A/N: as always, thank you to the amazing Feltknickers for providing her super beta powers. And also for really pushing me this chapter to expand and explore more. Trigger warning: violence ahead. Thank you for sticking with this story for so long. I don't plan on leaving it unfinished. This moves through the episode 'Remember Me'. I've taken liberties with some scenes to align them with the narrative of the story.

Great, monolithic pillars stretched to cathedral ceilings and rose into a smoky abyss. The engravings on the sides of them were charred and the floor beneath me creaked at each step I took. God does not know I am here. I watched a figure as it knelt at a broken pew and wept.

I heard its whispers asking for forgiveness.

"The devil is real." It said, and I knew the voice, "He was an angel."

The figure came into focus as I stepped closer and it turned to me. Its milky blind eyes searching. I knew the face and my heart leapt, but not its name. "He can be beautiful and fallen. He can be divine because he was God's favorite."

"He enjoys seeing the destruction of faith. It is his favorite thing." I said.

It smiled and was pleased with my revelation, "Do you see?" it asked.

It is the lingering smell of copper that floats into the room. The floors are slick and dark and I swallow the metallic taste. "This is about three liters of blood," I say.

"He's lucky he made it to the infirmary," Korsak says, scribbling something on the notepad in his hand. Korsak is a good man, though his investigative skills have remained decidedly old school.

"Only because he was young and healthy," I say. My eyes find Jane as she walks the perimeter of the room, edging the dark pool between us. The blood licking at her feet like an ocean to its shore. She looks past me to Warden Price and her eyes burn into him. Her agitation is apparent as we leave the bathroom and move down the hall to the infirmary.

"He bled out. Two stab wounds to each of his kidneys," I say. The young man's body is laid out on a hospital bed. Small pools of blood have gathered on each side of him.

"Ouch." Jane winces.

"It's an excruciating way to die," I say.

"Yeah, but quick. All you need is a shiv. They practically teach it in here," Korsak adds.

"Any idea what the shiv was made out of?" Jane asks.

"No. It looks more like puncture wounds. The edges are surprisingly clean. Something very sharp," I say.

"Like Jane," a voice says, floating up from the curtain behind her. Hoyt. Korsak and I both look at Jane. She is suddenly uneasy. A moment passes and Jane is able to dig up her courage. She turns walks towards the curtain and pulls it back.

"What the hell," Jane says flippantly over her shoulder to the warden. I notice she presses her fingertips into the palm of her hands and kneads her scars. Hoyt notices, too.

"Do your hands hurt, Jane?"

"Like it never happened."

"Well as long as you're here, come closer. I have so much to tell you, Jane, and so little time."

My eyes move around to Korsak and Warden Price. Their expressions are blank as they stare at Jane and Hoyt's exchange. He has cancer and he is dying. Just behind Price are labeled blood vials. They sit on a counter by the door waiting to be picked up by the lab. It would be easy to slip one out unnoticed. My gaze falls on the prison guard standing at the end of Hoyt's gurney and the smile tugging at his lips that intrigues me. He is watching Jane with censored glee. I can tell by the heave of his chest that he is focusing to regulate his breathing. He is excited. Monsters walk the halls of justice and slip between the spaces of law and order. Chaos is a world Charles Hoyt revels in and he looks for an apprentice to witness it all with him. It is his weakness; his reliance on others. His need to put on a show, to have an audience. He loves it, the attention. He has a dying wish and Jane has taken his bait. I wonder if a right set of circumstances will present itself.

"Nobody knows, Jane. Nobody knows, but I will tell you. I did something very bad. The good doctor can hear, too. The fat cop needs to leave, though." Hoyt says, his eyes cutting to Korsak.

"Korsak, go." Jane says quietly. Crestfallen, Korsak silently pleads with Jane before finally conceding and leaving the room.

Jane glances over her shoulder. "Record this," she says quietly. I nod and pull my phone from my purse.

"Do you remember where you were in the fall of '05?"

"No."

"Oh, the leaves were beautiful. Even the weeping willows turned yellow that year."

Jane pulls in a deep breath, "You said you did something very bad. Did you murder someone in the fall of '05?"

"I love the feel of velvet," Hoyt says. His eyes move over Jane's body and settle on me, "Virgin, white velvet. I imagine that's how you feel, Doctor. Am I right, Jane?"

Jane's body tenses and wavers forward. She stills a step that would have sent her hurtling forward, reaching out to tighten her hands around his throat.

"I'm fucking done here," Jane says, throwing her hands up. She turns and makes her way towards the door.

"A young eagle lost its family of four. Do you know eagles don't drink water? Did you come through the west gate?" Hoyt says.

I reach out, and catch Jane's forearm. "It is possible the cancer has metastasized into his brain."

"What? You don't think he knows what he's talking about?" Jane asks.

"I'm just saying it's possible."

Jane's eyes hold mine for a moment before she looks over her shoulder to Hoyt, "I'm glad you're dying. Let's go, Maura."

The sound of Jane's shoes echoes down the hall and I quicken my pace to keep up with her. She turns sharply and pushes open the door to the restroom. I stop at the door and hear her retch as she purges her demons.

The next few days I spend confined to the lab. When I finally see Jane again she is pacing in her living room. She spent the previous night in the records basement, poring over cold case files until she came across the Wilson family. DNA from Jacob Wilson had matched with the teeth we discovered in the balloon from Graham Randall's stomach.

"I want to watch it again," Jane says, coming around the coffee table and clicking 'play' on the laptop.

I quickly pause it. "You're obsessing," I say

"No, I'm investigating," She counters.

"When was the last time you slept?" I ask. Jane bites at her thumb nail and her eyes move around the room, "Does it matter?" and she begins pacing again.

"I haven't been able to," she confesses, "not since I saw Hoyt."

Jane is haunted, and I don't know the nightmares that lay coiled beneath her pillow. She must lay awake at night, listening to her breathing and the tiny clicks of her blinking eyes in the dark. I wonder what scenarios she fantasizes about when Hoyt moves through her head. If she picks them apart and pieces them back together into a narrative that leaves her bloodied and righteous.

"It's hard to lie still and fear going to sleep when he's there to think about. And when I do sleep, I am dreaming more, if you could even call it dreaming." Jane rubs her hands over her face. She stops in the center of the room and looks at me. Exhaustion weighs down her eyes.

"Your dreams were the one place you could be physically safe relinquishing control." I say. Jane walks around the small table and sits next to me on the couch.

"This feeling consumes me and Hoyt is at the center of it. I can't just let it go."

"You're maintaining your position on the event horizon of chaos. How you feel is a reflection of that. You need to fight your fear—"

"I'm not afraid," Jane says firmly, "that isn't it. But this feeling; this rage. It isn't sustainable." Shaking her head, Jane looks down at her hands and becomes consumed in her thoughts.

I understand this remarkably well. How consuming anger can be when it settles against your heart. It is no longer a fixture, but rather an intimate part of you. As real as the blood in your veins and the air in your lungs. Embracing it means bringing the darkest corners of yourself into the light. The knowledge that no beast is more savage than one possessed by power answerable only to their own rage.

"Then embrace it. The guiding thread through your narrative with Hoyt has always been that you cannot be defeated. Even in death. Weclome your rage."

When she looks up at me again I can see the muscles in her jaw clench. She is trying to box back up what has been released inside of her. Years of meticulous compartmentalization have finally begun to erode and she begins to let go.

"Help me find the Wilsons." She says, finally with a new found focus.

"So their throats were slit?" Jane asks.

I look up from the bones laid out on the table, "Yes."

Jane bites her lip and shakes her head, "They were probably out eating sandwiches, enjoying a beautiful fall day and Hoyt came across them. My guess is he went after one of the children first and used them to keep everyone else in line."

"The evidence could potentially give your theory merit." I say, then quietly add, "Is that what you need?"

Jane's eyes focus on mine. I choose my words carefully and keep my voice low. A secret just between us, "You already know Hoyt did this. The evidence is all here. Perhaps you didn't come here looking for a killer. Perhaps you came here to find yourself."

Jane glances around the room, "Maura, we can't talk about this here."

"There is no safer place to talk about it. No one here will say a word," I look over my shoulder at the scattering of bones behind me, "I assure you." I reach out and take Jane's hand into my own, "You're safe."

Jane lets out the breath she had been holding, giving her words freedom, "I can't get it out of my head, Maura. He's just laying there withering away and fucking dying, feeling nothing while that cancer eats him alive and I just want.." she trails off.

"To kill him." I finish for her.

She grows quiet for a moment, letting the revelation settle between us. Memories from our first conversation float through my mind. Jane pulls her hands back from mine and runs her fingers through her hair, letting out a sigh of frustration. Her eyes shut tightly and she shakes her head. When she finds her voice, it is weak, "All I see is dark swarming behind my eyelids. I dream darkness comes to me. It comes and it is insidious; up my nose, into my ears. I feel poisoned. I get lost in the thought sometimes of what I would have done to him. Shooting him would have been too humane."

"He shouldn't get to die like that," she whispers.

"I agree, but Hoyt is weak. He is the dying bird you find nestled away in the grass. And when you see it, your first instinct is that it is vulnerable, but why save it when it when can you just as easily crush it. It is a primal rejection of weakness, which is every bit as natural as the nurturing instinct. Hoyt is dying, and even the most docile human is capable of murder in the right set of circumstances. You are simply following your primal inclination," I say.

Jane's eyes plead with mine, It is scary when someone tells you the truth.

Jane's self control is remarkable. Over the months though she has started to tread dangerously close to an epiphany; that she is capable of much more. I saw beginnings of it last night in her living room; a crumbling facade. Human emotion is a gift from our animal ancestors. Cruelty is a gift humanity has given itself.

The vibration of Jane's phone brings our attention back from edging an abyss.

"Rizzoli. Okay. And the warden okayed that? Yeah. I'll be right there." Jane lowers her phone, "Hoyt's dying and he told the guard he wants to see me. He said he's prepared to give up the names and burial sites of every person he's murdered."

Jane looks at me. Her eyes are dark and her breathing has quickened, stoking the embers of her rage; breathing new life into them. Her hand brushes against the gun on her hip; a natural, unconscious reflex to a threat.

"Is that what you want from him?" I ask.

"You know what I want."

I watch Jane as she gathers her belongings. Her body is tense, humming with anticipation. I wonder if Jane is aware of the threat Hoyt poses, or if she simply does not care, focused more on the reciprocity of the situation as she comes to terms with the opportunity being gifted to her. The outcome holds so many unknown variables. It has captured my fascination. Jane has come so far, she only needed the mention of Hoyt to get her there.

"It can sometimes be brave to allow yourself hopes." I say, "I'm coming with you." I gather my belongings and follow Jane out the door. I do not know if Jane seeks vengeance or revenge. Rather, I believe she simply craves an unscarred dreamscape. One where nightmares no longer plague her and the echos of Hoyt have finally grown silent. Suddenly we walk an unknown path together. I reach out and take Jane's hand into my own and feel a satisfied smile tugged at the corner of my lips. My curiosity is suddenly starved for what Jane will do.

Oh, my dear. When life becomes maddeningly polite, think of me.

"He's been in and out of it," the guard says.

"It's not fair," Jane mumbles.

"Maybe he will still be able to talk to you," I say, coming up beside her. Hoyt is motionless on the bed. His breathing is shallow.

"It's not fair because this piece of shit tortured so many people and gets to go out peacefully."

Hoyt's pulse point flutters rapidly against the flesh of his neck at the sound of Jane's voice. He is not dying. I look over my shoulder at the guard. A smile twitches at the corner of his lips. He is anxious. He is waiting. We've been baited.

Hoyt is whispering to Jane now. Beckoning her to come closer, "I have more bad things to tell you."

The mechanical restraints around his wrists are loose and he moves quickly. His wiry hand captures Jane around her neck and he pulls her to the gurney.

"GET HIM OFF ME!" Jane screams.

"I think I'll watch." The guard doesn't move to apprend Hoyt, but instead wraps his arms around me, lifting me off the ground. He carries and tosses me onto another bed in the room. His large hands wrap my around my own, holding them together and he pulls a zip tie from his pocket and fastens it tightly around my wrists. He moves across the room to Jane and ties her hands as well. I feel my body grow warm. I close my eyes and sip from my rage, trying to control it from consuming me.

"Happy birthday, Jane. I was so hoping you'd be smart enough to put together my clues. Was it fun? Like a murder treasure hunt?"

He is looming above her; a twisted smile spread across his lips. She coughs and her hands wrap around his wrist as she struggles against his grip. "I should have fucking killed you when I had the chance," Jane finally spits.

"Yeah, you should have." Hoyt says. The guard is beside him now pulling the taser from his belt and handing it to Hoyt, "I always finish what I start, Janie."

I focus on Jane. A moment of silence fills the room. I see the flicker of calm composure settle across the features of her face. She has stopped fighting against Hoyt's grip and her eyes burn into the guard. She is starting to let go of her control.

"He played you Mason, just like he plays all of his little apprentices." Jane says, taunting the him.

Mason smiles over his shoulder at Jane as he walks back towards me. I watch him in all of his bravado, "I'm not the one wearing zip ties, detective."

"What was in it for you?" I ask, trying to keep his attention on me and away from Jane.

"It was fun. He was all proud of himself, the Graham kid, going off to law school. Big deal. Idiot was dropping mystery books off for a serial killer," he says.

"I love mysteries. It was almost too good to be true when little Graham told me he was off to Boston College to be an eagle. I knew then he'd be the perfect envelope for my letter to you." Hoyt says. He looks over his shoulder at Mason and tilts his head, signaling him to come over, "It's time, Jane."

A flash of silver moves between Mason and Hoyt's hands, and he presses the scalpel against Jane's neck, "I'm dying and I want company. I think I'm going to take you and Doctor Isles with me," Hoyt says. Jane flinches and lets out a shriek of pain. "Hold her down," Hoyt directs Mason. He picks up the taser from the bed and makes his way towards me.

"I win, Jane." Hoyt says, smiling. His small teeth are stained and the spaces between are black, a testament to the cancer seeping out of him.

"Hoyt, don't you touch her!" Jane's voice echos off the walls. It's isn't desperation in her voice. It is a warning. Hoyt is in front of me now. He waves the taser in his hand, taunting me and drawing out the thrill. Police issued tasers are often fifty thousand volts. A well placed strike can incapacitate, but Hoyt is gaunt. Weak. I can maneuver and throw him off balance. When he brings the taser toward me, his hands tremble, and I shift my weight, leaning to my left side. It is enough and the taser glances my right shoulder. I fall back and I feel my body seize. The light above me becomes a pinpoint and I hear a voice, "You're going to feel a little pinch, doctor."

Cool metal cuts into the skin of my neck and I feel the quick surge of adrenaline pump through my veins. I have control of my body again and I lock my hands together. I bring them up quickly, connecting with his jaw and send him stumbling back. I stand and see Jane rising from the floor, her face bloodied. Mason writhes on the floor behind her, letting out a gurgled cough and cradling his face in his hands. He's choking on his own blood.

Jane is behind Hoyt now. Her long arm wraps around his neck, trapping him between her forearms. She locks her wrists beneath his chin and pulls back, sending him to the ground. The scalpel falls out of his hand and he rolls over to retrieve it. His weakness is apparent as he struggles on his hands and knees. I step down on his wrist and he lets out a whine of pain. Jane reaches down with her bound hands and pulls him back by the collar of his shirt. The force sends him falling onto his back. She is above him, wrestling for control until she wraps her hands around his throat. Her breaths are calm and even as she watches him his struggle. His hands claw at his neck in a desperate attempt for air. I kneel beside Hoyt and pick up the scalpel. His eyes meet mine and I can see his fear. A moment of awe settles upon me as I watch Jane awakening to who she is in this moment. I've seen this place before. I've been there and know it intimately. She sees her truth with new eyes and she understands. She has moved past treading the line of absolution and she steps forward onto new, familiar ground. And in this crucial moment; she is no longer observing. This is participation. Fire is breaking out from under her skin. This is her reckoning.

"Jane." I say. Her focus wavers for moment from Hoyt to me. Mason has started to move and I can hear voices echoing from down the hall. I hold out the scalpel to her, "We need to hurry."

She loosens her grip from around Hoyt's neck and takes the scalpel from me. She does not hesitate and easily allows her savior moment to pass. She forgives how God forgives, with malevolent grace. Through his hazy consciousness, Hoyt can see it. His eyes widen and a plea begins to form at his lips. Jane welcomes her rage and it consumes her, flickering across her face. The corner of her lips turning upwards.

"I win." she says, turning the scalpel over her hands she raises it above her head and brings it down into Hoyt's chest and blood seeps into his shirt. Mason is standing now and stumbles towards us. Jane shifts her weight off from Hoyt and stands. The sound of gunfire rings out and Mason falls. The breath he struggles for never makes it past his lips. The holes in his chest gurgle with air as blood begins to fills his lungs.

Frost is beside me, pulling me to my feet. I look past him to Jane. Korsak is cutting the zip ties from her wrists. For a moment she stands motionless, then tilts her head back and closes her eyes. The wound on her neck opens and bleeds angrily, staining the collar of her shirt. When she opens her eyes again, she looks down at Hoyt. And for a moment it is beautifully silent. She knows the reality of taking a life. Of people who die when we have no other choice. We know these moments not of flesh, but of light, air and color. They are the richer and darker notes of the chaos that bind us.