The one where Maura dies.
The call, she thinks at first, is inconvenient. She is about to go out with Gabriel and she doesn’t need working calling right now. She answers the phone with a terse ‘Rizzoli’, and it’s only after she realizes that it’s not Frost or Korsak that something weighted settles in her gut. Vaguely, she hears the words ‘Dr. Isles’ and ‘hit and run’, but it doesn’t make any sense. How could Maura be involved in a hit and run when she’s out having dinner with her mother?
It isn’t until she arrives at the hospital, the empty halls echoing with each hit of a heel, that the weight in her gut curls until she can’t breath. Someone, out of nowhere it seems, a nurse walks up to her and directs her toward a doctor coming out of a room at the end of the hall. She doesn’t have the strength run, but it doesn’t matter. Jane can see it on the doctor’s face from all the way over there and when she gets close enough to hear the predicted ‘I’m sorry’ it doesn’t really mean anything.
The funeral is today, but she can’t sleep. Every time she closes her eyes all she can see is Maura’s face. What she sees isn’t a nightmare, but somehow it keeps her away and forces away her breath and leaves her trembling, which is absurd and all at once not enough.
Because all she is seeing, really, is just memories.