A/N: The usual disclaimer applies. I own nothing.

Chapter 1

Sitting on her couch, Maura Isles pointed her remote at the TV and the screen went black. She sat still for a moment, sinking into the couch cushions with her eyes closed, willing the wheels in her brain to stop spinning. She was physically and mentally exhausted, but so far neither meditation nor mindless television had helped her to relax.

A quiet thumping sound from the kitchen made her sit up suddenly, eyes wide, scanning the room around her.

It's just Bass, she thought, sinking back into the couch and rubbing her eyes. Her heart beat rapidly, and she berated herself for being unable to control it.

Once, not long ago, Jane had been the one startled by the sudden sound of Bass's shell thumping against the leg of a chair as he slowly made his way across the kitchen floor. And Maura had been the one to reassure her, promise her with a sigh and a pat on the arm that she was safe and protected and understood.

Jane.

Sighing, Maura glanced at the clock. It was only 9:00. Not exactly bedtime, but close enough. And, after everything she had been through in the past week, would anyone fault her for ignoring the unopened medical journals piled on the desk in her office and retiring early? Rolling her eyes, Maura mentally chastised herself for believing that anyone cared what time she went to bed.

Jane would have called by now, if she was going to call, anyway.

Every light in the house was on, so Maura walked through each room, flipping light switches and double-checking the locks on the front, patio, and garage doors. She left several lamps on throughout the house, however, as well as the overhead light in the hallway outside her bedroom. When she finally completed her nighttime ablutions and crawled into bed, a thin beam of light stretched across the otherwise dark room from the door left slightly ajar. She turned away from the light so that it wouldn't shine in her eyes and pulled up the blanket around her shoulders as she sank into the sheets.

Maura had always preferred to sleep in complete darkness. Even the florescent glow of a digital alarm clock was too much light—she used a clock that only lit up when you touched it. But now—

She was quite bitter about the fact that it was her father who had revived her childhood fear of the dark.

Tossing and turning, Maura failed to settle into sleep.

When the clock read 11:00 and she was still wide awake, Maura turned on the bedside lamp and reached for the phone. In the drawer of her nightstand she found a notebook, and when her eyes adjusted to the light she scanned a long series of numbers on one of the pages and punched them into the phone.

A woman answered after just two rings.

"Mom?"

"Maura? Is everything all right? What time is it there?" Constance Isles had been with her husband in Singapore for two months but she never seemed to remember the exact time difference.

"Everything's fine, it's just after eleven. I hope I didn't catch you in the middle of something?"

"No, not at all—I just didn't expect to hear from you today. How are you?"

"Well, I've been having trouble sleeping so I thought I might as well call since I was awake."

"Insomnia? Again? Is it as bad as it was in medical school?"

"No, nothing like that." Hearing the worry in her mother's voice, Maura instantly regretted making the call. The timbre of Constance's voice had become increasingly shaky—increasingly elderly, she realized—in the years since she had turned sixty, and hearing it through the phone line from half a world away reminded Maura of why she had stopped confiding in her mother.

"Well, has something happened? Is there a reason you can't sleep?"

Maura winced. She hadn't told either of her parents that she had been kidnapped by her birth father—or any of the things that she had learned about him and her half-brother. There didn't seem to be a reason for them to know that she was the offspring of a mob boss.

"I don't know." She hedged around the truth. "Just work, I guess," she said tentatively, feeling her pulse increase as she told a half-truth.

"A difficult case?"

"You could say that. I can't really talk about it." That was the truth—Maura Isles was her own case at the moment.

"Is your detective friend working on it with you? Where is she? Don't you two usually go out on weekends, anyway?"

"It's only Thursday night here, it's not Friday yet. And Jane's working another case."

"I thought you worked the same cases?"

"Not always. She's had a busy week and I don't want to bother her."

"Oh, Maura, you worry too much about bothering people! She's your friend, and didn't you help her out with a big serial killer case a few months ago?"

"Yes, but—this is a bit different. Besides, her job is much more stressful than mine and I don't need to add to her worries just because I can't sleep. She needs her sleep more than I do."

"Maura—"

"Really, mom, it's okay. I'm fine; I just need a little distraction." Maura continued, forcing herself to speak in a lighter tone, "Why don't you tell me about what you've been up to. Are you and dad still planning on stopping over in Hawaii on your way home?"

Having successfully diverted her mother's focus, Maura continued the conversation for several more minutes. Finally, with a yawn signaling that she was feeling sleepy, Maura said goodbye and sunk back into her bed.

She had only closed her eyes for ten minutes when a noise from the street outside made her heart rate spike again. After a split second he recognized the sound of her neighbor dragging his garbage cans to the curb for the morning pickup. A dog barked. A door slammed. Maura twisted her hands in the sheets and groaned.

This time, the doctor didn't bother to try to calm herself down. Her anger at the situation, and at herself for being unable to control it, had made her impulsive. Feeling a surge of adrenaline course through her, she threw off the bedclothes and walked to her closet. Switching on the light, she pulled out a large shoulder bag and began placing items inside—clean underwear, her makeup kit, a pair of shoes. She zipped a blue dress into a garment bag and walked quietly through the house, stopping at the hallway closet to pull on a pair of boots and a coat.

As she passed through the kitchen on her way to the garage, she spoke to Bass, who had poked his head out of his shell as she approached.

"I'm going to Jane's, okay? I'll be back tomorrow, after work. I should be able to take a short day."

Maura looked down at her pet, currently hiding under a small desk she kept in the kitchen. Bass was unresponsive, as usual. That was why Jane teased her about talking to him—he never showed any signs that he had connected on any level with his owner so it seemed pointless.

Jane.

Sudden burst of energy abated, Maura placed her bags on the kitchen table and then sat down, gazing blankly at the silent, scaly creature.

"I'm 35 years old, talking to a tortoise in the middle of the night, on my way to wake up a friend—a friend who never gets enough sleep herself—to ask her—"

She knew what she wanted to ask Jane, but she couldn't say it out loud. Not even to a creature who would never, could never, reveal her secret.

She wanted to crawl into Jane's bed, and feel the warmth of the detective's body as strong arms wrapped around her and cradled her until she fell asleep. She felt certain that this—that Jane's skin on hers, Jane's scent overwhelming her senses, Jane's lips pressed to her forehead—would make her feel safe again.

However, she also felt certain that this urge, this compulsion, this fantasy—was irrational. She had never experienced the feeling of safety in Jane's arms, and she had no way of knowing how she would feel in such a situation. And there was no guarantee that Jane would even offer.

True, the two women had shared a bed before—twice, in fact. The second time had been an accident; they had simply fallen asleep on Jane's bed while working on a case. A platonic, albeit comfortable, accident. The time before that had been an entirely out-of-the-ordinary situation. Jane had come to her, asking to sleep in her spare room in order to escape both a case and her family. Maura had stayed with her until she fell asleep, and, after agonizing over whether she should stay with her friend in the guestroom or not, finally retreated to her own bed for the rest of the night.

But Jane had no spare room. There was a big difference between asking to spend the night in a friend's spare bedroom, and asking to spend it in her bed. And that is what she would essentially be doing by showing up at midnight in her pajamas with an overnight bag over her shoulder. Jane was the closest friend she had ever had, but this was a line Maura couldn't comfortably cross.

With tears stinging at her eyes, Maura retraced her steps—hanging up her coat, unpacking her bags, and sliding back into her bed.

At 1:15, she threw off the bedclothes for the third time that night, reaching out to turn on the bedside lamp. Opening a paperback novel, she read for twenty minutes before turning off the lamp yet again.

At 2:20, she counted to a thousand in Latin.

At 3:30, she tried meditating again.

At 4:15, she let hot tears cool on her cheeks.

The alarm went off at six.