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With Death as her companion, Kristina slips past the guards and the security cameras; nothing but a ghost, invisible. The bullpen in the fourth floor is pitched in darkness, but she doesn't need light anymore, and makes her way across the room with sure steps. Even though it's the middle of the night, Jane is still at the office just as she had expected. He's curled up on the old leather couch in the corner, fast asleep, his fingers twisted in the hem of the small throw tucked around his body. He looks tired, even in his sleep, and there's the same sadness etched in his features she saw in his eyes the last time they met. She watches him for a moment, wishing she could take that sadness from him, and then leans down.
"Wake up, Patrick," she whispers gently.
He stirs at the sound of her voice, and stares at her blearily. For a moment she's afraid that maybe he can't see her, his skepticism making him blind, but then his eyes widen in surprise.
"Kristina?" He stands up, shedding the throw on the floor as he looks around to see if there is anyone else in the room. "What are you doing here? Why aren't you at the hospital?"
"Why would I be in a hospital? I'm a ghost, Patrick. I'm no longer bound by the walls and laws of this world."
He squeezes his eyes shut, rubbing his face.
"You're not dead, Kristina."
She can't help laughing. "You keep saying that, even despite the evidence of your own eyes."
His fingers twitch, and she knows he wants to touch her, to reassure himself that she's really there, but he resists the temptation, unwilling to risk getting a different answer than the one he hopes.
"I have a message for you from your wife," she says, and his expression hardens.
"Don't..." He whispers, shaking his head. "Please, don't..."
"Angela wants me to tell you that she's waiting for you. They both are. No matter what you believe, there is a life beyond this one, and you will see your wife and daughter again, very soon. There is no pain in the other side, no sadness. It doesn't have to hurt."
As she speaks, she holds his gaze, defying him to contradict her, but he remains quiet. His thumb absently rubs the thin wedding band on his left ring finger as he finally looks away.
"I'll call the hospital," he says, and walks to the nearest desk. "You shouldn't be here."
He picks up the receiver and presses it to his ear, reaching to dial the number, and then freezes.
"The phone's dead," he says, almost to himself, and then looks up, the receiver falling from his fingers and clattering on the floor.
"Who let you in, Kristina?" he asks, a slightest tremor in his voice as he stares at her. "Was it Red John? Is Red John here?"
"I don't understand what you're saying."
"Answer me!" He's almost shouting now, his voice loud in the empty bullpen. "Did Red John send you? Why are you here, Kristina? "
She meets his gaze, unwavering, confident in the knowledge that he too will soon understand. "I'm here to tell you that you shouldn't be afraid."
"Afraid of what?"
But she doesn't need to answer, because she can see the truth finally dawning to him as Death emerges from the shadows, tall and dark and terrible. Jane struggles, trying to escape, but Death is too strong, too fast, just like it was when it came to her.
"You can't fight Death," she says, as warm blood splatters on her face.