Chapter Text
The screen door creaked like it always had—loud and accusatory—announcing Jane’s return before her boots even hit the kitchen tile.
She stepped inside, dropping her duffel with a heavy thud just inside the doorway. The familiar scent of Sunday gravy clung to the air even though it was only Friday, and the ancient overhead fan buzzed like a broken fly trap. Nothing had changed. Except her.
Jane Rizzoli, twenty years old, home for the summer, Boston Police Academy cadet, and walking disappointment.
Frankie Sr. didn’t even look up from the paper.
He sat at the kitchen table in his grease-stained Red Sox tee and plaid pajama pants, chewing the end of a toothpick and muttering under his breath about the Celtics’ defense. A cigarette smoldered in the ashtray beside his elbow, untouched but still burning. The whole room smelled like stale Marlboros and unresolved tension.
Angela was by the stove, flipping something in a pan. She turned first.
“Oh!” Her eyes lit up, and she wiped her hands on a dish towel, hurrying across the kitchen. “There’s my girl.” She wrapped Jane in a hug that was warm and tight and smelled like garlic and Ivory soap.
Jane softened just a little, letting herself sink into the contact before straightening again.
“You eat yet?” Angela asked, pulling away to smooth Jane’s bangs back like she was still twelve. “I made the chicken you like. With the lemon.”
“I could eat,” Jane said, voice rougher than she meant it to be.
Frankie Sr. grunted, still not looking up.
Angela shot him a look and raised her eyebrows. “Well? You got something to say to your daughter or just that sports section glued to your face?”
He flicked the paper down. His eyes landed on Jane. Dark. Narrowed.
“Figured you’d be wearing a uniform. Thought they’d have you in handcuffs by now.”
Jane’s jaw tightened. “That’s corrections, Dad. I’m not in prison.”
“Yet,” he muttered.
Angela let out a long, loud sigh and turned back to the stove. “Could we try—just once—not starting a fight the second she walks in the door?”
Jane kicked her boots off and padded barefoot to the fridge, yanking it open for a beer. She didn’t bother asking. The old rules didn’t seem to apply anymore.
Frankie watched her crack the can and take a swig. “You get that in class too? Beer-drinking 101?”
“Nope,” Jane said, leaning against the counter. “That was elective.”
Angela slammed the pan down just a little harder than necessary. “You know what? I’m gonna go water the basil before it dies from all the tension in here.”
She stepped out the back door without another word.
Silence.
Jane took another sip, dragging her eyes across the kitchen. The same chipped tile. The same crooked magnet on the fridge that read Rizzoli’s Rule the World. The same dad, sitting in the same chair, wishing she’d made different choices.
“You could’ve had a real future,” he finally said, quieter now.
Jane stared at him, then turned toward the window where the garden hose snaked across the lawn. “I do.”
“Boston Cambridge isn’t something you throw away,” he said. “People don’t get scholarships like that and go, ‘nah, I’d rather get shot at.’”
She took a deep breath through her nose. “You think I don’t know that?”
“I think you don’t care.”
Jane set the beer down, harder than necessary. “I care. I care more than you think. I just care about different things.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
“Like doing something that matters.” She leaned forward on her elbows. “I didn’t want to sit in a lecture hall for four years just to wind up in some lab with my name on a paper no one reads. I want to be out there. Helping people.”
“You think being a plumber doesn’t help people?” he snapped.
“That’s not what I said—”
“That’s exactly what you said.”
Jane bit back the first ten things she wanted to yell. Instead, she grabbed her beer again and stepped toward the hallway.
“Where you going?” he called after her.
“To shower. Wash the judgment off.”
She passed Angela on the way in, towel in one hand, beer in the other.
Angela reached out and brushed Jane’s arm. “Just give him time,” she said softly. “He’s… disappointed.”
Jane paused. “In me?”
Angela’s eyes gentled. “In himself. He just doesn’t know how to say it.”
Jane gave a small, tired laugh. “That makes two of us.”
She disappeared down the hall, the sound of the bathroom door clicking shut behind her like punctuation.
In the kitchen, Frankie Sr. took a drag off his cigarette.
Angela walked back in, hand on her hip.
“She’s home for one day and you’re already pushing her out the door.”
“She’s the one choosing to walk away.”
Angela smacked the back of his head with the dishtowel. “She walked into that academy with her chin up and her fists clenched, and if you had half the guts she does, you’d tell her you’re proud.”
He didn’t respond.
Angela didn’t wait.
She stepped back out into the evening light, whispering to herself as the basil wilted in the heat.
***
By the time Jane emerged from the shower—hair damp, skin scrubbed pink from frustration—the sun had dipped low over the Boston skyline. The house smelled like lemon cleaner and fried chicken. Somewhere in the living room, the Super Mario Land theme chirped tinnily from a beat-up gray Game Boy, and her little brother Tommy was curled sideways on the couch, face bathed in the glow of the pixelated screen.
“Still hogging that thing?” Jane said as she dropped onto the armrest.
Tommy didn’t look up. “Was mine before you left.”
“It was mine before you could hold a controller,” she countered, grinning as she ruffled his hair.
“I earned it fair and square,” he said, swatting her hand away with the concentration of someone trying not to die in 8-bit.
“You stole it from under my bed.”
“Still counts.”
“Technically,” Jane said, stretching her legs, “that’s larceny.”
From the floor near the coffee table, Frankie Jr. looked up from the notebook he was scribbling in. Four years younger than Jane and twice as enthusiastic, he beamed like he’d been waiting all day for her to walk through the door.
“Okay, but seriously,” he said, sitting up straighter, “how fast do you have to run in the academy? Like, what’s the mile requirement? And how much do you have to bench?”
Jane laughed and leaned her head back against the couch. “Jesus, Frankie. One question at a time.”
He grinned wider. “I’m just sayin’, I’ve been practicing. I can already run a mile in under nine minutes.”
“Oh wow, a whole mile?” she teased. “What’d you do after, nap for three hours?”
“Shut up,” he laughed. “You’re the one who said the obstacle course is the worst part.”
“It is,” she said, pointing at him. “And don’t let anyone tell you different. I saw a guy fall off the wall his first week and land on his face. Broke his nose.”
Tommy, eyes still glued to the Game Boy, muttered, “Cool.”
“Not cool,” Jane said. “There was so much blood I had to—”
“Nope,” Tommy cut in, holding up one hand without looking. “Don’t say it. I’m eating later.”
Frankie Jr. leaned in, clearly unfazed. “Did you have to use your gun?”
“I haven’t even been assigned one yet,” Jane said. “First semester’s mostly training and drills. Defense. Procedure. Physical stuff. But next year…”
“Boom.”
“Hopefully not.”
They all laughed, the kind that felt easy and familiar. The tension that had stained the house earlier seemed to have faded, or at least been temporarily redirected by nostalgia and cheap electronics.
Then the screen door creaked again.
Frankie Sr. stepped in, hair still damp from a rinse, with a cold six-pack in hand and a tired look behind his eyes.
He paused in the doorway as if surprised to find them all together—Jane on the armrest, Frankie Jr. on the floor, Tommy buried in digital distractions.
Angela must’ve still been outside. It was quieter without her bustling around.
He walked toward the couch and held out a beer.
Jane blinked. “That for me?”
“Don’t make it weird,” he muttered, handing it over.
She took it carefully. “Thanks.”
Tommy sat up instantly. “Can I have one?”
“No.”
Frankie Jr. raised a hopeful hand. “What about—?”
“Nope.”
Both groaned in unison.
Frankie Sr. dropped onto the cushion beside Jane with a grunt and cracked open his own can.
For a moment, there was silence. The soft hum of summer evening buzzed through the open windows, mixing with the hiss of carbonation.
Then, he said, “Got a big job coming up.”
Jane turned toward him. “Yeah?”
He didn’t look at her, just nodded, tapping his fingers against the rim of the can.
“Old money family in Beacon Hill. Whole estate’s being redone. Big plumbing overhaul—indoor, outdoor, new pressure systems, the works. Could keep us busy the whole summer.”
Jane raised an eyebrow. “You want me on it?”
He shrugged, still not meeting her eye. “If you’re gonna be around. Figured maybe you could put that strong back of yours to good use.”
Frankie Jr. smirked. “That’s code for ‘I don’t wanna lift copper all by myself.’”
Frankie Sr. ignored him.
Jane took a slow sip of her beer. “Yeah. Sure. I’m in.”
He nodded once. “Starts Monday.”
Tommy yawned and dropped the Game Boy in his lap. “What’s the pay?”
Frankie Sr. barked a laugh. “Not enough for you.”
Frankie Jr. leaned back and crossed his arms behind his head. “So, rich people house, huh?”
Jane stretched her legs again, already picturing it—some stuffy mansion with twelve bathrooms and golden toilets.
“Can’t wait to clog some elite pipes,” she muttered.
Frankie Sr. snorted. “Just don’t break anything.”
Jane looked sideways at him. “You mean like our fragile family dynamic?”
“Exactly.”
The corner of his mouth twitched upward.
And for the first time all day, Jane let herself smile.
***
The town car pulled up in front of the Boston Isles estate just after noon, tires crunching softly against the gravel drive. It was a stately building—old brick, ivy crawling up the eastern side like it had something to prove, and windows so tall they practically looked down on everyone.
Maura Isles stepped out into the summer heat, smoothing her linen trousers with one hand and shielding her eyes with the other. Her driver moved to unload her luggage, but she waved him off gently.
“I’ve got it, thank you.”
The trunk opened, revealing three matching suitcases and a leather tote bag—each one meticulously packed and, somehow, heavier than expected.
Not with clothes.
But with textbooks.
Organic Chemistry: Advanced Mechanisms.
Clinical Anatomy for the Practicing Surgeon.
Introduction to Abnormal Psychology.
A summer’s worth of preparation for next semester. Her peers would be sunbathing and skipping lectures. Maura would be memorizing cranial nerve pathways and case studies. She preferred it that way. Or, at least, that’s what she told herself.
She slung the bag over her shoulder and took a deep breath.
The estate smelled the same—sun-warmed stone, old garden roses, the faint trace of polished wood under humidity. She hadn’t been back since spring. It felt like stepping into a still life.
The front door was unlocked.
Maura pushed it open and walked through the echoing foyer, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor. The air conditioning hadn’t been turned on yet. It was heavy inside. Too still.
She found her mother in the kitchen, standing at the tiled counter with a slim glass of mineral water, dressed in cream from head to toe like she’d stepped out of a Vogue feature on power matriarchs.
The kitchen, despite being housed in one of the wealthiest homes in Boston, hadn’t been updated since the seventies. The wallpaper was peeling in the corners. The tiles were avocado green. The fridge hummed like a dying airplane. Constance Isles had never used it herself—only walked through it to get to the garden.
“You’re late,” her mother said without looking up from the envelope she was opening.
“I’m right on time,” Maura replied calmly, setting her luggage down against the wall.
“You were supposed to arrive by eleven.”
“The train was delayed. Then I opted for a car instead of the town line.”
“Of course you did,” Constance said, as if that confirmed some long-held theory.
Maura resisted the urge to rub her temple. “The renovations have started?”
Her mother finally looked at her, assessing.
“Not yet. The design firm finalized the layout for the new bath wing. The plumbing company will begin work next week.”
“Which firm?”
“I don’t recall.” A small sip of water. “Your father handled the contract.”
Maura bit the inside of her cheek. Her parents divorced ten years ago, and Constance still referred to Arthur Isles as “your father” like he was some distant cousin. She supposed, emotionally, he was.
“Will you be staying?” Maura asked.
“Not if I can help it,” Constance replied. “The construction noise will be intolerable. I’ll be splitting my time between New York and the Vineyard.”
Of course.
Maura glanced around the outdated kitchen, then down at her own watch. “Then I’ll take the guesthouse, if that’s alright.”
Her mother raised an eyebrow. “The plumbing’s being redone there.”
“So I’ll adapt.”
“Very well.”
Another pause.
Constance’s eyes lingered on her daughter for just a moment longer than expected. “You packed light.”
Maura blinked. “Three suitcases.”
Constance’s lips curved faintly. “Full of textbooks, no doubt.”
Maura didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.
“You should spend more time outside this summer,” her mother added lightly. “Get some color. Speak to people your own age.”
“I’ll be focused on my studies.”
“Of course you will.”
The silence stretched.
“I’ll be in the garden,” Constance said, finally stepping out, her heels quiet against the old tile.
Maura exhaled once she was gone.
She reached into her tote bag, pulled out her copy of Human Osteology, and ran her thumb down the spine.
Eight weeks.
Just her.
Her textbooks.
And the sounds of old pipes being ripped from the walls.
Peace.
Or so she thought.
***
The guesthouse behind the Isles estate was smaller than Maura remembered—but cleaner than she expected. Dust hung in the corners like polite guests, and the scent of aged wood and lavender polish clung to the air, likely from the cleaning service Constance had scheduled in advance.
It was isolated enough to feel private, but not so far from the main house that her mother couldn’t drop by unannounced. A compromise. Like most things in Maura’s life.
She moved through the space with quiet precision, suitcase wheels rolling softly across the hardwood as she began to unpack her summer.
Three cases:
One filled with clothes, neatly pressed and organized by function—casual, study, formal.
One for her books—weighty titles with thin paper and dense language.
And one packed exclusively with tools: a whiteboard rolled tight, her flashcard boxes, highlighters in nine colors, her old leather journal, and a brand-new desk lamp still in its packaging.
She’d chosen this place to study for a reason. No roommates. No campus noise. No distractions. Just her, her books, and the plan.
Maura carried her books to the small writing desk by the window and began arranging them by subject: anatomy, cellular biology, organic chemistry, behavioral psych. She lined up her note cards beside them and pulled out her daily schedule—already inked in clean black pen across a legal pad.
***
Jane Rizzoli was in the middle of a dream she would never, under any circumstances, speak aloud.
The kind of dream that made her wake up sweating and swearing and too afraid to look herself in the mirror.
The girl from the academy—short blonde hair, killer smirk, mouth like sin—was straddling Jane’s lap in the locker room, the room quiet except for the low buzz of fluorescent lights and the sound of their breathing. She was flushed, pupils blown, wearing nothing but a sports bra and her PT shorts rolled scandalously high. One of her hands was fisted in Jane’s hair, nails scraping lightly against her scalp, while the other reached between them and guided Jane’s fingers down, lower, lower, beneath the waistband of those shorts, until Jane could feel—
Heat. Wetness. Skin.
Jane’s breath hitched in her throat as her fingers slid against slick flesh, the pressure of the girl’s hips rocking down, slow and hungry, grounding Jane in the rhythm of it. The girl’s lips brushed her ear, her voice like gravel and sugar all at once:
“Come on, Rizzoli… I know you’ve thought about this.”
Jane whimpered—actually whimpered—as the girl’s hand tightened in her hair, pulling her head back so her throat was exposed, bare, vulnerable.
“I see the way you look at me during drills,” she whispered. “You think I don’t notice? That I haven’t been waiting for you to stop pretending you don’t want this?”
Jane’s free hand gripped the girl’s thigh, anchoring herself as she thrust her fingers deeper, the girl’s hips jerking, her breath stuttering into Jane’s neck.
“Harder,” she gasped. “Don’t you dare stop—”
“JANIE! Get your ass up! Five o’clock!”
Jane jolted awake with a strangled noise, heart racing like she’d just run a mile uphill in full gear.
The room was too hot. The fan overhead spun uselessly. Her pillow was damp. Her chest was rising and falling like she’d just had a panic attack.
And her hand—
Her hand was still in her shorts.
Frozen.
Pressed hard against her own center, fingers slick, hips twitching involuntarily as the last echoes of the dream clung to her skin like sweat.
She yanked her hand back like it had betrayed her.
“Jesus Christ,” she whispered, sitting up so fast her head spun.
She pressed both palms against her face, biting back the groan rising in her throat. Her body was on fire. Every inch of her skin felt tight, too aware. Her thighs trembled. She could still feel the phantom weight of the dream girl’s hips rocking against her, the way her voice scraped the inside of Jane’s skull like a record she couldn’t stop playing.
This wasn’t new. But it never stopped catching her off guard.
Because no matter how many times she had these dreams—dirty, loud, real—the daylight always brought the same thing: shame. Fear. And a pressure in her chest that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with pretending.
Because no one knew.
No one could know.
Not her family. Not her instructors. Not the guys at the academy who slapped each other on the back and traded stories about bar hookups like it was a sport. Not her Mother, who’d probably just quietly cry into a dish towel and whisper prayers to Saint Anthony.
Jane Rizzoli liked girls.
And it scared the hell out of her.
Especially when it felt this good.
Bang bang bang.
“You better be dressed, Jane!”
“I am,” she called back, even though she definitely wasn’t.
She climbed out of bed in a rush, frustration simmering just under her skin, and headed straight for the bathroom. The shower water came out cold, which was a blessing and a punishment. She let it hit her full-on, jaw clenched, hands gripping the edge of the porcelain basin like she could scrub the desire off her skin.
It didn’t work.
***
By 5:30 AM, Jane stumbled into the kitchen in a clean tank top and dark jeans, towel still looped around her shoulders, her mood somewhere between “mildly electrocuted” and “emotionally repressed disaster.”
Angela was already flipping pancakes.
Without turning around, she said, “You look… flustered.”
Jane blinked. “I’m awake.”
“That’s not what I said.”
Jane ignored her, poured a cup of coffee, and sat at the kitchen table across from Tommy, who was half-asleep over his Game Boy.
“You were talking in your sleep again,” Angela added, casual.
Jane stiffened. “Was I?”
Angela flipped a pancake and hummed. “Said something about… I don’t know. Knees? Maybe keys?”
“Must’ve been a nightmare,” Jane muttered.
Angela grinned. “Maybe you need a boyfriend.”
Jane snorted. “Hard pass.”
Angela raised an eyebrow. “You’re gonna end up married to your job.”
“Better than marrying a plumber,” Jane said, nodding toward the hallway.
Right on cue, Frankie Sr. stomped in, already dressed and covered in sweat like the day had been waiting for him.
“You ready or what?” he barked, grabbing a breakfast sandwich from the counter.
Jane stood up, shoved her coffee into a travel mug, and grabbed her tool belt.
“Where are we going?”
“Beacon Hill. Big estate. Rich folks. Plumbing’s so old it probably creaks in Latin.”
Jane rolled her eyes. “Sounds fun.”
Angela handed her a second sandwich. “Try not to break anything. Or anyone.”
Jane muttered a half-thank-you and followed her dad out the door.
Outside, the air was already thick and hot. The truck smelled like metal and sawdust. Jane climbed in and stared out the window, still trying to push the dream out of her brain.
It stuck anyway.
And maybe that was the worst part.
Because no matter how fast she worked, no matter how tough she talked, Jane Rizzoli couldn’t outrun the truth of who she was.
Not even in her sleep.
***
The truck pulled up to the curb outside the Isles estate at exactly 7:28 AM.
Jane stared at the house through the windshield, trying not to show how deeply unimpressed she was by anything that had columns, a dedicated front gate, and a goddamn weathervane.
It wasn’t just big. It was obnoxious.
Three stories of brick and ivy, polished windows, flowerbeds so perfect they looked fake. The kind of house where shoes weren’t allowed on the rugs, and even the mailbox probably had a trust fund.
Frankie Sr. killed the engine, chewing the edge of a toothpick and scanning the clipboard in his lap.
“Alright,” he said. “You’re knocking.”
Jane blinked. “Why me?”
“Because I’ve got to sort the valve map before the rest of the crew shows up, and you’ve got hands and feet and a working mouth.”
Jane scowled. “My working mouth is not for knocking.”
“It is today,” he said, already climbing out of the cab.
Jane muttered a curse under her breath, rolled her eyes, and shoved the door open. She adjusted her belt, tugged her tank top down, and marched up the stone path toward the oversized front door, hoping to get this part over with fast.
Her shoulders were tight. Her head was pounding. And she was still buzzing from the stupid dream that had woken her up in a sweat—and not in the good way. All she wanted was to bury herself in copper piping and maybe hammer something until the need dissolved into her boots.
She knocked once. Firm. Businesslike.
The door creaked open less than five seconds later.
And Jane’s brain short-circuited.
The girl standing in the doorway looked like a fever dream that had wandered off the cover of a very expensive medical journal. She was wearing a pale silk robe that hit mid-thigh, loose at the collar, her legs long and bare beneath the hem. A massive hardcover textbook was tucked under one arm—Advanced Inorganic Chemistry—and a pair of delicate, wire-framed glasses sat low on her nose.
Her blonde hair was pulled up into a lazy bun, strands escaping like they were too refined to obey gravity. She blinked at Jane, curious but not surprised, her eyes a striking hazel-green that felt like staring into sunlight underwater.
Jane, still standing on the doormat, forgot how to breathe.
“Good morning,” the girl said, voice smooth, crisp, lightly amused. “You must be with the plumbing company.”
Jane’s mouth opened. Then closed.
Then opened again.
Nothing came out.
The girl tilted her head slightly, expression unbothered. “Is this where you tell me you’re here to lay pipe?”
Jane choked.
“No! I mean—yes. But—not like that.”
The girl smiled faintly, clearly enjoying herself. “I’m Maura Isles. And you must be Jane.”
Jane blinked. “How did you—?”
“Your toolbelt,” Maura said, gesturing vaguely toward Jane’s waist. “And the clipboard says ‘Rizzoli & Sons,’ which would make you a Rizzoli, although not a son.”
Jane, still trying not to stare at the bare legs and that ridiculous robe, cleared her throat and yanked her eyes back up to somewhere safely around Maura’s forehead.
“Right. Yeah. I’m Jane.”
“Excellent.” Maura stepped back from the doorway and gestured her in. “The main lines are accessible through the basement. I can show you the entrance.”
Jane hesitated. She really didn’t want to go inside this house. Not like this. Not with her pulse still hammering and her thoughts darting back to things she had very much not planned to think about at work.
But Maura was already turning, robe swaying slightly as she walked deeper into the house.
Jane followed.
Because of course she did.
Because apparently, life had decided to drop a silk-robed temptation with scientific credentials right into her already confused, closeted lap.
Fantastic.
She was so screwed.