gets out of the hospital. She needs to be close to you."

Maura looked up at her, and once again felt the same emptiness threaten to engulf her. Closeness was what normal families had towards each other. Her family had only lies and half-truths. "No, that's not necessary. My mother and father will be going to New York." He had discussed it with her over a stale croissant one morning at the hospital. He would be better equipped to look out for her mother at the apartment that they kept in the Upper West Side. Maura had only registered the fact that he hadn't once looked her in the eye, but had been focused on his flat, tasteless breakfast. She had only nodded.

Angela raised her eyebrows, and Maura detected the concerned judgment that came along with her surprise. "Well, New York isn't far," she said, unconvincingly.

Maura shook her head. "No. It's for the best."

The microwave beeped, and both women seemed glad for the interruption. Angela busied herself with gathering silverware while Maura occupied herself with a new habit, fidgeting with her ring finger. She sighed, recognizing the biological source of it, and shoved her hands in her lap with a grimace.

Angela settled the plate in front of her, along with a small glass of water. She darted a glance towards an open bottle of red wine that sat on the counter and poured a glass of it as well.

"Alcohol is a depressant, you know," Maura said, taking the glass and taking a long sip.

"So is life, sometimes," Angela replied.

"Pour yourself a glass," Maura offered, suddenly realizing that she had completely abdicated her hosting abilities. It had been more than a week since she'd had anyone in her home, and her face reddened at her rudeness. "Let me warm you up a plate as well," she said quickly, rising from her chair.

"No, no, don't bother," Angela said, with a shake of her head.

"No, I'm sorry, I should have offered," Maura said, her mind glad to have a task to focus on. "Can I get you some tea?" She darted a glance towards Angela, whose sympathetic eyes slowed her frenzy, reminding her of its fruitfulness. The blonde abandoned the tea kettle, setting it back on the stove and placing a hand against her temple.

"Maura, you can tell me I'm prying," Angela said gently. "Jane says it all the time." Her voice was light, but her eyes were serious. "Have you talked with your father about everything that's happened?"

Maura almost invoked the lifeline Angela had given her, thanking the woman for her concern and kindly asking her to leave, but for some reason she didn't. For the past week, she had tortured herself relentlessly about her biological father and his mysterious connection to her mother, which she hadn't been able to figure out. Paddy Doyle's last words had echoed in her mind, and the word 'hope' had tormented her for the past week. But after hearing her real father deny any knowledge about Doyle, she wasn't sure he was the person who would clear things up for her. That responsibility, she realized, would lie solely upon her mother.

"I'm waiting for the right time," she replied lamely, hearing how weak she sounded. She wanted to go back to being the little girl that found fulfillment in science, distraction in the external world, but instead she was swirling through a mess of frail, feeble emotions that she wasn't sure she could process.

"They're burying him tomorrow," Maura said quietly, the words slipping unintentionally from her lips as she slumped back into her chair. Why was he always on her mind?

The admission prompted Angela to raise a pair of questioning eyebrows, until realization dawned in her eyes. She started to offer some condolence, but Maura cut her off. "I'm not going. There's no reason for me to go." She shook her head, and focused her attention back on her food, shoving a mouthful down her throat so as to swallow the lump that she felt forming there.

"Maybe that's for the best," Angela said with a sympathetic nod as she leaned onto the counter, searching the doctor's eyes, but finding only exhaustion. "But you have to decide what's going to help you put this all behind you."

Maura met her gaze. She had felt something burning inside her, something like guilt, as if she should want to be there for her biological father's burial, but why? She had never known him, never even known of his existence before a year ago. But he knew her. He had always known her.

"Sweetheart, have you talked to anyone about this?" Angela asked.

The thought had crossed her mind, many a sleepless night as she had consumed psychology journal articles, searching for answers to her own anxiety, but she had yet to make an appointment. Making an appointment would seem to give credence to the fact that Paddy Doyle was in some ways still with her. "I haven't found the right therapist, yet."

"I meant more like a friend or a priest, but paid help works, too," Angela replied. She glanced down at Bass. "Or a tortoise, I guess." She gauged Maura's response, relieved to see a small smile, and she took advantage of it, reaching for her hand. "Sweetheart, you're not my daughter, but you're the closest thing to it outside of my own kids, and I'm sorry you're going through so much pain. Anything you need, you say the word, you got it?"

Maura didn't look up right away, the lump in her throat suddenly three times as large. Just before the nightmare had started, her own mother had offered similar, comforting words and Maura had craved the same sort of attention ever since. She wasn't sure if they would ever be in that state again, and she felt a hot, wet tear roll down her cheek.

Angela, using the instinct that had brought her over to Maura's in the first place, was around the counter in a second, wrapping her arms around the blonde's shoulders and allowing her to slump into her chest. Maura sunk into the embrace for a few moments, but pulled quickly away, wiping her face with a self-conscious hand. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm just tired."

Angela nodded, recognizing that whatever solace she was able to offer, Maura had at least taken it. "I'm going to go next door," she said, letting a comforting hand rub against the medical examiner's back. "You need anything at all, you call me right away, you got it?"

Maura nodded up at her with wet eyes and gave her a small smile. She watched as Angela walked away, giving her a comforting smile as she exited through the back door, heading towards the guesthouse. It was the first sign of normality that Maura had seen in over a week.

Angela hung her head as she walked towards the guesthouse, her worry not necessarily placated by her visit to the doctor's home. She stopped short at the figure on her stoop, and squinted into the moonlight. "Janey, what are you doing here?" she asked, surprised.

Jane held out her hands, which held a small, greasy box, emblazoned with the logo of Angela's favorite bakery. "A peace offering," the brunette said. "I'm sorry for blowing up on you like that earlier. I know you were just trying to help."

Angela reached out for the box. "I was just trying to be a mother. I'm not sure if that's a help." She took a seat beside her daughter.

Jane smiled, resting her elbows on her knees. "It is." She nodded her head toward the medical examiner's house. "You went to visit Maura or were you just feeding Bass?"

"Are you kidding? I don't have a clue what that turtle eats." She shrugged. "Of course, I'm not exactly sure what Dr. Isles eats, either, but comfort food is comfort food, no matter where you were raised."

"It's a tortoise," Jane corrected, and felt a slight pang in her gut as she repeated the word that had so often slipped from her best friend's lips. "How's she doing?" The words were painful, and she regretted even having to ask, but after Maura had vehemently shoved her away at the hospital, she was adamant about giving the woman her space, no matter how much it hurt.

Angela pressed a hand to her daughter's knee, and refrained from making a comment about how bony it felt under her fingers. "She's just as good at hiding her real emotions as you are," she said with a sigh. "But she looks like she hasn't slept in days."

"She hasn't." Jane may not have spoken to her friend, but she had snuck down to the basement of the precinct each night, and had seen Maura's office light on way past regular office hours. But something had always stopped her from going inside. Whether it was guilt, disgust, or confusion at her own actions and emotions, she didn't know. All she did know was that each day she felt more and more like a coward.

"Tomorrow they're burying Paddy Doyle," Angela said. "You didn't tell me that."

Jane put her head in her hands. Dean had held up any formal proceedings until the FBI had made their final determination that the man Jane had shot was indeed the wanted criminal. The last contact he had with her was to let her know about the funeral arrangements. "I don't know what to do, Ma," she whispered. "I feel like I destroyed something."

Her mother's hands rubbed her back, repeating the gesture that she had just made with the doctor. "You were trying to protect her," Angela said. "How many times have I done that to you and you ended up hating me?"

Jane laughed, but it edged quickly into a sigh. "This is completely different, Ma."

"I know. Jane, you did what you had to do. You're a trained cop. Maura knows this; you just have to give her time. She's processing all of this as best she can."

Jane knew Angela was right. Maura had been through a lot even before Paddy's death, and the two hadn't exactly been communicating even through Constance's injuries. The detective sighed. She just wanted to go back in time.

"What do I do?" she asked helplessly. "How am I supposed to fix it?"

Angela nodded towards the house. "You're already halfway there," she said. "Talk to her, Jane." She handed the cannoli box back to her daughter. "But be polite. At least take over some dessert."

Her mother stood, giving Jane's shoulder a soothing squeeze before heading inside her guesthouse, shutting the door gently behind her. With few other options, Jane stood. She swallowed as she made her way towards the back door, taking a deep breath as she gave a hard knock against the wood. She heard the doctor's slow pace towards the door, and felt her heart drop into her stomach as the door finally swung open.

"Angela, I'm eating, I promise - " Maura began tiredly, but her words cut off quickly, as if her vocal cords had been severed. Her eyes widened, deepening the bags underneath them, and her lips parted, although nothing came out but a staggered breath.

"I wasn't spying, I promise," Jane said quickly, preempting her friend's words. "I blew up at my mother earlier and came over to apologize, and brought her some canolli, which I know you don't eat, but I thought I'd bring it over anyway, since I was already here, and I'm worried, and..." she trailed off, her voice breaking. "I'm so sorry, Maura, I never ever meant to hurt you - "

"Jane, please don't do this here," Maura said, finally finding her voice, shaky as it was.

The detective's face fell, and she took a deep breath, attempting to gain control of the emotion she felt welling behind eyes. "I'm sorry, " she said. “ I shouldn't be here." She turned, ashamed of the selfishness of her actions, her inability to give her friend the time and space she needed.

Maura reached a hand out, firmly gripping the detective's wrist. "No, I meant, don't do this out here," she said. "Come inside at least."

The surprise on Jane's face, followed by the hopefulness in her brown eyes struck a match inside Maura, as if reminding her of the thing that she loved about her friend: sheer, unbridled sincerity. "Really?" Jane asked quietly, as if making sure the medical examiner didn't regret her invitation.

Maura nodded, a sudden welling of relief spilling inside her chest. "Yes," she breathed. She glanced over Jane's shoulder, squinting her eyes. "And I think your mother is watching us through her kitchen window."

Jane turned her head quickly, noticing the telltale quiver of Angela's kitchen curtain, and she cursed lightly under her breath. Typical Angela Rizzoli. In one moment incredibly helpful, in the next moment incredibly overbearing.

Maura tugged lightly on the brunette's wrist, suddenly recognizing a need that she had kept hidden for the past week, but feeling it course rapidly through her. Just as quickly, however, she let go, hating her weakness.

The indecisive touch wasn't lost on Jane. "I don't expect anything," she assured the medical examiner. "I just want to help. I can leave at any time, no pressure, Maur."

The blonde shook her head, tears finally welling up in her eyes, a physical manifestation of her own confusion and exhaustion. "I don't want you to leave. Just come inside."

Chapter Two

Jane grimaced down at the plate of cold, limp spaghetti that sat on Maura's counter top. "Think my mother put enough Parmesan on that?" she said, shaking her head with an apologetic grin. "Her definition of comfort food is cheese." A hopeful half-smile curled her lips, followed by the sad realization that any menial attempt at humor wouldn't be enough to penetrate the walls Maura had erected over the past week.

Since she couldn't offer a smile in return, the medical examiner instead lurched into action, pulling another plate from the cabinet. "Do you want me to heat you up some?" she asked. "I think your mother brought over enough to feed me for at least a month." She didn't wait for a response, but instead piled a spoonful of noodles loosely onto the plate and set it in the microwave. If she didn't keep herself busy, she wasn't sure she could keep her eyes dry. And she didn't want to lose it in front of Jane. Not yet.

She stood facing the microwave, a habit that, despite the inconclusive evidence surrounding non-ionized radiation waves, she believed to be slightly harmful. Tonight, however, she welcomed them, and only wished they had the frequency to catapult her back in time. She could feel the detective's eyes on her, studying her mussed hair, the tension in her shoulders.

"I went to see Constance yesterday," Jane said. "I met your father."

A slither of coldness inched down Maura's neck and into her spine, a feeling of protectiveness that she had harbored ever since the federal agents had first pulled her father aside. They hadn't noticed his tired, red eyes, nor had they cared that his wife, her mother, was still dangling from a thread of fate that any moment could snap and leave the two of them alone.

"He never left your mother's side, not even for a second. He said the swelling was going down." Jane paused before cleared her throat and letting out a strained sigh. "I wasn't there about the case, Maura."

The medical examiner nodded into the microwave, her reflection peering back at her in the blackness. "Of course not." The words did nothing to calm her paranoia, as irrational as it was, and she felt a shiver run through her. The beep of the microwave prompted her forward, and relished the way the hot porcelain burned her fingers. She had forgotten how many nerve endings were in the fingers. Jane reached forward, grasping Maura's hand as she set the plate in front of her, the touch sending an altogether different sensation through those nerve endings, and the doctor pulled away quickly, her face reddening.

"How are you holding up?" Jane asked, twirling her fork through the pasta, but not bringing any to her mouth.

"Fine," Maura replied, tasting the beginnings of a lie on her lips, its bitterness already changing the pace of her heart rate. Technically, she was fine, wasn't she? She had certainly come out of everything better off than her mother had, or Doyle, or even Agent Dean. Still, she couldn't meet Jane's probing eyes, knowing that if she did, everything that she had neatly compartmentalized would spill out of her. She glanced down at the plate of spaghetti, cinching her brow as if something were missing. "I'll get you a beer," she offered. Her kitchen, much like the rest of her home, had become a sort of busied maze, which she wandered through like a lab rat trying to overcome her grief.

"No," Jane protested, but as if sensing Maura's own need for distraction, she let her objection die on her lips. She accepted the beer with an overly grateful nod, watching as the medical examiner poured another glass of wine.

Jane glanced down at her plate, a symbol of their charade of normality, and stuffed a forkful of pasta into her mouth. It was tasteless, and she opted for the beer instead, taking a long sip of it as she ran through a series of failed words in her head. She hadn't come for an update about Constance or Bob, or even herself. She had come for Maura. "I don't want this," she said, letting her fork clank onto the plate. She meant, of course, the dinner, but her words could be smeared across the entirety of the past two weeks and be just as apt. "Maura, I think about that day over and over again," she began, running a nervous hand through her hair. "I see it as a running loop, like I'm watching some security tape and trying to figure out who to blame. And I keep coming back to that one shot."

Maura seemed enraptured by the red wine in her glass. "I envy you that," she replied softly. "All I remember is chaos. And one moment of pure, unbridled fear. And I couldn't do anything about it."

Jane's gaze fell guiltily towards her plate. She knew the moment, had heard Maura's voice scream out in her nightmares. The hoarse, panicked, 'No!' that had ripped from her throat moments before Jane fired her last shot. The only shot that had mattered.

"You did the logical thing, Jane."

She glanced up, seemingly surprised that Maura would extend such grace to her. But the hazel eyes were flat, and she realized the words were nothing but rehearsed lines, similar to the practiced words that had run through her own mind for the past week. And they were just as empty.

Maura turned, looking out the window over the sink. "He's being buried tomorrow," she said quietly, letting her words swirl into the redness of her wine. She was conscious of the fact that she never referred to him by his name, nor by his biological relation to her, and she wondered if he didn't deserve better.

"I know," Jane said, her chair scraping against the hardwood floor. Her voice was closer when she spoke again. "Dean told me."

The iciness in her spine returned, but Maura heard her own voice echo in her ears. 'You do what you have to do', she had said when Jane told her about her confession to the FBI agent. If she had been thinking logically, she would have expressed her anger, but all she could register in that moment was that she had lost some part of Jane that had previously been only hers. The detective had let her guard down with 'Gabriel' enough to expose such private secrets, and Maura could do nothing but nod her head and accept it. She drained the rest of her wine and placed her glass in the sink, bracing herself against the counter. "How is Agent Dean recovering?" she asked, hating the weakness in her voice.

"He's fine," Jane replied, but offered nothing further. Maura felt a comforting hand on her back, but shrugged it off, unable to reconcile the touch with the confusion that still permeated inside her.

"Maura," Jane whispered softly, her forehead bowing slightly toward the blonde's back. "What can I do? If I can't turn the clock back, tell me, what can I do?"

Maura turned and studied the detective, trying to place the chaos in the firehouse, the sound of gunshots, that last, final shot, with the kind, apologetic woman in front of her. "Why was he there?" she asked.

"Doyle?" Jane asked. "I don't know. He never let you out of his sight, Maura."

The medical examiner shook her head, her eyes hardening as she looked up at the brunette. "No. Why was Agent Dean there?"

Jane moved a step back, as if she had been punched in the gut by some invisible hand, and Maura could see the confusion and hurt that Dean had caused. "I don't know," she said, running her thumbs nervously over the scars on her palms. "I didn't give him much leeway to explain, honestly. I assume he had been tailing Doyle, following him until we made the call to arrest him."

"Until you made the call," Maura corrected.

"Maura, I wouldn't have given Dean the okay to arrest him, or to do anything, until you told me to."

"That's the problem with cops," Maura said, sliding into her anger as if it were an old coat. "They put the job above everything else."

The words were like a double-edged knife, and the detective nodded slowly, as if confirming that she did indeed deserve them. "You're right. He put his job first. Before me, before you, and for that he can burn in FBI hell." She took a step closer, peering down at the blonde. "But, Maura, you're the most important thing to me. Not Dean, not Doyle. Just you."

Maura crossed her arms over her chest, and averted her gaze. "I wasn't ready to let go. I tell myself it's because he had information that I wanted about my biological mother, that I had some empirical reason to want him in my life." She shook her head. "But I don't know if that's it." Her vision blurred in front of her, and she cursed the tears building up inside of her. "If I just had more time…"

"Maura, he hung that information over your head to get what he wanted from you."

"You see him as a criminal." It was an accusation, flung harshly towards the detective. "But he never, ever forgot me about me, and for some inexplicable reason, that's enough for me to care about him. And the first moment I had to protect him, I failed. I betrayed him. And you didn't care." Her face was wet with tears, like they had simply seeped through her pores. "I wasn't ready to let go of him yet, Jane. Why couldn't you have given me time to let go?"

"Maura – "

She had no wish to be placated. She only wanted the heat of her fury, which gave her back some of the control that she had lost over her life. "Put him in prison, jail him, stick him behind bars, at least. Then I could still figure out who I am. But that's gone. It's ruined." She was yelling now, filling the hole of nothingness with anger, however misplaced it was. It was still better than hurting.

Jane looked back at her with a practiced patience. "Maura, that's not - "

"Please," she replied, her voice breaking in a raw plea. "Just let me be angry."

Jane nodded. "Okay," she said quietly, her hands hanging limply at her sides. She glanced around the room, seemingly at a loss for words. "If only you had a punching dummy in here."

The comment, in its absurd sincerity, caught Maura off guard, and she let out a cross between an exhausted cry and a laugh, and the detective glanced wearily down at her. "I want to hate someone so badly," she said softly, surrendering. "And you're the only one here."

"Well, I'll always be here... for you to hate me." Jane seemed to sense her opening, and reached her hands out to cup the doctor's jaw. "Maura, sweetheart, I am so sorry for everything that's happened. For what I did, for what I failed to do. Just please let me be here for you now."

Maura was inside the detective's arms immediately, as if attracted to a magnet that she couldn't resist. She melted into the embrace, pushing aside the nothingness and falling instead into a pleasurable pool of safety. Jane pressed a kiss into her temple, lingering longer than was necessary and mumbling a soft "I love you" into the blonde hair.

The words were simple, the same words that Maura had used once before, but they struck a different note this time, and she pulled away, wanting to guard her vulnerability. "My mother knew him," she said, taking a seat back at the counter and refocusing her attention. The spaghetti had congealed on both plates by now, and she cringed, pushing them away from her.

Confusion flickered through Jane's eyes. "She knew Doyle?"

Maura nodded. "He came to visit her at the hospital. She woke up after he left, dazed, but the way his name just floated off her lips, it was as if she'd known him for years. Almost like she expected to wake up and find him there."

"Did you ask her about it?"

Maura shook her head adamantly. "No. Not then, and not now. I don't want to do anything that might upset her recovery."

"What about your dad?" Jane asked. "He's got to know something."

Maura shrugged. Her questions had been on the tip of her tongue each time she and her father were alone, but she swallowed them back, allowing the two of them to subsist in the silence. "I feel like I don't have a right to ask these questions. Who am I to be worrying about people that I don't even know? When the parents that raised me are going through so much pain?"

Jane tentatively reached out her hand, and when Maura didn't pull back, ran her thumb across the smooth skin. "It's up to you, whether you want to focus on this right now. But you have a right to know, Maura, especially after all that's happened. Your parents can understand that."

"I don't know if I care anymore. A part of me thinks this can all die with him. I'm at the point where I don't want to ask any more questions. I just want to go back to normal. How messed up is that?" she asked, her eyes narrowing. "I just want to go back to the days where my mother and father completely ignored me." She was quiet for a moment, enjoying the comforting touch of Jane's hand before she spoke again. "Then there's a part of me that wants to go to the funeral tomorrow."

Jane's hand stiffened, and she shook her head, her protectiveness shooting over the doctor like a net.” Maura, I don't think that's a good idea."

The blonde had expected just such a reaction, and she took some small, fleeting pleasure in knowing that despite all that had happened, she still knew the detective better than anyone. "Jane, I'm not in danger. He's dead."

"You don't know who will be there, Maura. There could be allies of Doyle's there that will think that you had something to do with his death."

"They wouldn't necessarily be wrong about that. I am the reason he's dead."

"I know you don't believe that, Maura."

The doctor shook her head reluctantly. "No, not completely. I just – I didn't – " She sighed, frustrated with her own inability to express her thoughts. “ I just feel like I owe it to him. I know that it doesn't make sense – "

"I'm coming with you," Jane said.

Maura glanced up at her, surprised. "What? No, Jane."

"Has our week-long estrangement made you completely forget the content of my character?" the detective asked, crossing her arms over her chest. "I'm not taking no for an answer. I'm coming with you." She gave the counter a determined rap with her fist. "And Korsak and Frost will be posted in an unmarked car right outside the ceremony."

Maura recognized Jane's furrowed brown, the concentrated purse of her lips that signaled there was some strategy forming in her head, some procedural motion that freed her from the stark prison of her guilt. She looked imploringly up at her. "Do you think I'm crazy?" she asked.

Jane gave her a lopsided smile. It was a look that she had never been able to decipher over the entire course of their friendship, but she always enjoyed the way it made her feel. "Do I think you're crazy to attend the funeral of the mob boss biological father that you never knew you had?" She bit her lip, mocking thoughtfulness. "No," she said simply, allowing a grin to slip past her lips. "But, if you have a copy of the DSM-IV laying around, I'm sure I could come up with something."

Maura smiled, the motion feeling foreign to her, as if her jaw wasn't used to moving the muscles involved in such an expression. "I actually do have it," she said, pointing towards the living room. As she rose from her chair, Jane's hand caught hers, pulling her forward.

"I've missed you," the brunette said, the levity in her brown eyes replaced by something needier. "I'm so sorry, Maura." Once again, the medical examiner was propelled forward, but this time Jane's arms were stronger. "I don't want to leave," she whispered, her words fluttering against Maura's neck. "I'm afraid if I leave, you'll come to your senses and hate me again."

"If only I could hate you," the blonde replied, her words little more than a whisper. She had tried, and failed. Just as she had tried to convince herself that her feelings for Jane were strictly platonic. She had failed at that, too. And that is exactly why the detective's touch had become so dangerous. She pulled away slightly in an attempt to put some space between the two of them, but Jane kept her hands firmly planted on her hips. Maura leaned into the touch, just for a moment, allowing her hands to run across the brunette's shoulders and down her arms. "I'm sorry," she said, taking a step back and pressing a hand to her temple, unable to summon an explanation for her lingering touch. "I think I'm exhausted."

Jane took another step forward, not allowing her to break the bond between them. "Let me stay," she urged, her eyes suddenly dark with an emotion Maura wasn't certain she was fully ready to acknowledge. Nevertheless, Jane's need was just as palpable as her own, and she felt it coursing through them, tacit, but strong. She could do nothing but nod, knowing that she wanted Jane beside her tonight. She could figure out what exactly that meant tomorrow.

Chapter Three

Maura had long ago drifted off, her arm twitching with sleep as it lay across Jane’s stomach. Jane, however, was wide awake, peering up at Maura’s ceiling, running small, nervous circles across the hand draped over her midsection. If she had been at her own apartment, she would have turned on the television to the home shopping network or something equally mundane, and let it trample her thoughts, but Maura’s touch half pinned her, half paralyzed her.

She had no idea what Maura had wanted by asking her to stay, and had simply followed the blonde's lead, throwing on a pair of her own sleeping shorts that had been left over who knows how long ago, and climbed into bed. They had lain facing each other, Jane’s head propped up on her elbow, Maura’s resting on her pillow. She hadn’t meant to lace her fingers through Maura’s own, but once she had, she didn’t let go, and that’s when Maura sidled closer to her, draping a hand across her waist in a gesture both natural and terrifying.

Jane raised her head slightly, peeking at the clock on the far side of the bed. It was a little after midnight, which meant she’d been lying awake for a little more than an hour. A cell phone trilled loudly into the silence, making her jump. Maura jolted awake, used to such disturbances, and Jane reached for her own phone, waiting for its expected ring.

“Dad?” Maura asked, her voice still thick with sleep, and Jane forgot about her own phone, flicking on the bedside light and turning towards the smaller woman. Middle of the night phone calls were never good news in their world, but this was especially true over the past week. “Did they stabilize her?” Maura continued, her face paling, even under the dim light. “What kind of clot?” A panicked nod as she climbed out of the bed, tangling herself in her sheets. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Dad – “ She started to speak again, but looked down at the phone, which had already gone black.

Jane had already lurched into action, pulling on her trousers, which were draped across the end of the bed. “Maur, what happened?” she asked. She didn’t like the way Maura looked over at her, dazed, her usual clinical expression disappeared from her face.

“My mother had a hematoma,” she said. “In her brain. A blood clot.”

The words were like a fist balled into her stomach, but she crossed the room in two strides, rubbing Maura’s arms gently, as if revving her out of her daze. “Let’s get you to the hospital. We can be there in less than ten minutes.”

Maura nodded, moving again, clumsily pulling on a pair of flats. “He said they stabilized her.”

“Good. That’s good.” Jane pulled on her jacket.

“Stabilized,” Maura repeated under her breath, her eyes searching the bed for something. She fumbled through the sheets, then more panicked, lifted them up, her hands grazing underneath them.

“What do you need, Maura?” Jane asked, rounding the bed.

“My phone,” Maura murmured. “Where’s my phone?” Her hands picked up their pace, her face morphing with frustration. “Where’s my phone?” she said again, louder. “What if he calls? I need my phone.” Her words were clipped with fearful anger.

Jane moved to the bed, attempting to help, but Maura yanked the sheets from the bed, her voice now panicked. “Where did I put it? What if he calls again?”

If her dad called again, surely they would hear the phone, as loud as it was, but Jane kept this to herself as she helped Maura search, finally spotting the device on the floor near the edge of the bed. “Got it,” she said, watching as Maura’s shoulders visibly sunk, relief fluttering through her. Jane placed a calming hand on the small of the medical examiner’s back, leading her out of the room. She had mistaken that flutter of relief. Maura’s back rigid beneath her hand, the sinewy muscles fluttering as quickly as Jane’s own heart beat.

She tried offering assuring words on the way to the hospital, but soon found they had little effect on neither of them, and they rode the rest of the way in silence. Anxiety washed over Jane as they stepped out into the brightly lit hallway, the same one she'd found Maura in over a week ago. A week ago. It felt like a lifetime had passed since then. She followed Maura, her strides wide and long, the white lights hurting her eyes, as they found their way to the right wing of the intensive care unit. Phillip Isles appeared at the end of the hallway, his head bent toward his phone.

“Dad,” Maura called, picking up her pace into a half-run, and the gray-haired man looked up at her, his face downcast, but composed. Jane expected him to offer Maura an embrace, or a comforting touch, but he simply leaned down to her, pressing a formal kiss against her cheek, as if the two were meeting for a casual coffee in his Parisian town home. She crossed her arms over her chest and bit the inside of her cheek, a reminder that right now wasn't the time to act as arbiter of good manners.

Maura didn't give him much time to give any more of a greeting, anyway, and launched into a series of questions. “Where was the hematoma located?” she asked, her hands on her hips.

“Right frontal lobe,” he said. “The nurse couldn't wake her up, and with the brain swelling, they went ahead and did an MRI and found a small clot.” Maura punctuated his words with a nod. “They gave her an anti clotting medication and are monitoring it.” He rubbed his hand over his jaw. “And now we wait.”

“Do they know the extent of any damage?”

“They don't know. They say they'll know when she wakes up.”

Maura looked up and down the hallway, as if unsatisfied with the answer. “Where is her doctor?”

Phillip gestured down the hallway, resigned. “Wherever doctors disappear to.” His blue eyes appeared gray under the lights, matching his hair, which fell across his forehead. His wrinkled dress shirt still cut sharply across his shoulders, despite its wear, and was tucked neatly into his trousers. The neatness of his clothes had the effect of making him seem aloof, even though his constant vigil by Constance’s side belied this. Jane nodded at him, gave him some words of condolence, but kept her hand at the small of Maura’s back.

The three of them sat, with Philip and Maura performing constant rotations in and out of Constance’s room. Jane kept a constant vigil in the small waiting room, really just a cluster of chairs in front of the nurse’s desk. She didn’t feel as if she was serving that much of a purpose, but she was unwilling to leave.

After another switch, Maura paced into the waiting room. “I'm going to grab some tea from downstairs,” she said, the shaded contours below her eyes illustrating her exhaustion. “You want anything?”

The thought of a task brought Jane to her feet. “I'll get it,” she offered.

“No, no, I need to walk,” Maura said, wringing her hands. “Coffee?”

“Sure,” Jane said with a nod, her hands falling uselessly by her sides. “Two - “

“Two sugars, two creams,” Maura replied automatically. “I got it.” She started to walk away, but turned back, her brow furrowed. “Thank you,” she said softly, her eyes darting to the floor. “For staying.”

“Of course,” Jane replied, but Maura had already turned, heading for the elevator. She sank back in her chair, letting her own tiredness numb her mind. Another nurse headed into Constance’s room, and a few seconds later Phillip walked out of the room. “Just a routine checkup,” he said. “Whatever that means.” He sighed, sitting down in the chair next to Jane and putting his head in his hand. “Where's Maura?”

“She went to grab some coffee,” Jane replied, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. “If you want something, I think she took her phone.”

He shook his head. “No, nothing.”

They sat quietly, letting the sounds of the hospital wash over them: the roll of a food cart with a squeaky wheel, the sound of rubber-soled shoes padding across tiled floor, the quiet banter of the nurses behind the desk. “It's amazing how we blunder through the days, isn't it?” he asked, a vaguely French lilt to his voice. “Like we have all the time in the world.”

“Ignorance is bliss,” Jane replied, balling her hand into a fist at her knee.

Phillip let out a shaky exhale. “I used to think so. When I was young, I used to think I had all the time in the world.” He chuckled. “I’m not young anymore, but up until a week ago, I still thought that.”

“What’s the alternative? Waking up every day with the weight of death on your shoulders?”

“Isn’t that what you and Maura do?” he asked. “She’s so clinical. So goddamned smart, rationalizing everything.” It took Jane a moment to realize he was talking about Maura, and she turned fully to look at him. His face wasn’t angry, or even judgmental, but held a look of devoted concentration, as if he was picking up his daughter and studying her in his mind. “Neither Constance nor I were ever science-minded,” he said with a faint chuckle. “Poor Maura, growing up with a couple of liberal arts parents. We were amazed by her, sometimes frightened by her. Can you believe that? Frightened of her.”

Jane sat impeccably still, afraid that the smallest movement would shift the exchange, or require her to offer some sort of response. But Phillip went quiet, and her shoe squeaked against the floor. “Constance and Maura have been getting along well,” she said, just to say something.

Phillip nodded. “Yes, Constance raved to me about this trip. She said she was looking forward to talking a few things over with Maura.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know if they ever got around to it.”

“What sort of things?” Jane asked, protectiveness creeping into her voice, straightening her spine.

“Just about our lives together. Wishing we had both been more available. It was a regret she expressed to me.” He looked at Jane, defensiveness reflecting in his eyes. “Nothing about Patrick Doyle,” he said. “As far as Constance was concerned, Maura would never know him.”

“But Maura did know him.”

Phillip scoffed. “She didn’t know Patrick Doyle. She saw what he wanted her to see, which is exactly how he lived his life, like some sort of prism, showing his beauty to some, blinding others. You saw right through him, though, didn’t you?”

Jane swallowed, her thumbs rubbing the sweaty scars at her palms. “I know that Maura needed time with him,” she said, her throat tightening. “She wanted the other piece of the puzzle. Whatever she felt about Doyle, however conflicted, she just wanted that last piece.”

“Her biological mother.”

Jane nodded, but didn’t say anything, and wished the nurse would come back into the hallway so that Phillip would head back inside. This wasn’t her place, to be discussing this. It felt like a betrayal of some sort. But she offered one last piece. “Her questions won’t die with Patrick Doyle.”

“No,” he said. “No, I guess they won’t.”

“She mentioned him, you know.”

Maura’s voice startled both of them, and they turned quickly to look up at Maura, who stood holding two steaming Styrofoam mugs. “Maura, Jesus,” Jane said quietly.

Philip stood, his knees cracking. “I'm going back in,” he said stiffly.

“She mentioned Patrick,” Maura pressed, not moving. “When she woke up. She said his name, Dad.”

He turned, his broad shoulders slightly stooped with exhaustion, much more so than Jane remembered when she saw him a few days earlier. “Maura, this isn’t the time to discuss this.”

Maura swallowed, a fleeting uncertainty crossing her brow. “I'm not sure there's a 'good time' for anything anymore,” she said.

“We'll discuss this when your mother has recovered, Maura.” His voice had a practiced sternness, as if he were used to ending discussions with a simple change of tone, and Jane glimpsed what had made him such a renowned professor.

Recklessness passed through Maura's eyes, a look that Jane had seen only once or twice before. “What if she doesn't recover?” Maura asked, the mugs starting to shake slightly in her hands. “What then?”

“Maura, I'm going to be with your mother.”

Maura set the cups down on a table, and strode towards him, blocking his way. Jane stood, her hands steadying one of the cups, which wobbled dangerously against the faux wood. “He came to visit her. Patrick Doyle knew her, and she knew him. And you're keeping something from me that I have a right to know.” Maura's eyes were pure steel, but Jane saw her lip quiver.

Phillip's hand went to her bicep, his tall frame bending toward her. “I don't give a damn about Patrick Doyle,” he said. “If you think that a criminal's dying wish is more important to me right now than my wife and the woman who raised you, then you are sorely mistaken.” His voice was a low rumble, and he pulled her out of his path, striding past her into the room.

Maura seemed surprised to still be standing there, in the middle of the hallway, but Jane moved forward, replacing Phillip’s icy touch with her own warm hand, rubbing gently. “Maur, why don't you sit down for a second,” she said, motioning her to a nearby chair.

Maura shrugged out of her grip, shaking her head, a hand covering her mouth. “No,” she said, inhaling sharply. “I – I – need to use the restroom.” Jane watched her back away, hurrying down the hallway, her loose top falling slightly off her shoulder, her flat shoes scraping the tiled floor.

Jane made it through half the coffee, pacing among the small group of chairs, still alone. Phillip was still in with Constance, and Maura had yet to come out of the restroom. She sat her coffee back down, which she suspected had been decaf, and made her way down the hallway. Stopping outside the restroom, she rapped her knuckles lightly against the door.

“Maura,” she said, quietly. “Let me in.” She heard only silence, but tried again, this time with a different tactic. “What if I told you I really had to pee?”

There was a slight pause, and then: “I'd tell you to go down to the first floor.” But there was the slight click of the lock as it unlatched, and Jane said a silent 'thank you' before pushing her way inside.

Maura sat on one side of the square floor, slumped against the white wall, a silver handicapped bar above her head. Her eyes were raw and swollen. “I was a monster out there,” she said, shaking her head. “What the hell is wrong with me?”

Jane slid down the wall, coming to rest next to her. “Well, for one, I'd say you're exhausted. And two, I'd say that all of this is fucking hard to handle, Maura.”

Maura glanced at her hands, which were clasped in her lap. “I shouldn’t have acted that way with him. His wife is lying in that room.”

“And his daughter is locked in the hospital bathroom. So yeah, maybe the guy deserves a break,” Jane said. “So do you.”

Jane sighed. Truth be told, she had no idea what Maura must be feeling, and wasn't sure she could offer any suitable advice. “Look, Maura, I can't imagine what you're going through right now. All of this would be bad enough on its own, but together...” She shook her head, pressing her hands against her knees, cracking her knuckles.

Maura reached out, stilling her fidgeting hands. “Don't do that,” she said. “It's habit-forming.”

Jane nodded down at her. “Yes, that's why I do it.” She noticed that Maura didn't let go of her hand, and she took it in both of hers. “What if I cracked yours? Is that habit-forming?” It was a lame attempt at a laugh, but she managed to get one, and that eased her a little. “When's the last time you saw Phillip?” she asked.

Maura shrugged, looking ahead in thought. “Oh, I don't know. Two years? Maybe? I mostly kept up with him through my mother.”

“Did you ever spend time with him as a kid?” Jane asked. She always had trouble reconciling her own constant barrage of family with Maura’s isolation.

Maura shook her head. “No. But I do remember one weekend I had just dissected a frog I’d found out by the pool. I had rubber gloves, some tiny scaling knife I’d found in the pool house or something. My dad came out and asked what I was up to, so I launched into this horribly crude frog anatomy lesson.” She laughed faintly at the memory, but it was forced. “And I looked up at him, Jane, and he looked absolutely horrified.” She shook her head. “I guess I wasn’t the most endearing child.”

It was Maura’s bashful smile that unsettled Jane, the insecurity masked as contentment. “I can name a lot of people, including myself, who think you’re pretty damn endearing, Maura.”

“No, I know,” Maura said, shaking her head. “I just mean, my father’s no different than he’s always been. I don’t know why I expect him to act differently all of a sudden. People don’t work that way.” She used the bar above her head to pull herself to her feet. “I should get back out there,” she said, reaching a hand out to Jane.

The hallway outside the bathroom was quiet, except for a middle-aged woman who stood impatiently by the door, shooting daggers at Jane and Maura as she pushed past them into the restroom. “I guess she didn’t know about the one on the first floor,” Jane said.

“Why don't you go home and get some rest?” Maura suggested. “There’s nothing left to do but wait until she wakes up.”

Jane shook her head. “If you haven’t noticed, I’m pretty good at waiting. I’m an expert at waiting.”

Maura stopped her with a gentle hand on her forearm. “No, Jane, it’s fine. After that blowup, my dad and I need to sit in our requisite therapeutic silence together. I'll give you a full report tomorrow.”

Jane cocked her head, and saw the calm resolve reflecting back at her. “Complete with full medical jargon and seventeen syllable words?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” She was uncertain, pulled fished Maura’s keys from her pocket, pressing them into her hand.

“No, Jane, it’s fine, take my car,” Maura pressed, pushing the keys back.

“I love you Maura,” Jane said, continuing their push of war with the jangling keys. “But I hate your car. I’ll call a cab.” She pulled the shorter woman in for a hug, silencing any further protests. Maura wrapped tightly around her waist, and they stood like that for a moment. Jane pressed a kiss against Maura's forehead before pulling away, giving her hand a tight squeeze before turning to the elevator. Maura smiled at her, the sadness pooled underneath her eyes, but muted with some new sense of hope.

- - -

Maura held her mother's hand, tracing the fine lines that belied her age, which gave her some eerie sort of comfort, and she wondered if it was something she had done as a child. The nurses had left, the doctor had come and gone, all of them probing her mother, both physically and mentally, testing her reflexes, her knowledge. Maura stood, watching, her exhaustion so heavily weighing on her that she even failed a few of the probe questions.

The questions that had nagged her earlier were still there, but lighter now as she watched her mother fall back into sleep. Suddenly, she realized she had no idea if her mother even knew what had happened to Doyle. As far as she knew, her father hadn’t explained to Constance what happened, but that didn’t mean her parents hadn’t shared some private conversation about it.

He walked in behind her, and although she expected his hand on her shoulder, he didn't place it there, and instead hovered on the opposite side of the bed. He always seemed different around her mother, and now she realized why. She had never recognized love in his eyes when he looked at her. It was always as if he were studying a stranger. She looked up at him, and when he met her eyes with that same, foreign look, she felt the air whoosh slowly out of her.

“I'm going to Patrick Doyle's funeral,” she said plainly, as if describing the weather, or the whiteness of the walls.

At least she saw sadness there, when she told him that, but she suspected it was reserved for her mother. “You're an adult,” he replied. “You can make your own decisions.”

She wanted him to say something more, but couldn't articulate exactly what that something should be. So instead she turned her attention back to her mother's hands, her fingers following a bright blue vein towards her wrist.

“Maura,” her father said, and he waited for her to turn her attention from the blue vein up toward him. “All this time, all these years. We just wanted to keep you safe. That probably wasn't enough, was it? But we loved you. Even if we didn't know how.”

It was meant to be some sort of revelation, some great vindication of her childhood, but she didn't know what to do with it. So she just said, “I know.”

She stayed until morning, then drove home in silence, the sky outside her windshield a dreary gray. Turning into her driveway, she recognized Jane's car, and felt a sudden, hopeful flutter in her chest, which quickly turned to embarrassment. Jane was probably helping Angela with something or other, being a good, dutiful daughter. Just like she was a good, dutiful friend. Maura climbed out the car, fumbling with her keys as she walked towards the front door, wondering whether she had remembered to feed Bass yesterday or not. She stopped short at the familiar figure on her stoop, now in a fresh change of clothes.

“Jane, what are you doing here?” she asked.

The brunette clapped her hands, rubbing them together. “Well, I figured you very well couldn't go to a funeral in sleepwear, so I thought you’d eventually have to come home and change.”

“How did you know I was still going?”

“Because you said you were. I've never known you to say you were going to do something and then not do it. It's not exactly lying, but I'm guessing it's too close for comfort.”

Maura smiled a genuine smile, which felt as if it were cracking through plaster that coated her jaw. “Thank you,” she said softly. “Jane, I owe you a lot of beers after this,” she said, half laughing, half sighing.

She waited for the brunette to crack a joke, but the brown eyes that peered down at her were serious, apologetic even. “Maura,” she said, her voice huskier than usual. “I'm so sorry. I understand completely if you don’t want me there.”

“Do you want to go?” Maura asked, surprised that the question hadn’t occurred to her.

Jane looked helplessly down at her hands, studying them, and when she looked back up at Maura, her brown eyes were glassy. Maura felt something shift inside her, and she wondered how she had managed to ignore Jane’s own struggle. “Yeah, I think I need to go,” Jane whispered. She stood, shaking her hands, as if wringing out whatever guilt had just flushed through her. “In the meantime, while you get ready, I will definitely be having a beer from your fridge.”

“Did you at least get some sleep?” Maura asked, unlocking her door.

“I managed to fall asleep with Jo Friday for a couple of hours,” she said with a nod.

“Good,” Maura said, walking inside, a calmness settling over her as Jane followed her. “That coffee I got you was decaf for a reason.”

“I knew it,” Jane said as she headed towards the kitchen. She continued to ramble as Maura headed to her bedroom, taking comfort not in the words, so much as the feel of them filling up the empty space around her.

- - -

Maura took a sip of the Dunkin Donuts coffee she had bought on the way to the cemetery as she stared out of the car window towards the small group that stood over Patrick Doyle’s grave. There weren’t many people, which signaled that either they were afraid the ceremony was being tracked by the FBI, or else Paddy Doyle didn’t have many people in his life who actually cared about him. Maura wasn’t certain which was sadder. Or if she cared.

She watched as the people slowly left, angling toward the straggle of cars that were parked along the curb. One woman, however, stayed near the grave, her head bowed as she waved away the minister, who tucked his head into his chest as he made his way toward his car, following the group. Slowly, the cars curved through the cemetery, heading away, but the woman stayed, staring down at the stone that marked Doyle’s grave.

She felt her face flush. She felt foolish. She couldn’t summon the courage to get out of the car or to ask Jane to drive away.

“Maur?” Jane’s voice tunneled towards her, but it was the hand perched delicately on her knee that caused her to start, sloshing her coffee over the edge of her cup.

“Sorry,” she said, settling the cup in the middle console and fishing through her purse for a tissue. Why had she not brought any? Did she really not think she’d have any tears to shed for her biological father?

“Don’t worry about it,” Jane said, but she didn’t replace her hand on Maura’s knee. “You doing okay over there?”

Maura finally made eye contact, and the beseeching, concerned brown eyes seemed to tug her forward, away from the gravesite and closer to her. She wanted Jane’s hand back on her knee, but instead just cleared her throat, nodded her head. “I feel so stupid,” she said, and the verbal confession surprised her. But Jane always managed to get the truth out of her faster than anyone.

The hand was back on her knee, rubbing it slightly. “Maura, there are a lot of things worth feeling right now, and ‘stupid’ isn’t one of them. You’re here because you need to be here. And the minute you feel like you’re done, just say the word and we’re out of here.”

Maura glanced down at the hand, tracing Jane’s fingers lightly with her own. This had been the hand that held the gun, the index finger the one that had pulled the trigger. She heard the loud pop echo in her ears, heard the crunch of bone as he hit the ground. She shifted her leg, letting Jane’s hand fall away, and pressed against the car door. “I just need a minute,” she said, knowing the explanation wasn’t enough. She heard Jane’s door open as well, but turned and looked at her over the top of the car, a slight drizzle from the gray skies falling between them. “Please, stay here,” she said.

Jane pursed her lips, her brown eyes darting uncertainly to the side. It was a look that Maura had seen a thousand times before, and she found it oddly comforting, so much so that her lips twitched into a small smile. ”You won’t miss anything, I promise.” It was a false levity, but even the practice of it made her feel somewhat better.

She made her way towards the grave, her heels digging into the soft grass, which was coated with a fine, damp mist. The woman still stood there, her black-clothed shoulders slumped forward, her head angled down, as if her entire being were arching towards the grave. Maura said nothing as she stepped up beside her, but the woman turned fully towards her. Her hair was gray, but was maintained with a perm, each curl coiled lightly against her head, whipping softly in the wind. Her thin lips dropped open in a small oval. Her eyes, an emerald green, held some deep memory, as if recognizing a ghost, and Maura felt something root her to the spot.

“Hello,” she said, her voice just above a whisper, whether from the quiet of the cemetery or fear, she couldn’t tell.

“You’re Maura,” the woman said, her eyes unmoving. She started to reach her hand out to Maura’s face, but pulled it back, clenching it against her side. “You look just like her.”

Maura’s tongue went dry against the roof of her mouth. “Who?” she asked.

The woman didn’t answer right away, but took another step closer. Maura didn’t back away, and felt her ankles shake slightly in her heels. The older woman’s voice was edged with a smoky grittiness, but the name rolled quickly off her lips. “Hope.”

“Hope,” Maura repeated, stretching the word out on her lips. It had echoed in her mind since the day at the warehouse, but she hadn’t even let herself consider the possibility that it may have been a name.

“Patrick said you had her eyes. Serious eyes.”

“Who are you?” she asked, knowing that it didn’t make a difference. She would take answers from just about anyone at this point.

“Pardon me,” the woman said, extending her hand, which was clammy as Maura grasped it. “I’m Linda Doyle, Patrick’s sister.” She didn’t immediately let go of Maura’s hand, but instead clasped her other hand over it. “I’m sorry we had to meet this way. To be honest, I never thought we would meet.”

“Hope,” Maura repeated. “Who is Hope?”

The greenish eyes widened slightly, and a hand went to the thin, parted lips. “He never told you,” she murmured, her voice just catching in the wind.

Maura shook her head. “No.” The breeze was picking up, sending a chill through her. “Hope is my mother, isn't she?”

Linda glanced down at the marker at the grave, then back at Maura, uncertainty flashing across her manicured eyebrows. “Hope Dixon.”

Maura mouthed the words, unable to utter them out loud, instead savoring her mother's name inside her for a few minutes. “Do you know where she is?” she asked, her arm reaching out for Linda's and capturing it in a desperate vice, even though the woman didn't seem to be going anywhere. “Tell me where I can find her.” It wasn't a question, so much as a plea.

“I can’t do that,” the woman responded, shaking her head sadly.

“Yes,” Maura said, frustrated tears springing to her eyes. “You have to tell me. He wanted me to know who she was. He wanted me to find her.” Her nails were digging into the woman's skin, but she couldn't let up.

The woman pulled out of her grip, taking her hand instead. “No, sweetheart, you don't understand. Hope Dixon is dead.”

Chapter Four

Such a revelation should have knocked her over, the idea of the woman she'd searched for so long being gone, but instead she just felt a knot tighten in her stomach. “Dead.” The word fell flat off her tongue.

“I thought Patrick would have told you,” Linda said. Her green eyes flashed towards the grave marker, her frustrations with her brother not extinguished, even in death. “She died a number of years ago, not too long after you were born.”

“Oh.” The knot clenched, as if fingers were slowly squeezing her diaphragm.

“Let me take you to get a coffee,” Linda offered, taking a peek up at the sky. “This isn’t the way Patrick intended for you to find this out, I’m sure of it. He was a lot of things, my brother, but he was fiercely protective of his family.”

Clumps of grass mixed with the dirt atop the grave, and the green blades were to bright, popping out of the brown earth. “No,” she said. “I’m through with being disappointed.” Her words took on a bitterness that shocked her, and she almost felt sorry for this messenger of a woman. “I have a family.” She turned, mechanical in her movements, and was surprised that her brain was capable of sending the appropriate messages to her body, because from her perspective, it was mere mush.

Linda’s arm caught hers just above the wrist, and she fished out a small business card, handing it over. “We're blood,” she said, pushing the card into her hands. “One day, that might mean something.”

“Thank you,” Maura muttered, hoping that her sincerity showed, despite her pursed lips and blank expression. She turned away, fumbling the rough card stock between her fingers. Jane was out of the car, peering over the hood toward with wide, concerned eyes. She was fiddling nervously with her thumbs, and Maura knew that it had taken some resolve for her to stay put.

“Maura?” she asked. It was Jane's standard way of checking in, a substitute question for one she couldn't quite articulate.

“Let’s just go,” Maura replied. “I want to go back to the hospital.” Her voice was less shaky than she imagined it would be, and for a moment she was impressed with her resolve. Her insides felt as if they’d been slashed with broken glass, and if she breathed too hard she would fall over; again, her body surprised her, and she lowered herself into the car.

Jane started the ignition, giving Maura concerned glances as she weaved through the winding roads of the cemetery. Maura felt the knot harden in her stomach. Why did they make the roads so meandering? As if the architects thought people wanted to take their time driving through a cemetery, like it was a relaxing drive through the countryside? When they made it to the highway, where the noise of the road made the drive more tolerable, she felt the knot loosen and its contents spilled upward into her throat, wrenching a quiet, breathless sob from her.

Her face was wet, as if the tears were coming from her pores instead of her glands and she was surprised by their quick violence. She wiped them with spread fingers, wondering why she had bothered to put on mascara. “That was Linda Doyle, Patrick’s sister,” she said, hoping that by telling the story, by focusing on facts, it would help clear her mind from the emotional mush that clouded it. “She knew my biological mother. Her name was Hope Dixon. She died a long time ago. She’s been dead for years.”

The car swerved slightly as Jane turned to look at her. “Fuck.” Her eyes caught Maura's for a brief second before she turned them back to the road. “Fuck,” Jane repeated, hitting the steering with the palm of her hand. “Doyle didn’t tell you that? He couldn’t tell you that, at least?”

It felt good to watch Jane’s visceral display of exasperation, and Maura wished she could subcontract out all of her anger, if only to give her numb mind a rest. “Maybe he was afraid to tell me,” she said.

“He was afraid to lose you.” Jane shook her head, her foot pressing the gas pedal harder. “Coward,” she muttered, shaking her head. “Fucking coward.”

Maura dropped Linda Doyle's business card in the middle console, letting her head rest against the seat.  Minute droplets of rain slashed against the window as they drove through the mist. Her biological parents were dead. All the fantasies she had concocted as a child, the images of her a caring, attentive mother could now never be proved or disproved. It was an uncomfortable limbo. She thrived on deduction and reasoning. Even when analyzing a body, there was always something to be resolved. She wondered what she could have deducted from her mother's body, but the thought passed quickly, embarrassingly, and she hated the peculiarities of her mind, unable to attribute them to anyone or anything.

- - -

Maura sat silently beside her, and Jane struggled with an appropriate response to the news of Hope Dixon, but she just kept coming back to anger. Doyle strung Maura along for months, protecting her on one hand and setting her up for pain on the other. Guilt quickly buzzed through her, giving her anger a dangerous, self-hating edge. She had no right to judge him, not after pulling that trigger. 

She only asked one question when they parked in the dark lot of the hospital: “Are you sure you want to go in right now?”

Maura's eyes were blank. “What else is there to do?” She climbed out of the car, and Jane followed, but not before the glint of Linda Doyle's card caught her eye, and she tucked it into her suit pocket. She followed a few steps behind Maura, head down, unsure of whether she was needed, but unable to leave.

Maura went first to the restroom, appearing again with clear eyes, but they were still red and puffy. Jane followed her into her mother’s private room, where Phillip sat with his arms crossed in a chair beside her bed, his head tipped back, eyes closed. Maura knocked on the already open door, startling him awake.

“Morning,” he said, wiping a hand across his faint beard, glancing down at his watch. “Afternoon,” he corrected with a slight shrug as he rose from his chair. His trousers were wrinkled at the lap, but otherwise he was a picture of composure. “Your mother was awake for a little while this morning. She's doing well.”

“Good,” Maura said, her hands on her hips, a familiar gesture signaling her launch into a comfort zone of medical logic. “Did they do another MRI?”

Jane attempted to listen, but she was struck by the formality of the exchange and the irresolute strangeness of the family in front of her. Something was missing, although Maura and her father were trying their hardest to fill in the gaping emotional gaps with irresolute, almost ceremonial words.

“I guess I'll grab a coffee,” Phillip said, walking around them. He gave Maura a quick kiss on the cheek and placed a tentative hand on her shoulder, but that was all, and nodded briefly toward Jane as he passed by her.

Maura sat in the chair beside her mother, glancing back at Jane with a misaligned smile. “That's good news,” she said, and Jane nodded automatically, even though she hadn't heard a word of the medical jargon.

“Yeah.”

“I think she'll make more of a recovery at home. Studies show that recovery rates in hospitals are poor compared to rehabilitation centers or home care. It's about familiarity.” Maura looked back at her mother, running a hand over the crisp, white sheet beside the IV line.

“I'd probably recover better in Paris, too,” Jane said, forcing levity into her voice. “I think everyone would.”

Maura rolled her eyes toward her. “You would hate Paris,” she said. “Sicily, you'd love.”

“I'll trust you on that one,” Jane replied, placing a hand on Maura's back, letting it rub natural, small circles. Her phone buzzed against her hip and she looked down at a text message from Frost. He had been picking up both their weight over the past week, but she tucked the phone back in its holster.

“Jane, go to work,” Maura said, looking back at her with an encouraging nod. “There’s nothing to do here. I’ll be fine.”

She had no doubt that Maura could keep her head together. When push came to shove, Maura was always composed, always level, but at what cost? Her phone vibrated again, but she ignored it. “If you need to talk, or you want me back here, all you have to do is say the word.”

“I know, Jane.”

“You want me to grab you some lunch or something before I go?” she asked, unwilling, or unable to leave.

Maura placed her hands lightly against Jane's hips and pushed her towards the door. “I’m lucky to have you,” she said with a sad smile. “But I just want to sit here for awhile.”

Jane nodded, but pulled Maura's hands further around her waist and pulled her in for a quick hug. She caught the scent of rain from her blonde hair, and placed a kiss atop the crown. The movement was natural, composed, but she knew there was meaning in it that they hadn't dared discuss yet. “Bye, Maur.” She closed the door quietly behind her as she left, catching Phillip walking towards her. “Duty calls,” he said, nodding toward the phone in her hand.

“Yeah,” she said, but caught his shoulder as he continued toward Constance’s room. “Uh, do you mind if Maura has some time on her own?” she asked, hoping her voice sounded more polite than protective. Judging by the way he eyed her, she guessed she hadn't done that great of a job disguising her protectiveness. Not that she ever had when it came to Maura.

“Of course,” he said stiffly, but she caught a glimmer of respect in his eye. “Of course.”

- - -

Maura felt the cool sheets rustle under her cheek, then a hand caressing her hair. It was an unfamiliar, maternal gesture and she allowed herself to enjoy the dream, prolonging it as long as she could. It was only the whispered “Maura” that pulled her from her slumber, forcing her bleary eyes up to her mother, who gazed down at her.

“Mom,” she said, moving clumsily toward the nurse call button.

“No,” Constance said, stopping her hand. “Let’s just sit for awhile.”

Maura studied her eyes, but they seemed alert enough, so she nodded, sitting back down. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve slept too long,” Constance said with a tired smile. “Your father, is he outside?”

“Yes,” Maura replied, already stepping toward the door, always so eager to please. “I can go get him.”

Again, her mother’s hand caught her arm. “No, Maura, darling, have a seat.” Constance sighed, pressing a tentative hand against her head, where her hair had matted down from the white, gauzy bandage. “I must look a wreck,” she said. “I didn’t expect that little setback. I thought we were home free.”

Maura didn’t think ‘little’ was the appropriate description, but she kept quiet, defaulting back to her usual manner with her mother. Agreeable to a fault. Always a polite, winning smile, even now.

“Just goes to show,” Constance continued, “that you never know what tomorrow will bring.”

“No,” Maura said, swallowing. “I guess you don’t.” She studied Constance's face, and wondered whether she would have looked at all like her biological mother. Whether she had her nose, her eyes. Her bone structure. Any genetic mutations that ran in the family. A physical, anatomical narrative she would never know.

Her mother looked to the side, the gray sky outside the window capturing her attention. “You never know what tomorrow will bring,” she said again, reciting it softly. When she turned back, her eyes were moist. “Your father told me what happened.” Her voice was paper-thin. “Why didn’t you tell me Patrick contacted you?”

“I don’t know,” Maura replied. Why had she kept him such a secret? Shame? Fear? “He wasn’t exactly the person I envisioned as my biological father.”

“How long did you know about him?” Constance asked, shifting up in her bed. Her eyes, still moist, were alert, and she waved away Maura's steadying hand.

“About a year. He revealed himself when he wanted to.” She had wanted to have the conversation for so long, but now it felt stale, the words flat. 

Constance pursed her lips, swallowed. “That was not part of the agreement.”

Finally, Maura felt a question bubble from her throat, and its release was a bit of a relief, even if she was afraid of the answer. “You kept in touch with him? All these years?”

Constance shook her head. “No. I sent him pictures occasionally. But he always kept tabs on you. God, he loved you to a fault.” Maura waited for the tears that were pooling in her eyes to fall over the edge, but they didn't. They just shimmered, staying put.

“And my mother? Hope Dixon?” Saying the name was unnerving, fluttering something in her stomach. 

“Did he tell you about her, too?” Constance asked, and her jaw went rigid, her face morphing into a stone facade, allowing Maura to gleam nothing from her expression.

She felt a tear burn behind her own eye. “No, he didn't. But I know about her, Mom. Linda Doyle told me everything.”

Constance's shoulders sagged forward slightly, as if the past were physically pushing her forward, forcing her to talk. “Linda,” she repeated, exhaling. She reached a tentative hand out, but Maura shook her head. She didn't need to be spared any grief, not after learning the truth already.

“Why didn’t you tell me my biological mother was dead?” she asked, pulling her hand away. “I’ve spent my entire life wondering about her. At some point you could have told me.” Her voice was accusatory.

Constance seemed confused, as if she’d missed a step in the conversation, and her eye twitched briefly. “Hope is alive,” she said, sitting up fully now, a vein in her neck raising itself under the surface of her skin.

Maura felt another block of reality fall from her carefully constructed world. “Linda Doyle told me she died years ago,” she said, her pulse throbbing in her temple.

Constance reached out and took Maura's hand. “Your biological mother was – is – Hope Dixon. After your father and I adopted you, she changed her name, essentially wiping all traces of Hope Dixon off anyone’s radar. Things were too dangerous and – well – it was better for everyone this way. No one knew outside of - “ she breathed deeply - “No one knew. But she is alive and well. Her name is Emily Lawrence. She lives in San Diego, practices medicine.” The words spilled out of her, and she put her hand to her lips, as if stunned that she had uttered the truth.

Maura stared blankly. She half believed her brain decided to shut down, unwilling to accept anymore half lies, and afraid to accept the truth. “I don’t understand,” she said, simply for a lack of anything better to say.

Her mother fumbled with the sheet in her hand. “This is something your father and I should be telling you together.” But she continued. “Hope left Boston right after you were born. Things had gotten dangerous for both of you, and she and Doyle thought it best for you to have a safe, normal life.”

“Normal,” Maura repeated.

“I kept in touch with Hope over the years. Letters, an occasional phone call.”

“How did she find you?” Maura asked. “Was this through an adoption agency?”

Constance's silence was uncomfortable, and her blue eyes darted away from Maura, squeezing shut briefly before widening over at her. “Hope,” she said, slowly, her words measured, like she hadn't uttered them in some time. “Hope is my sister.”

Maura felt something rise up inside her, and her legs tensed, ready to run her towards the sink on the far wall. She stood, shakily, staring down, her vision swimming slightly. “This is insane,” she said, and her laughter surprised her. It was a stark, quick guffaw, more of a gulp. “This is insane,” she said, louder, the power of her voice soothing. 

The door opened, and Phillip stuck his head inside, closing the door behind him. “Everything all right in here?” he asked, glancing between Maura and Constance.

Maura couldn't begin to describe her own expression, but she could tell from the way her father's face fell that he knew what had just transpired, and he raised his hands almost defensively to her.

Constance spoke for him, though, the words fluttering toward her back. “Maura, you have to understand this isn't the way we wanted to tell you.”

She whipped around, anger rising through her spine, making her back and shoulders rigid. It wasn't the right feeling, she knew it, but it was the only one she had, and she wielded it fiercely. “I'm ashamed of you,” she said, her voice thick. “I don't want anything to do with any of you.” It was a desperate, wishful plea. As if anyone could choose such a thing.

“Maura,” Phillip said, coming up behind her, but not touching her. “We did what had to be done to keep you safe.”

“Like some kind of duty?” she asked, feeling like a live fuse ran through her, and her voice vibrated with anger. “Like some kind of debt to the crime boss of Boston, you did what you had to do?” she railed, her face red with thwarted, misplaced rage. “I need some air.”

“Maura,” Constance said. “Wait. I know this is difficult, it was hard for us all of these years - “

“I don't care,” Maura blurted, walking backwards towards the door. She desperately needed to be out of that room, and away from their pleading eyes, staring at her as if afraid of her. “I don't care,” she repeated.

“Maura, don't walk out,” Phillip said. “We are still your parents.”

“No,” she said, her head muddy. “No, you're not.” She turned, the door blurring in front of her, and walked out, leaving it swinging open behind her. She thought she heard Phillip calling after her, but maybe she just imagined it. And she cursed her foolishness, that insatiable desire for a normal family, where her father would run after her, and maybe hug her, and promise that he loved her, no matter what. Foolish. She didn't bother waiting for the elevator, and instead took the stairs, spiraling slowly down to the exit.

- - -

“Ma, you should’ve seen the way he acted towards her.”

Angela mother set a cup of coffee in front of her, frowning, running her hands over her cafe apron. “Well, what do you expect? They’re from Europe.”

“That’s not a reason, Ma,” Jane said, rolling her eyes, watching a few beat cops waltz loudly into the cafe. “Anyway, it just makes me worry about how Maura’s been doing over the past week, if that was the only support she had.”

Angela looked at her with a mothering glance. “Maura’s an adult, Jane, and a smart one. She’s going through a lot right now, but she will reach out when she needs to. And besides, I’ve been spying on her.”

“Spying, Ma?”

“I mean, checking on her. Just checking on her.” Her eyes glanced gratefully toward Korsak, who walked towards them. He had a smudge of mustard on his tie, and the discovery was slightly comforting to Jane. 

She eyed her mother as she slipped away back to the counter, and turned her attention to Korsak, who laid a couple of printouts in front of her. “Thanks for running these names,” she said lightly, glancing over at him.

He didn't take a seat, instead standing over her shoulder. “It's the least I could do,” he said, his voice edged with a tinge of worry. “I wish I found more, but I got nothing.”

Jane gazed down at the printout. “Nothing on Linda Doyle,” she murmured. “And just a misdemeanor on Hope Dixon from 1971?”

“I asked Frost to see what he could find. But there's no death certificate on a Hope Dixon that remotely matches right age. Unless she was fifty-six when she had Maura, which I highly doubt. Times were different then,” he said, but quickly cut his chuckle short.

Jane bit her lower lip, studying the pages. It felt good to approach the problem from an investigative standpoint, even though it was a weak attempt at dealing with it. She rubbed her hand against her chin, and looked up at him. “This is probably stupid, anyway,” she said. “It doesn't change anything.”

“It doesn't have to. Just shows you care.”

Her phone rang from her hip, Maura's name flashing across the screen. Jane felt the initial pang of panic, one that had plagued her since the night Maura called her from the hospital. “Hey, Maur, everything okay?” she asked, her voice already tight, ready to snap with any more bad news.

“Yeah,” Maura replied, her voice staticy. “Can you come over to my place tonight?”

It wasn't an unusual request. Jane had been beckoned to Maura's apartment many times over the past few years, but the hairs along her arm stood on end as she nodded into the phone. “Of course. How you doing, Maur?” The response was garbled, and the connection ended. “Piece of shit phone,” Jane muttered, tossing it to the table.

“She all right?” Korsak asked.

“Yeah, I guess,” Jane said, staring at the blank screen of the phone.

“You all right?”

He peered down at her over the expanse of his nose, with a practiced, fatherly glance. How did all parents get that particular look down pat so well? She nodded vigorously, patting her knuckles against the table. “I need to work,” she said, grabbing her coffee, more than ready to devote her attention to something that she could solve. “Let's get back upstairs.”

- - -

Maura sat on the floor, waving a piece of lotus leaf at Bass, who sat unmoving a few inches away from her. “Come on, Bass, you need to eat.” She sighed, dropping the leaf by her side. “Has my levels of serotonin been affecting your mood?” She let her head rest against the wall behind her. She had stripped out of her black dress and into something equally depressing: yoga pants and a sweatshirt. She laughed. “Is it my clothes, Bass?” she asked. “Are they depressing you?”

The laugh died in her throat, smothered by the wave of nausea that drifted through her. Her cab ride home had only given her time to build her anger, and by the time she pressed a wad of bills into the cabbie's hand, she was boiling, her face flushed even in the cool, dreary weather. The sun had set behind her drawn shades, and she had spent most the evening avoiding the pictures and mementos from her childhood that littered her home. Fortunately, she didn't have many.

She heard the front door open, then heard the sound of Jane’s heavy boots padding across the hardwood floor. “Maura, the door was unlocked,” she called, before appearing in the kitchen, carrying a bag from Whole Foods. Maura took a moment to appreciate the irony.

“Hey there, you and Bass having a heart to heart?” Jane asked with a careful smile.

Maura got to her feet. “He’s about the only thing making sense right about now,” she replied. “Hey, did you happen to see Linda Doyle’s card in your car? I seemed to have misplaced it.”

Jane hung her head and fished into her pocket. “I took it,” she said, sliding it on the table.

“You took it?” Maura repeated.

“I wanted to make sure she wasn’t some loon or something.”

Judging by the revelation she had come by in the hospital, the probability that Linda Doyle was a lunatic was higher than she would have originally thought. The idea ripped a chuckle from her throat, which seemed to startle Jane. “You okay?” she asked, eyeing the glass of wine in Maura’s hand.

“Yes,” she said. “And this is my first glass. You know I’m a horrible drinker.”

“Yes, I know.” Jane moved to the refrigerator and pulled a bottle of beer out of it. “I, on the other hand, am an incredible drinker.” She cocked her head. “You feel like talking or are you looking for a  distraction? I bought tissues and a Netflix, so I'm prepared for both.”

“Talking, then distraction,” Maura replied.

“Fine.” Jane took a seat at the kitchen counter, her brown eyes widening with attentiveness. “First things first, how's your mother?”

Mother. The word struck against Maura's brain, like a match that wouldn't light, only friction and no flame. What was she supposed to call her? “She's awake, alert.” She didn't offer much more, mainly because she hadn't bothered to call her father – again, the term fell flat – for an update that evening.

“Did you talk to your father at all? About Hope?”

Maura cleared her throat, but that didn't make the words any easier. “I spoke with my mother,” she began, feeling as if she were dredging the words from the bottoms of her feet. “Hope Dixon isn't dead.”

Jane's bottle of beer teetered against the counter as she sat it down absently, the jerk of her head signaling her confusion. “What? Is – who – then who is dead, exactly?”

“No one.” She braced herself against the counter. “Hope Dixon, who now goes by the name of Emily Lawrence, is a doctor in San Diego. She's my biological mother.”

Jane took a small, pensive sip of her beer. “I’m following you,” she began. “But I’m not following. Why did Linda Doyle tell you she was dead?”

“She thought she was. That’s what Hope and Doyle wanted everyone to believe.” She was impressed by the evenness of her voice, the fact that she was keeping herself together.

Jane nodded, her lips parted. “Okay, that could make sense, if you and Hope were in danger. They put you up for adoption.”

Maura felt her eyes cloud over, and suddenly the wine tasted sour. She had never been one that could simply drink away her problems. If anything alcohol set her brain off on a mental spiral, neurons firing more rapidly than usual. She set the wine glass down. “They did.”

“Maura, what are you not telling me?” Jane asked, walking over to her.

“My mother - “ she spat the word - “is Hope Dixon's sister. Constance Isles is my aunt.” She picked up her wine again, this time taking several quick gulps before she met Jane's gaze again. Why did she think she would find judgment? There was nothing there but empathy, and a tentative hand that reached for her own, but she turned away, rinsing her glass in the sink. “So there you have it. On one side, the Doyles, on the other side, the Dixons. Murderers and lunatics.” She imagined smashing the glass into the sink, relishing the idea of breaking something, but didn't have the energy to clean it up. She set it gently on the counter to dry.

“Jesus,” Jane said, stepping over to her. “This is like stepping into an episode of the Sopranos.”

Maura turned toward her, leaning against the counter and fidgeting with her finger. “I never saw that show. Was it a good show?” It felt good, this type of meandering question.

Jane nodded. “It was a good show. The psychiatrist was a dead ringer for Ma.” She shrugged. “How the hell did you react to all this?”

Heat rose in her cheeks, and Maura shook her head, suddenly, viscerally ashamed. “I left.”

“Maura, you don't have to digest this all right now. It's a lot to take in, and it's okay to take your time.”

“I'm so mad,” she said, balling her fist against her side. “But with who? Constance and Phillip, who raised a girl they didn't want, just to keep her safe? With my mother, who fled the only life she ever knew?” She shook her head. “I keep coming back to being angry with myself. For holding onto some ridiculous fantasy.”

“Maura, I can't even begin to imagine what's happening for you right now. But despite the lie, despite the betrayal, on some level your parents cared for you and loved you, even if they wouldn't exactly win any awards for it. And that doesn't just disappear because of this.”

“I know,” she said, nodding. “I just need time. I need to forget about this day, Jane. At least for the rest of tonight.”

“Hey, you found out who your biological mother is and you gained an aunt and an uncle. How many people can say they gained that much family in one day?”

Maura couldn't tell whether the sound that bubbled up from her throat was a laugh or a cry, but it felt good, so she let it continue, wracking through her body. After an especially sharp exhale, however, she felt the tears on her cheeks, and pressed her hands against them. Jane's arms were around her immediately, and it felt good to press against the taller woman's body, and to let her massage small circles against her back. It was one thing in a day of chaos that simply made sense.

She leaned out of the embrace, but let her hands trace the lapels of Jane's suit jacket. “I'm going to get a tissue,” she said. “And then we can move into the distraction phase of the evening?”

“Yes, mind-numbing distraction is something that I can provide in droves,” Jane replied with a smile, but she let her thumb brush underneath Maura's eye, and it took all Maura had not to turn her head into the touch. Instead, she cleared her throat, moving past Jane with a concentrated gait. She heard Jane behind her, opening cabinet doors, setting plates on the counter, all semblances of a normal routine.

She blew her nose and splashed cold water over her face, hanging over the sink and watching the drops drip from her face onto the white porcelain.

She sat down on the couch, where the television was already on, blasting a rerun of The Daily Show. Jane scraped the contents of the counter onto two plates, walking them over. She had taken off her suit jacket, and more than likely tossed it messily over some piece of furniture. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders as she set the plates on the table, a look of accomplishment coupled with worry in her brow. “I even remembered those weird seed things you like,” she said, switching the plates' position as she sat down next to Maura.

“Pepitas?” Maura looked over at her, taking in the tiny mole along the side of her neck, and the hunch of her shoulders, and the warmth moved through her propelled her to lean over and place a kiss on Jane’s cheek. “I love you,” she said, as if it were simply a matter of scientific fact. She had said before, and meant it, but over the past few months the feeling had evolved into something messier than friendship. Jane raised her eyebrows at her, a smile lighting up the whole of her face, and when Maura leaned over for the second time, she kissed her lips

Jane’s lips, parted in frozen surprise before, now acclimated quickly, becoming pliable against Maura’s own. The kiss was gentle, exploratory, and Jane tasted minty and slightly sweet. When Maura pulled away, she felt her cheeks color. “I’m sorry. I bet you think I’m a mess,” she sighed.

“No,” Jane said with a crooked smile. “I don’t.” She cupped Maura’s jaw with both of her hands and kissed her again. When she spoke again, her voice was probing and gentle. “I do think, however, that you have a lot of complicated stuff going on right now. And as someone who loves you... I just want to help you get through it. I don't want to add to it.”

“This is the one part of today that makes sense.” She put a hand against her mouth, for the third time that day feeling nausea swell inside her. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I understand if you want to leave.”

Jane lifted her hand to her lips, kissing the inside of her wrist. “I'm not going anywhere,” she said, placing a hand on Maura's knee. “I've got all the time in the world. But, Maura, sweetheart, I just want to help you get through this first, okay?”

Maura nodded. “How should I get through this?”

Jane sighed. “Well, first, we're going to eat dinner, because at twelve dollars a pop, I'm not letting these salads go to waste. Then, we'll figure out whether you want to find Hope Dixon. She's out there, Maura.”

Maura nodded again, Jane's hand comforting against her knee. “She's out there,” she repeated, glancing once more at the hopeful brown eyes that looked back at her. And although she had no idea what those words meant to her, she felt a wave of calm drift through her, and for that she was grateful.

Chapter Five

Jane's phone alarm trilled obnoxiously into the silence, and she darted a hand out for it quickly, knocking it off the bedside table. “Shit,” she muttered, not wanting to wake Maura. As she finally silenced the blaring alarm, she darted a glance at the opposite side of the bed and an eyebrow at the empty space next to her.

Jane swung her legs out from under the sheets, the air cool against them, and padded somewhat groggily towards the kitchen, where the telltale sounds of a pan clanging against the stove alerted her to Maura's presence.

Sure enough, Maura stood over the stove, wearing a dress that didn't look like anything one should ever cook in. “Maura?” she asked, taking inventory of the eggs, milk, and sliced vegetables littering the counter. Sure, Maura behind a stove wasn't that big of a stretch, but Jane couldn't remember the last time the medical examiner had voluntarily ate anything besides yogurt or a bran muffin for breakfast.

“Would you like some eggs?” Maura asked, glancing casually over her shoulder, as if resembling a line cook at six-thirty in the morning was an everyday occurrence for her.

“Sure,” Jane replied slowly, testing her. “How you doing, Maura?”

“Fine,” the blonde said, her attention squarely on the stove, her shoulders rigid underneath the thin material of her blouse.

Jane caught the unmistakable lemon scent of cleanser. “Did you clean?” she asked incredulously. The sun wasn't even high in the sky yet. What kind of detective was she that she slept through a marathon morning like that?

Maura walked past her to the refrigerator, taking out a bottle of orange juice. “A little,” she replied casually, pouring two glasses. She slid one to Jane.

Jane stared into her glass, but gazed at the shorter woman over the top of it. Clearly, Maura was far from being the wreck she had been last night, and Jane couldn't help but admire her tenacity. If she had gotten such mind blowing news about her own parents, she was more than certain she'd be curled up into a pajama ball watching the home shopping channel and eating cereal.

Maura, however, seemed more than ready to face the day. “I'm feeling pretty lazy at the moment,” Jane mumbled, glancing around at the kitchen and giving her a fleeting half-smile.

Maura braced herself against the kitchen counter, setting her glass of orange juice down. “I couldn't sleep,” she said, although the bags under her eyes had already confirmed that. She sighed, her lips pursed into a fine line. “I just need to see things rationally again,” she said earnestly, her voice thin with exhaustion. “These emotions are running me ragged, Jane.”

The thought was sincere, but so utterly, conventionally Maura-esque, that Jane couldn't help but grin ever so slightly. “Yes, emotions can be quite tiresome,” she corroborated, nodding. “They are, however, always good for cleaning. Same goes for procrastination.”

Maura smiled bashfully, glancing around her. “I'm going into the hospital on my way to work.”

The decision didn't surprise Jane. Maura may call it being rational, but she simply called it love. Despite her difficulties with her parents, Jane had always seen love in Maura's eyes when she talked about them. Granted, at times it seemed quite unrequited, especially before the accident, but whatever it was that drove that love, it was there. “Good, Maur. I think your parents would like a chance to explain some things.”

“Why didn't you tell me I was being selfish last night?” Maura asked, not accusatory, but searchingly.

“Because I didn't think that's what you needed to hear last night,” Jane replied softly, finally reaching out and placing her hand over Maura's. She felt the blonde's hand turn underneath hers,  fingers gently rubbing her own palm before giving her hand a slight squeeze.

“I hope you're hungry,” Maura said, glancing at the stove.

Jane smiled. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

“That's scientifically proven, you know,” Maura said, turning her attention to a carton of eggs. “It signals the metabolic rate to spike, letting the body know to start burning calories. It's like kick starting an internal combustible engine.”

Jane raised an eyebrow at her. “Why can't there be a woman talking cars and cooking in my kitchen every morning?” she asked.

Maura giggled, but didn't turn around, and Jane was secretly relieved that her comment wasn't taken as awkwardly as it could have been. She had no idea where the two of them were drawing the line after last night's kiss, but for Maura's sake, she would let her bring it up.

“Unfortunately, I do not have any bunny-shaped pancakes for you this morning,” Maura said, her lips curling into a smile as she turned quickly toward the island and grabbed a spatula from a drawer. She stopped short, and looked curiously at Jane. “What's wrong?” she asked, her eyes suddenly concerned.

Jane quickly shook herself out of her thoughts, glazing them over with a simple smile. “Nothing,” she offered, standing. “What can I do to help?”

Maura gave her a lingering look, but nodded toward the end of the counter. “Slice up those tomatoes and cucumbers?”

Jane chopped the tomatoes eagerly, happy for a task. “What's your biological mother's name again?” she asked, moving onto a cucumber. “Emily something?”

Maura shook her head. “No.”

“What?” Jane asked, looking up at her.

“I'm not telling you, because I don't want you running her name through all of your databases and scary big brother files.”

Jane raised an eyebrow. “You've never had a problem with my scary files before.”

Maura turned to look at her, a silent plea in her eyes. “I just want to do this right,” she said. “Through my parents, not through some database.”

Jane could offer nothing more than an understanding nod, silently chastising her internal detective. “Of course, Maur. I get that. You're right.”

“Thank you, though,” Maura said, her gaze still fixed on her, to the point where Jane felt her own cheeks flush.

“Where, uh, do you want these?” she asked, pointing with her knife to the chopped veggies on her cutting board.

Instead of answering, Maura took a step closer to her. “Jane, about last night - “

A loud, incredibly inconvenient knock sounded at the back door, and Jane groaned as she caught a glimpse of her mother's hair outside the window. Was it the woman's goal in life to have ever-worsening timing? “Come in, Ma!” she yelled, shaking her head as Maura reluctantly returned her attention to the eggs on the stove.

Angela slipped inside, a smile on her face, oblivious to the moment she had just interrupted. “I thought I saw your car outside, Jane, and I just wanted to pop in and say hello.” She glanced at the stove and raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Wow, Maura, did you do all this?”

“I did,” Maura said proudly.

“Wow,” Angela cooed, walking towards them. “It looks delicious.”

Maura glanced at Jane, giving her a purposeful look and nodding towards their visitor, a gesture that she knew meant that she should invite her mother to join them for breakfast. But she shrugged, feigning ignorance, and ignored the frown Maura gave her.

The medical examiner rolled her eyes, but smiled as she turned back to Angela. “Would you like some?” she asked. “There's plenty.”

Angela looked over at Jane, who gave a quick, pleading shake of her head, but as expected, her mother nodded. “Of course. I'd love to join you lovely ladies for a real breakfast. And on a weekday, too. What a treat!”

Jane sighed, defeated, but a quick jab in her ribs from Maura prompted her to give her mother a reluctant smile. “Great,” she offered weakly. “Let me get you a plate.”

Maura's phone gave a slight buzz, and she glanced at it. “Oh,” she said, giving Jane an apologetic look. “Actually, you two are going to have to eat without me. I've got to get to the hospital before an 8:30 webinar at the office. It completely slipped my mind with everything that's been going on.”

“Oh, don't you worry, Maura, we'll be fine. And we'll make sure to clean up, too.”

Jane narrowed her eyes at Maura, repeating the words back to her. “A webinar?”

She nodded. “I'm looking forward to it, actually. It might help me take my mind off things. This one is about intralinear mucosal residue along the lining of the small intestine.”

Jane had picked up a serving spoon, but quickly dropped it back in the pan, turning to face her mother, whose face had gone two shades paler after the medical examiner's description. “I think we'll wait just a little while on food, huh, Ma? Maybe start with coffee?”

Angela nodded quickly, but gave Maura a polite smile.

“Okay, then,” Maura said, grabbing her purse and heading for the door, but not before giving Angela a quick peck on the cheek. “Thank you for the spaghetti you brought me the other night,” she said sweetly. “It was delicious. Your Tupperware container is in the cabinet,” she called as she walked toward the back door.

Jane couldn't help but feel jilted, and she followed her, pulling the door shut so as to give them some privacy from her always-prying mother. Maura looked back at her, surprised. “I really do have to go,” she explained again. “You know I love meals with your mother.”

“Yes, I think you love them more than I do, actually,” Jane replied with a smile. She studied the woman in front of her, taking in the soft lips, pert nose, and innocent, clear eyes. “If you need anything today, don't hesitate to call me, okay?” she offered quietly.

In response, Maura reached for her, running a hand along her bare forearm. Something clouded her expression for the briefest moment, and Jane cocked her head lower until Maura was forced to look up at her. When she finally spoke, her voice was strong. “I meant what I said last night. I'm not confused, or vulnerable. I may not have the best timing, but I was being completely honest when I told you I loved you.”

“Well, I didn't detect any hives or allergic reactions, so yes, I would say you were being honest,” Jane replied with a light smile. She caught a tinge of redness coloring Maura's pale cheeks, and it was comforting just to see some color lightening the pallor that had seeped into them since the accident. “Listen, if your webinar doesn't cut into lunch – and I sincerely hope it doesn't, based on the subject matter – why don't I grab us some food and we can eat outside? It looks like it's going to be beautiful today.”

Maura nodded, glancing up at the sky. “I have been lacking in the Vitamin D department.”

The two stood awkwardly for a moment, neither moving. She wasn't even sure why they weren't moving until Maura angled her head up to her, and then the meaning became all too clear. Their lips came together in a sweet, loving seal, their tongues prying shyly against one another. Maura's hands had moved up Jane's arms, caressing her shoulders, and Jane let her own wrap around the smaller woman, resting on the small of her back. When they broke away, only slightly out of breath, Maura's eyes didn't move from hers, but the smile she gave her was relaxed and wide.

“Don't forget to load the dishwasher when you're done with breakfast,” she said, stepping out of their embrace and hitching her purse higher onto her shoulder.

“Too domestic, too fast,” Jane replied. “I need you to slow down.”

Maura laughed, and the sound was pleasant in the cool morning air, as if it were bouncing off the dewy blades of grass. It had been awhile since Jane heard that rewarding sound. “I think we jumped that shark a long time ago,” Maura replied. Jane grinned down at her, now more than an expert at deciphering the blonde's misguided clichés. The shorter woman glanced up at her knowingly. “That was the wrong colloquialism, wasn't it?”

“I tried to make it work, but yes, it's the wrong expression.” She placed a kiss on Maura's cheek. “Good luck today at the hospital. Remember, parents are never perfect.”

She watched Maura walk towards her car, giving her one last wave. Then the image hit her: she was still wearing her pajamas, waving goodbye from Maura's own stoop, and about to sit down to breakfast with her mother. She did have to agree: the two had jumped the domestic shark long ago. She chuckled softly to herself as she returned to the kitchen, where her mother had already prepared two plates. Apparently the image of subcutaneous mucus didn't stick with her for very long.

“Breakfast is served,” she said jovially, her voice higher-pitched than normal. She purposefully avoided Jane's gaze, moving briskly around the kitchen, clattering the drawers for silverware. “Would you like some more juice? Or coffee? Or would you like some more juice?”

Her mother sounded as if she'd already drank a pot of coffee, and Jane could only attribute that level of adrenaline to nervousness. She crossed her arms over her t-shirt. “I'm assuming you were spying on us, Ma?”

It took Angela a moment to stop her distracting course around the kitchen, and she dropped a hand towel onto the counter, her eyes finally meeting Jane's. “I didn't mean to,” she replied. “I just wanted to ask Maura where the coffee filters were. If she were still using my organization system, I could've found them.” She cleared her throat, and it was clear that the ball of confession was fully in Jane's court.

“Ma...” she began, waiting for her panic to seep in, but for some reason it didn't, and she felt relief flood through her instead. She had never broached the subject with her mother, although Frankie knew about most of her exploits with the fairer sex, mostly from college. Once she hit a certain age, those one-nighters became less pleasing, but she soon found out that even the most rewarding courtships with men didn't quite do it for her. “I should've brought this up a long time ago...”

“I didn't know Maura was gay,” Angela said thoughtfully. “Now that's a bit of a surprise.” She bit her bottom lip, cocking her head in thought. “Although now some things are starting to add up.”

“Wait, you knew I was gay?” Jane asked, her long-awaited coming out to her mother unraveling under her feet, and for the second time that morning, she felt a little jilted.

“I had my suspicions. Come on, Janey, when's the last time you had a long-term boyfriend that spent most of his time in the same country as you?” She raised an eyebrow. “A mother knows more than you think.“

“Why didn't you ever ask me?”

“Are you kidding me? Would you have told me if I had asked?”

Jane shrugged. “I probably would have told you to mind your own business.”

“Exactly,” Angela replied with a knowing frown. “Self-discovery is important. I wanted you to come to terms with it yourself, first.”

Jane fiddled with the fork on her plate. “That's very thoughtful of you, Deepak Chopra.” But she gave a quick smile, shoving a bite of eggs into her mouth. “But thank you.”

Angela patted the seat next to her, motioning for Jane to sit. “How long have you and Maura... been together?”

“No, Ma, we're not 'together', all right?” She slumped into her chair, unsure of how to explain something that she wasn't even sure of. “I mean, we're working on it. Maura's been through a lot lately. I don't want to rush into anything. My first priority is as her friend right now.” When her mother didn't respond, she looked up, and caught her staring at her with an expression that was altogether unreadable. “What?” she asked, suddenly self-conscious. Her mother never made her self-conscious. “What's that look for?”

“That's the most responsible thing I've heard you say in a long time,” Angela replied.

Jane rolled her eyes. “Well, I am a grown-up, Ma.” She fiddled with the napkin beside her plate.

“What's wrong?” Angela asked. “There's something you're not telling me.”

How did she manage to do that every single time? Her mothering spidey sense was always infiltrating her brain. “Maura's biological mother is alive,” she said, looking over at her. “She faked her death, or tried to, changed her name, and fled. Constance is actually her sister. Which makes her and Maura's aunt.”

Angela's eyes widened, her mouth dropping open. “Holy sheesh,” she said. “That's straight off the Sopranos or something.”

Jane didn't suppress her grin. “That's what I said.”

“Well, on some level, that's good news, isn't it? Doesn't she want to meet her biological mother?”

“I don't know,” Jane said, taking a bite of now lukewarm eggs. “I think she does. But I think she's feeling guilty. She doesn't want to hurt Constance or Phillip. Not after everything that's happened.”

Angela shook her head. “I may have my differences with Constance,” she began.

“I'll say,” Jane snorted, dipping her head to her food.

Angela rewarded her with a piercing look before continuing. “But, she's still a mother. And a mother will always get over her own fear and disappointment when it comes to what makes her child happy. I know that for a fact.”

Jane looked over at her. “That's why you got over me and Frankie becoming cops?” she asked.

“Are you kidding me?” Angela asked, looking over at her. “I struggle with that every single day. I think you two are completely out of your minds.”

Jane laughed. “And what about being a lesbian?”

“As long as I get grandkids, I don't care how you do it,” she replied. She gave Jane one last smile before focusing back on her meal. “I know it's not my business - “

“Here we go,” Jane sighed, leaning back in her chair.

“But I don't think you could do any better than Maura Isles.”

Jane's lips curled into an unintentional smile, and she stretched her arms into the air, placing them behind her head. “I think you might be right about that, Ma.”

“I'm always right,” Angela responded briskly. “Now sit up at the table and eat your food.”

- – -

Maura slipped into her mother's room, surprised to see her already up and sitting in the leather-backed chair in the corner of the room. She sat with a magazine of some sort in her lap, but her head was facing toward the window.

“Mom,” Maura said, the word slipping out of her mouth without any aforethought, even though it didn't quite sound the same. Old habits were hard to break. “What are you doing out of bed?”

“Not going crazy,” Constance replied, with a thin smile. “I needed to get up and move this morning. Don't worry, it's been approved by the whole slew of nurses.”

“Where's Dad?” Again, the word slipped past the Wernickes area of her brain, and she wondered whether she would ever get to the point where she referred to them as Aunt and Uncle. Or whether she even wanted to. 

“I made him go to the hotel and take a shower,” Constance said. “I honestly thought he was staying with you.” Her eyes held guilt, the same concern that Maura had seen outside the restaurant the night of the accident.

Maura shrugged. “The two of you certainly enjoy your hotels,” she replied noncommittally, but immediately felt remorse at the cutting retort. “How are you feeling? Any headaches?”

Constance smiled at her, the lines etched on her face curving upwards. “No, Dr. Isles, no headaches or nausea, or anything besides the expected aches and pains.” She was quiet for a moment, her gaze stoic and unnerving, and Maura felt the distinct urge to move out of her line of sight. “Do you remember the day one of your schoolmates broke her arm?” she asked, her blue eyes becoming slightly glazed with memory.

Maura shook her head. “I don't think so.”

Constance nodded. “You were young. Five or so. A girl on the playground fell and fractured her arm. I happened to be in town that week and picked you up from school that day. Your teacher told me that you had been so interested in that broken arm, and explained to the girl exactly how they had snapped, and how they would fuse back together. It made the poor girl panic, of course, and she bawled until the ambulance arrived.” She laughed faintly. “Even then you were such a little scientist.”

Maura smiled, unfamiliar with this side of her mother. “Clearly not the best caretaker,” she replied.

Constance shrugged. “Well, I don't think I gave you any help with learning those skills, now, did I?” she said, her tone flat. She cleared her throat, and took a small sip of water from the plastic cup sitting on the table beside her chair. “I spoke with Hope,” she said, her voice quiet.

Maura felt her stomach drop at the words, suddenly weighing her down, and she sat slumped onto the edge of the hospital bed, facing her mother. “I would imagine she wants to make sure you're okay. Does she know about Patrick?” she asked, unable to utter the one question that she had rehearsed in her mind on the way to the hospital.

Constance nodded. “I told her everything.” Her eyes met Maura's. “Everything.”

The question was on the tip of her tongue, but once again, her brain was unable to process it into a syntactic structure that made any sense, and all she could do was nod.

Constance waited expectantly, as if she knew what Maura was afraid to ask, but when the question didn't come, she continued. “Maura, she wants to see you.”

She sat quietly, her heart rate increasing to the point where she thought her mother could see it pulsate underneath her blouse. “After all these years, she wants to see me?” she asked. “After the secret's out?”

“I can't speak for her,” Constance said, her hands fidgeting nervously in her lap. “There's absolutely no pressure, darling, you know that. She knows that. I told her that it was completely and utterly your decision.”

“Do you want me to meet her?” she asked, quietly. Now that she had the choice, she was afraid of it.

“Sweetheart, I want you to feel whole. If this helps you feel whole, then that is what needs to happen.”

“Do I look like her?” Maura asked, her eyes finally connecting with her mother's. All her life, she had heard strangers tell her that she looked so much like her mother, and she had always taken some pride in that, not wanting to break the spell by telling those strangers that she was adopted. That there was no biological reason that her and her adopted mother should look like. Now, of course, she saw those comments in a whole new  light.

Constance smiled, her eyes flittering over her. “Oh, Maura. You look exactly like her. The same eyes, the same nose. Just like her.” She exhaled shakily, and placed her fingers on a piece of paper lying near her cup, sliding it toward Maura. “Here is her phone number. You can call her, or you can rip the piece of paper to shreds. It's up to you.”

“Is she coming to see you?” Maura asked. Shouldn't she? What kind of a family let their own lie in a hospital bed for a week? How could she cut them all off so easily?

Constance's eyes welled, and she looked away briefly. “Yes, she is.”

“How long has it been since you've seen her?”

“I haven't seen her since you were born,” she said, her chest hitching, but she managed to reign in the threatening sob. “Maura, you have to understand, she was out of our lives. For your protection and for hers.”

“What about your Grandfather?” she asked. “Did he know?”

“My father had disowned Hope the minute she got engaged to Patrick. Hope was passionate, driven, sometimes to the point of recklessness. I don't think she ever spoke to him again.”

Maura felt her throat tighten. A criminal for a father, and a reckless, selfish mother. Even accounting for nature versus nurture, she didn't seem to have very good prospects. “Why did you adopt me?” she asked suddenly. She had always wondered, but even as a child, she had never asked the question. For so long, she had been afraid of the answer, but she was beginning to see Constance and Phillip Isles differently.

Her mother reached out a hand, placing it on her knee, a gesture entirely motherly, and one that inexplicably felt very natural. “Because Hope and Patrick loved you so much,” she said. “And we saw that love in their eyes, and the minute you were born, we felt it, too. It was more than duty, Maura.”

Maura reached for the slip of paper, if only to have something to do with her hands. “I'm sorry about yesterday,” she said, guilt building inside her. “I shouldn't have been angry with you.”

Constance squeezed her knee. “Maura, I was angry at Hope for years. It took me a long time to return her letters, to let her in on any part of our lives. The same with Patrick. And, I think your father is still angry with both of them, even now. I can understand your anger, believe me. And there's nothing wrong with it.”

“Jane said this was straight out of the Sopranos.” She had no idea why the thought popped back into her brain, especially seeing as she had no familiarity whatsoever with the show itself. Judging by her mother's blank nod, she suspected Constance had never seen it, either.

“That is... a mafia show, I believe?” she asked, leaning back in her chair. “Maybe we can watch it as a family, while we're here,” she said, pointing at the television that hung in the corner of the room. A smile twitched at the corner of her lips, and Maura let a laugh drift up her throat. The sound was foreign in the dullness of the hospital room, but it felt freeing, and their girlish giggles fed off each other for a few moments, until Constance leaned back in her chair, clutching her abdomen. It may have been joviality bred from abnormality and sheer desperation, but nonetheless, it gave Maura some semblance of hope.

- - -

Jane walked briskly down the hallway toward Maura's office, an exasperated scowl on her face. She had prepared an entire picnic basket, and had endured several snide and questioning remarks from Frost and Korsak, all which she had successfully avoided, only to discover that the sky had recently fallen out over Boston. It was pouring rain.

“So, I'm not a meteorologist,” she said, walking into Maura's office with an umbrella in one hand and the picnic basket. “It's pouring out.”

“Ah,” Maura replied, spindling in her chair. “I didn't realize. That's one of the problems with working in a cave. I never can tell the weather.”

“Well, you up for a picnic in a cave, then?” Jane asked.

“Of course,” Maura said, gesturing towards the couch and chairs in the center of her office. “My cave even has furniture.”

“Uh-uh,” Jane replied, shaking her head and moving the small coffee table in the center of the room out of the way. “The floor is more comfortable than the furniture you've got in here.” She spread a small blanket over the rug on the floor, and sat down.

“That chair is state-of-the-art.”

“No matter how many times you tell me that, Maura, it doesn't change the fact that the person who designed it doesn't know a thing about how to please a tush.” She glanced out the glass window that lined one wall of Maura's office. “You don't have any appointments, or visitors today, do you? Anyone who might think it odd that the Chief Medical Examiner is having an Alice-in-Wonderland style picnic in her office?”

Maura followed her gaze. “It's the morgue, Jane. I get very few visitors. And the ones I do get, don't tend to exercise much judgment.”

Jane shrugged, setting the basket down beside her. She looked up at Maura, who was glancing down at her with a smile. “What?” she asked, opening the basket.

“Look at you, so femme, with your picnic basket and your blanket,” Maura teased, dropping daintily to her knees.

Jane rolled her eyes. “Keep up the teasing, and you can go eat with Korsak and Frost,” she said, but smiled anyway, unpacking the plastic containers that held whatever the clerk at Whole Foods had recommended.

“Wow, Jane, so healthy,” Maura said appreciatively, as she examined a quinoa and black bean salad. “I'm impressed.”

“Well, I can be impressive,” Jane said with an exaggerated toss of her hair. She settled onto the blanket, stretching her legs out in front of her. “So, spill. How'd it go this morning?”

“You mean my mucosal residue webinar?” she asked, unable to keep the hint of a smile from her lips.

Jane set down the container of carrot salad that she was holding. “Well, judging by your jovial mood,” she said, leaning back on her hands. “I'm guessing it went quite well.” She cringed. “Or, as well as it could go, I guess?”

Maura spooned out several portions of various salads on each of their plates, and it began to resemble an artist's palette more than a plate. “I apologized to my mother for the way I blew up yesterday.”

“That's good. Although, you weren't to blame for whatever happened yesterday.”

Maura shrugged, her guilt still plainly etched in her face. For someone so well versed in the academic world, Jane was constantly surprised by how much the medical examiner questioned her emotional intelligence. “My mother was different today,” she said. “I don't know what it was, but she seemed softer. I haven't seen her open up like that... well, ever.”

Jane smiled, picking up her artist's palette and taking a bite of something bitter. “That's good, Maura. Did she tell you more about Hope? Or did the healing not progress that far yet?”

“No, we talked about her. She gave me her phone number.”

Jane raised her eyebrows. “Whoa. That's huge.”

“She's coming to Boston.”

This time her mouth dropped. “Whoa. That's huger.”

Maura sighed. “Yeah. I mean, it make sense. Her sister was practically killed more than a week ago. You'd think she would come out of her new life for that.”

“Well, yes,” Jane said, catching the anger buzzing just beneath Maura's voice. She may have corrected any misplaced anger towards Constance and Phillip, but it looked as if she'd now just directed it toward Hope. “But, there's just a good a chance that she's coming to meet you, too, right?”

Maura didn't answer, and instead took a long sip from a bottle of water. “I guess so.”

“You haven't had the urge to Google her yet?” Jane asked. “As curious as that big brain of yours is?”

Uncertainty twitched across Maura's jaw. “I don't know,” she replied. “Sometimes I wonder what she looks like.” Her finger traced a pattern along the blanket. “If we have the same bone structure. The same high arches in our feet.” Her eyes faded, losing their usually clear luster. “But, she has a life, Jane. She's gone this long without making contact, maybe it's just best to leave it this way.” Her eyes glistened. “Do I really want to know the details of her perfect life?”

“Maura, I know you. You won't stop thinking about something until you know the answer. You really think passing up this opportunity is the right way to go about this? You've been searching for her for years.”

“I know.”

“I mean, sure, if you're not ready, you can try again in the future, but why waste any more time?”

“I know.” She still looked uncertain, and Jane leaned closer to her.

“Then what's the problem?”

Maura shrugged. “I'm just scared. Irrationally, uncontrollably scared of meeting her.”

“That's fine,” Jane said, putting a hand on her knee. “And completely understandable. But, Maur, don't ever let fear be your reason for not doing something.”

Maura traced her fingers, nodding. “How do you know all of these things?” she asked. “All of these right things to say at the right time?” She looked at her curiously. “You have such an over-developed left amygdala.”

Jane raised her eyebrows. “That started as a compliment, I think... and then I lost it.”

Maura smiled. “You also have a well developed left superior frontal gyrus. Sense of humor.”

Jane raised an eyebrow. “Ah, I would not have connected my 'frontal gyrus' to my sense of humor, that's for sure.” Content that she was finally pulling a few laughs from Maura, she kept the conversation light, and by the time she had stuffed herself with things too healthy to name, they were both leaning against the couch staring out at the few leftovers of their meal.

“Duty calls,” Jane said, clapping her hand against Maura's bare knee. She didn't move it right away, and Maura's hand eventually found its way on top of it.

“Thank you for our picnic,” she said with a smile. “But I'll still take a rain check from you on a lunch in the park, once the weather's right again.”

“You got it,” Jane said, rising to her feet. Maura gathered their near-empty containers and headed toward the trashcan, but Jane bolted forward, gripping her arm. “Whoa, whoa,” she said. “Don't throw that away.”

Maura glanced down at her hands. “Jane, there's barely anything in here.”

“That may be true, but there's at least five dollars left in each of those little thingies. Give them to me.”

Maura laughed as she handed them over, watching as Jane placed them protectively back in the picnic basket. “Fine. I'm sure Korsak will devour them.”

Jane nodded as she balled up the blanket, beginning to stuff it back in the basket. This time, it was Maura who lurched forward, taking it from her. “Oh my God, give me that,” she said, shaking it out before folding it neatly into a small square. She handed it over, and her eyes looked imploringly at Jane. “What?”

“You're so neat.”

“Is that an adjective referring to my general character or a particular preference for orderliness?” Maura asked, the sincerity of her question prompting an even larger smile from Jane. She meant to answer the question with a practiced quip, but instead she blurted out something unexpected, and she hoped, not misplaced.

“Maura, will you go to dinner with me?” Her face flushed instantly, although it was a question she had asked many times before. Happy hours, brunches, dinners, the works. But this was different, and she could tell by Maura's suddenly serious face that the blonde caught the difference as well.

“I can't really play hard to get after last night, can I?” she asked with an embarrassed smile. “Of course I'll go to dinner with you.”

Just to make sure, Jane clarified. “I mean, Maura, like a date. I want to go on a date. With you.”

“Jane, I'm not in boarding school anymore. I get it. And the answer is still yes.”

“You're sure this isn't too much? Is this too weird?”

“Jane, I used to go home every night wishing that you were coming home with me. So, no, for me it isn't weird. And it isn't moving too fast. And the timing isn't wrong. You can switch off that heightened emotional intelligence,” she said with a smile. “How is tomorrow night for you?”

“Perfect,” Jane replied, a weight easing off her chest. “I'll make a reservation at a place with a foreign-sounding name.”

“Okay,” Maura said with a nod of her head. “Any maybe wear that black dress? You know, the one you wore to your reunion?” She cocked her head, slightly guiltily. “Now it's getting weird, isn't it?”

“Yeah,” Jane replied quickly. With a glance towards Maura's office window, she leaned over and placed a quick kiss on the shorter woman's forehead. “Call me if you need me tonight,” she offered.

“Thank you,” Maura responded. “But, I think Jo Friday has earned a night with you.”

“She'll be thrilled,” Jane replied loftily, heading towards the door. “Oh,” she said, raising a finger in the air, and taking a couple of steps back toward Maura. “Before I forget. My mother saw us kissing this morning.”

She expected Maura's jaw to drop, but instead the blonde nodded distractedly as she fumbled in the pocket of her blazer. “Great,” she said, with a wave of her hand.

That was certainly not the reaction Jane had expected, and she leaned forward a little, twitching her eyebrow. “Great?” she repeated.

Maura's head suddenly shot up at her, the delayed reaction now over, judging by the alarm in her eyes. “Wait, what?” she asked, her voice a pitch higher than normal. “She saw what?”

“She saw us.”

“She saw that.”

“Yes. She saw us doing that.”

“Oh no, Jane, half the precinct is going to know by now,” Maura said worriedly. “At least Frankie and Korsak and Frost. And Hank, that weird patrolmen that flirts with her at the coffee shop.”

Jane scrunched her face, slightly offended. “Hey, slow your roll, Marma Duke. My Ma isn't a gossip, okay? What happens in the Rizzoli household, stays in the Rizzoli household.”

“Jane, she blurted out she was divorcing your father at your medal ceremony,” Maura reminded her, placing a hand on her hip.

She couldn't argue with that. Instead, she frowned, clearing her throat. “I'm going to go muzzle my mother,” she said quickly, pecking an apologetic kiss on Maura's cheek, and walking briskly out down the hallway.

“Okay,” Maura said, but Jane heard her call after her. “But don't be mean about it!”

- - -

Maura's productivity had gone out the window as soon as Jane arrived in her office, and unfortunately hadn't returned since she left. She sat, fidgeting, ignoring the scrap of paper burning away in her blazer pocket. She wondered whether Hope – or Emily – was thinking about her. She looked around her office, taking note of everything in it, and wondered what Emily's office looked like. Whether they had the same taste. But no, wasn't that a product of nurture?

As strange and as heartless as it sounded, she wished she had some lab work to do. Something, anything to dissect or test. She thought about making a visit up to Jane's floor, but didn't feel like facing Frost and Korsak, or any of the other sympathetic gazes she was sure to get from the rest of the detectives. Her connection to Doyle had been kept as quiet as possible, but rumors around a precinct spread fast. After a few measly attempts at paperwork, she pulled out the phone number, staring down at Constance's delicate handwriting.

She knew the value of time in a way that she never had before, after Doyle's death. The thought of wasting anymore of it, when she had what she needed right in front of her, was cloying to the point of making her nauseas. Before she knew it, her hands were on her phone. Then it was at her ear, and she heard a voice, deeper than she expected, but still feminine, as if it were coated in honey: “This is Dr. Lawrence.”

Chapter Six

The expectant pause at the end of the phone line was daunting, causing Maura's throat to constrict around her words, making her voice sound weaker than she would have liked. “I – this is Maura Isles,” she said, inwardly cringing at the formality of her introduction.

Continued silence, and Maura thought the line had gone dead, until she heard a slight intake of breath and a slow repetition of her name. “Maura. Constance said you might call.” Another pause. “I'd hoped you would.”

The admission didn't set her at ease, but instead prompted her heart to beat faster. “I hope I'm not disturbing you.” How was this supposed to work, exactly? She had no idea what the protocol for speaking with one's biological mother was supposed to be, and she wished she'd at least done a cursory Google search. The queen of scientific input, and she hadn't elicited any instruction whatsoever.

“No, no, of course not,” Hope said. “I wasn't sure if you would use my number or not. Or if Constance would even pass it along to you. Tell me, doctor to doctor, how is she doing?”

Maura slipped easily into role, thankful for some direction on where to lead the conversation. “She had some swelling in the temporal lobe, which caused a spontaneous thrombus a couple of days ago. It was caught, and the swelling's been going down ever since. That was the major worry, aside from fractures to the fourth and fifth costa verae and a fractured tibia.”

“She was lucky,” Hope replied, clearly untroubled by the jargon.

Guilt edged Maura's stomach, and she felt the familiar nausea that accompanied thoughts of the accident. The car that was meant for her, and that split second when her mother had put her life before her own. “She saved my life,” she said quietly. It wasn't meant vindictively, but Hope paused, the silence lingering for a moment before she finally spoke again. 

“I think we have quite a bit to talk about,” she said.

“Yes,” Maura agreed. “Mom said that - “ she reddened as the semantics of this new process confused her - “she said that you were coming to Boston.”

“I'm getting on a plane tomorrow. I would have been on one sooner, but - “ she stopped, and then changed course. “ As you're finding out, I'm sure, things are quite complicated.”

It was an understatement, but one that Maura forgave easily. In the back of her mind, she caught a twinge of impatience, just the slightest tick, but pushed it away, wanting instead to focus on Hope's visit. The name struck a match in her, and she blurted out a question. “Should I call you Emily?”

It was a nonsequitor, certainly, but the woman on the other end of the line didn't seem bothered by it. “That's who I am,” she said, her voice taking an edge.

“I'm sorry,” Maura muttered, her lunch threatening to reverse its course.

Hope's – Emily's – voice cut over her quickly, its edge gone, replaced by a softer, more apologetic tone. “No, I'm sorry,” she offered. “I'm going off course here, Maura, you'll have to forgive me. All the reading I've done on this has suddenly gone out the window. I do believe I'm supposed to wait for the child to make the request or the invitation to the biological parent, if I remember correctly. But if it is all right with you, I would very much like to see you.”

All the times she had imagined meeting her birth parents, she had never let herself toy with the fantasy that they would want to meet her. After the sealed records, the lengths gone to in order to keep their identities secret, she assumed that they never wanted to know anything about her, much less meet her. If anything, she was simply a mistake to be forgotten.

“I hope I haven't made you uncomfortable,” Hope continued, covering the silence.

“No,” she said quickly. “No, no. I – I – we could have dinner. When it's convenient for you,” she added. Did she hear Emily give a sigh of relief, or had she just imagined it?

“That sounds wonderful, Maura. I get in tomorrow, and want to spend some time with your parents. How about dinner Wednesday evening, just the two of us?”

“Okay,” Maura replied, reaching for the calendar that always sat on her desk, letting her finger circle the day, etching an imaginary line around it. “Dinner it is.”

“Don't go to any great lengths,” she said. “I'm not as picky as Constance.” She gave a quick laugh, but it startled Maura, and when she didn't join in, the sound faded quickly. “I'm sorry.” Another sigh, and Maura wished she had a visual of the woman, something to match to the voice. Did Emily have a visual of her? Did she keep photos of her, like Doyle had all these years? Did the two of them ever talk again? And were these really questions one asked over dinner?

“How about Italian?” she asked instead.

“Yes,” Emily said, the relief in her voice making it clear she was grateful for a change in subject. “How about I give you a call on Wednesday? We can talk the finer details.”

“That's sounds good.” Were they really about to end the conversation? She felt it had just begun, and she'd failed some test of character, the first hurdle in making her sound remotely interesting.

“And Maura?”

“Yes?”

“Nothing is off the table. You can ask me anything. I promise you the truth.”

“Okay,” she said, then, feeling as if her response was less than adequate, added, “Thank you.”

“Wednesday it is, then.”

“Wednesday.”

After a too formal goodbye, Maura sat silently for a moment, her fingers hovering over her computer keyboard. Her mother had left behind her old life, shedding the skin of Hope Dixon and forging a new identity. And their brief conversation had ignited a huge desire in her to know more. She turned her attention toward her screen, typing in the name that she had refused to research until now: Emily Lawrence, MD.

- - -

As Jane walked into the precinct, having thankfully abandoned her picnic basket with her mother, she caught Frankie sitting casually in her chair, his ankles crossed on the top of her desk. She rolled her eyes, and pointed a finger at him. “You and me,” she said. “Let's take a walk.”

She ignored the looks from Frost and Korsak, who glanced curiously at them, but didn't seem to be in an hurry to meddle with any form of sibling discontent. Frankie grinned, casually waving goodbye at the two of them as he followed his sister into the elevator. As soon as the doors closed, she turned him, crossing her arms over her chest. “Don't give me that innocent grin,” she chastised. “I know you know.”

“Know what?” he asked innocently, but she could see right through the glint mischievous glint in his eye.

“I know Ma told you about Maura and me,” she said. “And don't try to deny it, because I just confronted her about it. Cat's out of the bag.”

“Yep,” he echoed. “Pussy's out of the bag.”

She pursed her lips and punched him hard in the shoulder, eliciting a pained grunt from him, which satisfied her only a little. And her Ma wondered why her brothers were both still single. Subtlety didn't run in the Rizzoli blood, and apparently neither did manners. “Just keep it to yourself for now,” she said.

“Why?”

Was he stupid or merely trying to irritate her? She turned fully to look at him, her hands on her hips. “Because I don't want everyone in the precinct to know that I'm a lesbian,” she said loudly, and as the doors dinged open, her voice carried fully out into the hallway. Sighing as she and Frankie stepped out of the elevator, she nodded reluctantly at the officers that were waiting to get on.

“Don't worry, Rizzoli, we knew that ship sailed a long time ago,” one said with a quick grin, slapping her on the shoulder.

“Great,” she said, but her sarcasm was lost as the doors closed, leaving Frankie to grin at her in the hallway.

“Come on, Janey, it's 2012. Even cops don't give a shit if you're gay these days.” He shrugged. “If you're a lesbian, that is,” he said.

“Yeah, I bet they don't,” she muttered. “Meanwhile, if you were gay, imagine the shit you would get.”

He shrugged as they walked out onto the steps of the precinct, the sky overcast, but still blindingly bright. “Yeah, whatever. It's BPD, what do you expect? You want to start leading the diversity and sensitivity trainings from now on?” he asked with a chuckle.

She laughed, shaking her head. “No, that's for damn sure.”

They both took a seat, Frankie stretching his legs out along the stairs, and Jane clasping her hands around her knees. “I just don't want it getting out. We work together. I'm sure there's a clause or something that says that's against city rules.”

Frankie shook his head. “Nope. You can't date someone on the force, but anyone else in city government is fair game.”

Jane cocked an eyebrow at him. “Someone's been reading his manual.”

He laughed. “I had a crush on that court clerk, you know, the one with the bangs? So I did some research.”

Jane nodded. “Oh, yeah. I know that one.” She noticed Frankie looking up at her with an expectant look on his face. “What?” she asked.

“You drag me all the way out here, and you don't give me any details? How long has this been going on?” He stared up at her with a pair of curious eyes.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” she said, putting her hand out. “Nothing has been going on for any amount of time at all.”

“That's not true,” he said.

“What, you know better than me, Frankie, about my own love life?” she asked, pointing at him. “What, you and Ma both now?”

Being compared to their mother never went over well, and he gave her a warning look. “No, but there was always something about you and Maura. I couldn't put my finger on it, but it was always there. I've seen the way she looks at you. Like you're the best thing since sliced bread.”

Jane felt a familiar, exciting churn in her stomach, one she hadn't felt since a particularly short-lived affair right after she got out of the academy. Still, she attempted to play it cool. After all, she was talking to her younger brother. “Maura looks at everyone like that. If you're a living, breathing specimen, she's pretty much amazed by you.”

He laughed. “Maybe. But you look at her the same way. And you're not impressed with anyone.”

“You got that right,” she said with a laugh. “Hey, you want to watch the game tonight?”

He shook his head. “No can do. I got a date.”

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “A date?”

“You're not the only Rizzoli with a love life, Jane.”

“Is it the clerk with the bangs?”

He stood, stuffing his hands in his pockets and giving her a grin. “I'm really happy for you and Maura,” he said with a nod.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jane replied with a wave of her hand. “Is it the clerk with the bangs?”

“No, really,” Frankie continued, ignoring the question. “With you and Maura finally going forward, it's exciting. It really demonstrates the possibility of true love.”

“Frankie. Girl. Bangs.”

He turned, pulling his cap over his eyes. “And it also provides quite a distraction for Ma. Which means, she's off my back and out of my business.” He leaned over and tousled her hair, and she grimaced. “Thanks, Janey.” He turned, heading back into the building with a wide smirk, leaving Jane's question unacknowledged.

“Like you could get the girl with the bangs, anyway!” she called after him. She continued to sit for a moment, enjoying the quiet, until a sudden rumble of thunder raised her to her feet, forcing her back to work.

- - -

The hardwood floor was cool under Maura's stomach, quickly conducting out the heat from her body, but the wine was quickly taking care of the slight chill. Propping her chin on one hand, she stared eye level at Bass, who was gazing unblinkingly towards her with his usual detachment. She plucked a strawberry from its plastic container and set it in front of him, but he made no move for it. A tortoise was the perfect pet, really, but there were times when she wished for the mindless excitement of a dog, or even the slight judgment of a cat.

She nibbled on her own strawberry. “Come on, Bass, don’t be picky,” she said.

He finally inched his head further out of his shell and snapped up the fruit. He had been avoiding his favorite snack for the better part of a week, and his eagerness put her somewhat at ease. Her day had been a dearth of productivity after that phone call, and she had spent most of it learning what little she could about her Hope Dixon’s new life in San Diego.

The woman’s medical history had certainly put her to shame. She graduated from medical school with top honors, practicing as an OB-GYN in one of the city’s top hospitals before opening a now thriving practice of her own. There were local articles detailing her community service for underserved women, a few detailing lectures at medical association conferences. Dr. Emily Lawrence was intent on giving and preserving life. Her biological daughter, however, had made a life out of dissecting the dead.

Her phone buzzed next to her, and she quickly picked it up, grateful for the distraction. “Hey,” she said, popping another strawberry into her mouth. Bass didn’t seemed unperturbed by her consistent filching of his own gourmet snack.

“Hey,” Jane said, her voice even huskier over the phone. “You’d already left by the time Frost and I made it back to the precinct. Frank didn’t even see you leave.”

She hadn’t told her head tech that she was leaving, but he’d given her a wide berth over the past few weeks, handling most of the technical analysis on his own. He was helpful, but her lack of focus on work was starting to grate on her. “I am his boss, don’t forget,” she replied needlessly, only a hint of defensiveness in her voice.

Jane didn’t seem to notice. “Did you go by the hospital again?”

Maura slid another strawberry over to Bass. “No, I came home,” she replied. Her initial excitement over her dinner with Emily had quickly edged into guilt as she thought about her mother. Her parents had kept her biological mother from her for years, and she didn't imagine that it was easy letting her get in touch with her.

“What are you doing?”

Since the option of lying was out for her, even over the phone, she sighed and simply told the truth. “I’m lying on the floor staring at Bass.”

“Well, that sounds riveting,” Jane gushed, the phone no barrier against her sarcasm. “What is that, like the equivalent of playing catch for a tortoise?”

Maura cracked a smile. “He seems to be enjoying it. What are you doing?”

“I’m lying on the couch staring at Jo Friday.” She laughed. “Does this make us pathetic?”

“Not if it occurs as an isolated incident,” Maura returned, but had trouble talking through her own laugh.

“Good. Listen, Maur, I have a confession to make.”

Maura’s ears perked up as she glanced at Bass, cocking her head at him. He seemed wholly unconcerned. “What?”

“Okay, so I didn’t run Emily Lawrence’s name through any official database,” she said. “But I Googled the crap out of her this afternoon. But only after Korsak and Frost convinced me that it was the right thing to do.”

The revelation made her laugh, recalling her own intense search that afternoon, and she hoped that Emily Lawrence didn’t have an analytics program connected to her name. “I did, too,” she offered. “She certainly seems quite successful.” It was an understatement, to say the least. Hope Dixon had managed to salvage a new life out of nothing, which had to require much more than just brains.

“I guess,” Jane said, and Maura pictured her shrugging. “In a Mother Teresa kind of way.”

Maura couldn’t read her tone, and she wished Jane were sitting in front of her rather than back at her own apartment. Verbal cues weren’t her strong point. “I called her,” she said, fidgeting with the green, leafy stem of a strawberry.

Jane paused, and Maura could imagine her propping up on one elbow, pressing the phone to harder to her ear as she furrowed an eyebrow. “Whoa,” she breathed, breaking her silence. “What was she like?”

For a second, her cognitive recall failed her, and she wished she had jotted down some notes. “Polite,” she said, the description weak, and she felt ridiculous for having nothing more to offer. “She said she hoped I would call.”

“Good,” Jane replied, her voice easy, but somehow formal, as if not wanting to probe too hard. “So, the million dollar question: are you going to meet her?”

“She’s coming in to town this week – for my mother – “ she qualified, unwilling to give thought to the possibility that her mother may have scheduled such a trip in order to meet the biological daughter that she hadn’t reached out to in over thirty-five years. “ We – we said we would get dinner on Wednesday.”

“That’s good, right?” Jane asked. Clearly, her own tone was just as hard to read over the phone.

“Yeah,” she said softly, reaching out and giving Bass a pat on the head after he finally snatched up the last strawberry. “It’s something, anyway, right? I’m not going to get my hopes up. There is no need to harbor any unrealistic expectations about her visit.”

“Spoken like a true psychologist,” Jane said, a smile in her voice. “But, I think you’re right, Maura. In fact, I’d advise you to have no expectations at all. You’ll just make yourself crazy.”

“Right,” Maura confirmed. “I’m merely testing a biological hypothesis. Satisfying a natural curiosity to confirm the genomic structure of my origin.”

 “All right, there, Dr. Phil,” Jane said, cutting her off. “I think you get the gist of it. But, don’t be too hard on yourself for getting excited. You can let that big brain of yours acknowledge that this is a kind of a big deal. That’s okay, too.”

“Yeah,” Maura replied.

“Now the question is, does Dr. Emily Lawrence require as much planning and aforethought as a visit from Constance Isles?” Jane asked. “Are you freaking out over what to make for dinner yet? Am I going to make an emergency run to Monfrare Ja Blah or something?”

Maura shook her head. “I’m not making dinner,” she said, glancing around her home from what she could see from her vantage point on the floor. “I think it will be easier to meet her out.” Too much of her home defined who she was, and she wasn't sure she was ready to share all of that with Emily. Not yet.

“I get it,” Jane replied. “Having her in your home is… too close to home.”

“And what if she thinks Bass is weird?”

“No offense, Maura, but having a forty-pound African tortoise in your house is a little weird. By San Diego standards, that is.”

Maura chuckled. “Bass says hi, by the way.”

“Hi Bass,” Jane offered, casually, before her tone softened. “Not that I can compete with Dinner with Your Biological Mother,” she said, pausing for a moment. “But I did make reservations for the two of us tomorrow night at a place in Cambridge.”

“Oh, where?” Maura asked, glad to focus on something that made her stomach flutter in a good way, for once. Spending time with Jane was easy, but this dinner was different, and the pleasurable flutter in her stomach soon drifted below her pelvis.

“Uh uh,” Jane replied. “No details. I don’t need you scouring the menu or analyzing their latest health scores. I’ve done the research, and it’s a perfectly acceptable place. You’ll like it. Trust me. Just be ready at 7:30.”

“Jane, I need to know the place so that I know what to wear,” she said, the normality of their banter comfortably familiar. Why was everything so easy to forget when it came to Jane?

“Maura, you wear couture to the morgue. I think you’ll be fine.”

“Fine,” she said, giving up with a light chuckle. “I just – “ she was interrupted by the chime of her doorbell, and she glanced behind her towards the door. “ Hang on,” she said, rising to her feet. “Someone’s at the door.” She kept the phone pressed against her ear, walking tentatively towards the front door. Rarely did she get late visitors, unless it was Angela looking to watch an episode of Bill O’Reilly. The visitor on her stoop, however, made her gasp.

“Maur, who is it?” Jane asked, and Maura could hear the protectiveness in her voice.

“It’s my father,” she said slowly. “I have to go.”

“Maur, if there’s anything wrong – “

“Of course,” she said, automatically. “I’ll call you. Bye Jane,” she whispered, a panic fanning into her chest as she opened the door. Her mother had been fine when she left that morning, but a myriad of potential complications was suddenly flooding her mind. “What’s wrong?” she asked, her body stiffening. “What happened?”

Her father’s eyes stared blankly before his face morphed into an apologetic countenance. “Nothing’s wrong,” he said quickly, his brow furrowing foolishly. “Your mother is fine.” He held up a brown paper bag. “I got her dinner from her favorite Parisian restaurant, and thought I would drop something by for you.”

The air rushed back into Maura's lungs as she breathed an extended sigh, and she motioned him inside. He stepped over the threshold, his shoulders hunched, as if he were bigger than the place itself. When was the last time he had visited her house? Whenever he did sweep into Boston, which was extremely rare, she mostly met him and her mother for a dinner at the very restaurant that he had just mentioned.

He laid the bag tentatively on the kitchen counter, glancing down at Bass with an amused spread of his lips. “I see your tortoise is looking fit.”

“It’s the strawberries,” she said, a lame attempt at humor as she stooped to pick the container and her wine glass off the floor. “Can I pour you a glass?” she asked. Manners were not only automatic in the Isles household, but they were a good way to avoid actual conversation as well.

“Sure,” he said, an answer that she hadn't expected. Truthfully, she had thought he would offer the food and be on his way. But instead he pulled out a chair and sat, slipping two containers out of the bag. “I wasn’t sure what you liked,” he said. “I couldn’t remember which dish you used to get, and the menu has changed. Not for the better, as you mother says.”

“How is Mom?” she asked. “Dr. Carter said they were keeping an eye on her red blood cells to prevent any additional thrombosis, but that she might be able to go home within a few days.”

“Well, I’m not certain about the cells,” he said, tentatively. He was never patient with her when it came to medical jargon. “But she’ll be home this weekend.”

“That’s great news,” she said, setting a couple of plates in front of him. She poured him a glass of wine, taking extra care in topping her own glass off before sitting down next to him. “Thank you for bringing the dinner,” she said politely.

“We both have to eat,” he said, keeping his eyes on his food. “Your mother said you stopped by this morning.”

She nodded, taking a bite of potato, which was much hotter than she'd expected. “I did. I actually wanted to apologize,” she began, but her father spoke over her.

“An apology isn't necessary.” He glanced at her. “You did nothing wrong. It was a tough situation for all of us yesterday.” He chewed thoughtfully for a moment, and Maura returned her attention to her own food, unwilling to offer anything else. “I know Hope is coming,” her father said. “And I’ve heard you’ll be having dinner with her.”

Maura balked, surprised. She hadn't expected word to travel so fast in such an estranged family. “It’s just for my own peace of mind,” she said. “That's all.”

“Maura, I know you’re an adult,” he said, then chuckled. “You’ve been an adult since you were five.” He took a sip of his wine, vetting his words before he spoke. “But I’m still your father, and I feel it’s my duty to tell you that… “ He exhaled, setting his wine glass back onto the counter with a light clink. “ I don’t want to see you get hurt,” he said, the last words sifting out quickly, as if he were ripping a bandage off his tongue.

“Why would I get hurt?” she asked. “I don’t expect anything. From anyone,” she added.

He looked at her, and suddenly his eyes were rapt with a concentrated attention that he reserved for solely for discussing the finer points of anthropology. “Maura,” he said with a sad smile. “It’s not expectations that ruin you. It’s hope.” He drank the rest of his wine down quickly. Her parents savored wine, they didn’t drink it. “Finish your dinner,” he said, turning his attention back to his plate.

After a few quiet moments, the sounds of their clanking silverware filling the silence, he got up, refilling his wine glass, and his attention grazed over her living room. His eye caught something, and he squinted, walking towards it. She knew without turning around what he had found, and waited for his voice. “I didn’t know you kept these,” he said.

She turned in her seat, looking over at a framed series of fossils that he had given her before she had left for boarding school. At the time she had thought they were hideous, a fragmentary find from an unimportant dig, but over time she had come to love the contours of them, and the artful way the lines intersected, reminiscent of a life far outlived, but still remembered. She’d had them framed after college. “They’re one of my favorite pieces,” she said.

“I remember that dig,” he said. “Everything had gone wrong. Transportation, our guide, the weather. It was only on the last day that I found those. Granted, the college wanted nothing to do with them, but I had such a joy at coming across them. Finally, something had gone right. Something had finally gone right,” he repeated, his smiling fading away.

He walked back to her, placing a hand on the back of her head and pecking a quick kiss on the crown of her head, a foreign gesture, but she leaned into it. Wordlessly, he sat back down to his dinner. “I read recently,” he said, his voice a bit raw in his throat, “that medicolegal investigations are becoming quite the trend in developing nations. Have any desire to practice in Tanzania?”

She glanced at him, offering a quick smile before shaking her head. “I’m quite happy here,” she said.

“And quite successful,” he said, taking a bite of pasta.

She shrugged, her face reddening. “They call me ‘Queen of the Dead’.” She had no idea why she had shared that more than embarrassing piece of knowledge with the one man that she had spent her whole life trying to impress, but nonetheless, it was out there.

“Ah,” he said. “Not many people can call themselves royalty.” He smiled, faintly. “My colleagues merely call me a ‘Barterer of Bones.’” He raised his glass towards her, and she met his gesture with her own. “You win,” he said with a smile.

- - -

Chapter Seven

Jane hadn't spent this much time in front of a mirror since her recovery from her bullet wound, when she'd spent the majority of her month at home examining the scar on her stomach. Tonight, however, she had redone her makeup twice, and even attempted to pin her hair up with a dainty looking hair clip she'd found strewn in a drawer. She'd only abandoned the idea after realizing that the silver piece of decoupage was Maura's. In the end, she let her hair fall over her shoulders and stuck the clip in her purse.

With one final look in the mirror, she decided she couldn't do much better than the new emerald green dress she had bought, and she exhaled slowly, blowing a rogue strand of hair out of her eyes. Her nerves surprised her. After all, it was just Maura, the same socially awkward medical examiner she’d shared a meal with on many occasions. Tonight, however, was a far cry from their usual digs at The Dirty Robber.

She glanced at her watch, unsurprised that she was already running late. Caring what the other person thought actually took time and effort. When was the last time she'd spent more than fifteen minutes getting ready for a date? With a salute at Jo Friday, she was out the door as fast as her heels would let her go, speeding toward Maura's house, thankful once again that her badge insulated her from the traffic laws she was violating.

Walking up to Maura's front door, rather than the back, and actually ringing the bell, rather than simply barging inside, felt awkwardly formal, but she smoothed out her dress and took a step back, waiting patiently. If the butterflies in her stomach had just come alive back at her apartment, they turned into a full-fledged swarm when Maura swung open the door. The blonde had on a dress that Jane hadn't seen before, but that didn't mean much, judging by the cavernous size of her closet. Whether it was new or old, it fit her like a glove.

Maura seemed just as impressed by Jane's own attire, and she gushed approvingly. “Whoa,” she said, clearly surprised. “That's a beautiful dress, Jane.”

Luckily, the darkening sky hid the appreciative flush that Jane was sure was creeping into her cheeks. “Thanks,” she said, in a tone that she hoped was casual.

“No, really,” Maura said, reaching out and fingering the fabric along Jane's waist. “Is this a Kors? The stitching is very Kors.” Her hand continued stroking upward, and Jane reached quickly for it, halting it in its path.

“Whoa, whoa, I don't know, Heidi Klum,” she said with an embarrassed smile. “But I'm glad you like it.”

“I'll say,” Maura said, stepping out onto the stoop and locking the door behind her. “We look like we're prepared to break a few hearts tonight.” She leaned up, kissing Jane quickly on the cheek. “Where are our reservations?”

“Good try, Sherlock,” Jane said, wagging a finger at her. “That dress you're wearing will get you pretty much anything, but it won't get you an answer to that. You'll see once we get there.”

“I bet I can guess,” Maura pressed, following Jane toward the car.

“No guessing,” Jane replied with a roll of her eyes. Maura was beautiful, but the girl never shut her brain off. Ever. “Just sit back and enjoy the mystery.”

“Fine,” Maura sighed. “As long as it isn't Pura Vida. The tapas there are terrible.”

Jane's head shot up as she opened the passenger door, her jaw involuntarily dropping in exasperation. As far as she knew, Pura Vida had the best reviews in the city, which is why she had chosen it in the first place. “What do you mean, terrible?” she asked, attempting to keep her voice uninhibited. There was no need to panic just yet. She could manage to come up with something just as suitable. Something completely last minute. She let out an inward sigh, the night already going downhill, but she caught a telltale twitch at the corner of Maura's mouth. “Are you joking?” she asked, slightly accusatory.

Maura's lip twitched further, and she let out a small chuckle. “Yes.”

“How'd you know that's where I chose?”

“I saw the site pulled up on your computer when I was searching your desk for those chocolates this morning.”

Jane rolled her eyes, but let out a relieved sigh. “Okay, number one, get your own chocolate - you've got an entire dead fridge to keep it in. Second, you're going to pretend to be surprised when we get there.”

Maura looked up at with large, innocent eyes. “Isn't that like lying?” She grinned, pleased with herself, and Jane couldn't help but laugh as she shut the passenger door and rounded the car. Without even trying, Maura had managed to calm the butterflies in her stomach, so that now they were merely a pleasurable flutter.

Once they made it to the restaurant, Jane's mood eased even further. She had to admit, she chose the hell out of a restaurant. Low lighting, patrons that oozed money from their pores, but a sensible, helpful waiter that hadn't judged her when she deferred to him for the right bottle of wine. Maura seemed pleasant, but just slightly distracted. Whether it was the unfamiliarity of their first date or the distraction of Hope's impending visit, she couldn't tell. 

Maura had shied away from talking about her mother, and only briefly summarized her father’s dinner visit the night before, opting instead to keep things light. Jane was more than happy to provide a distraction for the evening, especially seeing as how Maura seemed to be enjoying the reprieve from real life. But she didn’t want their date, this decision for them to explore something further, to be a mere diversion. They were taking a risk, a big risk, and she wanted Maura to be absolutely certain that she was ready for whatever it was they were embarking on.

Jane kept those thoughts at bay, however, instead keeping up their usual banter. “It's been awhile since I've been on a date with a woman,” she said thoughtfully, determining whether to spoon another serving of ceviche onto her plate. When Maura remained silent, she glanced up at her. “What about you?” she asked suspiciously. Maura kept her head angled toward her plate, causing Jane to intensify her stare. “Maura?”

The blonde cleared her throat, tossing a sideways glance at the table next to them. “Remember that night we switched clothes?”

“Yes,” Jane said slowly. She had managed to bungle a dinner with a potential suspect from Boston's rival major league while Maura had managed to get hit on by several women. How could she forget? “Aw, Maura, really?” she asked with a disappointed wine. “That night?”

“No, not that night, but I did go out with one of them a few nights later.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“There was nothing to tell,” Maura replied innocently, leaning into her. “Trust me. And you had a lot going on that week.”

“Apparently not as much as you,” Jane murmured, finally opting for the ceviche, but she hid a smile as she shoved a forkful into her mouth.

“I can't believe we drank this entire bottle of wine,” Maura said, tipping the bottle into the light. “It's going to go straight to our bloodstream. Seafood doesn't exactly soak up the toxins.”

“Ease up, McGruff,” Jane replied, placing her own glass to her lips. She may have done her part in keeping up their usual banter, but the closer the meal came to a close, the more the butterflies in her stomach were kicking in, and she was sure she'd be downing whatever was left of the wine. “We’re walking to our next location.”

Maura’s eyes brightened. “Our next location? What’s our next location?”

Jane grinned, enjoying the genuine smile that lit up Maura's face. She hadn’t planned a second stop until she heard a fellow detective mention a small, dessert bar a few blocks from the restaurant. She had never heard of it, but this particular cop was clean-cut, respectable, and had never once come onto her, so she trusted his opinion. He was Italian, too, and that never hurt, especially when determining good tiramisu. “Just save room for dessert,” she said, offering nothing further.

“Technically, there's no need to 'save room for dessert',” Maura said. “Sugar has no effect on satiety. It's more a trick of the orbitofrontal cortex.” She only broke her diatribe when the waiter brought the check, reaching into her purse for her wallet, but Jane quickly shook her head, reaching out and stilling her hand.

“As much as it may not feel like it,” she said, glancing at her. “This is a date. Dinner is on me.”

Maura looked at her, surprised. “It feels like a date to me,” she countered. “A very good one, which doesn't happen all that often, I suppose. But a date, nonetheless.” The words put Jane at ease, settling some of the doubt she'd harbored about their evening, and she was pleasantly surprised when Maura leaned over, placing a chaste kiss on her cheek. “Thank you for dinner,” she said politely, but Jane caught a mischievous glint in her eye that went straight to her pelvis.

“Time to test out these heels,” she said by way of distraction. She stood, holding her hand out to Maura. “The restaurant is only a few blocks away. Are you okay walking in those?” she said, eyeing the blonde's heels, which were higher than anything Jane had ever dared to wear.

Maura tossed her hair, and gave her quick up and down. “Please,” she said with a smirk. “I'm a professional.”

Jane grinned and held the door open for Maura, taking a chance and placing her hand on the small of her back as they exited into the cool night air, a slight, wet breeze raising goose bumps along her skin. They had only made it a couple of blocks before the rain began, landing on their shoulders in large, lazy drops. Jane, having learned her lesson from their ruined picnic, heroically plucked a compact umbrella from her purse. Granted, she had stolen it from beside Korsak’s desk that afternoon, but who cared. At least she was prepared.

She flipped it open, but rather than stop at its usual umbrella-shaped point, the black canvas inverted on itself with a loud snap, which prompted and even louder groan from Jane. “Are you kidding me?” she asked, looking up at the contraption, which was offering no protection from the increasingly frequent drops.

Maura pulled her pashmina from her bare shoulders, holding it over her head, and glanced at Jane. “How comfortable are you with running in heels?” she asked.

Before Jane could respond, Maura pranced off, clicking daintily along the sidewalk, and dodging those more respectable Bostonians who had working umbrellas. Jane followed her, teetering slightly in her shoes. “Did I mention that I’m not comfortable running in heels?” she called, as she worked to catch up, her longer legs her only saving grace.

By the time they made it to their destination, taking refuge under the small red awning in front of the door, Jane was out of breath, mostly because she had been inadvertently holding it in for fear of toppling into a puddle. “Sheesh,” she said, her skin now slickly wet.

“Uh, Jane,” Maura said slowly. “When’s the last time you were here?”

“What?” Jane asked, looking up at the restaurant and for the first time noticing the boarded up windows, and the “FOR LEASE” sign in the front window. “What?” she repeated, edging to the front door, but it was waxed over, completely blacking out the interior. The only explanation she got was a small note in the front window that read “Bertolli’s is now closed.” “What?” she said, louder this time. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” She emphasized her outrage by banging the broken umbrella into the door. “They are supposed to have the best tiramisu in Boston!”

“Not anymore,” Maura said tentatively, a smile edging her lips. Her mouth quickly broadened into a grin, and Jane turned, helplessly, watching as she let out a small laugh that grew into a tirade of giggles.

“Maura, this isn’t funny,” she said, the useless umbrella hanging by her side.

“Yes it is,” she argued, her words punctuated with mirthful hiccups.

“How is this funny?” Jane challenged, her romantic plan washing away with the rain that continued to fall over the small awning. “We walked all this way with a busted umbrella, to enjoy Boston’s finest tiramisu, only to see that apparently it wasn’t Boston’s finest tiramisu, otherwise it might still be open!” As the words echoed back to her, she couldn’t help but mirror Maura's grin, and the laugh that bubbled from her throat made any residual anger she had disappear completely. “What are we going to do about dessert?” she asked, still chuckling. “It was all a part of my plan.”

Maura took a step closer, her face still lit up from her grin, and pushed a strand of wet hair out of Jane’s eyes. “What did you have planned after dessert?” she asked.

Both their smiles faded as the question permeated the air around them and Jane felt her familiar nerves return to her, but this time they were accompanied by something more pleasurable in the pit of her stomach. She hadn’t allowed herself to think past dinner, still concerned that they were rushing into something that neither of them was ready for, but before she could offer a response, Maura's lips were on hers.

The smell of rain mixed with the blonde's usual pomegranate scent, and Jane leaned forward, cupping her hand along the back of Maura's neck in order to taste more of it. When they finally broke apart, Jane had her answer ready: “Change of plans. We’re doing dessert at my place.”

If she had been thinking clearly, she would have remembered that her refrigerator and freezer were as bare as a frat boy's, but Maura's lips had rendered her brain absolutely useless. Which was why, as Maura towel-dried her hair in the bathroom, Jane was desperately searching her kitchen for something that remotely resembled dessert.

She heard Maura's footsteps padding along the hardwood floor, both of them having abandoned their heels by the apartment door when they'd arrived, a little damp and worse for wear, but still giggling like a couple of schoolgirls. Maura's damp hair was tousled when she appeared, but she was still a picture of perfection, and Jane couldn't help but smile as she motioned toward the plate she had set on the counter.

“What is that?” Maura asked, looking perplexedly down at it.

“It’s a fudge bar,” she replied, with a flourish of her hand. “The best in Boston, I might add.”

Maura laughed, walking over to it and bending closer to examine it, the same posture Jane had seen her adopt with a toxic specimen. “It does look decadent,” she offered, uncertainly.

“All the decadence, half the calories,” Jane replied, pointing to the abandoned packaging on the counter. “Thank you, Skinny Cow.”

“You’re a skinny cow,” Maura mumbled with a grin, watching as Jane cut into the bar with a knife and fork.

“Here, taste that,” Jane said, passing the fork over to her. Maura took a bite, her face slack, at first, but then giving a satisfied purse of her lips. “Mmm,” she said thoughtfully, cocking her head. “Is that sucralose?”

Jane shrugged. “It’s best if you don’t ask.”

Maura nodded, licking the edge of her lip. “Give me another bite,” she said, inching closer to the dessert and edging Jane out of the way, her damp skin pressing against her. Jane thought about giving her some space, but instead leaned in to her, enjoying the closeness.

Maura abandoned the knife and fork, picking the bar up by its rightful wooden stick, and turned to face Jane, who leaned in and took a bite from it. “I’m sorry your dessert is a frozen fudge bar,” she said with a full mouth and an apologetic frown.

“I’m not,” Maura replied, taking another bite. “It’s quite good.”

Jane cocked her head at her with a hint of a smile. “And good for you,” she said.

Maura shook her head. “Actually, studies on zero calorie sweeteners are inconclusive at best,” she said. “And most of them are funded by the larger food companies, not by traditional research institutions, so the data can at times be quite biased. That said, maybe – “

Jane loved Maura's anecdotes, she truly did, but this time she didn't allowed her to finish, instead plucking the ice cream from her fingers and tossing it casually into the sink. Before Maura could protest Jane bent down and silenced her with a kiss, deepening it quickly, relishing the taste of chocolate on the shorter woman's tongue. If Maura was surprised, she acclimated swiftly, bracing herself against the counter before wrapping her arms around Jane, attempting to pull her closer.

Maura let out a light sigh as Jane leaned away, breaking the kiss with a few breathless words. “I hadn’t planned this far ahead,” she said.

“I did,” Maura replied, slipping a strap from Jane’s shoulder and pressing a light kiss against her cool skin, which was only just beginning to heat up. She kissed along her collarbone, up to her neck, finding a sensitive spot near Jane's ear, one that no one had managed to find in quite awhile. This time, it was Jane's turn to brace herself against the counter. 

Her hands eventually found their way over the curve of Maura's hips and to her backside, where she couldn't help but cup the flesh there as she moved to reclaim the shorter woman's lips. After a few moments, Maura pushed her away slightly, but only to take her hand and led her over to the couch. It didn't take much effort for her to pull Jane on top of her, the space between their bodies nonexistent. Jane sighed into the crook of Maura's neck as she straddled her waist, feeling her dress hike dangerously up her thighs.

Maura's hands brushed over her hips, her tongue dueling against Jane's own with a need so forceful that she eventually entwined her hands in Jane's hair, keeping her in place. It was that need, coupled with a wanton moan and the writhing of her hips that caused Jane to open her eyes, wanting to connect with her. But it was that same wanton need that caused a flash of doubt to flicker through Jane, dousing a sense of coldness across the heat of her body. Maura seemed to sense her hesitation, and her half-closed eyes widened in concern. “What's wrong?” she whispered.

Articulating what was wrong required a vocal ability that Jane didn't have at the moment, and she worked on steadying her breath, raising herself on her hands. She had imagined such a night with Maura for a while now, but hadn't counted on all the other stuff that had seemed to drive them together. They needed each other more than ever, but for what reasons? For some sort of distraction? She rose on her knees, tucking them underneath her. “Maura, don't you think we should slow down?”

The look that flashed through Maura's eyes was more than just confusion. It was hurt. Jane worked to correct her words. “I just mean, what with everything that has happened... and is still happening...” She was struggling, and Maura's eyes weren't helping her be more eloquent. If anything, they were leaching every sound thought from her brain. “I just want us to do this when we're ready,” she said. “Not because everything around us has gone to shit.”

Eloquence gone. Maura pushed her back slightly, edging her own legs over the couch and back to the floor, as if physically and mentally grounding herself. “I'm not doing this because I'm confused,” she said, keeping her eyes ahead of her, staring at the scattered magazines on the coffee table. “Don't put emotions into my head, Jane.”

Jane watched her helplessly. She had a point. All this time she had been concerned about why Maura was ready to go forward. But maybe that was merely an excuse. She had already hurt Maura, more than she ever thought she could, and she wasn't about to do anything that might hurt her again. Maybe it was herself that she didn't quite trust.

“I should go,” Maura said, standing, smoothing her dress.

“No, no,” Jane said, bounding quickly off the couch, less ladylike than she would have preferred. “You can't leave just because I'm not saying anything right.” She stood in front of the smaller woman, blocking her way to the door. “You are one of the most important people in my life, Maura,” she said, hoping she could pry her foot out of her mouth. “And someone who I have fallen completely, head over toe-pinching heels in love with... and I want this - “ she gestured toward the couch - “I want this to mean something. I can't explain why, because my body is screaming at my brain right about now, but I think we should wait.”

“Sex is physiological action that can help cope with stress,” Maura responded, but it was without her usual scientific certainty.

“Okay, I'm not ready to argue science with you,” she said with a slight, smile, hoping that by reverting back to her usual self, her words were at least hitting home. “I can only argue what I'm feeling. And I think you've got enough on your plate right now, sweetheart.”

Maura sighed, pressing a hand to her temple. “I know I haven't been myself,” she offered, weighing her words in a manner that was unfamiliar. “But, when I'm with you, Jane, everything else seems to melt away.” Her eyes moved upwards, locking with Jane's, and she nodded slowly. “And I guess that's you're point.”

“I'm glad I have that ability to melt everything around you,” she replied with a smile. “But that's not necessarily the superpower that I want to have... I want to help you through all of this... not make you forget about it.”

Maura nodded, pursing her lips and swallowing, but Jane saw a tinge of loneliness in her eyes. “You're right,” she said. “This isn't fair to you.” Again, Jane saw the same sense of abandonment in Maura's forlorn brow, and she reached out to her, pulling her towards her. “I'm sorry,” Maura breathed, the words getting lost in Jane's shoulder. She couldn't be certain whether she felt tears or just the leftover rain, but Jane pulled her in tighter, pressing a kiss against her hair.

When Maura finally leaned back, Jane leaned in and took her lips in a light, lingering kiss, just long enough to recall their earlier heat. “Look, why don't you sleep here tonight,” she offered. Even without the sex, she wanted Maura close to her.

“No,” Maura said, shaking her head. “No, I should go.” She glanced up with a placating smile. “It's fine, Jane. We're fine. I promise.”

“You don't have to leave, Maura. I want you to stay. There's no reason we can't just...” she glanced back at the couch. “Do more of that...”

Maura followed her gaze, and her lips curled into a small smile, but there was still sadness behind her eyes. “I should go,” she said again. “But for what it's worth, I really had a great time with you tonight. I always have a great time with you.”

“Yeah, that tiramisu was the best part, wasn't it?” Jane said, wanting to drag a sincere smile from Maura. Her sarcasm worked, and Maura laughed.

“Best tiramisu in Boston,” she replied.

“That's what they say.” Jane opened her arms, pulling Maura in close to her once again. “For what it's worth,” she whispered, “I can't actually wait that long...”

The words drew Maura closer to her, and she reached up and took Jane's lips again, this time with a slower, gentler heat, nibbling at her bottom lip before pulling away. And with that, the blonde slipped out of her apartment. Jane stared at the door, the space around her suddenly too empty, and she headed towards her freezer, pulling out another fudge bar. Sloppy seconds, of course, but it would have to do. At least for tonight.

- - -

Maura sat in her car, the moon bright outside her car windshield. Somewhere along the drive home, her tears had started, and she had only just managed to control them, at first employing a meditative tool, but when that didn't work, skipping straight to self-hatred.

She had no reason to feel upset, slighted, or anything of the sort, but she still cursed her own timing. How long had she wanted to feel Jane that close to her? She had imagined it many times over, but had never expected every cell in her body to buzz the way it had when Jane's touch ran over her. But Jane had spied her vulnerability from a mile away, and Maura couldn't blame her for taking a step back. Jane had always been the responsible one when it came to moving prudently within a relationship. Maura may be logical, but Jane was the sensible one.

She should have reiterated to Jane her feelings. She should have stayed and enjoyed their closeness, but instead she had left, preferring to wrap herself in loneliness instead. Where was her rationality now?

She sighed, stepping out of the car and slamming it loudly, the mere act releasing some of her pent-up frustration. As her car locked with its usual beep, a pair of headlights turned toward the driveway, heading towards her. She squinted, recognizing Angela's car, and she glanced down at her watch. It wasn't incredibly late, but it was definitely past the Bill O'Reilly hour.

The car came to a squeaky halt, a reminder that Maura should probably check the woman's break fluid, and Angela stepped out, glancing curiously at her. “I didn't expect to see you here,” she said, taking a few steps over to her. “Despite it being your house and all.”

“Jane and I had dinner,” Maura replied, preferring to keep the truth as uncomplicated as possible, at least for the moment. “You're out late tonight.”

“Yeah,” Angela said, with a tired nod. “I'm coming back from bowling night.”

“Ah,” Maura said with a nod, taking in her orange and green bowling shirt and her bright, sparkly shoes glared under the moonlight. “Wow, those are something,” she said, pointing down to them and skirting a lie. “Are those lucky shoes?”

Angela glanced down at them, nodding. “Pretty lucky. I bowl a two hundred every time I wear them. Of course, I lose some sequins each week, but it's worth it. I've had them for years, back when Jane's father and I used to be in a bowling league. They're the only thing from those years that still fit,” she said with a chuckle.

Maura's polite laugh didn't seem to fool Angela, although she was pretty sure her smeared mascara gave her away. “You all right?” the older woman asked. “It's okay if you tell me I'm prying, Jane does it all the time.”

Maura wiped a hand across the bottom of her eyes, hoping she wasn't exaggerating the raccoon eyes she'd probably developed on the way home. “I'm fine,” she said with what she hoped was a convincing nod.

“Did Jane make you cry?” Angela asked, her brow furrowing.

“No, no,” Maura said, suddenly embarrassed, but chuckling nonetheless at the absurdity of her current situation. She rarely talked to her own parents, much less the parents of the people she dated. “We had a wonderful time.”

Angela nodded. “I'm guessing those are remnants of happy tears, then?”

Maura took stock of the woman in front of her, the kind eyes and cocked, attentive gaze. “Angela, Jane and I had a date tonight,” she explained, although she was pretty certain Jane's mother had a way of knowing these things ahead of time.

“Don't worry,” Angela said, putting her hands up defensively. “I'm not saying a word to anyone.”

“No,” Maura said, shaking her head, feeling the familiar increase of her heart rate that came with awkward conversations. “I mean, thank you. But – I think – Jane wants to take things slow and – Jane and I aren't sleeping with each other. Not yet.” Even under the moonlight, she was certain her cheeks were resembling the shade of a beet, and she put her hands over her face, horrified by her revelation. “I'm so sorry,” she mumbled. “I think my melatonin levels are completely off balance.”

“Well,” Angela said slowly, exhaling, and Maura was afraid to look up at her. “Then I guess there's nothing to tell.”

Maura slipped her hands from her face, but she was reluctant to look Angela in the eye. When she did, she saw only kindness and a slight perplexity. “I'm sorry,” she said again. “I'm meeting my biological mother tomorrow, and - “ again, she felt her face reddening - “and I think its affecting my normal social inhibitors.”

This time, Angela's eyes looked back at her with concern. Still no judgment. Had she ever seen Angela Rizzoli look at anyone with judgment?

“Well, now that's a bid deal,” she replied, setting her bowling bag on the ground beside her. “You looking forward to meeting her?”

Maura didn't know whether to nod or to shake her head, so instead she shrugged helplessly. “I don't know.” There was a familiar burn behind her eyes, and she turned her head to the ground, focusing on the glare of Angela's shoes.

The shoes took a step towards her, and she felt Angela's hand on hers, giving it a quick squeeze. “Well, it sounds like the last thing you need is another mother,” she said, with a comforting lilt in her voice. “But can I share something with you?”

Maura nodded, finally moving her gaze back to Angela's.

“You can pine the past all you want for answers and perspective, and all sorts of things, but at the end of the day, all you got is you and the people around you. Family, friends, turtles, whoever. At the end of it all, you decide who you need in your life. As a parent, I trust my kids to do that. You just trust yourself to do it, too, sweetheart, you got it?”

Angela blurred in front of her, and she nodded, again averting her eyes. “What if you need them and they don't need you?” She couldn't see Angela clearly, but she saw her move towards her, enveloping her in a comforting, practiced hug that seemed to come naturally to good mothers.

“You underestimate yourself, Maura,” she said. “And you may be underestimating your parents, too. Just give 'em a shot.” She pulled back and gave her an encouraging smile.

“Thank you,” Maura said, again wiping a finger under her eyes. “I'm sorry to fall apart on you like this.” She paused, and only because there was no way she could further humiliate herself, continued. “Jane's lucky to have you.”

Angela patted her arm. “You just make sure to tell her that every day, okay?” she said with a chuckle. “Now go inside and get some rest.” Her eyes changed, and she studied Maura for a moment. “And remember, Jane's ego isn't the only thing that bruises easily. I have never seen her as devastated as the past few weeks, and I know that's because you're one of the most important people in her life. So if she's handling this whole courtship with kid gloves, it's because she's afraid of losing you.” She bent down to pick up her bowling bag. “Of course, you never heard that from me.”

Maura watched her amble toward the guesthouse, turning once to give her a wave and a smile before she closed the door behind her. However she had ended up with this particularly quirky cast of characters around her, she knew that whatever happened with her parents, or with Emily the next day, she would always have a family to fall back on.

Chapter 8

Jane breezed into the precinct cafe, intent on scoring a strong cup of coffee, but quickly backtracked once she glimpsed her mother and Frankie sitting at a high-top table. Her mother was straightening Frankie's collar, which meant she was in full smothering mode, something Jane didn't have the time nor the desire to handle at the moment. She was too late, though, and she heard both her mother and Frankie call out her name. She sighed. At least Frankie seemed grateful for the interruption. She'd make sure he made it up to her later.

“How was your date last night?” he asked casually, and Jane raised an eyebrow at him.

“How was yours?” she shot back, eyeing her mother, who looked over at Frankie with a pointed curiosity.

“You had a date last night? With who?” Angela asked.

Jane crossed her arms over her chest, pleased with her diversion, despite the daggers that Frankie was shooting her. The reverie didn't last long, however, as Angela soon returned her attention to Jane. “Korsak was in here looking for you,” she said.

Jane groaned. “Probably those damn feds,” she mumbled.

“They still looking into the Doyle shooting?” Frankie asked, replacing his daggers with worry.

She waved the question off. “It's the FBI. If they're not wasting their time, what else are they doing? I'm not going to worry about it.” She glanced around, trying to keep her voice casual. “Maura been in today?” Her morning text had gone unanswered, which was unlike the medical examiner, who was generally at her perkiest between the ungodly hours of six and nine.

“I haven't seen her since last night,” Angela replied.

“Whoa, what?” Jane asked. “When did you see her last night?”

“When I was on my way back from bowling.” She raised a sarcastic brow. “She lives right next door, don't forget.”

“How could I?” Jane sighed, leaning her elbows onto the counter. As her mother occupied herself by reloading the napkin dispenser, Jane glanced over at Frankie. “How did your date go last night?”

Frankie shook his head. “The bangs were the best thing about her. Personality like a brick wall.” He made sure their mother was still out of earshot. “So, uh, things went well last night?”

Jane measured her words. “Objectively, no, things went horribly,” she said. “That dessert place Johanssen mentioned is closed, it was pouring rain, I had to run in heels, and I ended the night by putting my foot squarely in my mouth.” She couldn't help but smile. “But, for some reason, everything turned out perfectly.”

Frankie raised his eyebrows. “How dreamy,” Frankie gushed sarcastically, and Jane punched him on his shoulder. He laughed. “You should be punching Johanssen,” he said.

“I already put an old banana in his desk drawer,” Jane replied with a smirk. Her mother returned, reaching out a hand and straightening the lapel of Jane's jacket.

“How long have you had this coat?” she asked, leaning closer. “It's pilly.”

Jane was ready to reply and flee, but before she could, she glimpsed Maura walking into the cafe, her head bent toward her phone. “Maura,” she called, waving her over. When the medical examiner finally looked up, the smile she gave was wan, and Jane noticed the slight depressions under her eyes.

“I need a coffee,” she said, her voice edgy, her fingers still fidgeting. Despite her tired eyes, it seemed as if a nervous current ran through her. If she kept her nerves this edgy, there would be no way she'd make it to time for dinner with her mother.

Jane reached a hand out, stilling the shorter woman’s fidgeting fingers. “You sure you need caffeine, Maur?” she asked, but removed her hand quickly when she felt her mother’s eyes on the gesture. Pleased eyes, but prying nonetheless.

“How about a decaf?” Angela asked. “That will do the mental trick.”

“Mental tricks don’t work on me,” Maura replied earnestly, and Jane stifled a grin.

“I know what you need,” Angela said, clasping her hands together. “Comfort food.”

“Sure thing,” Frankie echoed with a nod. “Comfort food.”

“Comfort food?” Maura repeated, the concept clearly foreign to her. Growing up with a mother like Constance, Jane could certainly imagine why.

“Pancakes,” Angela suggested.

“I don’t want pan – “ Maura began, but Frankie cut her off.

“Chocolate milk,” he said, raising his finger in the air. “Always calms my nerves.”

Maura smiled politely, but shook her head, her shoulders tensing. “I don’t care for – “

Jane stood up, silencing her mother and Frankie with a wave of her hand. “How about an egg white omelet?” she asked, inching Maura into a chair. “Simple, healthy, bland. Exactly your style,” she said with a grin.

“Should I call her to make sure we're still on?” Maura asked, not bothering to clarify who she was talking about. It was as if her mouth began working mid-thought. “I emailed her yesterday, but I didn't call.”

“I think it's fine, Maura. All you need to do is simply show up.”

 “She said she would be wearing a red scarf,” Maura said. “That must mean she as warm undertones. I have cool undertones.” She looked up at Jane expectantly, but unfortunately, her knowledge of undertones was limited, and she didn't have much to offer.

Instead she placed her hands on Maura’s, clasping them gently. “Maur, you’re driving yourself crazy. Just take a deep breath. How about I come down and meet you for lunch?”

She shook her head, her eyes darting back to her phone. “I just need to lose myself in the finer toxicities of silica bodies in intestinal tissue.”

“That doesn't sound like something you need my help with,” Jane replied slowly.

Maura shook her head distractedly. “I just need to focus on work,” she said.

Jane understood the need, and nodded, the medical examiner's anxiety practically emanating from her pours. “Sure,” she said. “Do what you need to do, Maur.”

Maura ran a hand through her hair, and it fell perfectly back into place. “I can't eat an omelet right now, Jane,” she said, as if letting her in on a piece of devastating news. “And I don't like chocolate milk.”

Jane put a hand on her shoulder, steadying her. “No worries, Maur. I'll take care of the omelet. Why don't you head down to the office and lose yourself in some of my stolen chocolate stash. Or... intestinal toxins.”

“You'll take care of the omelet?” Maura asked. “You'll be nice about it?”

“Yes,” Jane said, dramatically. “I will eat your omelet for you. It's not nearly the favor you think it is, considering I'm starving.” She smiled, although inside she felt some worry for the shorter woman. “Everything will be fine.”

Maura didn't smile, but her eyes softened. “Thank you,” she said. “I'll call you after dinner?”

“Of course,” Jane replied, an ease in her tone that she didn't feel in her stomach. “I'll be waiting with bated breath.”

“Okay,” Maura said, giving her hand a squeeze before walking briskly out of the cafe, probably to avoid any more food recommendations from the rest of the Rizzoli clan. Jane sighed, and walked toward the kitchen. She might as well tell her mom to add a pancake to the order. Even she needed comfort food sometimes.

- - -

Maura took a seat at the bar, her hands fidgeting with the clasp of her purse. She ordered nothing more than a soda water, hoping to settle her nervous stomach, but at the last minute requested a splash of vodka and lime. She took in the colored bottles behind the bar, mentally calculating the proportions of dark versus light liquor, anything to keep her mind from veering uncontrollably to the moment when her mother would inevitably walk in the door.

Or what if she didn't? Was she so naïve that she hadn't thought of the possibility that Hope could simply not show up? She didn't exactly have a case history to go by. She abandoned her alcohol count and her thoughts tunneled into each other until a buzz from her purse caught her attention. The text that appeared on her screen made her smile, if only because Jane knew her too well: She’s lucky to be getting the chance to meet you. Remember that. Deep breaths. If all else fails, head to the bar and I'll meet you there.

“Maura.”

She jumped, the phone fumbling in her hands as she looked up, her eyes falling first on the deep red scarf. As her gaze floated upwards, taking in the woman in front of her, she realized she didn't need a scarf to identify Hope Dixon. She might as well have been looking into a mirror, albeit twenty years in the future. She stood, too quickly. “Yes,” she replied, jutting her hand forward, as if reporting for a job interview rather than meeting the woman who had given her half her genetic makeup.

Hope took her hand and gave her a warm smile, which was accented by a layer of lipstick that matched the tone of her scarf. “I’m Emily,” she said, and the juxtaposition of her chosen name sounded abrupt, a reminder that despite their biological connection, there was a chasm between them. Maura took in Emily's straight, narrow nose and her heavy-lidded, large eyes, taking a mental inventory of the physical characteristics that she had conjured up in her head for years, often while staring at her own features in her bathroom mirror.

Hope, in turn, let her gaze rove over Maura, her eyes squinting with a bright, if somewhat nervous smile. “It’s wonderful to see you,” she said, and for a moment Maura thought she would reach over and hug her, but she simply shifted her weight, glancing around. “You’ve chosen a beautiful place.”

“I hope you like it,” Maura said. “The food is supposed to be superb.”

“Constance has ingrained in you her taste for good cuisine, I see,” Hope replied.

Maura didn’t know how to respond, so instead she nodded, grabbing her drink with a slightly shaking hand. “I believe we can go ahead and have a seat,” she said, motioning her toward the hostess stand.

They shared polite, silent smiles as they were shown their table, and Maura let Emily lead, taking the time to study her gait. Her posture was certainly less poised than Constance's, but just as confident. They sat in an alcove somewhat secluded from the bustle of the main floor, and Maura exhaled, glad she had asked for the privacy. Before taking her seat, she took another long sip of her drink, the bubbles closing her already tightening throat.

“Well,” Emily said, clasping her hands in front of her. Maura studied her eyes, which were a light brown – were they hazel, like her own? “The hard part is over, I suppose. We're both here.” Her thumb fidgeted slightly with a ring on her finger, belying her relaxed shoulders. “The last picture Constance sent was of the three of you in Nice,” she said, her eyes skimming Maura's features. “Somehow you've managed to become even more beautiful since then.”

When had they gone to Nice? Four years ago? It was right before she took the job as Chief Medical Examiner, and she had spent the vacation mostly attempting to convince her father that it was a worthy career move. She certainly didn't remember any pictures, but she blushed, smiling demurely. “Thank you, genetics,” she said.

Her comment pulled a pleasant laugh from Emily, one that slipped easily from her lips. “It is quite amazing,” she said, placing her chin in her hand and peering carefully across the table at her. “I'd like to think my twenty-three chromosomes made all the difference, but I can definitely see Patrick in you.” She cleared her throat, glancing down at her menu, as if the mention of Doyle reminded her of why she had come. “I should be starving,” she said, slowly regaining her mirth. “But I must be honest, my stomach is in knots.” She complemented her honesty with a small smile.

“Acute anxietal nausea,” Maura said, with a nod, placing a hand against her own stomach. “I'm experiencing the same sensations.”

Hope raised an amused eyebrow at her. “Well, if you feel your CTZ rising too much, just let me know. I’ll clear a path for you to the restroom.”

This time, it was Maura’s turn to smile. It wasn't often her unintentional jargon was actually understood. “I'll let you know,” she replied, taking a last sip from her glass.

“Good evening ladies.” A tall, thin waiter appeared by their table, dark bangs falling just to his eyes, and he extended a wine menu toward them. Emily passed it immediately over to Maura.

“Your choice,” she said with a smile. “I know a good wine palette when I see one.”

Maura skimmed the menu, grateful to be of some use, even if it was as simple a task as ordering a bottle of wine. “The brunello, please,” she said, catching Emily's appreciative nod. Apparently her biological mother shared her same taste in spirits.

“Ah, a good choice,” the waiter replied. “Perfect for a mother-daughter dinner, I'd say.” He glanced down at Emily. “Or sisters?” he asked.

Maura felt her face heat up, and wished the restaurant's lighting were a bit dimmer so as to hide the flush that crept into her cheeks. She chanced a look at Emily, whose own eyes had narrowed slightly as she looked up at him, giving him a nod, but politely dismissing him. When he was out of earshot, she leaned into Maura with a slight smile. “It's the line of the nose,” she said. “Fortunately, you got mine.”

Maura smiled, the effort releasing something inside her chest, and whether it was due from the alcohol or Emily's easy manner, she didn't care. She relaxed, easing into small talk, which she figured was as appropriate as anything else, considering they were strangers. “How is San Diego?” she asked. “You have a practice there?”

“I do,” Emily answered with a nod. “Specializing in women's reproductive health, mostly. Sometimes I'm certain it would be easier to work solely with a hospital, but this is a labor of love. I spend most of my time acting as a social worker rather than an OB-GYN.” She was quick to turn the spotlight back to Maura. “How is the Boston Medical Examiner's office? You've been there for four years now, is it?”

Emily's insight into her life caught her off guard slightly, but she nodded. “It's rewarding in its own way.” She never knew how to espouse to strangers how much she loved her job; after all, dissecting decedents wasn't necessarily a ubiquitous life calling.

“I think it sounds fascinating,” Emily offered, leaning into her with curious eyes. “I've always been in awe of pathologists. I never was much of a detective, much less when it came to the human body. And having to perform such feats on someone unable to articulate what went wrong, well, that's even tougher. Hat's off to you, dear.”

The praise caught Maura off guard, but she recovered with a proud, relieved smile. The last time she'd had someone reward her career choice had been from her fellow forensic pathologists at an annual meeting, which didn't lend as much credence as real world admiration. “Sometimes I wish I had chosen something more grounded in reality,” she said. “I don't get out of the morgue much.”

Emily waved a hand at her. “The real world isn't that interesting,” she said. “Trust me. Half these people walking around are complete zombies.” She laughed, quickly, but cut it off with a wave of her hand. “I'm not as jaded as I sound,” she said, but her eyes were flat, and the twitch in her eyelid showed the comment wasn't as true as she would have liked.

They paused as the waiter returned, allowing Maura to taste it. The expectant gazes of the waiter and Emily made her anxious, and she quickly nodded, prompting him to pour each of them a glass before leaving them. Emily raised hers in the air. “To lost years,” she said, and Maura met her halfway, their glasses clinking against one another in a promise that was yet to be fulfilled. “Now tell me how you chose to become a medical examiner?” Emily asked, that same curiosity in her gaze. “Constance never was able to articulate that in her letters.”

How much had they written to one another? How had she never caught on? “My bedside manner wasn't the best,” Maura replied earnestly. It hadn't been, of course. Her explanations were often too clinical and too harsh for patients to handle, and even her fellow medical students steered clear of her in clinic.

Emily's lip quivered with a light chuckle, and Maura was both grateful and a bit bewildered by her seeming amusement. “Well, that's one reason,” she said. “A good enough reason not to go into pediatrics, either, I assume.” She raised a finger in the air. “Although, at times children have a better grasp on things than their parents, that's for certain.”

Maura glanced up at her, suddenly emboldened by a curiosity that she'd harbored for over twenty years, and the vodka and the wine seemed to barrel through any last barriers she had. “Do you have any more children?” She hadn't seen any mentioned during her internet search, but that didn't mean Emily hadn't started her own family.

Her mother's eyes dimmed, as if the light were leaching the color from them, and she shook her head. “No,” she said lowly, her voice barely carrying over the table. “No,” she repeated, this time louder. “By the time I finished medical school, I was working too hard to set up my own practice. By the time I got my own practice...” Her eyes darted to her wine glass, staring into it. “You were it,” she said finally, her eyes locking onto Maura's. Was it regret that she detected there?

Once again the waiter, with timing that could have been considered both horrid or exceptional, was back at their table, this settling their plates in front of them with expectant smiles. Emily welcomed the distraction, her pleasant smile reappearing as she concentrated on her meal. “Buon appetito,” she said, flourishing her napkin toward her lap. “And before I give the wrong impression, that's all the Italian that I know.”

Maura chuckled. “That's all you need to know,” she said. “Do you speak any other languages?” The question struck her as pretentious, and she struggled to backtrack. “I mean – I just wondered - “

“I speak a little French, but mostly Spanish,” she said. “That's what serves me most at work.”

“Of course,” Maura said with a nod. “I have to say, working with detectives and corpses doesn't give me much opportunity to utilize my French.”

“Ah, but I'm sure Constance and Phillip keep you practicing,” Emily replied.

Maura looked up at her, only picking at her food. “You talk like you know them quite well,” she said. “How often do you keep in touch with them?”

Emily twirled a ribbon of pasta around her fork. “Not too often. A letter every couple of months or so, now an email once a month. Just quick updates, mostly to satisfy my own curiosity.”

“You were curious about us?” Maura asked.

Emily smiled sadly at her, letting the ribbon untwirl across her plate. “Of course,” she said simply. “Constance and Phillip were living what I thought would be my life.” Her face reddened, and she bowed her head toward her plate, the first semblance of embarrassment that she had revealed. “That came out wrong,” she said. “I apologize.”

She refilled both of their wine glasses with a self-hating smirk. “Hopefully with a little more wine, my honesty will be more palatable.” Maura took a long sip of it, the thought of food suddenly unappetizing. She felt the distinct sense that she was letting time pass her by without getting any of the answers she craved, and she hoped that the myth of liquid courage would eventually kick in.

Emily seemed pleased with the direction of their meal, and Maura envied her casualness, even if it was merely a mask. “Are you seeing anyone?” she asked, raising her eyebrows over her wine glass.

Another sip of wine, and Maura managed to give a half-nod. “Sort of,” she said. “It's a bit complicated.”

“Is it that detective?” Emily asked, raising an eyebrow. “Your mother mentioned her last night.”

Maura didn't try to hide her surprise. “Excuse me?”

Emily laughed. “Constance may be quite rigid at times,” she said. “But you'd be surprised what she's able to intuit.”

Flustered, Maura did the only thing she had been doing all evening, and took a sip of her wine. “I – her name is Jane,” she offered. “We became friends when I became medical examiner and have... grown closer over the years.”

Emily nodded. “Friendship romances are at times difficult to navigate,” she said. “But the most rewarding, I imagine. Constance says she's 'brash, but fiercely protective'. In Constance-speak, I take it that means she only slightly disapproves.”

Maura allowed herself a small smile. It had certainly taken her mother a moment to warm up to the finer nuances of Jane's humor. “Did she disapprove of you and Patrick?”

Emily's eyes glazed over, and she took a moment to take a slow sip of her wine. “Everyone disapproved of Patrick.” Abandoning her fork for a moment, she once again fidgeted with the ring on her finger. “Even I did at first. But he was nothing if not determined. Even after everything had happened during the pregnancy, and when you were born. He didn't give up on us until I finally changed my name.” She stared at a point just past Maura. “1979,” she whispered into her wine glass, seemingly caught up in some past memory.

“You didn't change your name until 1979?” Maura asked. She had turned five that year.

Emily nodded slowly, and exhaled. “Constance and Phillip didn't formally adopt you until then.”

Maura narrowed her eyes, attempting to make sense of this newest revelation. She had assumed the adoption happened at birth, and her parents had never lead her to believe otherwise. “Why?”

It was a simple enough question to ask, but judging from the glassiness of Emily's eyes, it was more difficult to answer. “For some time, I believed that the three of us would end up together again,” she replied. “That somehow Patrick would give up the life he had created, and that we would live happily ever after.” The corner of her mouth turned downwards, and she shook her head. “But eventually I knew that wasn't going to happen.”

Maura was aware of voices around her, but everyone faded from her peripheral, and she struggled as her own eyes misted over. She saw herself across the table, a clear vision of who she could have been had things worked out differently: a loving family, a normal, sociable childhood with friends and a brilliant mother who pushed her to do her best. The image seemed to lodge itself in her throat, forcing her to wash it away with a long gulp of wine.

Emily seemed to detect the effect her words had, and she reached across the table, tentatively taking Maura's hand. She gave it a squeeze, but just as quickly let it go, as if it burned her. It was that quick letting go, that sudden abdication that made Maura bite back a sob. The waiter appeared, and she bit her lip, a sudden queasiness floating through her.

“Can I interest you ladies in any dessert tonight?”

Maura nodded, if only to avoid catching Emily's eye, and she tried to focus on the waiter's polite smile, but he blurred in front of her. As he continued to describe their dessert options, her queasiness only rose further up her throat, and her vision felt separated from the rest of her. “If you'll excuse me,” she said, rising from her chair, her face suddenly hot, from both the nausea and the embarrassment that seared through her.

“Maura - “

She didn't stop at the sound of her name, and wove her way around the tables until she found her way to a back hallway, where she slipped into the restroom. Heading straight for the sink, she tossed her purse onto a row of sinks and rested her hands along the cool counter top. Her face was pale when she finally peered into the mirror. Why had she had so much wine on an empty stomach? In addition to the liquor? In addition to her nerves? In addition to her general inability to cope with things over the past several weeks?

The door opened, and she tossed a harried look over her shoulder, attempting to compose herself, but was startled to see Emily walk towards her. She snatched a paper towel from the basket on the sink and ran it under the faucet, the ring on her finger glinting under the fluorescent lights. “Here,” she said gently, her green eyes holding taking in Maura's appearance with a maternal concern, and she pressed the cool towel against the back of her neck.

Maura sighed at the sudden coolness, registering the calm fingers gently holding her hair up for her. “Just a bit too much to drink, that's all,” Emily said easily, calmly, and Maura opened her eyes, suddenly aware of how good of a bedside manner her biological mother must have with her patients. Emily guided her towards a padded bench in the corner, and sat down next to her, still raising her hair off of her neck.

“I'm sorry,” Maura said, trying her best to find some sort of eloquence to her words.

“Don't be,” Emily replied, moving the towel up to her temple.

“My metabolism must be moving at decreased levels,” she said with a shake of her head. “I'm normally a better judge of my blood alcohol content.”

Emily nodded. “I would say this is more than a physiological reaction to inebriating toxins,” she said, her expression kind, but firm. “You've been through quite a bit recently, Maura.” She pressed the towel onto the inside of her wrist. “Pulse points,” she said. “Helps with the nausea.”

“Why don't I get the check,” Emily offered instead. “We'll take a walk and get some fresh air, how's that?” She smiled gently, and Maura nodded, pointing to her purse.

“Here, let me - “

Emily's hand was already on hers. “Don't you dare,” she said. “Dinner is on me.”

“No, no, I insist,” Maura countered, but Emily's hand squeezed hers with a sudden desperation.

“Constance and Phillip taught you too well,” she said with a sad smile. “But, please don't argue with me.”

Maura nodded and Emily echoed it with a satisfied grin. “Keep that against you,” she said, referring to the wet towel. “I'll meet you outside.”

Cursing her awkwardness, her drinking, and her general lack of confidence, Maura rose after a few minutes and splashed more cold water over her cheeks before attempting to make herself look presentable once again. When she finally made her way back to the restaurant's lobby, she saw Emily waiting patiently for her, a box in her hand. “I had them pack this up for you,” she said, holding it up.

The air felt rewardingly cool against her skin as they stepped outside, and Maura was grateful for the change of scenery, and also for the darkness. “I'm so sorry I cut our dinner short,” she said.

“Please, don't apologize,” Emily said with a wave of her hand. “It's been ages since I've walked around Boston. This is perfect. We grew up in Cambridge, but I used to hang around the city all the time. That's where I first met Patrick.” She shook her head, a haunted smile on her lips. “That was another lifetime ago.”

“Did you leave Boston because of all the reminders here?” Maura asked.

“No,” Hope replied, her eyes stuck to some point just ahead of them. “I left Boston because I was afraid for my life. I was afraid for all three of us.”

“How did things get so bad?” Maura asked. “Patrick Doyle was respected in Boston.”

Emily laughed. “He wasn't always so respected. Patrick was a rogue when he was younger, a renegade intent on alienating anyone he had to in order to rise to the top. There was one man in particular, that was determined to hang onto the black market here, specifically the docks. He didn't recognize the line between life and business. And that's what scared me. It frightened Patrick, too. I think it was his fear that scared me the most.”

“Is that when you left?”

She shook her head. “I hid for awhile. Things got bad. But we were both intent on having a family.” She laughed. “We were so young. And stupid. Finally, I made the decision for us. We had an adoption agency all lined up, but it absolutely killed us. Especially Patrick.” She stopped, her shoulders slumping. “And that's when Constance and Phillip stepped in.” Exhaling shakily, she turned, giving Maura a lopsided, devastated smile. “God, I'm sorry,” she said, her voice breaking for the first time that night.

Before Maura could respond, she walked a few steps ahead, quickly attempting to compose herself. “Constance and Phillip gave you much more than I ever could,” she said. “I don't mean to suggest anything different.” She wiped a thumb across her eye. “I'm so grateful to them. And to Patrick, in a way.”

Maura walked carefully toward her, wanting to reach out and offer some connections, but her hand dropped by her side. “He talked about you. Every time I saw him.”

Emily stopped, turning toward her. “We agreed to stay out of your life,” she said. “He called me the day he outed himself to you. Left me a message, but I never returned his call.” Remorse settled in her eyes, weighing her gaze towards the ground. “Age softened him. You softened him. You have some of his gentleness in you, I can tell.”

As if they hit some sort of limit for the evening, they returned to conversation of a more clinical nature, focusing on medicine, Emily's clinic, comparing cities, and generally avoiding anything more taxing than the small talk that began their evening. When they eventually found themselves back at Maura's car, she was surprised to see it, almost wondering how it got there.

“I enjoyed the walk,” Emily said, glancing up at the sky. “The weather held out for us.”

Maura looked up, and recalling the events of the night before, laughed lightly. “It seems as if rain requires the presence of Jane.”

“Maura, I don't leave until Saturday afternoon. What do you say we have a brunch or something before then? You can invite this brash, protective Jane of yours.”

A spring of hope welled inside her, and Maura nodded quickly. “Yes,” she managed. “I would like that.”

“Good.” Emily reached tentatively out to her, widening her arms in a request for a hug, wrapping them loosely around Maura's back. It was such an unusual gesture, far removed from the normal air kiss that she gave her mother, and it took a second for her shoulders to relax into the embrace. But once she did, she didn't want to let go.

Maura leaned her head against her seat, letting the quiet wash over her. Home didn’t seem like an option, not the way her mind was already reeling over every minutia of the evening, and she reached for her keys, only one destination in mind. It was only just past ten, which meant that Jane was still awake. Her phone rang, but the number on the screen wasn’t the one that she had just considered calling.

“Dr. Isles,” she answered, flipping into work mode. As macabre as it was, she was grateful for the distraction, otherwise she would begin to acknowledge how much she  liked Emily Lawrence.

- - -

Chapter 9

Jane wove her way through the yellow tape that lined the front walkway of a small, squat house that sat close to the sidewalk, giving her badge number to the uniform that was stationed there with his arms crossed officially over his chest. “Shit,” she said, shaking her head at Korsak as she walked towards the body of a man that looked to be in his mid-fifties, judging by the ring of gray hair around his head. Or, what was left of his head, as most if it had been blown away by the gun that lay on the floor beside him.

“Looks like a cut and dry 10-56 by the looks of things,” Korsak said. “We'll be in and out.”

“That sounds like an assumption,” Maura said from behind them as she entered the house, her requisite black field bag hanging from her arm.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the assumption-police,” Jane said, welcoming her with a smile. “Did this cut into your dinner?”

Maura shook her head, focusing on the body as she carefully stepped around the yellow markers the techs had placed near it. “No,” she said, offering nothing more as she bent towards the cadaver, her hands already gloved and ready.

Jane raised her eyebrows at the clipped reply. “Well, how did it go?”

Maura squinted towards the wound. “It went fine,” she said, brushing a latex-covered finger over the skin. “This angle looks a bit off.”

Jane took a step forward, bending over her shoulder. It simply looked like a self-inflicted bullet wound to her, but Maura was nothing if not thorough. “So, what did you guys talk about?” she asked, glancing over at the medical examiner, deliberately not stepping back from her.

If Maura was nettled by the sudden closeness, she didn't show it, and turned her attention to the backside of the man’s head. “You know,” she breathed. “This and that.”

Jane straightened, crossing her arms over her chest as she watched Maura probe the man’s head. “Why are you being so mysterious?” she asked. It didn’t have anything to do with the corpse in front of them, she was certain. They had certainly talked about more trivial things in front of the dead.

Maura rose from her hunched position.

“This angle is all wrong for a self-inflicted wound,” she said, her eyes taking in the whole of the man’s body. “And I’m not being evasive,” she added. “I just need to process things.”

“How is the angle wrong?” Jane asked.

“If this were a self-inflicted wound, you would expect the trajectory of the bullet to have gone upward, but instead the pathway veered downward.”

“So you’re saying he didn’t kill himself?”

“No, I’m saying the angle is not consistent with a self-inflicted wound.”

Jane sighed, giving Maura more room to maneuver. If she wanted something conclusive, she’d have to wait, at least until Maura had exhausted her initial examination. She reverted back to Topic Number Two: “Well, what was the conversation like? Did she ask anything about you?”

“She asked me about work, why I became a medical examiner – “she squinted, poking at the wound with a curious finger – “Oh, I can see the caudal middle frontal gyri.”

Jane frowned. She didn’t usually become queasy at a scene until Maura began getting extracurricular with the science. “I think the reason’s pretty obvious,” she said, turning her attention to the blood patterns on the back of the chair and the wall. “Ballistics can confirm whether this was done with the gun found at the scene,” she said, fingering the weapon that was now bagged and numbered. “Did she give you any insight into her relationship with Doyle? Or why she gave you up?”

Maura glanced briefly up at Korsak, who was busying himself with a uniform in the far corner of the room. “Yes, she did. Things were rough for her, Jane. I felt sorry for her.”

Jane’s mouth dropped open slightly. “You felt sorry for her?”

Maura rounded back in front of the man, lifting his flannel shirt around his midriff and uncovering an oddly shaped bruise. “I had a visceral, emotional response to her, yes,” she replied, clearly frustrated by more than just the body in front of her. “Looks like this just got a lot more complicated.”

“I’ll say,” Jane agreed, her double meaning not lost on the medical examiner.

“I meant the cause of death,” Maura clarified, probing at the bruise. “This is a newly formed hematoma, one right over the kidney.”

Jane sighed. “Unless that was his Plan A for killing himself, it looks like we might have some foul play going on.” She glanced over at Korsak. “All right, we’re dusting everything,” she said. “So much for cut and dry, ay?”

“It looks like he’s been dead less than an hour, which is consistent with the police call, correct?” Maura asked, glancing up at her.

“Yeah,” Jane confirmed with a nod. “Look, Maur, with all due respect, I don’t think you owe Emily Lawrence any sympathy at all.”

Maura fished through her bag. “Jane, I couldn’t help but feel bad for everything she’s been through. You know she never had any more children? And never married?”

“That doesn’t mean her life has been miserable, Maura, step into the twenty-first century.” She was attempting to walk a fine line between being supportive and being constructive, which didn't always go well for her. Judging by the grimace on Maura's face, it didn't seem to be going well now, either.

“Well, she asked to see me again before she leaves.” Jane saw uncertainty flash briefly through the shorter woman's eyes. “She clearly wants to know who I am. Maybe she wants to be a part of my life.”

“Sure,” Jane replied, doubt knifing into her. “She’s curious. That’s great. Really.”

Maura looked at her suspiciously over the man’s head. “Why are you using that tone?”

“What tone?”

“That tone you use when you don’t believe what you’re saying.”

For someone so completely aloof half the time, Maura could notice a physical cue in a heartbeat. “I don’t not believe what I’m saying. I think it’s great that you were at ease with her – “

“I wasn’t ‘at ease’ with her, whatever that imprecise term means. My heart rate was increased the entire time, my liver wasn’t metabolizing as it should, and my CVT levels were off the charts.”

“Is that your way of telling me you were nervous?” Jane clarified. “Because if so, that’s understandable.”

Maura didn’t respond, instead focusing on shifting the body in order to utilize the thermometer she held in her hand. “I liked her,” she said. “We had a rapport that I don't have with - ” she changed course - “I didn't think she would be so open.”

Jane frowned, bending down to her, wanting to put a hand on her back, but conscious of the people milling around her, she kept her hands to herself. “Well, that's good, right?”

“He’s been dead for little over an hour,” Maura confirmed, ignoring the question and popping the thermometer back in its disposable sleeve. She stood, dropping it haphazardly back in her bag. “I’ll see if the van’s here yet.” She started to turn, but turned back. “She wants to see me again,” she said. “I know she regrets how things turned out, Jane. I know she does.”

“Maura, I think that’s great, I do.” She should stop talking, should simply smile and nod and let things be, at least until tomorrow. “I just don’t want you to get your hopes up based on one dinner.” The hardened expression turned, walking away from her without allowing her to finish, which was probably a good thing, judging by how frequently Jane was inserting her foot into her mouth lately.

“If you’re done here, I’ll have the body removed to the lab,” Maura called stiffly, not bothering to look back. “I can have an official cause of death for you by Friday.”

“Strike two, Rizzoli,” Jane muttered, her hands hanging uselessly by her sides. She saw Korsak walk over to her, his head bent towards a notepad in his hand. “I think we got most of what we need,” he said. He raised his eyebrows toward Maura, who was just stepping out the door, peeling her gloves from her hands. “You really put your foot in your mouth just then.”

“No shit,” she muttered, but then did a double take towards him. Her mother had promised not to say a word. “What do you know about it?” she asked suspiciously.

He shrugged noncommittally. “Only what you tell me. But enough to know that your opinion is generally the only one that matters, when it comes to Maura Isles.” He nudged her towards the door. “I’ll see you early tomorrow morning. Our day tomorrow just got a lot longer.”

She retraced Maura’s footsteps, catching sight of her about thirty yards ahead, and putting her long legs to good use, caught up with her, calling out her name. It was either Maura's inherent politeness or sheer exhaustion that forced her to at least turn around and look at her. “Look, I'm just trying to look out for you,” Jane offered.

“You weren't there, Jane. She was kind, caring, brilliant.” Maura diverted her eyes for a moment. “I sat there and couldn't help but see who I could have been.”

Sadness pinged its way through Jane. No matter how Emily turned out, Maura would invariably compare her to her own adoptive parents. “That's fine, Maur, but life isn't like Sliding Doors. You can't torture yourself like this.”

Maura crossed her arms over her chest, hurt, but defiant. “You know I hate it when you use pop culture references to make a point,” she said.

“Fine,” Jane said, throwing up her hands. “Look, Maura, you know I couldn't be happier that you finally had dinner with your biological mom. I'm on your team, remember? But I wouldn't be doing my job as your significant-friend-person if I didn't also remind you that she isn't perfect.”

Maura's eyes blinked over her. “My significant what?”

“Friend-person.”

“Is that what we are?”

Somewhere along the conversation Maura's head had clearly switched gears, but Jane's mind was having trouble following. “I guess.” She shrugged. “I don't know. We're just – us.” She sighed, putting a hand behind her neck and craning it sideways. The late night, the conversation, the threat of tomorrow's meeting with the FBI, were all taxing more than just her brain.

Maura tipped her head sideways, her eyes darting to Jane's shoulders. “Is your neck bothering you?” she asked, a sudden, clinical concern etched across her brow.

“What? No. A little.” Truthfully, it had been killing her for more than a couple of days, but that didn’t mean she had to show it.

“Here, let me,” Maura said, walking around behind her and placing her hands along the tendons in Jane's shoulders.

“Maura, now's not the time for a massa – OW!” Whatever Maura had done was a far cry from the gentleness of a massage, and Jane felt a sharp pain radiating from a muscle just below her neck. It quickly faded, however, and she felt looser, the tension already leaving her shoulders. “What in the hell did you just do?” she asked, reeling around.

“You had some extra vertebral tension along the posterior longitudinal tendon. Is something stressing you out?”

“What, aside from the guy who just blew his brains out or everything else that's happened over the past three weeks?” Frustration rattled her voice.

Maura shook her head, her eyes pining deeply into Jane's own, and she sighed, knowing that the night would just grow longer if she didn't explain exactly what was bothering her. She had refrained from bringing up the continued investigation into that night, but Maura leaned into her, demanding her to spill. “It's nothing,” Jane said with a wave of her hand. “It's just some Feds coming tomorrow to finalize their investigation.”

“Into what happened at the fire house?”

She nodded, and Maura shook her head, slightly confused. “I thought that was already finalized,” she said. “They got everything they needed from you.”

“It's the FBI,” Jane replied. “Someone was killed. They're just covering their tracks.” Except they were attempting to cover them with her actions, but that was beside the point. She hoped.

“Can't Gabriel fix this? You didn't do anything wrong, Jane.”

“Maura, I don't necessarily want to end my night with this.” She turned back to the house. “Why don't we just talk tomorrow once this all over?”

“Wait, Jane,” Maura said, darting forward and grabbing her arm. “You can choose not to talk to me about this, and that's fine,” she said. “But you have to know that I, along with everyone else in that building, knew that you were doing what was required of you that night. That's all.”

“Well, I'm sure the FBI will come up with whatever story fits them in a better light,” she said, fidgeting with the scar on her palms. “They have conflicting reports on who fired the first shot, apparently.” She shrugged. “It's no big deal, Maur, it'll be fine. It's just paperwork and logistics.”

“Do I need to give another statement?” Maura asked, bewildered. “I was right there. I saw everything.”

“No,” Jane replied, shaking her head. “I just really think they want to find out that I was the one that took the first shot, not Gabriel, because it makes them look cleaner. They’ll fuck off eventually.” She cringed at her choice of words. She must be stressed. She was usually more creative with her vocabulary, especially when she was angry.

“You’re still questioning what happened, aren’t you?” Maura asked, the corners of her lips tugging downward.

She questioned, dreamed, hallucinated. Name the image, and she had somehow conjured it up in her head, but she still hadn’t been able to reconcile that she had fired the bullet that killed Patrick Doyle. She stared at the ground, the toes of her boots shining under the moonlight. “Of course I do.” She slumped against the hood of Maura’s car, pressing her palms against her thighs. “It’s not something you just forget about.”

Maura sat next to her, and put an arm around her, rubbing the small of her back. For someone to grow up without any sort of matronly influence, she did have a knack for knowing when to offer comfort. “No, I know,” she said softly. “Jane, everything was chaos in that place, but you are a trained, capable cop, and you followed standard procedure. You did what you had to do to protect Agent Dean… yourself… me.”

“Yeah,” Jane replied, placing her hand on Maura’s thigh, appreciating the vindication. “I’m usually pretty good at telling myself that. I’m just not looking forward to rehashing it tomorrow, that’s all.” She sighed, standing, and gave Maura her best “okay” smile, but she didn’t seem to be fooled.

“I’m so sorry we were all there that night,” Maura whispered. She cleared her throat. “But no one, me included, blames you for what happened.” She paused, swallowing. “What can I do to help?”

“You just did it,” Jane said, pressing a kiss onto her forehead. “Come here.” She pulled her into a hug, oblivious to the techs milling around in the yard less than thirty feet away. Pressing a kiss on her cheek, she led Maura to the driver’s seat. “Go home, get some sleep, and we'll rehash everything in the morning.” She leaned into the car window. “And stay away from my mother.”

Maura took advantage of the proximity of her lips, pressing a quick kiss against them. “Okay,” she said, letting her hand squeeze Jane's own. “Just get some rest.” She paused. “And try to sleep on your back, to help with the posterior longitudinal ligament.”

“Thank you, Dr. Isles.”

As Maura drove off, Jane trudged back to the crime scene, the idea of work the next day exhausting her completely. The FBI and solving a murder: clearly, the week couldn't get any worse.

- - -

Maura stepped off the elevator of the Hotel Rodenthe towards the corner penthouse, a room that she knew all too well, if only because her parents preferred it over any other room and board option in Boston. The hotel was small, only three floors, but it treated its guests like royalty and offered a comfortable environment. Comfortable, that is, if one was used to a chateau in Paris.

Her father answered her knock at the door with his usual composed smile. “Come in,” he said, as if gesturing in polite company. “Your mother’s just getting settled.”

Maura nodded. “I see she got her way,” she said. “I thought Dr. Ralston was going to keep her until tomorrow.”

“Your mother always gets her way,” Phillip said, motioning toward the bedroom. “I haven’t been able to get her to lie down yet. You’d think the gallery would have spontaneously combusted, as much as she’s been on the phone this morning.”

His eyes narrowed, but Maura detected the mirth in them. If anything, her parents wanted to slide back to normality, and Constance’s desire to do so gave her father comfort more than anything else. She held up a small paper bag. “I brought over some fresh juice,” she said. “It’s made specifically to balance alkaline in the body.”

He took it from her, holding up one of the bottles. “Very green,” he said, walking towards the small kitchen off to the side of the room.

“Yes,” she echoed, unable to tell whether to smile or frown at the comment. She edged toward the bar, unsure if she should disturb her mother or not.

Phillip kept his eyes averted as he busied himself with the scattering of paperwork that littered the countertop, which seemed to have converted itself into his workstation. “Would you like some coffee?” he asked, glancing down at his watch. “It’s about time for a second cup, I’d say.”

Her father always woke before the sun rose, and she distinctly remembered the mornings he was in town when she was a child. She always awoke to the smell of strong, bitter coffee, which overpowered the usual scent of her mother’s black tea. “No,” she said, declining the offer. “Besides, I think your idea of coffee is my idea of engine oil.”

He chuckled, seemingly pleasantly surprised by her levity. “I would imagine you could more than likely run your Prius off of it, yes.”

Their lightheartedness idled into silence, and Maura took in the wide, light-tinted windows that edged the front of the living area. “Does Emily have a room here?” she asked, her biological mother’s name sticking slightly to her tongue.

Phillip glanced up from his paperwork. “No,” he replied. “I believe she’s staying at the Hilton.” He paused, shuffling a few papers. “How was dinner?”

“Fine,” she offered, unsurprised by the casualness with which he asked the question. Her father’s demeanor had always been smooth, as if polished over to mask any nicks or uncertainties. “We’re quite similar.” She quickly qualified her statement. “Physically, I mean.”

He studied her. “You both have the same septumal structure, that’s true.” His anthropological language was one facet of his life that connected them, and she nodded. “But your demeanors couldn’t be more different.”

She looked up at him. “Why do you say that?”

“Well, for one, you’re immensely more sensible. More level-headed.”

Nurture descriptors. She sighed, fidgeting with her hands for a moment before stuffing them into her lap. She turned at the sound of her mother’s voice, which was weaker than usual, but still with its usual European lilt.

“Maura, darling, it’s so nice to see you outside of that drab hospital room.” Her mother wheeled towards her, still in a standard-issue wheelchair, the lower portion of her left leg in a white, bulky cast that was only half-covered by the loose-fitting pants she wore. “Would you like some tea?”

Once again, Maura declined the offer. “I can’t stay too long,” she said, her mind already drifting toward Jane and the uncomfortable, not to mention unneeded and unfair meeting she was being subjected to.

Her father’s cell phone ring, a clipped rendition of Dvorak’s 9th Symphony, trilled into the air, and he moved quickly to answer it, giving a polite nod of his head as he excused himself to the bedroom. Constance looked up at Maura, and motioned her over to the couch, which was considerably more eye level than the current bar stool on which she was perched. “Come sit,” she said, her bright eyes still somewhat cloudy from the drugs.

Maura sat beside her mother’s chair, the bright light accenting the hospital-induced pallor of her skin. Fortunately, the juice she had brought had a healthy dose of Vitamin D. “How are you feeling?” she asked.

Constance smiled. “I’m feeling behind,” she offered. “The gallery is in the midst of setting up for a new show.” She sighed off the question. “I’m more curious as to how you’re doing. Emily says she very much enjoyed dinner with you.”

Maura tried to judge the glint in her mother’s eye, wanting to detect some sort of worry, but Constance was exceptionally good at masking herself, and she was left with no definitive emotion. “I’m glad I got to meet her,” she said finally, keeping her voice even.

Constance nodded. “Of course.” Glancing out the window, she swallowed. “I hope she was able to answer some of your questions.” Hesitation fluttered across her chin. “I haven’t done the best job of that, I know.”

“You didn’t adopt me until I was five,” Maura stated. It wasn’t a question, but it required confirmation nonetheless.

“No,” Constance said with a shake of her head.

“Did you really want to adopt me?” she asked.

“Darling, yes,” Constance said, leaning over, but refraining from reaching out to her. “Your father and I wanted to keep you safe, and happy, and away from anything that could – anything that would hurt you.”

“Is that why you kept all the records closed? Everything? So that I wouldn’t find my way to Emily or Patrick Doyle?”

Constance’s eyes were confused for a moment. “We didn’t make that decision, Maura. Patrick and Emily ordered the records sealed. I only kept in contact with Patrick throughout the years because he asked me to. And after awhile, I could see that it was the only thing that lent him some sort of happiness – that tangential connection to you.”

“What about Emily? She asked you to keep in touch with her, too? You sent her letters.”

Constance’s eyes saddened. “I sent her letters, yes.” There was something left unsaid, something that she tucked just under her tongue, and for some reason it angered Maura. “I think I will make some tea,” Constance said, readying her hands along the wheels of her chair. Whatever courage had prompted her to begin their conversation had quickly disappeared, and Maura felt a wave of frustration run through her.

“I’ll get it,” she offered, motioning for her mother to stay put. She eyed her mother, who swallowed, pointing her eyes towards the rectangled light of the window.

“Maura – “

Her mother’s voice was cut short by a knock at the door, and Maura walked over, opening it, expecting the concierge or a hotel employee. But her mouth dropped open and her heart rate quickened as she glimpsed Emily standing in front of her.

Emily seemed just as surprised to see her, fumbling the bag in her hands. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t expect to see you.” She held up a paper grocery bag. “I told Phillip I would drop off a few things.”

Maura backed away from the door, darting a glance toward Constance, whose shoulders stiffened, but she maintained her polite, regal air. “Come in, Emily,” she said with a cordial wave of her hand. “Maura was just putting on some tea.”

Emily placed a hand on the small of Maura’s back as she passed, giving her an easy smile and walked towards Constance, leaning over and giving her a quick peck on the cheek. “I talked with Dr. Ralston today over the phone. We’re both concerned about the possibility of any pressure on the brain. If you feel even the slightest headache, let him know right away, okay?”

“Both of you, always the doctors,” Constance said with a frozen smile.

Emily darted a glance over her shoulder, placing the bag onto the counter. “I brought you some juice,” she said. “You’ll need much more iron and Vitamin K after that hospital stay – “ her voice cut off as she opened the refrigerator door, glimpsing the bottles of green juice that Phillip had already stowed. “ Well,” she said with a grin. “It looks like you have enough juice to last you through Boston’s next snowstorm.” Winking at Maura, she grabbed the teakettle from the tiny, two-burner stove.

“Tea for three?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. “I see Phillip’s already ingested his morning tar,” she said with a glance at the coffee mug that sat next to his binders.

Watching Emily in awe, Maura darted a glance at her mother, who was staring at both of them in turn, a cold, protectiveness filming her eyes. “No,” she replied, shaking her head, breaking the momentary spell. “I’m on my way into work.”

She may have detected relief in Emily’s shoulders, a slight slumping of her shoulders, but she hid whatever she was feeling behind a quick smile. “Well, then,” she replied. “I guess we can’t compete with work.” She rounded the corner, giving Maura a quick half-shoulder hug. “Enjoy ruminating with the dead today.”

Maura exhaled a smile, but it faded as she felt her mother’s eyes on her back. Rarely had they shared a morgue joke, or any joke at all, and guilt coursed through her, but only for a moment. She walked towards her mother, leaning over and giving her their requisite kiss on the cheek, the action suddenly unsatisfying after Emily’s warm embrace. But she did feel Constance take her hand, giving it a desperate, sudden squeeze. “Come by again when you can,” she said.

“Of course,” Maura assured her with her usual smile. Grabbing her purse, she waved, unable to look back at either woman as she walked towards the door, only exhaling once she was back in the hallway.

- - -

She may not have been having fun with the dead, but the autopsy that awaited Maura offered some form of welcome reprieve, both from thoughts of her mother and from her concerns about Jane. As the hours ticked away with no word from the detective, she became more and more distracted, finally venturing up to the precinct. It was only after Frost let her know that Jane had left, fuming but otherwise uncommunicative, that had led Maura’s high-heeled Jimmy Choos down the hallway toward a third-floor conference room that she had only been in once, for a particularly egregious explanation about an exhumed corpse.

But now, her footsteps were buoyed by a protective, forceful anger. She rapped against the door, and smiled politely at Korsak, whose bushy eyebrows raised so high they were underneath his hair. “Dr. Isles?” he said, perplexed by her presence.

“May I have a word?” she asked.

He glanced behind him, and nodded quickly, taking a step outside, but Maura shook her head, brushing past him. “I meant, with all of you,” she clarified, taking in the three men that ogled her from the table. Her white coat didn’t quite mesh with their rumpled suits, but it was the only part of her wardrobe that gave her some authority.

She recognized a couple of the men, and he at least nodded at her, even if his mouth hung open in blatant surprise. “Good morning,” she said with a polite smile. “I’m Dr. Maura Isles, biological daughter of Patrick Doyle.”

“Uh, Dr. Isles,” Korsak said, clearly unsure of how to deal with her interruption. She turned toward him, giving him a promising smile.

“This won’t take very long,” she said. “I just wanted to make sure that you all had reviewed the autopsy reports and the witness statements accurately, as they will clearly demonstrate that Detective Rizzoli a shot a 9mm  standard-issue bullet into Patrick Doyle’s upper left shoulder, a non-lethal maneuver that is taught specifically to incapacitate an armed perpetrator. You’ll also recall that Patrick Doyle fired the first shot towards FBI Agent Gabriel Dean, who returned fire immediately. It was only after Patrick Doyle fired his second shot, incapacitating your Agent, that Detective Rizzoli fired her weapon.”

“Dr. Isles,” one of the men began, but she held up a finger at him.

“If you studied the autopsy results, which I believe your forensic pathologist, who I hold in quite high esteem, performed, you will see that Patrick Doyle did not die from a gunshot wound, but from a fractured spine, which severed the Occipital nerve that effectively rendered him brain dead.” She felt her throat threaten to close up on her, but she railed on, intent on finishing. “All conclusive results point to the fact that Detective Rizzoli was simply doing her job.”

“That’s not our only question here,” the same man piped up, but again she silenced him with a raise of her finger.

“You’ll also note, if you’ve done your local research, that The Boston Globe has reported extensively on this incident, and that this story alone is responsible for a twelve percent increase in readership over the month of last June. I’m more than certain that they would be willing to reignite the story if they heard that a federal investigative team was using federal taxpayer dollars attempting to incriminate a storied local policewoman, who, I might mention, was also the recipient of the Boston Police Department’s Medal of Honor this past fall.”

The room was silent, the men exchanging uncomfortable glances at one another. One of them cleared his throat.

“I hope I didn’t take up too much of your time,” she said with a saccharine smile. “Good day, gentlemen.” She gave them a small nod and turned, patting a stunned Korsak on his shoulder as she exited, closing the door behind her.

It was only when she slammed her way into the women’s restroom that she finally exhaled, giving a cross between a yelp and a sigh, leaning over and splashing cold water on her face for the second time that week. This time, however, her face was red from anger, rather than pale with fear, and she couldn’t help but give a proud smile at her reflection.

- - -

Jane slammed open the doors to the precinct, the beer she’d treated herself to in the middle of the day only slightly calming her nerves, if not her anger. She had veered straight past Frost’s curious glance after the feds had asked dismissed her, heading straight for The Dirty Robber. How dare they dismiss her? What, so they could make whatever unfair decision they were going to make behind her back?

She sighed, allowing her irritability to overrule her anxiety. Korsak wasn’t going to hang her out to dry, but she wasn’t looking forward to going back to her desk, and hoped that most of her fellow detectives were still at lunch.

Of course, nothing else was going her way that week, so she wasn’t surprised to hear Frost and Korsak’s voices carry toward her as she stomped down the hallway.

“You’re telling me Dr. Isles went gangster on a roomful of feds?” Frost asked.

“She went off on them like she was Tony Soprano,” Korsak responded with a chuckle. “The woman’s definitely Patrick Doyle’s daughter, that’s for damn sure.”

Jane walked into the precinct, her brow arched, as she pointed to both of them in turn. “What the hell are you guys talking about?”

Frost grinned up at her, and motioned at Korsak. “Ask your boss,” he said.

“I’m not in the mood for this,” she said, turning toward the older detective, an expectant look hardening her jaw.

“Well, first off,” Korsak replied, clapping a hand on her shoulder. “The investigation’s over. The feds are packing up and closing out. And your hide is safe.”

It took a moment for the words to settle in, the relief exiting her chest in an audible sigh, and she for the first time that day. Still, she was curious. “Wait, what’s this about Maura?” she asked, trying to keep the protectiveness out of her voice, but as usual not doing a great job.

“Well,” Korsak said, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Turns out your girlfriend’s got bigger balls than most of the men in this building.” He gave Frost a colluding glance.

“Most of the men in this building,” Frost emphasized.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Jane reiterated, her patience thinning.

Korsak laughed. “Maura bamboozled the meeting this morning after you left. Barged in and started railing on the agents, tossing out autopsy and ballistics facts like she does it for a living.” He cleared his throat. “Which, she does, I guess, do for a living. The point is, she had your back in there, Jane. She even threatened to go to the press if they didn’t drop the investigation.”

“Zing!” Frost called, tossing his pencil up in the air. “Your girlfriend’s an OG, Jane.”

“Wait, what?” Jane asked with a shake of her head, still attempting to process, but one word made her snap her head up. “What do you mean, ‘girlfriend’?

“Isn’t that what you call it?” Korsak asked innocently. “A girl that’s your friend?”

“Right,” Frost said, attempting to cover up a grin. “It’s just a term, Jane.”

She smacked Korsak on the shoulder for the hell of it. “You two better keep your mouth shut,” she said, a warning in her voice that she was sure the two of them understood. “I’m going to get this straight from the source.”

“Wait, wait,” Korsak said, sifting through his desk drawer. “I got something for her. Man to man,” he said with another chuckle.

“You guys are chauvinistic imbeciles,” Jane sighed, but whatever Maura had managed to do, she couldn’t help but harbor a little bit of pride for her. But it was the flowering of something else, of feeling quite distinctly that she wasn’t alone anymore, that brought a smile to her face.

Chapter 10

Jane knocked on Maura’s open office door, poking her head inside. “Excuse me,” she said with a grin. “I’m looking for Francesca Carmonte?”

Maura’s smile was quickly replaced by a blank stare, and Jane stepped inside, quickly qualifying her cultural reference. “Al Pacino’s sister in Scarface. One of the most gangster women in movies.”

Maura nodded. “Bonnie Parker would have also sufficed. And would have been historically accurate.”

Jane brushed off the medical examiner’s cultural suggestion, as they were usually two decades too late, and put her hands on her hips. “First of all, thank you for threatening a roomful of FBI agents on my behalf; that was very sweet. Second of all, what the hell were you thinking threatening a roomful of FBI agents on my behalf?”

“I did a full cost-benefit analysis,” Maura said, raising a sheet of scrap paper at her.

“Well, I clearly benefitted. FBI's closing the investigation,” Jane replied.

She hadn't seen Maura's eyes brighten so quickly in over a month, and she couldn’t hide a surprised smile. “What? Jane, that's great!” Maura said, pushing her chair out from under her and rounding her desk with a pleased shake of her shoulders. “I feel as if we should high-five or do some demonstrative show of pleasure.”

“First of all, gangsters don't high-five,” Jane directed. “Second, let's definitely file that demonstrative show of pleasure for later use at a more private location.” She smiled. “For now, how about a fist bump?”

“Ooo, right,” Maura said, casually, and quite expertly curled her fist into a ball, tapping it against Jane's.

“Impressive,” Jane gushed. “I didn't expect you to be so informed about the finer points of socially acceptable gestures.”

Maura rolled her eyes. “Jane, come on. The fist bump, or 'dap', or 'pound', has been around since the Vietnam War, when it was first popularized by soldiers as a way to give kudos or respect. It's always been popular in underground circles and became mainstream fare during the 2008 presidential campaign. Courtesy of Barack and Michelle Obama.” She cocked her head. “Although oddly enough, it was John McCain who served in Vietnam.”

“You're like a mind hoarder,” Jane replied, mystified. As Maura turned back to her desk, giving her the requisite frown she gave whenever her trivia wasn't fully appreciated, she leaned over the desk and gave her a full, rewarding smile. “But I looove you for it,” she said. “And I love you for looking out for me today.”

Maura's face flushed, but only slightly. “More likely, those agents simply came to the conclusion that everyone, Agent Dean included, followed standard procedure.”

“Let me see that cost-benefit analysis,” Jane said, reaching for the piece of paper that Maura brandished at her earlier.

“Jane, no – “ Maura started, but she wasn’t fast enough, and Jane snatched it quickly, turning her back as she read it aloud. Or tried to read it allowed, at least. It wasn’t the easiest to decipher, even coming from Maura.

“P-V equals J over one plus r – “ she gave up, glancing back at the medical examiner. “ You couldn’t just do a list of pros and cons?”

Maura stood, smiling and walking over to her, reclaiming the piece of paper. “This is a much more accurate indicator of net present value.”

“And what did your final net present value turn out to be?” Jane asked.

“Well, the numbers are arbitrary,” Maura replied. “But it was 98.2.” She crumpled the paper in her hand. “I just wanted to protect you,” she said. “It was a very distinct feeling. Must have been the pheromones.”

Jane smiled at her. “What, pheromones made you ride in on your white coat and rescue me?” she teased.

Maura’s lips curled into a grin. “I just want you to know how important you are to me, that’s all,” she said, running a finger absently along the lapel of Jane’s blazer.

As her finger edged over the inside pocket of the jacket, Jane was reminded of Korsak’s gift. “Here,” she said, reaching for it. “This is from Korsak.”

Maura’s eyes widened. “Oh, an Auturo Fuente Opus X. These are very rare outside of the Dominican Republic. These can run over $1000 a box.”

“I don’t even want to know how you know this,” Jane replied. “And since when do you smoke?”

“I don’t, I just happen to know the finer points of the Dominican agrarian trade routes.”

“How does your brain fit inside that head of yours?” Jane asked, only half-kidding. She waved Maura and the cigar away from her. “Go store that away from me,” she said. “I can’t smell like beer and cigars all day.”

“There are some cigars that utilize tantric herbs as an aphrodisiac component,” Maura offered.

“Well, I’ll make sure to tell Korsak all about those,” she said, and shuddered at the thought. “Listen, I just wanted to come down and tell you thank you.” She cocked her head. “And to see if you had autopsy results for me.”

“Well, you’re welcome, and yes, I do,” Maura said with a smile, handing over a file folder. “I also wanted to ask you something.”

“Shoot,” Jane said, her eyes grazing the preliminary results on the first page. By now she’d gotten pretty good at deciphering the technical results, but she still relied on Maura to spell out some of her jargon. After a slight pause, she looked up, and noticed that the blonde seemed to be struggling with whatever it was she wanted to ask.

“I don’t know the rules around… us yet,” Maura began. “But you’re my friend-person-or-other and I want you to come to brunch this Saturday to meet Emily.”

“What?” Jane asked, the autopsy results suddenly no longer as prescient.

“Well, it makes sense,” Maura said defensively. “How can you arbitrate whether my own response to her is accurate unless you meet her, too?”

“I have no problem judging her from a comfortable distance,” Jane replied. “Besides, I can’t tell you what to think about Emily, Maura, you know that. It's not my place.”

“You tell me what to think all the time, whether I want you to or not.”

“Right, but do you usually listen to me?”

Maura’s face changed, her lips forming a straight line. “No.”

“Okay, then.” She softened her tone. “I’m honestly flattered, Maura, but don’t you think it’s best if brunch is just the two of you?”

She could tell Maura wasn’t convinced, simply by the flicker that twitched across her cheek. “Jane, this is important to me. If Emily wants to see what my life looks like, then that includes you.”

“Are you sure you want to let her in like this?” Jane asked, recognizing the desperation in her own tone. She didn’t know Emily, but that was all the more reason not to trust her to make things more complicated for Maura, at a time when she needed things to settle down. “It’s not like she’s made an effort for the past thirty-seven years. Why now?”

“Because I’ve waited so long for this, Jane,” Maura responded, a longing in her voice that began to break Jane's own resolve. “Something has always been missing, and I finally have a chance to fill the oxytocin-shaped hole that’s been burning away inside me.”

“I like the way you just scientifically rendered that cliché relevant again,” Jane replied, knowing she was testing her limits with her teasing, but attempting to stall her answer. It didn’t seem as if Maura was going to accept anything but a “yes”, and Jane didn’t necessarily want to be the one disappointing her. Again. So she nodded, enjoying the brief glow from Maura’s eyes.

“Really?” she asked, smiling. “You’ll come?”

“Yes,” Jane said, now feeling a bit disappointed in herself. Maura had gone out on a limb to protect her today, and it didn't seem as if she was returning the favor. “For you. Only for you. Not for her, and it’s not my job to make her feel good about all these years, okay?”

Maura nodded. “Thank you,” she said.

Jane sighed. “Well, I do owe you.” She smiled. “Remember, ‘The only thing in this world that gives orders is balls.” Again, she got a blank stare from Maura, but then a knowing nod.

“That’s a quote from Scarface, isn’t it?” she asked, rolling her eyes.

“You’re learning,” Jane replied with a grin, but waved the folder that she still held in her hand. “Now help me with this,” she said, frowning. There were some things even gangsters couldn’t decipher on their own.

- - -

Maura studied the room with a discerning eye, taking in the myriad trinkets, décor, and adornments that made up the feng shui of her home. She had spent the morning cleaning, which it seemed was what one always did when a mother was coming to visit, whether biological or not, and was now beginning to work on the finer points of preparing brunch.

She heard Bass scuffle across the floor by her desk, and as she smiled down at him, her eyes flitted across her desk, where she had scattered several ballistics texts. She quickly covered them up with a more palatable anatomy book and gave Bass a frown. This is the same behavior she had exhibited all morning: determining what every little thing in her home said about her, or what insight it would give Emily. It was just past eleven and she was already exhausted.

Turning back to the kitchen, she thought about pouring a mimosa from the pitcher she had prepared, but instead opted for orange juice alone. There was no need to repeat the finer points of her last meal with Emily, not when she was getting on a plane to San Diego that afternoon. Maura wanted to savor their time together.

She should play some background music. She knew the finer points of how music could relax the brain, or make the brain more creative, but the thought of choosing something was tiresome, and instead she relaxed into the silence.

Silence.

She would meditate. She took a seat in front of Bass, her usual position, crossing her legs underneath her and placing her hands at her knees. She was just beginning to quiet the running loop in her mind when the doorbell rang, startling her.

Hopping up and stepping over Bass, she felt the familiar quickening of her pulse as she glimpsed Emily through her front window, and performed one last cursory glance at her surroundings before opening the door.

“Good morning,” Emily said with an apologetic smile, her suitcase standing just behind her. “I know I’m a little early, but check-out at the hotel was at eleven, so I thought I’d stop by.”

“I picked this up,” Emily said, holding up a pastry box. “I have no idea if it’s worth it, but the concierge said it was the best fruit tart in Boston.”

As they continued through their initial formalities, Maura watched as Emily gazed at her surroundings with a curious, if discreet, eye, absorbing the details that made up her life. It warmed her, seeing that curiosity, and the way Emily eagerly bent toward Bass with a grin, touching him shell with a scientific graze of her hand. “What a beautiful home,” she said with a pleasant smile as she took in the living room. “Absolutely lovely.”

“Thank you,” Maura replied, handing her a mimosa, but choosing to stick with her plain orange juice. “I went through my share of cramped apartments before this, though.”

“Oh, didn’t we all,” Emily sighed with a wave of her hand. “When I first moved to San Diego I lived with a set of fraternal twins and a parrot. But the parrot did help me study for the MCAT. Probably the smartest parrot in San Diego by the time I got done teaching him the finer points of medical jargon.”

“Did you always want to go to medical school?” she asked, looking at her with a curiosity that she had never held for her own parents.

“Oh, yes. I wanted to be a veterinarian for a long time, but eventually the human body won me over. My parents could never understand my fascination with it. Our mother died when we were young, I’m sure Constance has told you that. Our father had his textile business. I was a bit of a lone bird when it came to medicine.” She glanced up at Maura. “Like you, I guess.”

Maura shifted, busying herself by checking on a quiche in the oven. “I was a bit of a loner,” she offered, keeping her gaze away from Emily’s penetrating green eyes.

“Patrick was content with solitude, too.” She turned her gaze toward a window. “Sometimes it’s good to be able to be alone. It builds character."

Maura felt more questions burning someplace unnamable inside her, but something about Emily's vacant gaze gave her pause. Pushing her own ambivalence back, she wiped her hands on a towel. She had spent so much of her life in her head, parsing things in and out, but maybe it was time she begin living in the present. She smiled. "How about I give you a tour?" she asked. 

As Emily nodded, tossing her red scarf onto the couch, Maura walked over, hooking an arm through hers in a gesture that felt as natural as if she had been doing it her whole life. Present was good. It was the past that haunted her. 

- - -

Jane cursed under her breath, clutching a bottle of white wine under her arm as she hurried up Maura’s front walk. She had meant to be early, of course, but changing her outfit twice had, of course, made her just barely on time.

“Knock, knock,” she called as she pushed open the door, walking into an empty foyer. “Maura?” she called, but the kitchen and living room were empty, a pitcher of mimosas and a tray of diced veggies the only signs that anyone was even home. She did, however, notice the suitcase stowed in one corner of the living room and a bright red scarf flung across the back of the couch, and turned her head towards a chuckle from the back hallway.

The sound of her boots gave her away, and she heard Maura call from the guest bedroom. “Jane?”

“Yep,” she replied, pasting a smile onto her face as she rounded the corner. She had to work to preserve it as she caught sight of the photo album that was opened on the bed, both Maura and Emily perched on either side of it.

“Jane,” Maura said, hopping off the bed and taking her hand with a proud smile. “I want you to meet Emily Lawrence. Emily, this is Jane.”

Emily was already standing, a wide smile stretched across her face, a warmth in her eyes that was surprising, and it was easy to see why Maura had been so completely taken with her since their first dinner. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she said. “Believe it or not, Constance has already told me quite a bit about you.”

Jane did a double take. “Excuse me?” As far as she knew, Constance merely tolerated her. When she even remembered who she was, that is.

Maura cut in, sidling back to Emily. “We were just passing some time,” she said, gesturing towards the photo album. “I was showing her the photos from my time in Ethiopia.”

Jane nodded slowly, forcing a saccharine smile on her face that she was sure wasn’t lost on Maura. “Ah, yes, with the lovely Ian.”

Maura smirked at her, her lip twitching slightly as she reached for a plate of cheese and crackers that sat on the chest in front of the bed. Jane noticed Emily grab a mimosa from the bedside table, and her protective signal went off into high alert. How chummy had they managed to get in less than two days? “Jane, would you like a mimosa?” Maura asked, brushing past her with a comforting hand on her arm.

Jane followed the two of them back into the living room. “Sure,” she called, although she was more of a bloody mary kind of gal. “Sounds dainty.”

Maura poured her a glass, gesturing for the two of them to take a seat, but Jane bypassed the table, following her into the kitchen. “Give me a few minutes,” Maura said, peeking into the oven. “The quiche is almost ready.”

Jane waited beside her, taking a long sip from her glass. “Things seem to be going well,” she observed, studying Maura’s easy expression, the relaxation in her shoulders. It was a far cry from the rigidity that normally permeated through her whenever her parents were around.

“Yeah,” she nodded with a smile. “Go entertain her for a minute, do you mind? I’m just going to plate.” Jane sighed, turning, but Maura caught her arm, an appreciative smile on her face. “I’m so glad you’re here. I know you're exhausted.”

It was true, as their cut and dry suicide had turned into more of a homicidal nightmare, but she returned Maura's smile. “I can charm even when I’m tired,” she promised, walking towards the table, taking a seat across from Emily.

“Jane, how long have you been a detective?” she asked, and Jane had to give her credit for taking an interest. She certainly had manners, but then that seemed like it ran in the Dixon blood. They gave Emily Post a run for her money.

“I’ve been with the force for thirteen years,” she replied. “I’ve been a detective now for about six years.”

Emily nodded, impressed. “The things you must see in your line of work,” she said. “I’m sure it can be quite painful at times.”

Jane didn’t like the sudden attention on herself, preferring instead to delve into Emily’s life. After all, she was the mystery. “I’m sure your line of work has its own share of heartbreak,” she returned. “How long have you had your own practice?”

“For over fifteen years now,” Emily replied, exhaling. “Time flies.”

“What about kids?” Jane asked, already knowing with the answer, but wanting to rattle the indefatigable Emily Lawrence. Judging from what Maura had told her, the woman seemed too good to be true. Or maybe she had just been a detective for far too long. Either way, she continued probing. “Did you have any more children?”

The older woman’s eyes narrowed, and Jane saw the lump bob in her throat as she swallowed, picking up her mimosa glass. “No,” she said, taking a sip, but recovering quickly. “Work has kept me occupied over the years.” Clearing her throat, she veered the conversation in another direction. “Maura tells me your mother lives next door?”

Jane nodded. “Yeah. I have to give Maura credit, she’s wonderful with my mother. I think she’s mostly bewildered by her, but wonderful nonetheless.” She smiled, glancing over at Maura, who had her back toward them, her head bent over her quiche. “But, if you ever need a place to stay when you come visit, my mother is always willing to give it up for a night or two. Gives her a chance to stay with me and motherize my entire apartment.”

Emily’s blinked quickly. “I don’t think that will be necessary,” she said with a wave of her hand, taking a quick swallow of her drink.

Jane mimicked her, the champagne mildly burning her throat as she swallowed. “True, you could stay in the guest bedroom, I guess. The only thing Maura uses that room for is an extra closet.”

Again, the green eyes avoided hers, and Jane felt something prickle along the back of her neck. “You don’t plan on coming back, do you?” she asked lowly.

“Brunch is served!” Maura called from the kitchen, walking over and setting down a piping hot quiche on the table, Jane’s question still hanging awkwardly over them. Maura sat next to Jane, placing her napkin in her lap with a pleased flourish.

Emily spoke first, breaking the silence. “Maura, this looks absolutely delicious,” she gushed approvingly, avoiding Jane’s quick glance.

In order to make herself useful, and to force the glare from her face, Jane rose, taking the serving spoon and doling out plentiful portions on each of their plates. If she happened to let Emily’s land on the plate with a satisfying plop, it was only because she couldn’t actually verbalize her displeasure with her. Although her appetite had disappeared along with Emily's tacit admission, Jane kept up her façade for Maura’s sake, smiling and nodding at appropriate intervals, and providing the humor that she knew always set the blonde at ease. Maura seemed content with simply sharing a meal with her biological mother, as if she had already exhausted all possible questions about the past. It was that trust, the hopeful innocence, that had always characterized Maura, and Jane hated that those same qualities would only cause her pain once Emily left.

After they sat for a few moments, the quiche half depleted from the serving pan, Maura tossed her napkin beside her plate. “Oh! The tart! I hope you saved room for dessert.” She rose quickly, heading once again for the kitchen, and Jane glanced at Emily over her glass.

“Jane, this whole thing is quite complicated,” she whispered, keeping an eye on Maura. “After all these years I owed her something.”

Jane leaned into her, the edginess in her voice apparent even through her whisper. “I think I know how complicated it is, seeing as how I’ve watched Maura struggle with this, first with Doyle, and now with you. She may be your flesh and blood, but you don't know her like I do. What she needs from you is clear expectations.” 

Emily's raised a calculating eyebrow. “Constance was right,” she said. “You're as protective as a Doberman.”

Jane frowned, leaning into her. “Well, I love Maura.”

“And you think I don't?” Emily asked. “I think about her every single day of my life.” 

“With all due respect, Dr. Lawrence, that’s not enough,” she said sharply, her own words surprising her. She saw reticence flash through Emily’s eyes as she leaned back in her chair, and as Maura returned baring a plate of fresh fruit tarts, the older woman had a harder time rekindling her usual smile.

Jane was quiet during dessert, thankful that even though her comment seemed to unravel Emily, she at least made an effort at engaging Maura. Jane welcome their medical banter, and their brief argument on the finer points of a vegan diet, but it was only when Emily glanced at her watch and excused herself to call a cab that Jane felt a pang of worry. She subconsciously placed a hand on Maura’s shoulder. “How you doing?” she asked, checking in.

Maura smiled brightly at her. “I like her. Don't you like her?” She qualified her question with a nod of her head. “I mean, sure, I’ve only known her for a few days, but it’s like I’ve known her my whole life, Jane. Like she was always someplace inside me.”

Jane swallowed, averting her gaze toward her mimosa, afraid her voice would catch in her throat. “Maura,” she began, but Emily returned with a sudden, stoic look on her face.

“The cab should be here in about fifteen minutes,” she said, glancing down at Maura. “Is it all right the two of us talk outside?” she asked.

“Of course,” Maura replied, darting a smile at Jane.

Jane stood, locking eyes with Emily, knowing that whatever conversation the two of them were about to have, it wouldn’t end the way Maura wanted it to, but she managed to reach out and shake her hand. “I’m glad I got to meet you,” she offered weakly, but unable to stretch a smile across her face.

Emily took her hand with a nod. “Likewise,” she said. “Maura is quite lucky to have you in her life.”

Jane watched as they headed toward the door, Maura grabbing Emily’s suitcase and rolling it politely along the hardwood floor. She felt a sudden knot in her throat and poured herself another mimosa, washing it down, but it simply dropped to the pit of her stomach. Turning her attention to the dishes, she realized the only thing she could do now was to be there when Maura returned.

- - -

Maura let Emily’s suitcase come to a stop along the first step, squinting into the sunlight that coated her front yard in a brilliant green. “Are you sure I can’t give you a ride to the airport?” she asked.

Emily smiled at her. “No, I’ll be fine, sweetheart, but thank you.” She motioned toward the swing at the end of the porch. “Sit with me?”

Maura followed her lead, sitting beside her, each of them pushing the ground lightly with their feet, swaying the swing in an easy rhythm. “I’m glad you came,” she offered first, the hesitation that she felt during her first meeting with Emily having melted away. “I mean, I’m glad you came to Boston.”

“Me too,” Emily said, glancing quickly over at her before returning her gaze to a spot just in front of their feet.

“Maybe at some point I can visit you in San Diego,” Maura offered. “Now that you’ve seen a little of my life, I can see some of yours.” The silence was what made her look over, but it was the empathetic, sad smile that rendered a knot in her chest.

“Maura, I am so thankful that I had the chance to meet you,” Emily replied carefully, weighing her words like a doctor giving a poor diagnosis. “And I am so glad to see that Constance and Phillip have raised such a smart, beautiful woman.” She turned to Maura, her eyes glazing with a wistful sadness. “But I think it’s best if we keep things… as they are.”

Maura’s felt a burn just above her sternum. “I don’t understand,” she began, but the words were siphoned off by the tightening of her throat.

Emily’s eyes were pained, the lines on her mouth deepening with her frown. “It’s not my place to disrupt your life,” she said. “It’s not my place to uproot the structure that your parents worked so hard to preserve all these years.” She reached out for Maura’s hand, squeezing it tightly. “It’s not my place,” she repeated, her eyes wet. “You have to understand that.”

Maura had never been punched in the stomach, but she knew the physiological response that occurred when a fist pummeled into the intestine, and she imagined it felt like what she was feeling now. She wrenched her hand from Emily’s grasp, wiping at her eyes with a quick violence as she rose from the swing, her vulnerability now a liability more than an asset. “Isn’t there some biological imperative – “ she cut herself off, her words ridiculous, even to her. “ You wanted me in your life at some point,” she said. “You both did. You asked my mother to send you updates, letters, pictures…” she trailed off, her breath leaving her.

Emily’s eyes narrowed with a beleaguered confusion, and she rose, the swing creaking at its sudden emptiness, and reached for Maura, wrapping her arms around her. The grasp was desperate, and strong, but she let go too quickly. “I’ll still be here, Maura. I’ll still think of you every single day, just like I’ve done for the past thirty-seven years. But I’m not the mother that raised you.” Her voice cracked. “And it’s important that both of us remember that. I owe Phillip and Constance that much.”

The numbness that washed over her was quite comforting, as if slipping back into old clothes, and Maura nodded, allowing rationality to govern her response. “Of course,” she said. “I understand.”

Emily’s eyes darkened at the sudden shift, as if she recognized the wall that had just gone up. “Remember, you have a way to contact me. I’ll still be here. Just not the way you want me to be.” She shook her head. “I don’t regret spending this time with you,” she said. “I hope you don’t regret it, either.”

“No,” Maura said, with a shake of her head, slipping into her role of hostess rather than daughter, but her face was pained, the pressure behind her eyes increasing. “I’m glad you came.”

She heard the cab pull up to the curb, but didn’t turn her head, preferring instead to stare at the wooden slats of the porch, tallying the nails in each board. Their exchange was now formal, and with no formalities left to address, there was nothing left to do but say their goodbyes. Emily reached in for a hug, but Maura demurred, instead giving her the kiss on the cheek that she had perfected with her own parents over the years.

“This is for the best, Maura,” she said, and with that she turned, her suitcase rolling behind her. Maura watched climb her into the cab, and give a small, sad wave as she pulled away. Emily had filled some sort of hole that she had been looking to fill for years, and her fleeting appearance had only wedged that hole bigger, so that now she felt it even more: huge, cavernous, and empty.

Maura didn’t hear the door open, but she felt Jane behind her, and just to prove that she could force her voice to work, she spoke. “She doesn’t think it’s a good idea to keep in touch.” Was that her voice, that mottled, closed sound?

“Maura,” Jane exhaled behind her, pressing her hands on her shoulders.

“How could I have been so naïve?” she asked. “To think that I could make her want me in her life after thirty-seven years?” She forced a bitter laugh from her throat. “Oxytocin doesn’t work that long.”

Jane pressed a hand against the small of her back, rubbing in small circles. It was that lingering touch of comfort, one that had promised never to go anywhere, which finally let her release her disappointment. Turning towards the taller woman, she pressed a fist against her mouth, not wanting to cry, not wanting to give Emily, a stranger, that much power over her, but as Jane wrapped her arms around her, she let go.

Tears, she knew, were connected to the lachrymal gland, but the sobs that ratcheted up through her stomach were something else entirely, as if they were ripping apart her diaphragm. She couldn’t quite decipher Jane’s comforting whispers, but she didn’t need to; they traveled straight through her spine, settling into the hole in the pit of her stomach.

Pressing her hands against Jane’s chest, she pushed a little distance between them, enough to look up at her. “This is all for the best,” she said, repeating Emily’s words. Again, her eyes spilled over. “I know that, I really do, I just don’t know why my lachrymal glands don’t.”

“Maybe just let your lachrymal glands work this out on their own, okay?” Jane asked. “Unless they eventually just stop producing tears.”

“They don’t,” Maura said, shaking her head.

“Well, then, we’ve got all day,” Jane reiterated. “I’m not going anywhere.” As if to accent her point, Jane clasped her hands around Maura’s back, locking her into a comfortable embrace, neither of them moving nor speaking for a few moments.

“Do you want to go for a walk?” Maura asked, wiping her forefingers across her eyes and glancing up at the sky. It was beautiful, and she felt a need to stay outdoors, if only to lighten the weight that she felt pressing on her chest.

Jane followed her gaze. “Sure. With my track record, though, I’m still bringing an umbrella.”

Maura smiled. “I don’t think you need one today.”

Jane shrugged. “I don’t know. Depending on your lachrymal activity, I just might.”

Maura laughed, grateful that somehow, Jane always knew inherently what she needed. “I think you might be responsible for drying out my lachrymal glands,” she replied, but Jane cringed, pursing her lips.

“Okay, I know what it means,” she replied. “But it sounds bad. I don’t want to be responsible for drying anything out…”

Maura pushed her towards the front door, her sadness still daunting, but a little less relevant. “Fine, then get your umbrella. I hope you got a new one.”

“I did. I took Frost’s.”

Maura giggled, crossing her arms over her chest as Jane disappeared back into the house. She turned, catching Frankie’s car pull up to the curb, an unexpected, if not infrequent sight. He hopped out carrying three bags of soil in his arms and struggled to wave at her as she walked along the front path, meeting him. “You look like you’ve got some work to do,” she said as he set the bags along a patch of grass near the guesthouse, where a row of unpotted petunias and tulips already sat.

The door to the guesthouse clanged open, and Angela walked out, wearing an apron and a set of large, cloth gardening gloves, her face covered by a wide straw hat. She tipped her head up, waving at Maura. “Perfect day for gardening,” she said perkily, glancing down at the bags of soil. “Oh, Frankie, I said to get the organic plus minerals kind!”

Frankie put up his hands, defensively. “Whoa, Ma, first of all, you didn’t say that. Second, this is all they had.”

“Unless you shop for your soil at the bodega at the corner, then I’m sure that this isn’t all they had,” Angela replied.

“You know, it’s fine,” Maura said, jumping in. “You can always up the mineral content of the soil by mixing it with compost. I’ve been meaning to start a compost pile in the back, anyway, so I’m happy to help.”

“What a doll,” Angela said, pinching her cheek with a roughly gloved hand. She jerked her head towards Frankie. “She’s a doll,” she emphasized.

“Whoa, whoa, what’s going on out here?” Jane asked, returning, this time with a large umbrella.

“We’re planting flowers today,” Frankie said, and even Maura detected the sarcasm in his voice.

“Jane, why are you carrying that umbrella?” Angela asked. “It’s beautiful outside.”

“You know, we could help you plant, if you’d like,” Maura offered, bending down to finger the leaf of a tulip.

“No,” Angela and Frankie said in unison, almost bowling her over, and she gave a bruised look at Jane.

“No offense, but Jane’s not coming anywhere near these flowers,” Angela said, stepping protectively in front of them.

Jane rolled her eyes, and Maura looked back at her with amusement, waiting for an explanation. Instead, Frankie spoke up. “Jane doesn’t have a very green thumb,” he explained with a grin. “She kills just about every living plant she touches.”

“That’s not true,” Jane said defensively.

Maura nodded. “That’s not surprising.” She ignored Jane’s stare, continuing. “There is research that indicates that plants feed off of more than just their environment. It’s the way in which they’re cared for that affects their growth as well.” She glanced back at Jane. “You’re very aggressive.”

“Yeah, well, that’s why I’m at the top of the food chain.”

“Speaking of, I’m making a roast for dinner tonight,” Angela said. “You both are more than welcome to come join Frankie and me.”

“Wow, Frankie, that dating life of yours must be going really well,” Jane cooed, leaning over to him and giving him a playful shove. “Dinner with Ma on a Saturday night.” She snickered.

“Actually, I would love to do dinner,” Maura cut in, glancing up at Jane.

“You would?”

Maura nodded, ignoring Jane’s stare. “I would,” she said with a smile.

“Okay then, family dinner it is,” Jane agreed, putting a hand around Maura’s waist. “And since I don’t need to spend my entire day arguing with you two, we’re going to take a walk.”

Maura didn’t bother pulling away from Jane’s embrace, but instead leaned into it. As they turned toward the street, Angela’s matronly tone, which was clearly meant for Frankie, but carried clear across the yard, settled into the hole inside her, filling it with a familial, if not biological love.

- - -

Maura watched, seated from the couch in her parents’ suite, as her mother experimented with the crutches that she brought over earlier that afternoon. She had steered clear of both her parents for the past two days, and in order to assuage her guilt around Emily, but after Jane’s encouragement, had decided to finally make a visit.

“These are certainly unladylike,” Constance said, grimacing as she huffed towards the tiny kitchen of the penthouse.

Maura stifled a grin. “Well, you shouldn’t use them except to move around here,” she said. “You can still keep your ladylike aura in public.”

“Thank god for that,” Constance replied with a smile, settling back into the comfort of the couch with an exerted sigh.

“Would you like some tea?” Maura asked, attempting to make herself useful.

“No, but how about some of that lovely green juice?” Constance asked.

Maura made her way to the refrigerator, pouring a small glass, when her mother spoke again. “You haven’t mentioned Emily today,” she said, studying Maura with a blue gaze as she accepted the juice. “Do you mind if I ask how the two of you left things?”

It was a fair question, and one that Maura had successfully avoided thinking about, thanks to an increasingly difficult case at work and Jane’s plentiful distractions. “She would prefer to keep her distance,” she replied, easing onto the couch next to her mother. It had become easier to deal with over the past couple of days, but it still didn’t extinguish her sadness. “That’s understandable.”

Constance nodded. “She’s always preferred things that way,” she said.

Maura turned to her. “What do you mean?”

“She wasn’t like Patrick. He always wanted a letter, or a photo. There were times when I would look up, at your graduation from Winsor, for example, and he would be standing off to the side.” She shook her head. “But Emily wasn’t like that.”

“I thought she asked you for letters,” Maura said, suddenly confused. “I thought she wanted to know things about us.”

Constance placed her hand on Maura’s knee. “I wrote her letters, yes. Many of them. But she never asked for any. It may not have been my place to send them to her in the first place, but how could I not share how brilliant her daughter had become? I knew she’d take pride in it, on some level, even if she didn’t reach out for it.”

Maura shook her head slightly. If that were the case, then Emily had never wanted prolonged contact with her. The trip to Boston, their meeting, was simply a way to assuage her curiosity. Or her guilt.

“You can be angry,” Constance said, squeezing her knee. “But not with her.” She reached over and cupped Maura’s chin towards her. “We all made mistakes, but we did the best we could. If I could go back, darling, I would live each and every day being unafraid. I was so afraid of making a mistake with you, or breaking down, or not giving you everything, that I’m not sure I gave you anything that you actually needed. Or wanted.”

“Mom,” Maura mumbled, unsure of whether her voice could raise any higher than a whisper.

“I don’t want regret to be the only thing I feel with you,” Constance continued. “I think the absolute world of you, darling, and frankly, I don’t know how you managed to turn out quite so brilliantly. You are the biggest, most pleasant surprise I’ve ever gotten.”

Maura smiled, managing to swallow the lump in her throat, preferring instead to lean her head on her mother’s shoulder, enjoying the understated, yet tender squeeze of her mother’s hand on her knee. “Don’t underestimate the scientific zeal of nurture,” she said, letting the quietness settle around them. “I love you,” she added softly.

“Je t’aime,” Constance echoed, pressing a kiss against the crown of her head. They stayed still for a moment, only the trees outside the windows moving, It wasn’t until the door of the suite opened did Maura finally lift her head, raising her eyebrows toward her father, who carried a bulging bag of produce and a newspaper in his arms.

“Bonjour, Mesdames,” he called as he set the bag on the kitchen counter.

Constance glanced over at him, then back at Maura. “Your father thinks he is going to cook a French meal in that god awful kitchen,” she said with a slight smirk, the laugh lines around her eyes intensifying with the thought.

“That’s because I am,” Phillip emphasized. He glanced over at the two of them. “Maura, you’re welcome to stay. I picked up the restored version of Marcel Carne’s Les Enfants du Paradis on DVD.”

Constance turned toward him. “Phillip, we’ve already seen that.”

“Twenty years ago, yes, but this is the newly restored version. It will be like watching it with new eyes.”

“More like tired eyes,” she returned. “Your father begins a film very ambitiously,” she said to Maura. “But he’s asleep by the denouement.”

“Nevertheless, Maura, you’re more than welcome to join us,” Phillip reiterated.

“Thank you,” she replied, with a genuine smile. “But I have a date tonight.”

“Ah, with your detective?” Phillip asked, his voice muffled as he reached into the grocery bag.

“She’s not my detective,” Maura chastised, but nonetheless appreciated the fact that her parents had acclimated so easily to the thought of it. “Her name is Jane, and you both know that.”

Constance smiled, glancing over at her husband. “We must do dinner with her before we leave, Phillip. What was that place where we ate before?” she asked, glancing at Maura. “Phillip, you would adore it, it’s so quaintly Irish.”

“I love the Irish,” he replied. “Such spirited people.”

“Okay,” Maura sighed, clasping her mother’s knee and rising from the couch. She would never be able to take the bourgeoisie out of her parents. “I’m making dinner for Jane tonight, so unfortunately, I’ll have to leave you both to your French cuisine.” She leaned over and gave her mother a peck on the cheek. “But why don’t we plan on dinner this weekend?”

“That sounds lovely,” Constance said, attempting to get to her feet.

“Mom – “

“Constance – “

At the double chastisement, Constance sat down again, this time resting her back against one end of the couch so that she could see the two of them as they exchanged goodbyes.

“Ah,” Maura said, fishing through her purse and walking toward her father. “This is for you.”

He took the cigar from her fingers with a wide smile, putting it immediately under his nose and giving it a wide, appreciative sniff. “Where in the world did you find this?” he asked. “It’s one of the most expensive Dominican products on the market.”

“It was a gift,” she said with a shrug and a smile, reaching up to give him a peck on the cheek. “Au revoir,” she called over her shoulder as she slid out the door, her parent’s goodbyes following her out the door. She caught one last look at them as she closed the door, smiling softly at their effortless formality, which she had only just begun to see as slightly endearing.

- - -

Jane rushed up Maura's front walk, her boots carrying her as fast as she could go. This case had already kept her working long hours, but now it was beginning to cut into her dates, and she didn't appreciate it in the least. Instead of enjoying a home cooked meal with Maura that night, she had instead enjoyed a microwaved burrito with Korsak and Frost. “Maura, I'm so sorry I'm late,” she called bounding inside. She smiled as Maura walked over to her, still dressed in the clothes she wore to work, which could have doubled on a runway.

“Wow,” she said, appreciatively. “You still look amazing.”

“Did you get the warrant?” Maura asked, automatically taking a beer out of the refrigerator and popping it for her before handing it over. Jane took advantage of the closeness, pressing a quick kiss against her lips.

“No,” she replied. “That Judge is on my shit list as of eight o’clock tonight. But I want to put all of that out of my head.” She smiled down at Maura, setting her beer on the counter and wrapping her hands around her waist. “I'm so sorry I had to cancel our dinner.”

“No worries,” Maura said, tapping one of the arms that circled her waist. “My only other option tonight was a French film and two ex-patriots.” She laughed, dragging Jane to the other end of the counter. “Come here, I got you something.”

“Ooo, a present?” Jane asked, slipping out of her blazer and tossing it over a bar stool. “Show me.”

“Close your eyes,” Maura requested.

“What if I don't?”

“Then you won't get your surprise.”

“Okay,” Jane said easily, closing her eyes as she took a seat. “Should I count to three or something?”

“No need to,” Maura said, and Jane heard the refrigerator open and close. “Okay, open.”

As Jane opened her eyes, Maura's hands flashed over a brown paper box wrapped with a blue ribbon. “Voila!” she called, and Jane focused on the scrawled, printed cursive on the top of the box. “Bertolli's?” she asked incredulously, a smile edging her lips. “Where in the world did you get this?”

“They moved!” Maura said, excitement and pride bubbling in her voice as she opened the box, revealing one of the biggest, most perfect slices of tiramisu Jane had ever seen. “I found them over on Rankin, only a couple of blocks over.”

Jane’s mouth dropped open as she stared at Maura, who smiled brightly back at her, clearly pleased by her ingenuity. Those smiles had come intermittently since Emily left, but there was something about this one that was more rewarding than any of them. Had she ever seen Maura look more beautiful than right now?

“What?” Maura asked, raising her eyebrows, but her smile didn’t disappear. “You’re looking at me like I’m a piece of tiramisu.”

"Maybe that's because I want to taste you." Jane cringed, even as the words left her mouth. When had she become so corny?

Maura raised an amused, if not exactly aroused, eyebrow. "Are you flirting with me?"

"Not very well," Jane replied with an embarrassed grin. "But yes."

Maura slid around the counter, closing the gap between them and sidling between Jane's legs. "You know, the tiramisu isn't going anywhere," she said. "And it's better when it gets to room temperature." She cocked her head, momentarily losing her breathy voice. "It would take approximately seventeen minutes for it to warm down to the current temperature in this room."

Jane pressed a kiss against her lips, a gesture that had now become a habit. There was one last step in their relationship, however, that they hadn't ventured toward yet, and she felt her pulse quicken with the possibility. "I could try for some seductive remark, but instead I'll just ask you this: "You sure about this?"

Maura returned her kiss, but this time slipped her tongue inside Jane's mouth, which was more than enough of an answer. When she pulled back, she smiled. "Yes."

Jane peered closely at her. "You're sure that you're sure?"

"Jane, yes - "

Maura let out a quick yelp as Jane stood, quickly scooping her off her feet and clearing a straight path to the bedroom. By the time they got there, their laughs were stifled by their kisses, and Jane clumsily dropped Maura onto the bed, straddling her hips.

Their giggles halted, and Maura's chest heaved with something more than mirth as she stared up at Jane. Reaching up, she pulled Jane toward her, their kiss now more tentative than before, but just as needy. Since her hands were occupied with keeping her balance, Jane let her mouth work for her, sliding her lips across Maura's jaw bone, the pulse at her neck, then delving toward her ear, eliciting a soft, affirming moan from the woman beneath her.

As Maura's capable hands found their way underneath Jane's shirt, grazing upwards to cup her breasts, she let out a reciprocal moan of her own, allowing the medical examiner to explore for a few moments as she arched into the touch. Suddenly, Maura pressed against her shoulders, moving her aside as she rose from the bed, and for a moment Jane was afraid that they'd crossed some sort of invisible, arbitrary line. But Maura merely turned her head demurely over her shoulder, motioning to the back of her dress. "Unzip me," she requested.

Jane stood quickly, her shirt ruffled against her stomach, and slowly slid the zipper down Maura's back, revealing a thin ribbon of pale, smooth skin that lead to the pale blue strip of her panties below her waist. Maura slipped the dress from her shoulders, allowing Jane to take in the expanse of her back, the sharp, straight shoulders. As the dress pooled at her feet, Jane's fingers traced the straps of her bra, unlatching it and watching it follow the same path as the dress.

As she bent her lips toward Maura's shoulder blade, the blonde shivered, whether from the initial kiss of the cool air, or the feel of her tongue, Jane wasn't sure. But her skin was warm, and Jane couldn't help but smile against her as she let her hands reach up and knead Maura's plentiful breasts.

A small whimper of ascent, and the slight widening of her legs let only strengthened Jane's touch, and she let her thumbs graze playfully across the shorter woman's nipples. "Turn around," she said, surprised by the command in her tone. But Maura eagerly obeyed, giving her full access, allowing her to visually appreciate what she had stimulated so well with her touch.

She let taste govern her next, and pressed her mouth against a hardened nipple, stiffening it with her tongue. Giving same attention to the opposite one, she eventually let her mouth slide lower, getting on her knees and hooking her thumbs in the sides of Maura's panties. She pulled them down as she went, inhaling her scent and letting her mouth press teasingly against her folds. Jane's methods didn't go unrewarded, and she saw the quiver in Maura's thighs, complimented by a hand suddenly entwining itself in her hair. The hand unexpectedly drew her upward, however, and Maura met her with an impatient smile.

"You have some undressing to do," she said, her hands already moving to the hem of Jane's t-shirt and tugging it upwards over her head. Her eyes focused on the flesh above the detective's bra and she let hands follow, kneading them through the thin fabric before reaching her arms around and unlatching the clasp. Jane didn't command her nudity with quite as much confidence as Maura, but the shorter woman's exploring hands didn't allow her much time to think about it.

“You're perfect,” Maura breathed, her eyes roaming the flesh that she had just expertly handled.

“You're not so bad yourself,” Jane replied with a practiced nonchalance, but Maura shook her head, staring now with a concentrated eye.

“No, really, you have perfect sternum alignment,” she continued, letting her finger run down the center of Jane's chest.

“Everyone tells me that,” Jane said with a wave of her hand. “You're going to have to do a lot better than that if you want to get me into bed.”

Maura smiled demurely at her. “You don't want me to tell you how perfect you are?” she asked, letting her hand trail lower, fingering the curls at Jane's center.

Jane inhaled sharply, her knees dropping her to the bed, and she used the opportunity to pull Maura on top of her. “I'd rather you show me,” she said with a grin.

“I think I can do that,” Maura replied, bowing her head and taking a nipple in her mouth, flicking it with her tongue before allowing her teeth to graze gently over it. Being careful not to neglect the opposite breast, she rolled the nipple between her fingers, pulling it slightly so that the brunette arched into her touch. Jane had never thought that Maura's hands would be her best asset, but the way she was making her writhe against the sheets, she wasn't so sure that they weren't.

Not to be outdone, she let her own hands cup the flesh at Maura's backside, kneading it more harshly each time the blonde's teeth teasingly nipped her. As Maura settled onto her stomach, Jane felt exactly how much their play was turning the smaller woman on, and she let her fingers explore on their own, delving between her legs.

Maura moaned against her, returning her lips to Jane's as her probing fingers continued their slow discovery, trailing the doctor's wetness down the insides of her thighs. It would be so easy to rush, to let her fingers slide inside the blonde’s wet warmth, but Jane wanted to savor the moment. Come to think of it, she wanted to savor Maura. She leaned upwards so that the smaller woman was now straddling her lap, writhing against Jane's teasing fingers.

With Maura's heaving breasts now at eye level, Jane found herself rendered completely motionless for a small splice of a second before finally taking advantage of her position. With one hand against Maura's back, she bent forward, capturing a hardened nipple in her mouth as her fingers continued their slow, probing torture at her center.

She let her tongue work one, then the other, feeling the blonde's muscles tense with each teasing, tugging touch. When she finally moved her hand upward, entwining it in the flowing blonde hair and pulling Maura forward for a deep kiss, she felt her physically melt into her, their breasts heaving into one another.

“Inside,” Maura whispered, trailing her mouth along Jane's jaw line and widening her thighs. She followed the command, two fingers sliding easily inside, and Maura let out a quick moan as her teeth grazed Jane's shoulder. She pumped slowly at first, relishing the slick warmth, and at first the doctor matched her slow pace, but soon she was groaning for more, grinding her hips against Jane's hand.

As Maura dipped her head back, hair falling over her shoulders, Jane took advantage of the pose, lowering her head once again to the full nipples, teasing them with her tongue. Her own breasts were experiencing a consistent, slow torture from Maura's hands, which cupped and kneaded at the pace of the fingers inside her. Circling her thumb over the tiny bundle of nerves at Maura's center, however, became Jane’s priority, and she continued to thrust, attempting to drink in as much of the woman in front of her as she could.

With a sudden show of strength, Maura pressed her back against the bed, widening her thighs around Jane's waist as she leaned over her, the new angle making her hiss in pleasure. As she buried her head into Jane’s shoulder, the brunette curled her fingers inside her, pumping harder and keeping the same, consistent pressure against her center. Maura's scent, pomegranate mixed with something primal, was all around her, and she barely registered blonde's low whimper in her ear: “I'm coming.”

The words only made her thumb press harder, her fingers work faster, and it was mere seconds before she felt Maura arch into her, hips bucking against her hand. “Fuck,” the blonde whispered, and the word made Jane's eyes pop open, as Maura Isles wasn't one to let her vocabulary get the best of her. Her lips latched onto Jane's mouth, voicing her pleasure with a suckling moan as her hips shuddered before finally coming to a slow writhe. Their kiss became slower, appreciative, and Jane kept her fingers inside her for a moment, reluctant to move them. She wondered if Maura was too sensitive for her to coax another orgasm from her.

Before she could, however, Maura slid off of her fingers, hissing at the sudden emptiness, but she clearly had other plans in mind as she curled a finger, motioning for Jane to slide up the bed. “You're quite a talent,” she said as she pressed an approving kiss to Jane's lips. She quickly parted Jane's legs, sliding into her rightful place between them, placing a series of wet kisses along her torso.

“I've had a lot of practice,” Jane said, but winced as her words registered in her brain, and despite the feeling of Maura's lips trailing across her stomach, she pressed her palm embarrassingly against her temple. “That came out wrong,” she explained, but she felt Maura giggling against her, and she lifted her head. “Great,” she said. “You're laughing at me. You're laughing at me while we're having sex.”

Maura raised her head, her eyes smiling just as much as her lips. “I'm laughing at you because you're funny,” she said, raising up on all fours to meet Jane's mouth again. “I'm kissing you because you're beautiful.” She let her fingers trail seductively below Jane's belly, running them along her folds. “But I'm fucking you because you're incredibly sexy.”

Again, Jane's eyes widened. She hadn’t expected Maura to use such layman's terms in the bedroom. Not that she was complaining. In fact, she wasn't sure she had many more brain cells left to articulate anything much more than a moan as Maura let her mouth follow the path of her fingers, her tongue gracefully probing the wetness between Jane's legs.

She groaned as the blonde bypassed her goal, nibbling her inner thighs for a few insatiable seconds before returning her attention to Jane's center, delicately unveiling the sensitive bundle, but not yet giving her the release she needed. Instead, she let her tongue coax Jane's entire need into that one catchall of desire.

As her mouth worked Jane’s core, Maura’s fingers fluttered across her stomach, her breasts, taking extra care to roll her nipples between them before running down the sides of her torso, stopping along her thighs and pushing them further apart.

Jane felt her limbs quiver, and she shifted her legs, pushing herself upwards, wanting more of Maura's mouth. She wasn't one to beg in bed, but the smaller blonde was pushing her closer and closer, and she needed her mouth in one particular spot. She caught Maura's eyes blinking devilishly towards her as she continued to probe her with her tongue, and Jane couldn't help but let the next words slip helplessly from her lips. “Please, Maura.”

Maura was nothing if not responsive, and she moved her mouth over Jane's engorged center bud, massaging it with her tongue before suckling it completely. Jane's hips rocked towards her, and both of their moans intermingled as Maura continued her slow pleasure. It was only when she slipped her fingers inside of her that Jane reached her hands above her head, desperately gripping the pillow. Maura was all over her: one hand still rolling a hardened nipple, the other thrusting inside of her, and her mouth suckling her most sensitive spot.

Her own chest heaving, Jane let out a guttural moan, unable to form any words of warning as she felt every nerve in her body seem to explode in that one tiny bud, her hips writhing to catch as much of the waves of pleasure as she could. Maura didn't let go, her tongue pressing until Jane's shivers had subsided, and only then did she press her lips against the inside of a thigh, nibbling lightly as they both caught their breath.

“My god, woman, come here,” she said, pulling Maura up over her body and rolling her under, so that she could fully demonstrate her release with a few well-placed kisses along the blonde's neck. She let her fingers drift between Maura's legs, still fully intent on testing out her sensitivity theory. Maura was still wet, but she began by massaging her clit once more, and the unintentional thrust the blonde gave let her know that there was still some desire left there.

Capturing Maura's mouth with her own, Jane slipped two fingers inside her, wasting no time in increasing her thrusts as the blonde wrapped her legs around her, giving her more access. The second orgasm didn't take very long, Maura's pleasure being voice against her neck in short, high-pitched moans. She watched with a pleased smile as the medical examiner opened her eyes, which were clouded with lust.

“It’s definitely been more than seventeen minutes,” Jane said with a satisfied grin. “I would imagine that tiramisu is orgasmically good by now.”

“You seem like you’re in a rush to get out of bed,” Maura replied, running a hand along the sensitive underside of her breast.

“You’re lucky if I ever leave this bed,” Jane said, pulling her towards her.

“Is that how you got all that practice?” Maura asked with another giggle, but she made up for her teasing with a gentle kiss at Jane’s shoulder.

Jane had imagined what sex with Maura would be like, numerous times, but she hadn’t realized how rewarding it would be to feel her so simply close to her, just the feel of their heated skin touching. “Maura,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind the smaller woman’s ear. “I really, really love…” she trailed off with a smile, studying the woman on top of her before finishing her thought: “… tiramisu,” she said, rolling the two of them over and swinging her feet to the floor. In a flash, she was out of the bed, grabbing Maura’s silk robe from the back of the bedroom door and making a mad dash towards the kitchen, her laughs trailing behind her.

“Jane!” Maura called, running after her, plucking Jane’s discarded t-shirt from the floor. “That’s my favorite robe!” She scampered after her. “And don’t eat all the tiramisu!”

Fin