CH1: Daybreak

Jane was restless. She'd watched the hours tick by through the night, the red digital numbers parading with reckless abandon across the face of the clock. It wasn't regular run of the mill insomnia. This was a definite feeling of anxiety about something and she couldn't explain it. Running the past few days through her head failed to conjure up anything in particular that had gone wrong or that might be looming ahead. Work had been normal, as normal as work as a homicide detective could be. In fact, it had almost been relatively demure. On second thought, that in and of itself was possibly abnormal. She'd wrapped up a few cases, dotted the I's and crossed the T's, there had been some prepping for court on one case but it was a slam dunk and both she and the DA were confident it would go off without a hitch.

So, what the hell is it?

She flopped over onto her side. The dull grey light of the imminent daybreak was starting to filter in through the windows. A slight smile crept onto her face as she could just start to make out Maura's form still asleep. But, even the comfort of sharing the bed with Maura hadn't been able to dull the nagging anxiety that had plagued her all night. That made the feeling even more unsettling. Maura had helped her to leave the workday at the threshold of the bedroom door. When Jane first started letting Maura show her the meditation techniques and how to get into a relaxation routine at night it was more just to humor her. But, much to her surprise it had worked pretty well and the past several months had been some of the best nights of sleep she'd had in…well, she couldn't remember how long. Not tonight though.

Something's not right.

She scooted closer to Maura, lying face to face with her. Reaching up she brushed away some errant strands of hair that had fallen across the sleeping woman's cheek. She let her arm come to rest around her, lightly scratching her back. It was comforting to touch her; to feel the warmth of her skin under delicately placed fingertips. Tracing the curve of her hips, of her back. Running her hands through Maura's hair released the lilac scent of her shampoo.

"You've been tossing and turning" Maura muttered, barely audible. She didn't open her eyes but she moved her hand up to Jane's cheek and stroked it sympathetically.

Jane exhaled. "I'm sorry. Did I keep you up all night?"

"Not all night."

Jane scooted in closer and placed a soft kiss on Maura's lips. She sighed as she nuzzled her face into Maura's neck and shoulder. Maura rolled over on her back pulling Jane with her to let Jane's head rest on her chest. Wrapping her arms around Jane she began to stroke the brunette's hair, trying to soothe her.

"Yoga isn't until 10, you could still get a couple of hours of sleep. Try to clear your mind…" her voice trailed off as Maura was starting to drift back to sleep herself.

Jane counted off the seconds and minutes that passed to the rhythm of Maura's heartbeat, to no avail. Her gut was telling her something out there was brewing. Her natural instinct had rarely misled her. It's what made her a good detective, having the instinct and knowing to trust it. Maura delicately maneuvered onto her side pulling Jane's arm across her. Jane squeezed her in tight, pressing her body flush against Maura's back. Her arm flexed, her grip tight around Maura's midsection, her hand clutch to Maura's chest like she was afraid someone might try to wrench the woman out of her arms.

Maura exhaled, she could feel the tension in Jane's arm the stiffness in her body, "If you're not going to try to sleep, do you want to talk about it?"

Jane tried to press in even closer to Maura; she threaded one leg in between Maura's legs and kissed her on the shoulder.

"There's nothing to talk about, that's just it, I can't figure out what it is. I just have a bad feeling about something."

Jane lifted her head to take a look over Maura's shoulder.

The clock read 7:03.

Tara Callaghan required a certain environment to sleep. The room had to be dark, pitch black, so she'd always had her bedroom painted in dark hues – forest green or navy blue with light-blocking shades over the windows and heavyweight dark curtains. As a child her parents had asked her if she liked living in a cave. The room couldn't be hot; she couldn't sleep if it was hot. In college she'd gone through 3 roommates because of opening the windows of the dorm room in the winter. The fourth roommate had a boyfriend and never slept in the room, that was the perfect arrangement. There couldn't be much noise; she was a light sleeper. But it couldn't be too quiet; some ambient white noise was needed, the monotonous whirring of a ceiling fan would typically do it. Tara had found a portable noise machine in a gadget catalog some years back and she'd bought it for when she had to travel. You could customize the sound; she usually turned on a faint drum rhythm overlaid with the sound of rain. She even had a certain pillow arrangement to accommodate the patterned difference in how she slept on her right side versus her left.

Needless to say the past three nights Tara had spent in the hospital at her mother's bedside had been relatively sleepless. Only when absolute exhaustion and grief had overtaken her had she managed to doze off just long enough to stave off what she was sure was imminent sleep deprivation psychosis.

The hospital room was so bright. The window treatments barely shielded the room's reflective white walls from the bright lights of Boston. The life support machines a cacophony of nerve grating blips, buzzes and warnings mixing with the never ending parade of carts, gurneys and hospital monitors, which rolled up and down the hallway all day, and all night. There had been a few code blue call outs followed by the sounds of doctors and nurses running. Occasionally there was the sound of crying. Some other patient's family member, too proud to break down in the presence of loved ones, would remove themself to the hallway when the grief was too much. Tara wasn't sure why people preferred to cry in front of strangers.

Tara sat on the bed next to her mother and held her hand. Her face was barely recognizable from the beating. Margaret Callaghan had sported a dignified head of silver hair. Tara called it her mother's Meryl Streep haircut, because it reminded her of Meryl's coif from The Devil Wears Prada. The doctors had to shave most of it off when they performed the surgery to try and relieve the intracranial pressure.

What kind of monsters…what kind of monsters, break in a house and brutally beat a 60 year old woman. For what, for a little cash and some jewelry? She wouldn't have put up a struggle they could have taken what they wanted and left. They didn't have to do this.

Margaret's vitals had continued to decline through the night. The surgery hadn't worked. Even if it had, the extent of the head trauma was so severe the doctors were shocked she had even survived the initial beating; they had warned Tara if her mother did wake up the brain damage could be severe.

She wouldn't want that, she wouldn't want to live like that, Tara had thought. Brain damaged, a burden, an invalid who would need to be cared for. Margaret Callaghan would rather die. She had been too alive to suffer the indignity of being imprisoned in a useless body. Tara had decided to let her mother's body decide. Margaret Callaghan had made her choice.

The hospital sent in a priest at Tara's request, Margaret was a devout Catholic, he and one of the nurses had stayed quietly in the shadows for the past hour.

When Margaret's heart rate and blood pressure dropped into the red the nurse moved forward to switch the warning buzzer off.

Tara tightened her grip on her mother's hand and waited for the inevitable.

Margaret Callaghan slipped away.

Tara leaned forward to hug her mother one last time, the priest placed a comforting hand on her shoulder as the nurse switched off the machines and went to note the chart.

Time of death, 7:03.