And real blood.

She noticed that the Crazy Lady was wearing a patient wristband like Jane’s. Escapee from the psych unit? Just try to make her sit obediently in a wheelchair. The woman was barefoot, her shapely ass peeking out from the backless hospital gown. She had long legs, muscular thighs, and a luxuriant mane of jet black hair. Dress her up in a sexy leather outfit, and she’d look like Xena the Warrior Princess.

“I gotta pee,” Mr. Bodine said.

The Crazy Lady didn’t even glance at him.

“Hey! Is anyone listening to me? I said I gotta pee!”

Oh jeez, just do it, old man, thought Rizzoli. Pee in your wheelchair. Don’t tick off someone who’s holding a gun.

On the TV, a blond reporter appeared. Zoe Fossey, reporting from Albany Street. “We have no word yet on how many hostages are trapped inside the hospital wing. Police have cordoned off the building. So far there is one known fatality, a security guard who was shot to death while trying to restrain the patient…”

The Crazy Lady halted, her gaze riveted on the screen. One of her bare feet landed on the manila folder that was lying on the floor. Only then did Jane notice the name on that chart, written in black felt ink.

Rizzoli, Jane.

The news report ended, and Crazy Lady resumed her pacing, her bare feet slapping across the folder. It was Jane’s outpatient chart, which Dr. Tam had probably been carrying when she’d walked into Diagnostic Imaging. Now it was right at the Crazy Lady’s feet. All she had to do was bend down and flip open the cover and read the first page, where the patient information was listed. Name, birth date, marital status, Social Security number.

And occupation. Detective, Homicide. Boston Police Department.

This woman is now under siege by the Boston PD SWAT team, thought Jane. When she finds out that I’m a cop, too…

She didn’t want to complete the thought; she knew where it would lead. She looked down once again at her arm, at the hospital ID band printed with the name: RIZZOLI, JANE. If she could just get this thing off, she could jam it between the cushions, and the Crazy Lady wouldn’t be able to match her to the chart. That was the thing to do, get rid of this dangerous ID band. Then she’d be just another pregnant lady in the hospital. Not a cop, not a threat.

She slipped a finger under the wristband and tugged, but it didn’t give way. She pulled harder, but could not break it. What the hell was it made of, anyway? Titanium? But of course it had to be sturdy. You didn’t want confused old guys like Mr. Bodine yanking off their IDs and wandering the halls, anonymous. She strained harder against the plastic, her teeth gritting together, the muscles quietly straining. I’ll have to chew it off, she thought. When the Crazy Lady isn’t looking, I could-

She froze. Realized the woman was standing right in front of her, a bare foot planted once again on Jane’s medical chart. Slowly Jane’s gaze lifted to the woman’s face. Up till then she had avoided looking directly at her captor, afraid to draw any attention to herself. Now, to her horror, she saw that the woman was focused on her-only on her-and she felt like the herd’s lone gazelle singled out for slaughter. The woman even looked like a feline, long-limbed and graceful, her black hair glossy as a panther’s. Her blue eyes were as intense as searchlights, and Jane was now caught in the beam.

“This is what they do,” the woman said, eyeing Jane’s wristband. “They put labels on you. Like in concentration camp.” She showed her own wristband, printed with DOE, JANE. There was an original name for you, thought Jane, and she almost wanted to laugh. I’m being held hostage by Jane Doe. It’s down to Jane vs. Jane. The real one versus the fake one. Didn’t the hospital know who this woman was when they admitted her? Judging by the few words she’d spoken, it was clear she was not American. Eastern European. Russian, maybe.

The woman ripped off her own wristband and tossed it aside. Then she grabbed Jane’s wrist and gave her ID band a sharp yank as well. It snapped apart.

“There. No more labels,” the woman said. She glanced at Jane’s wristband. “Rizzoli. This is Italian.”

“Yes.” Jane kept her gaze on the woman’s face, afraid to even glance downward, to draw her attention to the manila folder lying beneath her bare foot. The woman took her steady eye contact as a sign of connection between them. Up till now, Crazy Lady had scarcely said a word to any of them. Now she was talking. This is good, thought Jane. An attempt at conversation. Try to connect with her, establish a relationship. Be her friend. She wouldn’t kill a friend, would she?

The woman was looking at Jane’s pregnant belly.

“I’m having my first baby,” said Jane.

The woman looked up at the clock on the wall. She was waiting for something. Counting the minutes as they ticked by.

Jane decided to dip her toe further into conversational waters. “What-what is your name?” she ventured.

“Why?”

“I just wanted to know.” So I can stop calling you the Crazy Lady.

“It makes no difference. I am dead already.” The woman looked at her. “So are you.”

Jane stared into those burning eyes, and for one frightening moment she thought: What if it’s true? What if we are already dead, and this is just a version of hell?

“Please,” the receptionist murmured. “Please let us go. You don’t need us. Just let us open the door and walk out.”

The woman began to pace again, her bare feet intermittently treading across the fallen chart. “You think they will let you live? After you have been with me? Everyone who is with me dies.”

“What’s she talking about?” Dr. Tam whispered.

She’s paranoid, thought Jane. Having delusions of persecution.

The woman suddenly came to a stop and stared down at the manila folder near her feet.

Don’t open it. Please don’t open it.

The woman picked it up, eyeing the name on the cover.

Distract her, now!

“Excuse me,” she said. “I really-I really need to use the bathroom. Being pregnant and all.” She pointed to the waiting room toilet. “Please, can I go?”

The woman dropped the chart down on the coffee table where it landed just out of Jane’s reach. “You do not lock the door.”

“No. I promise.”

“Go.”

Dr. Tam touched Jane’s hand. “Do you need help? Do you want me to go with you?”

“No. I’m okay,” said Jane and she rose on unsteady legs. Wanted desperately to sweep up the medical chart as she moved past the coffee table, but the Crazy Lady was watching her the whole time. She walked to the restroom, turned on the light, and closed the door. Felt sudden relief to be alone, and not staring at a gun.

I could lock the door anyway. I could just stay in here and wait it out until it’s over.

But she thought of Dr. Tam and the orderly and Glenna and Domenica clinging to one another on the couch. If I piss off Crazy Lady, they’ll be the ones to suffer. I’d be a coward, hiding behind a locked door.

She used the toilet and washed her hands. Scooped water into her mouth, because she did not know when she’d next get a chance to drink. Wiping her wet chin, she scanned the small restroom, searching for something she could use as a weapon, but all she saw were paper towels and a soap dispenser and a stainless steel trash can.

The door suddenly swung open. She turned to see her captor staring at her. She doesn’t trust me. Of course she doesn’t trust me.

“I’m finished,” said Jane. “I’m coming out now.” She left the restroom and crossed back to the couch. Saw that the medical chart was still lying on the coffee table.

“Now we sit and wait,” the woman said, and she settled into a chair, the gun on her lap.

“What are we waiting for?” Jane asked.

The woman stared at her. Said, calmly: “The end.”