"Why?" she demanded. She had stormed into Doyle's hospital room, Frankie hot on her heels, only moments before, the anger and hatred she felt towards the man who had only left chaos in his wake, spilling over, the bag with Jane's personal belongings collected and kept by the hospital having been handed over merely minutes ago being the sole cause for her presence in his room. She needed answers. She needed to know that Jane hadn't been but a mere notch to add to the number, that her death hadn't been in vain.
"She knew too much!" he rasped.
Maura's eyes widened, her expression one of disbelief. "She...she...you killed her because she knew too much?! Look around, Doyle!" she shouted, gesticulating round the room wildly. "How many others know too much! How many others have to die before it's finally enough?" came the quiet rhetoric; the silent plea. "You think no one else saw your little black book? That there are people at BPD who didn't know? That copies hadn't been made?"
In the face of Maura's fury, Doyle was lost. Despite his presence at major events in her life, he had never been an actual father to her.
He'd stayed in the background; he hadn't kissed her wounds better when she fell down, wrapped his arms around her when a lover broke her heart, pushed her while she sat on the swing at the playground asking to go higher. Nothing. Richard Isles had done that. She might not have been close to her mother, but there was a certain bond she shared with her father when he'd been around for her childhood years. And when faced front on with the woman whose make-up hid the dark circles under her eyes and which subsequently was effectively ruined by her tears, whose hazel eyes had darkened, glittering a dangerous gold, he realised he didn't know her at all. He didn't know what to say to make it better, to comfort her. Awareness struck him like a shot to the heart.
"No," she seethed. "You don't get to say my name like it means something to you. You don't even get to say it. You know the one person does? Who dd..di..did?" she choked. "It's the woman I held in my arms five days, two hours and 38 minutes ago, the woman whose voice held such reverence and love, like I was the only person in the world, the same one who thought I blamed her. For shooting you! When now all I wish is that she had! But instead of shooting to injure, shooting to kill! So that at least she'd still be here!"
She moved towards him, the feeling of wanting to injure, to hurt taking over but before she could even get within feet of him she felt strong arms wrap around her waist. But not Jane's arms.
Never again Jane's.
She fought to get free, struggled even but Frankie's hold was too strong and eventually, she gave in.
"She n..never came h-home...I-I n-never had the chance to tell her...! she sobbed, grasping, clawing at the dark blue cloth that represented safety and protection, the same blue cloth Jane had stood by proudly.
Frankie only held on tighter. There was nothing he could say that would make things better. Because he felt it too. The loss. The devastation. The emptiness that came alongside the knowledge that he would never see his sister again. Never play a game of ball with, never be able to roughhouse with, never...just never...
"I know, Maura, I know," he whispered and with those words, she slumped against him, the fight leaving her as quickly as it had begun.