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30 August 2004, Teresa Lisbon.

“Three minutes!” There’s no reply. “Katie?”

“Got it!” Her daughter’s voice is muffled by the door.

Lisbon double-checks her wristwatch and downs the rest of her coffee. “I’m serious, you’re gonna have to take the bus if you’re not–” Katie steps out of her room wearing a sour face and a new top. “No way,” Lisbon says immediately. “That is not school appropriate. I’ll give you one extra minute to change.”

“But the other girls wear this!”

It’s never been like this between them, not since Katie was going through her Terrible Twos. Generally, they’ve gotten along. Lisbon likes to think that’s because she’s honest with Katie. It’s been the two of them against the world. Hormones are a hell of a drug. Lisbon hopes they clear quickly.

“I don’t care, you’re not getting dress-coded on my watch. Go.”

Katie grumbles something under her breath but goes.

Was Lisbon like this at fifteen, too? Maybe she would’ve been, if her dad had been awake enough in the mornings. All the boys certainly acted like this. Lisbon had hoped Katie would be different, coming from a more stable home, but no one’s immune to high school.

And can she ever hold anything against Katie when Lisbon’s the one who became a single mother at seventeen? Katie’s not been expressing any interest in boys at least, and Lisbon thanks God for that every day. Let the girl get through high school before real problems find her.

“Thank you,” Lisbon tells Katie sincerely when she emerges wearing a much more appropriate top. Openly appreciating her daughter’s efforts to follow the rules tends to go over well. “Let’s go.”

“The guys are allowed to wear tank tops,” Katie says after sulking in the car for a few minutes.

Rush hour in downtown Sacramento is a pain in the ass but, as Lisbon tells herself every weekday, at least it’s not Los Angeles. “I know it’s unfair, but rules are rules. You don’t break ‘em unless you wanna get into trouble.”

“You’re such a cop,” Katie grouses.

Cops aren’t cool at Katie’s age, of course. Breaking the rules is cool, not upholding them. Lisbon used to think the same way so she doesn’t take umbrage. “That is what I get paid for every day.”

“If a guy can’t concentrate ‘cause he can see my shoulders, he needs to see a doctor.”

“Look, I agree, it’s double standards, but those are the standards school’s got so we gotta follow ‘em. It’s not forever; it’s your last year.” 

Although Lisbon did well in school herself, she was never anywhere near her daughter’s level; her whiz kid skipped two grades. People congratulate her all the time on how great her parenting must be, but the truth is that Katie is just clever. Lisbon never had to help her much with homework, in fact at this point Katie’s moved onto such advanced math that Lisbon’s not sure she ever got that far herself. Katie’s pattern recognition is particularly good, as is her memory, though it’s thankfully not quite photographic. It’s humbling, sometimes, to know that her kid is, or at least very soon will be, smarter than her, but it’s something she’s come to terms with a long time ago. It’s good. With a brain like that, Katie has a bright future ahead of her. She could do whatever she wanted.

Except be a psychic. Whatever else Katie has inherited from her father, she’s never shown any inclinations towards clairvoyance or the like. It’s a relief, really. Lisbon doesn’t want her daughter to speak with the dead.

She drops Katie off at school and rejoins the morning rush hour to go to work. All their active cases are currently waiting for various things to process or the well has run dry. It’ll be a day of going over the ones that have hit a wall by rereading interview transcripts. Not her favorite but it has to be done. She won’t give up on a case until she’s turned every stone twice or more.

As per usual, Hannigan gives her a look when she’s the last of the team to show up. It’s ironic that he’s the one who gives her the most grief for being a mother when he’s the only other person on the team with kids, but of course his wife got them in the divorce. Lisbon speaks very little of Katie at work, she doesn’t even have a framed picture on her desk. It’s already hard enough being the young woman boss, even after being here for nearly a year, and she doesn’t want them to start seeing her as a Mother, capital M. God forbid they start thinking she’ll mother them , or that she’s too soft to do her job. She doesn’t know if Rigsby even realizes she has a kid.

While the computer starts up, she makes herself a coffee and says hi to Cho and Rigsby. They exchange a few comments about last night’s game. That’s a way Lisbon has found to communicate with the guys: football. Once they’ve exchanged their thoughts, she tells them to go over the McGregor case with a fine tooth comb, assigning each of the guys and herself to various interviews.

It’s not even half an hour later when Rigsby interrupts her, “Boss. There’s a man here to see you. He says his name's Patrick Jane.”

The name instantly rings a bell. It’s the psychic from the Red John case. When she’d seen his name on the case files three months ago, she’d wondered at the coincidence of another psychic named Patrick. “Patrick Jane? Really?”

“Red John, right?” Rigsby asks. “Wife and daughter? About a year ago?”

“Yeah, he's been off the radar, SacPD lost track of him six months ago. I never met him.” Although she’s not spent a lot of time thinking about him, the thought had crossed her mind that something awful had happened to the man, so she’s glad to hear he’s well enough to show up here. “Did he say why he came in?”

“Just that he wants to talk to you.” Huh. Well, Lisbon and the team have been reinterviewing people for the Red John case, so it would be useful to speak with him, but definitely at a prearranged time when she’s had a moment to go over the files and refresh her memory. Has Mr. Jane heard they’re reinterviewing folks and decided to take the initiative?

“Boss,” Hannigan calls out from his desk, “Nevada County Sheriff's Office called, got a body. Country road near Malakoff Diggins.”

Great, another case to add to the pile. “You and Cho check it out,” she says, “I'll catch up.” She’ll let Mr. Jane know she’s glad to hear from him but that he really needs to schedule an appointment, and then head out.

Patrick Jane is a man turned in on himself. His arms are crossed in front of his chest and his back is slumped. His rumpled shirt was once tucked into his trousers but now half of it has freed itself and Mr. Jane doesn’t seem to have noticed. The dishevelled appearance of his blonde hair gives her the impression that he’s not showered in days. The eyes that peek out underneath the mess of frizz and half-hearted curls are blue and alert, darting around the bullpen like Red John himself might jump out from behind a computer.

More importantly, Patrick Jane is… His eyes meet Lisbon’s and she freezes in place. “ Patrick ?” Katie’s father.

Time has been kind to him. It has touched him gently, filling out his frame and tracing soft lines onto his face. There are shadows of the boy she knew half a lifetime ago, but overall he looks like a stranger. Without the knowledge of his name and psychic abilities, she’s not sure she would’ve recognized him.

His attention snaps to her. His eyes flicker from her face to her throat and back. Realization dawns on his face. It softens his anxiety and loosens his tightly-drawn shoulders. “Teresa.” She’s flattered. Patrick changed her life, but she was just a summer fling to him, probably one among dozens. If none of her messages about Katie have reached him, then there’s no reason he should remember her. But he does.

And a second later, his arms are around her and she smells his sour sweat and the hastily-applied deodorant that doesn’t cover it. Her body stiffens under his touch. Nobody but Katie and the boys hug her. To her relief, the hug ends as quickly as it started.

“What are you doing here?” Lisbon asks. It’s so strange seeing him after all this time. The boy she knew is trapped in amber inside her mind. She can’t quite understand that this is him except older.

And sadder. “I was told the Red John case was taken over by the CBI.”

Wife and daughter? About a year ago? Angela Ruskin Jane and Charlotte Anne Jane are suddenly no longer Red John victims to her. They’re her old friend’s family. They’re Katie’s would-be step-mother and half-sister. Lisbon reaches for her mother’s cross. Oh God, Katie’s half-sister. “I am very sorry for your loss,” she says, nausea suddenly roiling in her stomach, “but we don’t discuss cases with the families of victims. It’s, uh, policy.”

“Right,” Patrick says with an agreeable nod. “Understood. But you know me, and I-I-I consulted on this case before, you can trust me.”

Her heart skips a beat. Of course! “You have a lead? Did your wife speak to you?”

The expression on his face is inscrutable. “Excuse me?”

“Your wife,” Lisbon repeats. “Have you been in contact with her spirit?”

Patrick stares at her unblinkingly for several seconds. Then his breath rushes out of him like the air out of a deflating balloon. His shoulders slump. “Teresa, I’m not a psychic, I never was.”

“But,” her protest is instinctual, “you spoke with my mother.”

He shakes his head. “There’s no such thing as psychics. I was a conman.”

Strangely, the emotion that possesses her is disbelief. “No,” she insists. “You knew things about me, things you couldn’t possibly have known unless–”

“I read you,” he says. “I read your necklace. The cross doesn’t match the chain it’s on, the chain is cheap but the cross is expensive, so you inherited it from someone, likely an older female relative. You disciplined your brothers like you were their mother and you were hypervigilant like someone who was experiencing abuse at home, ergo your father was abusive because your mother had died and the cross belonged to her.” There’s an air of boredom to his explanation, like he’s sick of having to lower himself to other people’s level to get them to understand.

The corners of the cross bite into Lisbon’s fingertips. She lets it go.

“I can read you now, too, if you’d like,” Patrick continues. “You’re in California, which is the furthest you could get from home, which means you no longer feel like you have to protect your brothers. My guess? Your father did the only good thing he ever did in his sorry life; he killed himself.”

Her fist connects with his nose with a satisfying crunch . His hand flies to his face as he stumbles backwards from the momentum of her punch. For a split second, Lisbon is pleased. Then the reality of the situation dawns on her: she has just assaulted a widower, and in the middle of the bullpen no less.

“Oh my God, I am so sorry,” she says and reaches out to steady him.

At the same time, Rigsby rushes over, “Boss?”

“My fault,” Patrick says, waving them both off. He regains his footing. His hand is on his nose, which, despite the damning noise, doesn’t look broken. “My fault entirely.”

Rigsby looks back and forth between them. “Get him some ice,” Lisbon says and Rigsby dutifully leaps to the kitchen. “Patrick, I am so sorry, I don’t know what came over me.”

“I provoked you,” Patrick says and winces as he prods his nose bridge back and forth. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Come here.” Lisbon puts a hand on his elbow and guides him into her little cubicle to sit on her couch. “I’m an officer of the law, I shouldn’t have punched you even if you were provoking me.”

Rigsby appears with a half-empty bag of frozen fries and a kitchen towel to swaddle it in. “Uh, this was all we had.”

“That’s perfect,” Patrick says generously and presses the bundle to his face. “Oh yeah, that’s what I’m talking about.”

Minelli appears like a storm cloud, casting a shadow over the cubicle. “Lisbon–”

“If I may,” Patrick interrupts immediately. “I-I-I don’t want Agent, uh, Lisbon? I don’t want Agent Lisbon to get into trouble for this.”

“You don’t?” Minelli asks, eyebrows raised.

Patrick goes to shake his head but winces and keeps still. “Teresa and I go way back. I was pushing her buttons on purpose, which I’m very sorry for.” As he sits there, his eye probably already purpling underneath the thawing bag of fries, he looks absolutely pathetic. The man lost his whole family to a serial killer only a year ago, what the Hell was she thinking?

“You don’t want to press charges?” Minelli clarifies. “Or sue?”

“Not at all.”

“Well, that’s very generous of you, Mr. Jane. Uh, is there anything we can be of help with?”

“The Red John case,” Patrick says, sharp eyes flashing. “Are you close? Do you have any suspects?”

Minelli looks at Lisbon. Crap . She wets her lips. “The Red John case is very complex. Er, we only just took it over in March. We’re working our way through all the available evidence while working other cases.”

“I’d like to have a look at the case files.”

Lisbon looks at Minelli. He gives Patrick a tight smile. “Agent Lisbon’s team just got a new case, so she’ll need to head out, but I’m sure she’ll be happy to facilitate that once she’s back. Tomorrow, perhaps?”

“Where’s the case?”

“Oh, perhaps you’d like to join? Yes, Lisbon, take Mr. Jane with you. Mr. Jane, you can ask her any questions you’d like on the drive, she’d be happy to answer.” His tone suggests that if Lisbon is, in fact, not happy to answer, she’ll need to find herself another job.

“Sure,” she agrees.

“Great!” Patrick says and hands Minelli the bundle of fries. “Lead the way.”

30 August 2004, Patrick Jane.

State agent vehicles are a great deal more comfortable than the vintage cars Patrick usually drives. Their comfort makes up for the uninspired design. Teresa looks tiny behind the wheel of the massive cube.

Teresa-From-Chicago still carries her home state with her when she speaks, but Illinois is diluted like she’s been in California for a considerable amount of time. She looks strikingly similar to his memories of her, though she’s (thankfully) gained some weight and her skin has a pink tint to it. When he knew her, she’d been pale and gaunt. Still beautiful, obviously, but worn down. Exhausted. This Teresa looks much healthier, and her beauty has only grown with time.

She smells like oranges and cinnamon. He’d forgotten that. Or is that new?

“I’m sorry,” he says as she steers the giant vehicle into traffic like a woman who’s done it a million times before.

“For saying the only good thing my father ever did was kill himself, or for lying about speaking with my dead mother to get in my pants sixteen years ago?”

He cringes and reaches for his ring. It calms him to spin it around his finger. “Uh, both. Although, I wasn’t planning to seduce you when I pretended to speak with your mother.”

“You only decided to have sex with me after you’d seen how easily you could manipulate me,” she concludes.

“No. No, I had sex with you because you were pretty and I liked you. You, uh, you were very different from anyone around me. You were honest. I liked that.” Truth be told, at that age, he thought he’d fallen in love with her in those eight days together. If he’d been older or braver, he would’ve tried to stay in Chicago, but it took him another few years to gather the courage and experience to run away from his father. When he met Teresa, he was still just the Boy Wonder.

“I thought you were special,” Teresa says. Her words are full of frustration directed at her teenage self. “I was stupid.” No, not her teenage self: her current self. Somehow, she’d never realized he was a conman. It took him saying it for her to see the light. Oh, Teresa.

“Don’t beat yourself up for falling for the con, I’m very good.”

She barks a single, humorless laugh. “You– I don’t even– Aren’t you sorry ?”

“I just told you I am.”

“No, I mean,” she gestures aimlessly into the air, “for conning everyone? I read your file, you worked as a psychic for years , you must’ve swindled hundreds of people.”

The snake of guilt that entered his mouth and slithered into his gut a year ago twists into a tight coil. His fingertips press into his ring until the skin around his nails turns white. “Trust me, no one’s more sorry than me.” In his marriage bed lies Angela, guts glistening and sprawling, her nails painted red. Next to her lies Charlotte, exposed esophagus pliable and warm against his shaking hands. His fault. His fault. He may as well have wielded the knife. He may as well have taken Angela’s blood and smeared it onto the wall.

“Patrick?” Teresa’s voice brings him back to the car. Patrick blinks. Around him, he sees Sacramento traffic, not the horror scene in their Malibu bedroom. “Patrick?”

“Yes.” He clears his throat. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

He nods. He’s sure she is.

It’s quiet for a while. Nothing but the hum of the engine and the rush of cars outside. The radio is off.

“I was eighteen,” she says. “When my dad killed himself.” It’s an olive branch.

“Your brothers didn’t end up in the foster system,” he guesses.

Teresa shakes her head. “I got custody. I think he waited until the boys could stay with me. You’re right. Best thing he ever did.”

When they were kids, they lived similar lives: single-parent households, abusive fathers, barely making enough money to sustain themselves. Their paths diverged somewhere after that. He went on to Hollywood. She ran to California and became a cop.

If the universe had been kind, she would’ve been the one in a lavish mansion. Teresa’s always been a good person, an honest person. She deserves luxury cars, expensive holidays to Europe, Michelin restaurants, the whole shebang. It was all wasted on him.

The sun falls through the car windows. It illuminates her dark hair and brings out a reddish hue. Her green eyes squint against the light. She fishes through the glove box and pulls out a pair of sunglasses. They’re like the rest of her clothes: practical, inexpensive, inoffensive.

When they met, she was in ripped jeans and an oversized Cubs hoodie despite the summer heat. Her hair was long. It smelled of… jasmine. That’s what she used to smell like.

“What happened six months ago?” she asks. “SacPD said they lost track of you.”

“Uh, I attempted to do the best thing I ever did,” he says. Her flinch is brief. She quickly suppresses it. “I failed, so I had to spend some time in a psychiatric ward. I’m fine now, I had a lovely therapist.”

Teresa peeks over at him. There’s genuine concern in those pretty eyes, clear enough to shine through the tinted glass of the sunglasses. “I’m glad you got help,” she says, her words coming slow and stilted. She never was good at emotions, was she?

“Me too,” he agrees. It’s pretty hard to kill Red John if you’re dead yourself. As soon as he’d honed in on that thought, his will to live had grown exponentially.

“When did you get out?”

“About a week ago.”

“Oh.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” Her voice rises to a high pitch. She seems to realize how unconvincing that sounded and sheepishly adds, “You’re a bit of a mess. Like your clothes. And your hair. And…”

“And?” When she doesn’t elaborate, he says, “Out with it.”

“You could use a shower.”

He shuffles in his seat. “Well, don’t hold back.”

“You asked!”

Yeah, he regrets that now. Patrick has always been a vain man; it comes with the territory of show business. His father always instilled in him the importance of being well-presented. A lot of what his father taught him was bullshit, of course, but he’s held onto that lesson. When you’ve got nothing else to offer, image is everything. It drove Angela crazy. Even after the money started rolling in, she kept dressing the way she’d always done, except now in all-natural materials. When practical, she’d stuck to the same for Charlotte.

As his thoughts turn to his girls, the world glides out of focus.

A shrill noise startles him. Around him, the landscape has transformed from a bustling city to a sparsely-vegetated highway. Teresa pops open the glove compartment and retrieves a cellphone. It rings again and she says, “Crap, I gotta take this, hold on.”

There’s a rest stop not far ahead. She pulls in. As soon as she’s killed the engine, she slips out of the car, cell in hand. Patrick eyes her curiously as she walks a few steps away from the car. To his delight, she’s only partially turned away, so he can read her lips.

“I am so sorry, sir,” he thinks she says. “Yes, I completely understand. I can be there in,” she checks her watch and grimaces, “an hour and thirty. Great. Thanks. Bye.”

Huh. Her boss maybe? A figure of authority, obviously.

Teresa rejoins him. There’s a tightness around her mouth and a tension in her shoulders.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

“I’m gonna have to head back to Sacramento. I can drop you off somewhere.”

“Going back to HQ?”

“Uh, no, it’s, I mean, I will, after.” Her hands shake as she steers them back onto the road. “I gotta run a personal errand, then I’ll go back to work.”

Personal? Interesting. So, not her boss. “Who was that on the phone?”

She hesitates. “The principal,” she finally admits. “At my daughter’s school.”

“You have a daughter?” His chest is tight. The only girl he can picture is Charlotte.

Teresa swallows. Her guilty conscience is written in neon lights across her forehead. It might as well be, anyway. “Yeah, I do. Her, um, her name is Katherine.”

“Saint Catherine,” he says. Saint born of saint. He remembers how Angela smiled at him when he agreed that the name ‘Charlotte’ was perfect for their daughter.

 “Yeah,” Teresa confirms.

That’s all the talk of daughters that either of them can stomach. He doesn’t even ask if Katherine is alright. It doesn’t occur to him.

30 August 2004, Teresa Lisbon.

One look at Katie’s face tells Lisbon that her daughter has not learned her lesson yet.

“Miss Lisbon,” Principal Waters says from behind his desk, “have a seat.” He gestures to the chair next to Katie. “I’m afraid the top Katie’s wearing today goes against our school guidelines.”

It’s the top Lisbon ordered her to change out of. Katie must’ve snuck it into her bag and changed at school. Lisbon did something similar as a teen. “I’m aware, sir; I asked her to change this morning, but clearly she had other plans.”

“Huh. She told me you approved it.” Katie has the decency to look ashamed. She ducks her head and looks at her folded hands. “Well, then I’m sure you can understand why we have to send her home for the day, and in fact I’m gonna have to suspend her for the rest of the week.”

Suspend? Katie’s never been suspended. And for several days, just for wearing the wrong top? “Sir?”

“She’s been very combative today,” Waters explains. “We gave her a few options for changing and getting on with her day but she refused. Then she called Miss Peters some nasty words.”

“I just called her a fascist enforcer of the patriarchy,” Katie protests, crossing her arms sullenly.

“Precisely. We don’t allow backtalk here, you know that.”

“Sir, I am very sorry for her behavior, and believe me we’ll have a talk about this at home, but surely it doesn’t warrant missing the rest of the week? Er, this is her senior year–”

“I’m afraid Katie leaves me no choice. Everyone was patient and understanding with her, and she responded with obstinance and spite. We don’t tolerate that here.”

It still seems harsh to Lisbon, but she bites her tongue. “Understood, sir. Can I just ask this isn’t put on her record? This is the first time she’s been in trouble, and I’m sure she’s very sorry.”

Waters levels a look at Katie. “That depends. Are you sorry, Katie?”

Katie squirms in her seat. Her eyes dash to Lisbon, who raises her eyebrows meaningfully. With a sigh, Katie looks back at Waters and says, “I’m sorry.”

“Then I won’t put it on your record,” Waters says pleasantly. “I’ll see you again on Monday, Katie. Miss Lisbon.”

In the car, Katie says, “You think it’s bullshit too.”

A few years ago, Lisbon would’ve corrected her language, but at this point the ship has sailed. Her daughter is going to curse whether she likes it or not, because she recognizes the hypocrisy when Lisbon herself swears. “That doesn’t matter.”

“It totally does! You could complain! You could get together with the other parents and you could force them to change the rules!”

“Katie–”

“Don’t you believe in democracy, Mom?”

Lisbon sighs. Whoever gave this kid civic lessons did her a disservice. Right, that was her. Everything this kid comes up with is, ultimately, because of her. “It’s not that hard to just wear t-shirts for a year.”

“I can’t believe I’m suspended for, like, four days for wearing spaghetti straps. ‘The land of the free’ my ass.”

“Alright, that’s enough.” She’ll allow a few curse words but there’s no need to get excessive. “I’m gonna drop you off at home and head back to work.”

“Can I come with you?”

Lisbon imagines Katie running into Patrick and tenses. “Absolutely not.”

“But I’ve never–”

“I’m not rewarding you for getting into trouble.” Her tone does not allow for any argument. “In fact, you’re grounded, till Monday.” It’s only very rarely she’s had to ground Katie.

“ Grounded ?”

“Yes, grounded. For talking back at the teachers enforcing the school guidelines.”

“But-but I’m going to Jenny’s birthday party on Saturday!”

“Nope, no parties with the older kids.” They’ve been over this a million times before.

“But Jenny’s my classmate !”

“And she’s turning 18, which means there will be boys and underage drinking; I remember what being a teenager was like.”

“Not every teenager is as stupid and irresponsible as you were,” Katie says with venom that Lisbon thought her daughter was incapable of.

“Alright, just for that you’re grounded for two weeks.”

“Jenny’s actually a lot better than you; she’s not even pregnant yet.” 

Katie’s sudden hostility surprises Lisbon. Normally her girl is so sweet. “What the Hell is going on with you?”

“ Do you actually know who my dad is? ‘Cause it sounds like you were a bit of a slut–”

“That is enough .” Lisbon has automatically fallen into the tone she uses to earn respect from hardened criminals. It instantly shuts Katie up. A glance at her girl tells Lisbon that Katie has only just now processed her own words. Teenage impulsivity. That doesn’t excuse her behavior. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you today, but it better be over by tomorrow.”

The rest of the car ride is dominated by tense silence.

Katie’s behavior plays on Lisbon’s mind all the way back to the office. When she enters, she feels less like a person going into work and more like a ghost haunting the building. Her movements are automatic as she boots up her computer.

“Everything okay?” Patrick’s voice startles her. There he is, looking every bit as ruffled as he did in the car. In his hands are two cups. One is a nondescript white mug, which he hands to her. It’s filled to the brim with black coffee. The one he keeps hold of is a turquoise teacup on a matching saucer. From it dangles a string.

Lisbon hesitantly accepts the coffee. “Fine.”

“You know, when otherwise well-behaved children act out, it’s frequently because there’s some kind of need that’s not being met.”

Like not having a second parent in their life because he ran off to the circus? she wants to snap. “Mr. Jane,” she says sharply. “You do not know me or my daughter.”

“No,” he agrees instantly, looking appropriately chastened. “I-I-I’m sorry, you’re right, that was out of line.”

“I will call for those Red John files for you now. You can take the free desk by the window.” 

There’s a part of her that feels guilty for treating him like a stranger when she’s been raising his child for fifteen years. But at the end of the day, she doesn’t know him. Even the boy she thought she knew was all lies. Before she can let him in, before she can even consider letting him be part of Katie’s life, she has to make sure he’s safe for Katie to be around, and that he won’t disappear on them. Even better would be if he was a good person, but she’s not got much hope for that.

Six months in a mental institution. A murdered wife and child. Decades of being a conman. Yeah, Lisbon is gonna have to get to know this man a lot better to be convinced he’d be a good addition to Katie’s life.

Long after the first box of Red John files has arrived, Cho and Hannigan come back with pictures and reports from the crime scene. The whole team gathers to put together the board and go over the facts of the case. From his window seat, Jane peers at them curiously.

“Piece together where Dellinger was before he got here,” Lisbon says, pointing to one of the images of the crime scene. “Work his cellphone, credit card bills. Retrace his steps.”

“Find the lady,” Jane says unexpectedly.

Lisbon frowns. “What lady?”

“The lady he was on a date with,” Jane elaborates helpfully. “He has a bachelor's car, peacock clothes. What did he smell like?”

“Smell like?” Hannigan repeats. Lisbon has to agree; it’s a weird thing to ask.

“Yes, smell like. My guess? Alcohol, breath mints, and a bit too much cologne.”

“That is pretty accurate, boss,” Cho says.

“Date,” Jane concludes with some satisfaction.

“Uniforms did find a credit card receipt in his car,” Cho continues. “He had dinner last night at a restaurant called Café Tuscany.”

“Go,” she tells him. “See what they can tell you. The victim's father was an appellate court judge. I need to go and talk to him.”

“You should find out if he was disappointed in his son,” Jane says. “Dellinger was drunk driving. Maybe he had an alcohol problem. If he did, his father would be disappointed in him.”

Lisbon sends Rigsby and Hannigan a look that means ‘get busy looking into the victim’s life’ and walks over to Jane in his little nook. The turquoise cup is half-full with pale yellow liquid. Crime scene photos from Red John’s third victim are spread across the desk. “What’s going on? You tell me you’re not a psychic and now this.”

His blue eyes meet hers very seriously. The skin around his left eye is purpling. “I’m not a psychic. I’m just good at what I do.”

“‘Reading’?” she asks, suddenly recalling the conversation that led to her punching him in the nose.

“Give the woman a prize,” he agrees and although he says it sarcastically, it’s not laced with any malice.

“Oh, hush,” she grumbles, “or I’ll give you a second black eye.”

Jane mimes zipping his lips shut in an exaggerated way that reminds her so keenly of the boy she’d adored for eight days in the middle of July that Lisbon can’t help but smile.

She spends the rest of the day chasing down leads and racking up an ever-growing list of suspects: Dellinger’s father, the judge; Kelly Burbage, the woman Dellinger was on a date with; Emmet Cox, the ex-boyfriend of Burbage; Mr Dos Santos, the father of Mia Dos Santos, a girl Dellinger killed while drunk driving; and Nathaniel Kim, the lead detective in Mia’s case. All of them have motive, but she does not have evidence tying any of them to the crime.

The team is gathered around the board discussing next steps when Jane calls out from his desk, “Have them all come in.” He doesn’t even look up from the case file in his hands.

“Excuse me?” Lisbon says.

Jane puts the file aside. “I’ve got this trick, I-I-I should be able to find out who did this, if you want. All I need is for all of the suspects to be in one room, together, and a deck of tarot cards.”

“Tarot… cards…” And he’s still insisting he’s not psychic?

“Yes. Or, failing that, paper and a pen. But preferably the cards.”

Right. Lisbon is baffled. But so far his intuition has been good, and his attention to detail reminds her of her daughter, so, “Uh, I’ll see what I can do.”

Nobody feels like buying a deck of tarot cards just for this, so they find him some paper and a pen. Jane is visibly disappointed but gets to work on creating his own cards while the suspects trickle in.

It works. Nobody is more surprised than Lisbon. Except for Hannigan, maybe. But it does work. Nathaniel Kim killed Winston Dellinger, and even though he’s a cop, Jane somehow tricks him into putting his common sense aside and confessing.

It’s a little past five, the hour when Lisbon is supposed to go home, when Minelli asks her to join him in his office. For about a year, Lisbon has begun lingering at the office to finish up paperwork past her working hours. At this point, Katie’s self-sufficient enough to get by without her for a few extra hours. If she expects to run very late, she’ll call and tell Katie to feed herself dinner. The additional hours have been useful for her new role as Team Lead.

To her surprise, Jane is already sitting in Minelli’s office.

“Lisbon,” Minelli greets her, “good. The guys told me how helpful Mr. Jane has been in this investigation. I believe he’d be an excellent addition to the team, don’t you?”

It takes her several seconds to even process his words. “‘The t–’ Sir?”

“I’ve offered Mr. Jane the position of consultant to the unit. Mr. Jane has accepted. He’ll be your responsibility.”

Lisbon isn’t sure what she’s supposed to do. Laugh? Scream? Cry? They all seem like decent options. It occurs to her then what Jane’s motivation must be. “Jane, I truly sympathize. I understand how you're feeling. I would probably feel the same way. But nothing good will come from chasing this man. It's the kind of obsession that destroys people. Go someplace else. Try to get on with your life.”

Jane eyes her with a surprisingly mild expression on his face. “If Red John killed Katherine, would you ‘get on with’ your life?”

If Red John killed Katie, no force on Earth could stop Lisbon from hunting him down and giving him a slow, painful death. She swallows. “At least clean yourself up. You’re a mess.”

“That’s sorted then,” Minelli says with great satisfaction. “Mr. Jane, you report to Agent Lisbon tomorrow at 9 a.m. Welcome to the California Bureau of Investigation.”

Chapter Text

8 July 1988, Teresa Lisbon.

“Hey.”

“Not interested,” Teresa says without looking up from her book.

The summer sun seeps into her black clothes. It’s almost unbearably hot, but she makes no move to roll up the pant legs or pull off the hoodie. At most, she’s gathered her hair up into a ponytail to allow the gentle breeze to run across the back of her neck. Part of the reason she wears this uniform is to not be approached by boys. Unfortunately, it doesn’t stop all of them.

“Your mother says she’s proud of you.”

The words on the page suddenly lose all meaning (not that they held much to begin with; did anyone ever actually understand Shakespeare?). Teresa raises her head to look up at the boy standing across from her. His skin is sun-tanned, his hair sun-bleached – it makes her think ‘surfer boy’. Not a lot of those in Illinois. He’s around her age.

“Excuse me?”

Without invitation, the boy sits himself down next to her. The bench is on the outskirts of the pop-up carnival that Teresa has, against her better judgment, taken the boys to as a reward for being good the past week.

This boy’s eyes are blue. They peer into hers with deep understanding. “You lost her. A few years ago now.”

Her hand automatically reaches for the cross. “How do you know that?”

“She told me. I can speak with people who have passed over. She wants you to know that she’s so grateful for everything you do for the boys. Does that mean anything to you?”

Teresa nods silently, heart in her throat. His voice is soothing, his eyes intensely sympathetic.

“She wants you to stop making excuses for your father,” he says. “He knows what he’s doing. Keep yourself safe, keep the boys safe.”

Her throat is tight. “Is she– is she in Heaven?” The chain of her necklace bites into her skin.

The boy smiles and takes her free hand. “She says it’s beautiful.”

31 August 2004, Patrick Jane.

“I half-expected you to show up in a scout’s uniform,” Teresa says when he walks into her cubicle a little past 9 a.m. As per her request, he’s ‘cleaned himself up’; he’s taken a long shower, styled his hair, and is wearing one of his old three-piece suits. Actually, he’s wearing pieces from a variety of suits, but together they make for a nice outfit.

“Ah, I stopped wearing that shortly after we met.”

Teresa herself is in black slacks, a dark top, and a black blazer. It’s quintessential office wear for the intensely private businesswoman. Her boots give her added height. The only personal touch is that cross. Without it, he wouldn’t have recognized her yesterday.

“I need to ask you something, Jane,” she says and gestures for him to sit on the couch.

“You can call me Patrick.”

Teresa shakes her head. “You’re part of the team now. We all go by our last names: Cho, Rigsby, Hannigan, Jane,” she points at him before pointing at herself, “Lisbon.”

“Lisbon,” he repeats. There’s something severe about her last name. It’s very nice, but it’s not as soft as ‘Teresa’. Maybe that’s good. It’s a reminder that he doesn’t actually know her anymore. “Alright. Fire away, Lisbon.”

“Why me?” she asks. “I mean, what was the point of pretending to speak with my mother, if it wasn’t to sleep with me?”

“You seemed like you needed it,” he says honestly. “I saw you, with your brothers. You were worn down and those brats ,” he delivers the harsh word with humor to soften its edges, “weren’t giving you the thanks you deserved.”

Her brows draw together. “So you emotionally manipulated me because you thought it’d make me feel better?”

Jane shrugs. “Worked, didn’t it?”

Lisbon sighs and shakes her head. “You didn’t do me a favor, Jane. I didn’t need thanks. I certainly didn’t need–” She interrupts herself, sudden color rising to her cheeks.

“What?” he asks curiously.

“You,” she says but it doesn’t feel quite right. “So is that the answer you’re sticking to? You lied to me to make me feel better?”

“It’s clearly not what you want to hear but yes, that’s my final answer.”

Her eyes remind him of sea glass lit from behind; they’re a clear, delicate color. They search his face. “Okay then,” she says finally. “We’ve got a few open cases. Read through their files and tell me what you think. You can take the window desk.”

“I saw an old couch down in storage. You think I could have some guys bring it up? I work much better lying down.”

She stares at him for a few seconds. “You’re serious.”

“As a heart attack,” he promises.

It only takes another few moments of uninterrupted eye-contact before Lisbon ducks her head and says, “Fine, but if I catch you napping during working hours I’m telling Minelli.”

“Snitches get stitches, Lisbon,” he says and leaps off her couch.

1 September 2004, Teresa Lisbon.

Early morning sunlight streams through the windows and coats the bullpen in a golden sheen. Not having to drop Katie off at school has allowed Lisbon to sneak into work early, to continue her read of the McGregor case interviews.

As her eyes run over the room, they catch on a blaze of gold: Jane’s hair. He’s curled up on the ugly, brown couch some of the maintenance guys brought up for him yesterday. His suit jacket has been pulled over his face, presumably to shield his eyes from the light. His hands are wedged in-between his knees. He still wears his wedding ring. She can’t see it now, but she noticed it yesterday.

He slept here. Where does he live? When his family was murdered, he lived in Malibu. Does he have a house or apartment in Sacramento now? He only got out of the mental hospital a week ago, so maybe he’s staying at a hotel or motel for now.

It’s inappropriate for him to sleep here. As his superior, she should shake him awake and explain that. If he does it again, she should give him a verbal warning.

How much sleep does he get? Does he get nightmares? Does he see his family?

There’s a blanket on her couch. It’s crocheted. Katie made it for her. Lisbon carries it to Jane’s couch and spreads it across his sleeping form.

When he brings it back to her, a few hours later, he somehow knows not to thank her. Instead, he makes her a cup of coffee and declares that McGregor was murdered by his sister-in-law.

16 September 2004, Patrick Jane.

“How’s Katherine?” he asks one morning, having prepared himself extensively for this moment. It’s time to make an effort to ask people about their children.

Lisbon’s coffee cup pauses in the air on its way to her mouth. “I don’t discuss my personal life at work.”

Perhaps he should’ve expected that. He certainly hadn’t anticipated a lengthy answer, but something like ‘fine’ or ‘good’ – one syllable, two at most. Still, he feels jilted by her total refusal. “We’ve discussed your personal life at work before,” he can’t help but point out, although they’ve not actually talked about their shared past since his first day on the job.

“We’re colleagues, Jane,” she says. “Not friends.”

“‘Not interested’,” he repeats her first words to him, though she likely doesn’t remember. She hasn’t changed a bit. “Got it.”

He’s not offended, not exactly. It’s how Teresa Lisbon is: she shuts everyone out, even her own family. It’s nothing personal.

It’s better like this anyway. If he wants to kill Red John, he can’t get too fond of her. He has to be willing to con her when the time comes.

18 November 2004, Patrick Jane.

“Victim’s name is Dennis Johnston, 34. Cause of death appears to be blunt force trauma to the head. No signs of struggle. He’s a chemistry teacher at a local high school. Techs have found traces of meth in his basement; looks like a bit of recreational stuff, probably not selling.”

Johnston is white, a little underweight, and balding. He’s dressed all in sweats, so he wasn’t planning on seeing anyone, yet he let in whoever killed him without hassle. Last night’s dinner is still sitting out on his stovetop, a casserole of some sort. He doesn’t smell of anything interesting.

“Where’s Lisbon?” Jane asks, climbing back onto his feet after sniffing the body.

“Uh, court,” Rigsby says. “She's a state witness for the McGregor case. She’ll probably be done soon.”

“Hm.” It’s not that he can’t get by without Lisbon, but he prefers it when she’s here. Her dependable company puts him at ease. Her predictability soothes him. “Do we know anything about his social life?”

“Looks like he lived here by himself. We’d have to interview his family or work to find out.”

“Work,” Jane decides immediately. “Let’s go to his work first.”

“That’d be my call,” Hannigan says. “Lisbon’s out so that makes me the boss. Cho, you and I are going to talk to his mother. Rigsby, go back to the office and run Johnston’s cell. Jane, go with Rigsby and wait for your girlfriend.”

Before Jane can say something pithy about Lisbon being their actual boss, Hannigan has sauntered off. Sexist asshole. A shared look with Rigsby tells him that the younger agent agrees with his assessment.

“I think Lisbon would tell us to check out the school,” Jane says.

“Yeah, fuck that guy,” Rigsby says with feeling and Jane grins. Good man.

As soon as they inform the principal, a man named James Waters, of Johnston’s death, Waters offers them any assistance that is within his powers. Jane asks to see Johnston’s classroom and lets out a ‘Eureka!’ when he finds a note inside his desk. It’s a photocopy. The original must have been put together with various newspaper and magazine clippings, like ransom notes in movies. It spells out, ‘Grade everyone correctly or I tell police about your basement’.

“Principal Waters,” Jane says, “has any of Johnston’s classes gotten really good grades lately? Like, unusually good?”

Waters frowns. “Uh, yes, actually. His advanced seniors have all been doing remarkably well.”

“Any chance you could round ‘em all up in here for us?” Jane gestures to the general classroom.

“Uh, sure. But if you’re planning on questioning any of them, one of the teachers must be present.”

“Yes, of course,” Rigsby says amicably. “That’s not a problem.”

Waters nods. “Alright. Give me a moment.” He leaves.

“What are you playing at?” Rigsby asks.

“You’ll see,” Jane says.

Teens begin to trickle in through the door until a group of sixteen has formed. At Jane’s prompting, they each grab a seat. They’re all looking around at each other nervously.

“This’ll only take a second,” Jane promises. “We’d just like to find the author of this,” he unfolds the note, “note.” Brandishing it in front of him, he slowly walks the length of the room and studies the faces of the students.

Only one shows recognition and guilt. She’s visibly younger than the rest, maybe by as much as several years. Her nails look like they’re habitually under attack: she has an anxious disposition. And yet she wrote this.

“Thank you, everyone, class dismissed,” Jane tells the rest of the kids. Surprisingly, the girl doesn’t try to look at her classmates for help as they trickle back out of the room. Neither do any of the other kids look at her with anything other than curiosity or mild amusement. She’s an outsider, perhaps even a victim of bullying.

“I’m a minor,” she says. “You can’t interrogate me without an adult present.” And she knows her rights. Either the child of a cop, a lawyer, or a criminal.

“What’s your name?” he asks and pulls a chair over to sit across from her. She’s white, either fifteen or sixteen years old, with blue eyes and dark, wavy hair. Her ears are pierced. The studs she’s wearing are silver and in the shape of crosses. Criminal parentage unlikely.

“I don’t have to answer that,” she says confidently. Where’s the anxious disposition? Maybe he was wrong about that.

“I’m Patrick. You’re younger than the others. You must be pretty smart.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “I guess.”

“So why write this? I’m sure you didn’t need better grades.”

“It doesn’t say to grade us better, it says to grade us correctly.”

So it does. Interesting. It’s not about everyone getting good grades, then. Johnston must’ve been grading either one or more of them incorrectly. “It says ‘everyone’. Was Johnston not grading everyone fairly?”

The girl crosses her arms over her chest. “Which agency did you guys say you were from?”

Definitely the child of a cop. “California Bureau of Investigation.”

Recognition and surprise are written on the girl’s face. “Oh. Do you know Teresa Lisbon?”

“She’s our boss,” Rigsby says.

“She’s his boss,” Jane corrects.

“She’s my mom,” the girl says.

The delicate but pointy nose, the thin lips, the freckled skin. Suddenly Jane sees Lisbon staring back at him from this young girl’s face.

But this girl can’t be younger than fifteen. And her eyes are not green, they’re blue.

“Jane, we should wait until Lisbon gets here,” Rigsby says, but Jane can’t hear him over the beating of his heart.

“How did you know what was in Johnston’s basement?” he asks.

Katherine looks between Rigsby and Jane for several seconds before sighing and saying, “I don’t know what’s in his basement. I just saw that his windows were covered, so I figured whatever he was doing down there he didn’t want anyone to know about.” Very observant of her. Jane swallows.

“Who was he grading unfairly?”

“One of the other girls. She went from all As to Cs, and I saw her tests, she wasn’t getting stuff wrong. He offered her private tutoring. Said he’d tutored students before. She was uncomfortable but her parents are really strict, so she needs good grades. She was gonna accept the offer but I wrote the note first.”

“Did he ever touch you?” Jane suddenly needs to know. Even if she’s not… she’s still Lisbon’s.

Katherine shakes her head. “I don’t think he touched her, either. But maybe previous students. That’s what I’ve been thinking anyway.” Suddenly, Jane isn’t so concerned about who killed this man.

Her actions still puzzle him, especially if she’s an outsider or an anxious person. “Why the note? Why not go to the principal?”

“I did,” she says, eyes flashing. “He’s a sexist asshole. Didn’t believe me.” There’s the Lisbon fire.

“You didn’t tell your mom, did you?” If she had, Jane’s convinced Johnston wouldn’t have been teaching at the school anymore.

Katherine shrugs. “She’s been… you know.”

“What?”

“Busy? Distracted. I figured something important must be going on at work. I didn’t wanna add to her plate.”

It’s true, Lisbon’s been a little on edge, but like Katherine he figured it had to do with the other sphere of her life, and after his one attempt to ask about her personal life and her firm rebuttal, he’d consigned himself to polite ignorance.

“For how long has she seemed distracted?” he asks, an alarming theory already taking shape.

“I don’t know, a couple months? Since start of September or end of August maybe. Yeah, end of August.”

When he joined the CBI.

If Lisbon’s been distracted both at home and at work but for seemingly no reason at either place… She’s keeping secrets from them and they’re eating her up.

“How old are you, Katherine?”

“Katie,” she corrects him automatically before his question has even fully registered. Makes sense: Tommy was never Thomas, Jimmy was never James. Even Teresa and Stanley were never called by their full names. “I’m fifteen.”

“When’s your birthday?”

She tilts her head to the side and looks at him critically. There’s a frighteningly intelligent glint in her eyes as she takes in his expression, his features, his body language. Before she speaks, he already feels like he has his answer. “April 13th,” she says finally.

Nine months from mid-July. Jane knows he was Lisbon’s first, she never said but he could tell, so the only way Katie isn’t his is if Lisbon hooked up with someone else shortly after their time together. Katie’s parentage is not certain but the evidence is damning.

“Why are you asking about my birthday?” Her eyes are a clear blue, not like a cloudless sky or the ocean, those are too dark and saturated – no, like watercolors or ladies’ dresses in impressionist paintings.

Charlotte’s eyes were brown like her mother’s. They stared at the ceiling without sight. Hours of exposure had robbed them of their moisture, but there were still tear tracks down her cheeks.

“Hello?”

Jane blinks. In front of him sits his maybe-daughter. Her shoulder-length hair is the same color as Lisbon’s. The waves might have come from him.

“Uh. Sorry. Just thinking. Thank you for speaking with us, Katie.”

“What was in his basement?” she asks.

“Oh, small meth lab–”

“ Jane ,” Rigsby protests.

“– not very impressive but, uh, definitely nothing you want the cops to see, so good job.” ‘Good job on the blackmail, kid.’ Is that the kind of father he is?

No. No, he's the kind of father who gets his child killed. Jane leaps out of his chair.

“Could you– I mean, do you have to tell my mom about this?” Katie asks.

“Oh, I don't have to tell her anything, but this guy,” he gestures to Rigsby, “probably does.”

“You know she's your boss too, right?” Rigsby asks.

That’s when Jane’s phone starts blaring. “Speak of the Devil,” he says before accepting the call. “Lisbon, how nice of you to call.”

“Where the Hell are you? Hannigan says he sent you and Rigsby back to the office.”

“Yeah, uh, we decided he isn’t our boss and that you’d want us to do real police work.”

There’s a pause. “Such as?”

“ Such as going to the school our victim was teaching at and speaking to his students. I didn’t realize Katie was a senior, that’s very impressive for a fifteen-year-old.” To keep Katie and Rigsby in the dark, Jane uses a mild tone, but he hopes Lisbon will hear his veiled anger and resentment.

How could she not tell him? For fifteen years he’s had a daughter he didn’t know about. All along, Charlotte had a sister. How could Lisbon rob her of that?

Jane is an only child. He and Angela always said they were gonna have more than one, so that they’d never be alone, but then the pregnancy had been horrific for her chronic illness and they’d realized it wasn’t feasible. Charlotte would have to find friends elsewhere.

But she had a sister. Someone who could’ve loved her.

And Jane had a daughter who grew past hip height. Jane has a daughter. He’s a father.

No, he’s not, he can’t be. Red John will find out. Red John will cut her open.

“I’m sorry,” Lisbon says. Her voice is very far away. “I was going to tell you. Please… please don’t say anything to her. She doesn’t know.”

Jane looks at Katie. His daughter is fifteen years old. She’s clever. She doesn’t fit in among her peers. She’s either anxious or restless or both. She likes science. She has a strong moral compass. She finds comfort in faith. She’s beautiful.

“Yeah, no problem,” he tells Lisbon. “See you soon. Bye.” He hangs up. “Boss-lady wants us back at the office.”

“Thank you for your time, Katie,” Rigsby says.

Before Jane can excuse himself, Katie looks him directly in the eye and asks again, “Why did you ask me about my birthday?”

Pride blossoms in his chest. Clever girl.

“April 13th,” he says. “That’s Aries, fire sign. I’m getting more of,” he brings his hands in for a gesture he often used as a practicing psychic, “an earth sign vibe from our killer.”

Katie blinks. Her face tells him that he’s convinced her that he’s just a little kooky. “Oh. Uh, okay.”

“Take care,” Jane says and then he flees.

18 November 2004, Teresa Lisbon.

Jane never returns to the office. Lisbon’s calls go straight to voicemail. Her heart is a hard knot in her stomach, and her mood isn’t helped by Rigsby telling her Katie was blackmailing their victim. What the Hell is up with her daughter lately?

At five, she looks up Jane’s address in the computer system and calls Katie to tell her she might be home late, but that they need to talk when she gets back. Jane’s address is a long-stay motel room. When she knocks on his door, there’s no answer. She stays for several minutes. Finally, a woman pokes her head out of a nearby door and tells Lisbon that her friend probably isn’t home.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck .

There’s nothing else she can do. She drives home.

Knocking on Katie’s door yields a tentative, “Yeah?”

Lisbon lets herself into her daughter’s room. Like the good student she is, Katie is solving math problems at her desk. She’s already dressed in pyjamas and wrapped in a blanket; she loves getting comfortable as soon as she gets home. A steaming cup sits on the desk in front of her: tea. The room smells like mint. Katie’s tea habit is a product of Lisbon’s coffee habit; as a smaller child, Katie would beg to have a hot drink whenever Lisbon did, and Lisbon wasn’t about to give her coffee or constant hot chocolates. Tea it became, first various fruit teas then lemon and now mint.

“Why would you blackmail a teacher?”

Katie pulls the blanket tighter around herself and looks down. “I told your guys. He was trying to get to one of my classmates.”

“Who?” Katie’s alarm clock ticks. And ticks. And ticks. “Who, Katie?”

“Emily H,” she admits with a sigh, shoulders slumping.

Lisbon frowns. “Don’t you hate Emily H?”

Her daughter shrugs and brushes her hair out of her face. “That doesn’t mean she should get creeped on.”

Goddammit, that actually makes Lisbon feel proud. Her daughter wouldn’t just defend a friend against harm, she’d defend an enemy if the cause was just. If only she’d gone about it the right way. “You should’ve told me.”

Katie hangs her head. “I know. Sorry.”

It’s pretty hard to stay mad at her, especially knowing that Principal Waters hadn’t listened. She’ll have to talk to the PTA about that. “I’m gonna let you off easy, because your heart was in the right place,” Katie’s face instantly brightens, “but next time you come to me first. Got it?”

“Got it,” Katie agrees with a grin.

“Alright.” Lisbon goes to leave.

“Hey, Mom? That Patrick guy, how long has he been working with you guys?”

Lisbon tells herself to ignore the rapid beating of her heart. There’s no way Katie knows who Jane is to her. “Two or three months? Er, since the end of August. Why?”

Katie looks back down at her homework. “You’ve just never mentioned him before.”

“Oh. Uh, yeah, he’s new.” It thankfully seems like Katie is already distracted by the math. “I’m gonna go get started on dinner.”

“Mhm,” Katie hums, still staring at the book in front of her. Lisbon breathes a sigh of relief and retreats to the kitchen.

20 November 2004, Patrick Jane.

There’s a knock on the door. It startles the bottle out of his hand. It lands on the wooden floor, but its fall is short enough to stay intact.

Who the hell is at his door a little past midnight? Did Lisbon track him down? He doesn’t want to have this conversation, not yet and not tipsy. He ignores the knock.

Another follows. And another.

“Hello! I can see the light’s on!” a voice calls through the keyhole. Not Lisbon. Well , he amends as he connects the voice to a face, in a manner of speaking, it is . “I need to speak with you!”

When did he ever think this girl was plagued with anxiety? She’s got the bravery of a lion, doesn’t she? Maybe because he didn’t raise her.

With some trepidation, Jane rises from his seat. He takes the time to hide the bottle in a kitchen cupboard before walking over to the door. It continues to be assaulted by his daughter until he opens it.

There she is: pale, exhausted, and carrying a massive duffle bag. Her chin is raised but her hands are shaking. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he says automatically.

“Can I come in?”

Far be it for him to keep her outside now that she’s made the long journey from Sacramento. He inclines his head and opens the door for her. She scurries inside like a mouse.

“How did you find me?” he asks.

“This address used to be attached to your old psychic business,” she says and drops herself and the duffle bag onto the couch.

“Your mother doesn’t know you’re here, does she?” He can’t imagine Lisbon ever agreeing to this, and he has his answer when Katie looks down at her hands. “Call her and tell her where you are.”

“I don’t have a cell phone yet. Mom says I can have one when I go off to college.”

He retrieves his own from the kitchen and hands it to her. “Use mine.”

She accepts the cell like it’s a priceless artefact and takes great care as she slowly types Lisbon’s number, digit by digit. His daughter is thoughtful; she respects the property of others. With a hit of the green phone button, she raises it to her ear. The beeps are loud enough that Jane can hear them. There are only two before Lisbon’s voice interrupts them. Her tone is serious but even. He can’t make out her exact words.

“Mom,” Katie says. “It’s me. I’m fine.” Then she pulls the cell away from her ear and hands it back to Jane.

Jane accepts it. “Hey. Katie’s safe, she’s with me.”

“I’m going to kill you, Jane, you can’t just take my daughter –”

“Whoa, hey, I didn’t ‘take’ anybody; she showed up on my doorstep. You’re free to come and collect her, in fact I’d encourage it.”

Lisbon is quiet for a few seconds. “ She went to you ?”

Jane looks at Katie who looks back up at him. Her bravery, his trickery. “She figured it out, Lisbon,” he says softly. As terrified as he is, he can’t help the warmth of pride in his chest. “She knows who I am to her.”

“Shit,” Lisbon says and he has to agree. “Where are you?”

Lisbon hasn’t figured it out, but their daughter has? Maybe Lisbon just hasn’t cared enough to find him. “Uh, my house. In Malibu.”

“Alright, I’m coming down to you. Stay put.”

“Where would we go? It’s my–” Lisbon hangs up, “house,” he finishes. “Hm.” To Katie, he says, “Tea?”

She pulls her legs up onto the couch (she’s removed her shoes, very conscientious of her) and crosses them. “Do you have mint?”

“Mint? Uh.” Searching the kitchen in his mind palace comes up with nothing. “No. No mint. English breakfast?” She scrunches her nose. “No. Chamomile?”

“Chamomile,” she agrees. His daughter likes herbal teas.

Even the therapeutic ritual of making tea can’t still his nerves. She’s in danger. Red John will find out. Red John will kill her. My fault. My fault.

He should get a gun. Red John can’t kill her if he kills him first.

Boiling water spills onto the counter as the mug overflows. He pulls the electric kettle back with a jerk and sets it aside.

Maybe Lisbon would take him to the range, show him a few tricks and correct his aim. If he asked, she actually might. He could even get the gun through legal means, concealed carrying license and everything. 

Only problem is they’d connect him to the murder weapon if he ever did use it on Red John, but with Red John dead what would it matter if he was imprisoned or even executed? What else does he have to live for?

“It needs to steep for a few minutes,” he tells Katie as he hands her a mug.

“Are you my dad?” she asks and she sounds breathless, like she’s been working up the nerve to ask him while he’s been busy.

He sits himself down in the armchair across from her. “It would appear so,” he says carefully.

“You didn’t know until we met, did you?”

She’s in bluejeans and a dark red hoodie that she’s zipped up all the way to her neck. The light catches on her cross earrings when she moves her head. She looks very much like Lisbon did, but unburdened and healthy.

“Uh, no. I didn’t.”

“How did you meet my mom?”

“She’s never told you?” A sliver of guilt creeps onto her face. “Ah, she told you but you wanna hear my side of the story to make sure she wasn’t lying.”

Katie bites her lip. “Mom’s pretty crap at lying,” (Jane has to make a face of agreement), “but she’s been hiding you from me since, like, August.”

“I was working at a traveling carnival when we met,” he says. “She’d taken her brothers there. She was reading Shakespeare on one of the benches. Hamlet . She didn’t like Ophelia.” When Katie frowns, he adds, “The girl who kills herself because Hamlet is too obsessed with revenge to love her back.”

“Oh. We’re doing Much Ado About Nothing .”

“Hm! That’s surprisingly cheery for a high school English class.”

“A tragedy would be more interesting.” Katie leans back into the couch. Her tense shoulders have loosened. Jane feels calmer, too. “This one’s boring. It’s just two people who love each other and won’t admit it until other people meddle.”

“You don’t love Beatrice?” He’s always found her to be one of the Bard’s most memorable characters. “She reminds me of your mother.”

That coaxes a laugh out of Katie. “Really?”

“Sure. She’s stubborn, witty, uh, doesn’t have a lot of patience for men,” Katie laughs again, “but she’s kind, she stands up for justice. She’s a secret softie.”

As Katie’s laughter fades, her facial expression softens into thoughtfulness. “Did you love Mom?”

He could lie, in whichever direction he pleases, but he doesn’t. “I didn’t know her for very long, but I liked her a lot.”

His answer seems to satisfy her. “Mom used to take me to carnivals all the time as a kid.”

“She did?”

“Yeah. She never said so, but I think she was looking for you.”

The tea scalds Jane’s tongue, numbing his taste buds. He still swallows it and feels it slide past the large lump in his throat. They didn’t go back to Chicago the following year. The summer after that, he and Angela made their escape. “I didn’t give her any way to contact me. Uh, this was before the age of email and cell phones, and I didn’t have a permanent address. I probably didn’t even tell her my full name.”

He imagines running into Lisbon in California while they were still teens, him in a brand new suit and her with an armful of toddler. Angela would’ve welcomed them into their lives, she was that kind of person. She and Teresa might’ve even become friends. What would his life look like now?

One moment, Katie sits across from him, gingerly sipping her chamomile tea. The next, she’s sprawled on the couch, throat cut open and viscera tumbling out of her gut.

If he had run into Lisbon, she and Katie would both be dead now, too.

Jane inhales shakily and lets the chamomile burn him again.

“The Internet says you aren’t a real psychic,” Katie says.

“And the Internet is always right.”

“It was right about your address.”

He pauses. “Touché.” After another sip, he says, “It’s true, I’m not a psychic. I was a conman.” It doesn’t hurt to tell his daughter any more than it hurts to tell anyone else. Maybe it should. He ought to feel more ashamed in front of her, right? But the background radiation of shame has numbed him.

“Were you pretending to be a psychic when you met Mom?”

Lisbon hasn’t told her? Interesting. “Uh, yeah, I had an act at the carnival. I pretended to speak to her mother.” If he wants a good relationship with his daughter, he probably shouldn’t tell her that, but he’s not sure if he does. Red John might not know about her yet. If he can keep her away from him, Red John might never find out.

Katie’s hand migrates to her ear, where it begins to play with the jewelry in the earlobe: the cross. It’s not old enough to be her grandmother’s (and she wore gold anyway) and Lisbon’s never been an earring kind of girl, so they’ve always been Katie’s. There’s a troubled look on her face: she’s frowning and biting the inside of her cheek. “Why?”

He shrugs. “Seemed like the right thing to do at the time.” He’s aware it’s a terribly unsatisfying answer. That’s the point. Push her away, gently. Show her that you’re a bad person. Let her decide she wants nothing to do with you.

They sit in silence for a while. He doesn’t ask the millions of questions running through his mind. He can’t get to know her. If he knows her, he’ll grow fond of her, and then he won’t be able to keep her safe.

“How did you find Mom? Did you always know where she was?”

“No, I had no idea,” he says. If she’s looked him up on the Internet there’s no point in hiding that, “My wife and child were killed last year. Lisbon’s handling the case.”

Katie’s mouth plops open. “Mom’s investigating Red John ?”

Oh, Lisbon’s not gonna like this. “Uh, yeah.”

“That’s crazy,” she says with feeling as she stares into the air, as if seeing visions of her mother single-handedly taking down the state’s most prolific serial killer in recent memory.

There’s so much he wants to know about her. His eyes can’t help but seek out details, like the strings of her hoodie that are lightly fraying, another victim of her anxiety or restlessness, or the peculiar shape straining against the fabric of the duffle bag that might be a tennis racket. She must play tennis on Fridays after school. It would’ve taken Lisbon longer than normal to realize her daughter hadn’t followed her usual routine, and the tennis gear would’ve made the duffle bag a normal sight that morning.

Stop, he tells himself firmly and redirects his attention to his mug. He can’t know her. Anything he knows, Red John knows.

“So, um, your child,” Katie says, “was she my half-sister? Or, um…” Jane closes his eyes. With the world shut out, he can almost feel Charlotte balancing on his feet, her hands in his, giggling as they take their steps together. The wind would catch her hair so easily and blow all her curls about until Angela would demand they stop to tie the hair up before it could get too tangled. He never thanked Angela for that, or for the millions of other times her quiet pragmatism would solve an issue before it’d even become one. He took it as a matter of course. Nothing special. 

Did she feel unappreciated? She must have, she should have. He was never good enough for her. Danny would never shut up about it and Danny was right. If only she’d listened. If only she’d taken Charlotte like she’d threatened to right before they died.

“I’m sorry,” someone says and Jane blinks. Katie. What had her question been?

“Yeah,” he says, “half-sister.”

There are no idle ticks to fill the silence; all the clocks in the house have run out of battery by now. 

“Do you… do you have any other… other children?”

“Not that I know of,” he says, but his joke doesn’t land. It’s too heavy with bitterness. To make up for it (momentarily forgetting that pushing her away should be his priority), he adds, “No.”

“Do you have any siblings? Parents?”

“Uh, no, no siblings, parents gone.” He feels sorry for her: no grandparents. At least she’s got three uncles on her other side, and whatever children they themselves may have spawned. And considering what his and Lisbon’s parents were like, no grandparents is not such a cruel fate.

“I’m glad you found Mom, then,” Katie says. “We’re like the only family you’ve got left.”

Her earnestness nearly makes him weep. She is her mother’s daughter, so honest and good. At the same time, he’s terrified. They can’t be his family. “I’m not sure your mother would agree,” he says because he has to blame someone for keeping them apart and it can’t be Red John, not if he wants Katie to be able to sleep for the next however-long-it-takes-them-to-catch-him. “It’s late. Way past your bedtime. You can sleep here, on the couch. Bathroom’s that way.” There’s technically one upstairs too but he won’t direct her there. The thought of her walking around upstairs makes his skin crawl.

When he doesn’t move, she asks, “What about you?”

“Oh, I go to bed late. I’ll sit here and read, if you don’t mind.” It’s not untrue that he sleeps late, but that’s not why he’s staying put: he can’t stand the thought of putting a door between them.

“Uh, okay…” Katie disappears off to the bathroom with her duffle bag. When she returns, she’s in her workout gear, which looks more comfortable than the jeans and hoodie, and she’s taken off her jewelry. 

Jane shuts off all the lamps except for the small one next to the armchair and grabs Moby Dick from the shelf, one of the few books he plans on keeping when he eventually sells all of the stuff in this house. He’s not very far into it but the prose is remarkably beautiful.

Queequeg and Ishmael have just awoken in bed, Ishmael wondering to himself over Queequeg’s arm over him, when Katie asks, “Why did Mom not tell us?”

“You can ask her that in the morning,” he says. “Go to sleep.” What he thinks is, She doesn’t want me near you any more than I do.

Eventually, Katie’s breathing becomes heavy and even. It reaches out to him in the darkness. Its constant, dependable rhythm forces his eyes shut. For the first time in over a year, he falls asleep to the sound of his daughter breathing.

Chapter Text

9 July 1988, Teresa Lisbon.

“Is this your card?”

“No,” she says and laughs at his frown.

Patrick looks at the Three of Clubs as if it has personally insulted him and scooches a little closer to her. “Are you sure?” he asks and offers it for her to inspect. His arm brushes against hers but she doesn’t mind. In fact, it’s sort of nice, having him this close.

The card feels like a normal playing card but Teresa still looks it over diligently. The Jack of Spades she drew just a moment ago is nowhere to be found, though. “I’m sure.”

She tries to hand it back to him but he shakes his head and insists, “Have another look.”

His eyes are the color of the sky above them and his hair shines like the sun. Summer really suits him. She wonders what he looks like for the rest of the year. Will his eyes become gray once the clouds roll in?

Heat rises to her cheeks and she resumes her inspection of the card so she doesn’t have to look him in the eye anymore. The Jack of Spades remains gone, though. “I told you, it’s the wrong card.”

“Hm.” Patrick taps his lips. “Oh, well. My mistake.” He pulls the card from out of her fingers. “Can’t win ‘em all.”

Disappointment makes her frown. “That’s it?”

He shrugs. “The spirits steer me wrong sometimes. Can’t blame ‘em. Except… hm, I’m getting a message now. It says… ‘stomach’, something’s on your stomach.” She pats herself on the stomach, which is covered by her hoodie. “Hm. They say ‘inside’.”

“Inside my stomach?” she repeats, confused, before she realizes her hoodie has a kangaroo pouch. “Oh!” She slips her hand inside and feels something. It’s small and made of paper. Pulling it out, she sees that it’s a ticket from the carnival, the ones used to redeem prizes. A large, black spade has been drawn on it, and a ‘J’ written beside it. The Jack of Spades!

“Ah!” Patrick exclaims.

“How did you do that?” she demands.

He grins. “I didn’t, Teresa; the spirits did.”

20 November 2004, Teresa Lisbon.

The door swings open. Six hours of driving after a full day of work and an evening spent trying to track down her daughter leave her wondering if she even got to knock, or if he was lying in wait. Jane looks about as exhausted as she feels, his skin pale and the circles under his eyes almost as purple as the black eye she gave him once. He glances over his shoulder and she follows his gaze. Behind him is an open-plan living room and on the gorgeous, cream-colored couch lies her daughter, arm slung over her face. Her breathing is even. Lisbon feels her heart settle. Thank God. She’s safe.

She’s about to step across the threshold when Jane raises his hand. “We need to talk.”

Another glance at Katie tells Lisbon it’s safe to leave her there for the moment. “Yeah, we do,” Lisbon agrees. Those six hours on the road gave her a lot of space to think, and to prepare herself emotionally for a long and complicated talk. As Jane steps outside, shuts the door behind him, and leads her a few steps along the side of the house, she says, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you–”

He interrupts her. “You need to take Katie and leave.”

She looks up from the driveway gravel and into his haggard expression. His eyes keep flittering between her and the window next to them, which shows the living room.

“What?”

“Red John,” he says. “He can’t know about her.”

There’s a crazed glint in his eye and for the first time since they reunited, she’s seriously concerned that he was in the mental institution to keep him from harming others. Her hand automatically tenses next to her waistband. “I don’t understand–”

He makes a sound somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “You don’t understand? You don’t understand ?” His movements are erratic. It reminds her of her father. She takes a step back. “My wife and child were murdered. I-i-if he finds out about her…”

“Jane.” She says his name with authority, even as she feels shaken. “There’s nothing to suggest that Red John has a fixation on you.”

“Nothing?” he repeats. “Nothing. Just that my family is dead. He hates me, Lisbon. He’ll do anything to make me miserable.”

“He killed your family because you insulted him on TV,” she says, aware that her tone is harsh. “Unless you’re planning a repeat performance, he won’t hurt you again, he’s moved on.”

He shakes his head. “You don't know that. I was arrogant before, I won’t be arrogant again.”

“So you won’t have anything to do with Katie?”

“No.”

Fine. She’s managed without him for this long. It makes her ache for Katie, but given how unstable Jane is, it’s maybe for the best. “Okay. Then you’ll understand why I can’t work with you anymore.”

He freezes. “You can’t fire me.”

“No, but Minelli can, and he will when I tell him you’re Katie’s father.”

“You can’t do that,” he protests. “Red John–”

“You should’ve never been on that case in the first place.”

“But I-I-I have to…”

“What?” She folds her arms over her chest. “We’ll get him, Jane. It’s just a matter of time.”

“You don’t understand, I have to be the one who kills him.”

It’s around six thirty a.m. The sun has risen. Its early rays play across Jane’s hair. Birds sing joyfully around them. A cool breeze rounds the corner of the house and runs across her exposed throat. She feels dread settle in her stomach.

“That’s your plan?” she asks. “To kill him? Since when?”

“That’s always been the plan.” When she recoils, he says, “Don’t pretend you wouldn’t do the same. You’re a parent.”

She doesn’t deny it. “You’d be throwing your life away.”

“What’s there to throw?”

“Her,” she says and looks through the window to where Katie is, thankfully, still sleeping peacefully. “Your daughter.”

Jane shakes his head. “I’m not a father anymore, Lisbon.”

The rejection stings. Are only dead daughters good enough for him? As soon as she’s had the thought, she feels awful for it. He’s not in his right mind. It’s clouded by grief and fear. “You should get help.”

“Please, those frauds in lab coats can’t do anything for me. You know why I’m still alive? Because I found a purpose. And it’s to kill Red John.”

She can’t help but think of the Patrick she knew. He’d had plenty to live for. Red John has scooped all of the purpose out of him and left him as a fragile shell. Jane speaks like someone who’d strap a bomb to his own chest if that’s what it took to end Red John.

“You need to leave,” he says.

“What am I supposed to tell her?”

He shrugs. “Whatever you need to.”

His apathy is infuriating. “You know I’m still gonna have you fired, right?”

The fight has entirely left him. “Sure. Do what you gotta do.”

That can’t be it. He can’t just have given up. Patrick Jane was a conman. Maybe he still is. There must be a trick up his sleeve. But if there is, she can’t see it.

“Door’s unlocked. Tell her I’m sorry.” To her surprise, he walks off. She stares after him, stunned that he could end their acquaintanceship so abruptly. No sorry for her, not even a goodbye, just the view of his ducked neck.

When Lisbon wakes her, Katie is groggy and follows her to the car without saying much. At this point, Lisbon has been awake for twenty-four hours but she resolves to toughen up and get them to a motel, where they can both sleep before the journey home. Katie is quiet even after coming back to her senses. Neither of them initiate a serious conversation, beyond Lisbon making sure that Katie is alright. They’re both exhausted and nursing the wound of being left by Patrick Jane.

They get a room with two twin beds at a motel off the highway. Lisbon sets aside her gun and badge, reliable companions she’d brought along on her drive just in case, sets the bedside alarm to wake her up in five hours, and throws herself down onto the mattress. On the way to the motel, she picked up food for Katie but she’s too tired to eat herself.

Of the five hours, she sleeps for two.

When Lisbon has turned off the alarm, Katie says, “Mom?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about your, um, about Patrick,” Lisbon says, eyes still shut. “I wanted to make sure he was a trustworthy person.”

“He left.” The keen sorrow in Katie’s voice catapults Lisbon into a seated position. Finally, she notices that her daughter is silently crying.

Lisbon drags her wretched body out of her own bed and onto Katie’s. Katie immediately falls into her arms. “I’m sorry.”

“He didn’t like me, did he?” Katie’s voice breaks and her body convulses as a sob tears through her. Lisbon tightens her embrace around her and pets her hair.

“He’s scared he’ll like you and then lose you… He said he’s sorry. You don’t have to forgive him.”

Katie sobs into her and Lisbon feels wholly inadequate. Being a mother has taught her a lot about handling other people’s emotions, but it’s still not her strong suit. Other than holding Katie, she’s not sure what she’s supposed to do to make this better.

“I’m sorry for leaving,” Katie says, in-between teary hiccups.

Lisbon rubs her back. “ Never do that again. You scared the crap out of me.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

They sit in silence while Katie cries herself out and Lisbon contemplates what on Earth she could possibly say to make this better. In the end, she can’t think of anything but to somewhat change the subject: “How did you know?”

“Oh.” Katie climbs out of her mother’s embrace and dries her face. “He, um, he asked how old I was and for my birthdate, and then he looked really freaked out. Also, he didn’t know why you’d been acting weird since late August, but then when I asked you how long he’d been working there, you said late August and then you looked totally freaked out, so… I don’t know, I just put the pieces together.”

Damn, she really needs to work on her poker face. “How did you even find him?”

“I, uh, I called your work Thursday and he wasn’t there, and when I kept asking, one of your guys said he didn’t know where Patrick was. So then I looked him up on the Internet and I found out about his family and I thought he might’ve gone somewhere that reminded him of them, you know, if he was really freaked out. The articles said he lived and worked as a psychic in Malibu, so I looked up the address associated with his work, and yesterday after school Jen– one of my friends drove me down here.”

It is, regretfully, great detective work, but as a mother Lisbon is deeply concerned. “And you didn’t think about how dangerous it could be to walk into some stranger’s house?”

“He’s not a stranger, though; you’re his boss,” Katie points out. “He wouldn’t do anything to his boss’s daughter, he’s not stupid.”

“Still. Don’t ever do that again.”

“I won’t.”

Lisbon sighs and stretches her back, which is stiff and sore from the many hours of driving. “We need to get back on the road. Do you have all your stuff?”

“We could stay,” Katie suggests. “I mean, if you want some more sleep. It’s Sunday tomorrow. I think God’ll understand if we skip church.”

It’s a sweet thought. Like all teenagers, Katie hates being bored, so if she’s offering to stay put in a motel room for a day just so her mother can get some more rest, it’s because she genuinely feels bad for having made her drive through the night. “I’d prefer to sleep in my own bed tonight.”

When they walk out to the parking lot, Lisbon is surprised to find a cell phone sitting on the hood of her car. “Stay back,” she tells Katie while she examines it visually. There are no signs that it’s anything but what it appears to be. Carefully, she picks it up. It only has one number saved: her own. She considers for a second before dialing herself. Her phone rings and displays a name: Jane.

“That’s Patrick’s,” Katie says. “He lent it to me to call you last night. I-I told him I don’t have a phone.”

There’s a lump in Lisbon’s throat. How elegant. A goodbye gift that completely severs a line of communication between them. Short of snail mail or putting out a BOLO on his car, they’ll have no way of reaching him. “I guess you do now,” she says with a sigh and hands the device to Katie. “Let’s go.”

3 March 2005, Teresa Lisbon.

The first thing she sees is the massive smiley drawn in blood. It looks to have been drawn with three fingers on someone’s left hand. Its eyes droop. A few drops have trickled down the wall from the corner of its mouth. Nearly ten months after her team was given the case, this is Lisbon’s first Red John crime scene.

Underneath the smiley lies a young woman. She’s white, blonde, in her late teens or early 20s. Her throat has been slit and her stomach gored. The crime scene is a college dorm, which the victim shared with the shaking girl Cho is interviewing in the next room over.

“Victim’s name is Rose Atwood,” Rigsby tells her, “19, Politics student. Stayed in last night while her roommate went to a party. Roommate stayed at a guy’s house overnight, didn’t come back until this morning around 7, which is when she found Rose like this. Door was unlocked, window was open.”

“Last Red John murder was June the year before last,” she says. “That’s almost two years. Why now?”

“He doesn’t have a pattern like that,” Brett Partridge, the lead forensics expert assigned to the Red John case ever since CBI took it over from SacPD, says. His voice grates in Lisbon’s ear, as does his condescending tone. There’s something snivelly about him that reminds her of a toddler. “Red John kills when he feels like it, he doesn’t feel bound by a schedule. Besides, the last murders were the Jane family.”

It’s the first time anyone has mentioned Jane’s name since she explained to the guys that he’d decided to leave the team, back in November. “So?” she asks, irritated by the way Partridge’s tone suggests that Angela and Charlotte are unimportant.

“Well, they broke his pattern anyway,” he says. “That was personal – and he killed a kid. He never kills kids, he thinks that’s below him. Ha, literally!” Disgusted, Lisbon sends him a look that used to make her brothers tuck their tails between their legs. Thankfully, Partridge’s face falls. “So to speak,” he mumbles. “Anyway, I wouldn’t look for any particular reason for ‘why her’ or ‘why now’. Red John works in mysterious ways.”

“Very helpful, thanks. We can take it from here.” Go be a creep somewhere else. To Rigsby, she says, “What do we know about her family?”

“Parents are recently divorced; dad’s in town, mother’s in Houston. He works in real estate, she’s a lawyer. No siblings.”

“Boyfriend?”

“Doesn’t seem like it; roommate says she didn’t have much of a romantic life.”

“Alright, you and Hannigan go talk to her dad, I’ll call her mother. Tell Cho to go through her phone records and credit card statements back at the office when he’s done here.”

“Yes, Boss.”

4 March 2005, Teresa Lisbon.

Town hall is bustling, which unfortunately translates to a long queue for the coffee place across the street. Lisbon sighs as she prepares herself for an unreasonably long wait for a very mediocre cup of coffee. It’s necessary, though. After two hours of giving testimony, she’s exhausted, and after this she needs to rush back to the office to rejoin her team’s investigation into the Red John murder. The media is already on their asses, along with Minelli and the Director. Everyone is hungry for results. She expects she’ll be coming in over the weekend. 

In fact, she probably won’t have a day off until they either catch Red John or they completely run out of leads. She’ll have to stop by a supermarket and load up on some frozen meals for Katie to throw in the microwave. Thank God she’s old enough to keep herself alive while Lisbon dedicates her every waking hour to work.

A force bumps into her side. “Oh!” exclaims a man. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t see– Lisbon?”

A face she expected to never see again is right there in front of her. “Jane?” It’s been more than three months but he looks the exact same. To her surprise, she feels herself sagging with relief to see him. A part of her, she realizes, has been terrified that he’d be dead. “What are you doing here?”

“Me? Uh.” He digs into an inner jacket pocket and hands her a piece of paper. “I’m on my way to appeal this.”

It’s a parking ticket dated to yesterday. It doesn’t look out of the ordinary. Lisbon frowns. “What are your grounds for an appeal?”

“The fee. It’s extortionate.”

It almost makes her laugh. In the last second, she manages to withhold her amusement. He doesn’t deserve it. “Jane–” They need to talk. Last time they saw each other, there was so much she ought to have said.

He snatches the ticket out of her hand. “I gotta go. Sorry.”

As he moves to walk past her, she grabs his arm. He freezes and his eyes are wide when they meet hers. “Get help,” she says – begs, really. “If not for your sake then for hers. You don’t have to be alone.”

The queue moves. Behind her, she hears someone grumble about moving forward. It’s enough of a distraction to make her let go of Jane. He uses the opportunity to duck away and be swallowed by the sea of coffee drinkers. For a second, she considers following him, but what exactly does she think she’ll get out of that? He doesn’t want to hear what she has to say. You can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped. She learned that from her father.

7 March 2005, Teresa Lisbon.

It’s been roughly one hundred hours since Red John killed Rose Atwood and in that time Lisbon has had maybe twelve hours of sleep, three each night. Last night she didn’t even make it home but passed out at her desk. Katie didn’t notice her absence. She’s been hitching rides to and from school with friends, and Lisbon keeps an eye on the groceries to make sure she’s eating.

Time moves faster than it usually does, it seems. It’s already seven. Most of her team is still here and will be for another hour, until she chases them out the door with threats of violence. None of them dare do the same to her. They all came in over the weekend, too. She’s not alone in this Hell.

They only managed to interview Rose’s classmates earlier today, since the school wasn’t keen on pulling their students and staff in over the weekend. Sometimes it feels like her and her team are the only ones who care. The media is on their backs, sure, but that’s because they want the story, not because they’ve been tempted to knock back a couple of tequila shots before bed because all they can see when they close their eyes is Rose Atwood’s mutilated corpse.

It’s been a while since she last had a case involving someone this young. Strictly speaking, Rose wasn’t a child, but nineteen is only a year older than Katie’s peers. The fact that Rose was murdered in her college dorm scares the shit out of Lisbon. How did nobody hear? How is there no security footage, no security guards who remember anything? How is she meant to feel safe sending Katie off to college in the fall, knowing this could happen to her?

This is the fear that eats at Jane. Can she really blame him for leaving?

It keeps niggling her, this idea that nobody heard. She’s not generally in the business of questioning the quality of the canvassing that uniformed officers do for them, but she has the sudden urge to double-check their work herself.

“I’m heading out,” she tells the others, who look at her with surprise. Even Cho raises his eyebrows. “You guys should do the same.”

“You sure, Boss?” Rigsby asks.

Lisbon nods. “I’m sure. We can’t keep going like this.”

It being a Monday night means that a fair few of the student residents are in. Lisbon gets permission from the front desk and goes knocking on doors like it’s her first few years on the job. Half an hour in, she hasn’t learned anything new.

As she approaches the next door, she hears voices. It wouldn’t be unusual if it weren’t for how deep one of them is. That’s an adult man’s voice. It could be someone’s brother, older boyfriend, father, cousin, anyone, but it still makes Lisbon nervous. She knocks on the door and the voices hush.

A familiar face opens the door. It takes her a second to place the girl. “Leisha Thomas?” she asks. One of Rose’s classmates she interviewed earlier today. The girl said she didn’t know Rose very well. Leisha looks a mess, her hair tousled and her face tear-stained. 

She casts a quick glance over her shoulder before pulling the door a little closer, as if to keep Lisbon from seeing whoever’s with her. “Yeah?” Her voice is thick with grief. “You’re, um, you’re one of the cops. Detective Lisbon?”

“Agent,” Lisbon corrects automatically. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah.” Leisha swipes a hand over her cheeks and sniffles, as if that’ll make the sadness leave her face. “Fine.”

“Who’s there with you?”

Leisha’s grip on the door tightens. “Nobody.”

“It’s okay,” Lisbon says, lowering her voice so the man won’t hear. “You’re not in trouble. I’m here to help.”

“It’s okay, Leisha, she’s one of the good ones,” the man says and Leisha hesitantly steps aside to let Lisbon in. There, on Leisha’s desk chair, sits Jane with a steaming mug in his hand. He shoots Lisbon a small smile. “Bravo, Lisbon, you figured it out.”

This doesn’t make any sense. “What? What did I figure out? What are you doing here?”

“Oh,” he says, face falling slightly. “Spoke too soon. Uh, Leisha here is Rose’s girlfriend.”

Lisbon looks over at Leisha who ducks her head. “Girlfriend?”

“It’s 2005, Lisbon, get with the times,” Jane says and she shoots him a withering look. “Yes, girlfriend. It didn’t strike you as odd that she pretended not to know Rose very well but had been crying so much she’d nearly lost her voice? You don’t cry like that over a classmate.”

“Her father said she didn’t date.”

“Our parents didn’t know,” Leisha says quietly, not looking at either of them. “We didn’t want them to. They wouldn’t… you know.”

“You should’ve told us,” Lisbon says.

“What would be the point?” Leisha sighs. “I don’t know anything more than I told you, I swear.”

“I should take you in for official questioning.”

Leisha’s shoulders slump. Jane says, “Lisbon–”

“Stay out of it,” she snaps. “What the Hell are you doing here anyway? How do you know about my investigation?”

It’s Jane’s turn to avoid her gaze. He looks down at the mug in his hands and taps his fingers against the handle. Finally, he sighs and says, “I, uh, I bugged your phone.”

“You WHAT?” Both Jane and Leisha flinch. Lisbon makes a concerted effort to lower her voice for the girl’s sake – certainly not for Jane’s. “You bugged my phone ?”

“Uh, yeah, yep.”

“Alright, that’s it, I’m taking you both in. Come on. Let’s go.”

Leisha looks over at Jane. Jane sighs and sets the mug aside. “Better do as the lady says.”

As Lisbon herds them out of the dorm, she feels a headache building.

8 March 2005, Patrick Jane.

It must be past midnight at this point. Good for Lisbon, letting him stew like this. He sits and watches his own reflection in the one-way mirror. There might be someone watching him on the other side, he couldn’t say for certain. He hopes she’s sent Leisha home already. The poor girl really doesn’t know anything beyond what she’s already said. Her only crime was not wanting to out herself or her late girlfriend.

“Rigsby, buddy,” Jane calls out experimentally, “I’d kill for some chips right now. Help a guy out, hm?” He waits a few seconds before adding, “And a cup of tea? Please?”

Somewhere, a door opens and closes. Through the half-closed blinds, Jane watches Rigsby rush past the interrogation room. He grins to himself. Gotcha .

When Rigsby returns, it’s with Lisbon in tow. Her hair is slick with oil and pulled into a taut ponytail. The skin under her eyes is dark and her eyes themselves look unfocused. Instead of moving with purpose and confidence, like she usually does, she drags her feet. In other words, she’s absolutely exhausted. It’s no wonder. The past few days, he’s been listening to her 24/7 and he’s pretty sure he’s gotten more sleep than she has. It’s impressive.

“What happened to my tea?” Jane asks Rigsby.

“We’ve got something other– else to offer you,” Lisbon says, her fatigued mind stumbling over the words. Jane’s mild worry over her wellbeing graduates to deep concern. “We’re prepared to drop all charges.”

That’s a pleasant surprise. And here he was starting to plan a prison break. “In exchange for what?”

“You rejoining the team.”

Jane glances over at Rigsby. “My conditions remain the same,” he tells Lisbon. He won’t go anywhere near Katie.

Lisbon nods. “I know.”

“And you’re still willing to work with me?”

“Yes.” She’s so pale. Did she catch a cold, too? Her lips, normally a soft pink, are barely distinguishable from the rest of her face. Did something happen that he hasn’t been aware of? Is Katie–

“Is Katie okay?” he asks, unable to stop himself.

“Uh, yeah, she’s, um,” Lisbon shoots a glance in Rigsby’s direction, too, “she’s fine. Why do you ask?”

Jane’s muscles, which had started to tense, loosen. “You just look…” He gestures vaguely with his hand, which makes her frown. “Never mind. Good. I accept.”

Lisbon’s lips flatten into a tight line as she nods. It drains what little color they had left. “Come in tomorrow morning. You, uh, you didn’t bug anything else, did you?”

If she didn’t look so harrowed, he’d smile mysteriously. Instead he shakes his head. “Ah, no, just the phone.” Would it be too much to ask if she’s okay? In front of Rigsby it probably would be. “Thank you, Teresa.”

Her shoulders tense. “Wasn’t my call,” she says and he’s surprised to realize it’s a lie. Well, of course, it’s Minelli’s decision at the end of the day, but he can suddenly tell that it was Lisbon’s idea to rehire him, and that she had to fight for it.

“Hm,” he hums and lets his skepticism shine through.

She doesn’t take the bait. “I’m gonna get the Hell outta here. I suggest you two do the same. I wanna see you both at 9 a.m. sharp.”

“Yes, Boss,” Rigsby agrees immediately.

“Yes, Boss,” Jane copies him and grins when Rigsby sends him a look that says, Hey!

Jane follows Lisbon to her office, which was installed shortly into the new year. While its walls and doors are largely glass, it does offer some privacy, especially when it comes to sound. One of the doors is propped open. Jane closes it behind himself and Lisbon jumps.

“ Jesus , Jane,” she swears and sends him a dirty look.

Oops, he must’ve moved more quietly than he’d intended to. That, or she’s really out of it. “Are you okay?” he asks.

Her tired face approximates an expression of surprise but is too fatigued to fully get there. “I’m fine.” They both know she’s a terrible liar but it’s never been this ridiculously obvious.

“You, uh, you don’t look fine,” he points out. His fingers have sought out his wedding ring and are now idly spinning it. It’s a good conduit for nervous energy.

Lisbon sighs. “I’m a little tired but I’ll live.” There won’t be any further vulnerability from her even if he pushes, so he nods and goes to leave. When he opens the door, she says, “Jane.” He pauses and looks over his shoulder. “It was when you bumped into me at the coffee shop, right? When you planted the bug.”

“Uh, yeah.”

She nods thoughtfully. “I remembered the prize ticket trick. Er, when we were kids, you put a prize ticket in my pocket while I inspected a card.”

“Jack of Spades,” he remembers. It had amused him at the time: J for Jane. She couldn’t have known about that fun coincidence.

It takes her a moment to recover from what is initially shock. His memory tends to have that effect on people. Lisbon seems to shake it off faster than most, though. “The other day, you lifted my phone when you bumped into me and then you bugged it and returned it while I was looking at your parking ticket.”

He smiles. “Maybe.”

“Well, it wasn’t the spirits,” she retorts and he almost laughs. He’s missed her wit. It’s been a very lonely few months. “Look, Jane, I get it. I’m worried about her, too. I’m not gonna force you to have a relationship with her.” It’s obvious who she’s talking about: Katie.

“That’s why this case has you so shook up,” he realizes and feels idiotic for not seeing it sooner. “She’s going off to college in the fall.”

Lisbon nods. “Let’s just get the bastard before then.”

“Not gonna argue with that.” The sooner Red John is dead the sooner Jane can rest knowing he won’t lose another daughter to his own arrogance. If he plays his cards right, he might be able to build a life with her in it, even if it’s one spent behind bars. “See you tomorrow, Lisbon.”

4 April 2005, Teresa Lisbon.

“We’ve got a case.”

His legs are crossed at the ankles. His hands are folded over his lap. To anyone else, he would look asleep. She’s seen him genuinely asleep enough to know that he generally sleeps on his side with his hands tucked between his knees. When he speaks, her hunch that he’s fully awake is confirmed. “I’m working.”

“I know it’s frustrating but we can’t keep banging our heads against the wall,” she says, like she’s been saying since last week. “We don’t have any more leads on Red John. Until we do, it’s our duty to work on other cases.”

“Your duty, maybe.” His eyes are still screwed shut.

“No, our duty. You’re a consultant, Jane. You’re hired to consult.”

“I’m an independent freelancer, I can refuse individual cases.”

If she murdered him right now, there wouldn’t be a court in the state that would convict. “I’m not paying you to nap all day!”

“You’re not paying me at all, the city is.”

“I’m a tax-payer so actually I do pay you.”

His eyes wink open. “Hm. Alright, Jane 1-Lisbon 1. How’re we gonna break this tie? Rock Paper Scissors? Best of three?”

“You know what? Never mind. I’m sure we’ll deal without you.”

He turns his head to look at her. “You’re not even gonna play?”

“Please, I know you well enough at this point to know you’ll cheat.” And to treat her like she’s naive is frankly insulting.

“Cheat? At Rock Paper Scissors? Lisbon, that’s impossible.” As genuine as his disbelief sounds, she doesn’t buy a second of it.

“Goodbye, Jane,” she tells him and turns on her heel.

“It’s a game of luck!” he calls after her. “How would I cheat?”

“You’d find a way,” she almost yells back at him, but she manages to contain it to a private mumble as she realizes that at least one of them has to uphold some professional standards.

It’s only by the time she’s starting her car that it dawns on her that he did cheat: he convinced her that leaving him behind was her idea. Motherfucker.

Chapter Text

10 June 1988, Teresa Lisbon.

The picnic basket is filled to the brim. “What’s with all the apples?” she asks and pulls one out to demonstrate, as if Patrick hadn’t been the one to pack the basket.

“Those are for Daisy,” he says.

Teresa frowns. Did he ask another girl out? “Daisy?”

“Her.” He nods at something behind her and she cranes her neck to look.

“Oh my God,” she gasps and springs to her feet. It’s an elephant! She’s never seen one in real life. A guy a little older than Patrick is leading it towards them. “You have an elephant?” she asks Patrick.

“This one’s technically Pete’s,” Patrick says just as the other guy arrives, “but we can borrow her for the afternoon.”

“Teresa? I’m Pete.” She holds out her hand to shake his but instead he gives her Daisy’s rope. “I’ll be just over there,” he gestures towards the nearest cluster of campers, “so scream if you need me.” To Patrick, he says, “Well done, Paddy.” Then he’s walking away, hands in pockets.

“Here,” Patrick says and jumps up to grab Daisy’s rope. “I’ll hold onto her. You wanna give her that?”

Teresa holds up the apple. In an instant, Daisy has wrapped her trunk around it and fed it into her mouth. Juice runs down her face. Patrick laughs. “She’s even worse about peanuts. You wanna give her another one?”

While Daisy chews on the second apple, Teresa hesitantly pets her trunk. It’s soft against her fingertips. Soft and warm and alive and so big . Her cheeks hurt from smiling. She’s never been on vacation. This is the most exotic experience of her life.

“She likes you,” Patrick says and he’s wearing a big smile, too. It’s very handsome.

“I like her, too,” she admits and blushes when he winks.

13 April 2005, Teresa Lisbon.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” she responds automatically, even as she continues typing. It’s nearing the end of the workday. Lisbon’s eyes are strained from looking at her computer screen. Damn Minelli for deciding to go digital with all their reports. Isn’t he supposed to be anti-computers like all other old men?

She finishes her sentence before looking up at Jane. “What’s up?”

“Got something for you,” he says and uses the hand that isn’t holding a cup of tea to fish an envelope out of his jacket pocket.

As he holds it out for her to take, she narrows her eyes. “I told you no presents.” He seemed understanding at the time. If he doesn’t want to get involved with Katie, he needs to stay out of her life completely. No birthday gifts.

“It’s not a present.”

Her bullshit meter is maxed out but she snatches the envelope from him anyway. Jane sits down across from her and busies himself with his tea.

“What is this?” she asks when she’s had a look at the envelope’s contents.

“It’s a cheque,” he says helpfully.

“No, I mean, what is it really ?”

Jane raises his eyebrows. “It’s really a cheque.”

She shakes her head. “Just get to the trick.”

“No trick,” he says and slurps his tea while maintaining eye contact.

Laughter bubbles out of her. He’s so bizarre. “Right,” she agrees sarcastically. “Not only do you have a million dollars, you want to give me a million dollars.”

“That’s right.”

His steady gaze unnerves her. She looks back down at the cheque and the ‘ONE MILLION DOLLARS’ written in capital block letters. She looks at his signature. She looks at her full legal name.

“You’re joking,” she says, and then she pleads, “You’re joking.”

“I sold all my assets,” he says simply. “Freed up a lot of cash. That’s for Katie’s college fund.”

Lisbon looks back and forth between Jane and the cheque so rapidly that it makes her already exhausted eyes twinge. “I can’t accept this.”

“Sure you can. Think of it as back pay for child support. If it’s me you’re worried about, don’t be; I’ve got more money than I know what to do with.”

“Buy an apartment!” she splutters. “A new car, or-or, I don’t know, you must need something .”

He smiles. “Already done. Just take it, Lisbon. With that, no school is off the table.”

Her sweat has begun to sink into the paper. She carefully puts it down on her desk. ‘Already done’? He’s bought everything he could need and still has a million to spare? How much money did that psychic stuff net him?

It’s true. With this, Katie could go anywhere, even an Ivy League, and never have to worry about student loans or even a part-time job. And he does owe her child support.

There’s a nagging in her gut that’s been there since she was 12, though. Never accept help; people will only demand something from you in return. “What do you want?” she asks.

There’s no surprise on his face. Like her, he’s used to everything coming with a caveat. He doesn’t take offense. “I want my daughter to go to a nice school,” he says and his voice is soft.

It’s the first time he’s referred to Katie as his. This simple pronoun sticks in Lisbon’s throat and makes her eyes sting. She knows she can’t tell when he’s lying, but that seems pretty truthful to her. “Okay.” It comes out in a whisper. She clears her throat. “It better not bounce.”

Jane’s smile stretches over the rim of his teacup. “It won’t.”

She doesn’t thank him, but after work she stops by the bank and the teller happily accepts the cheque, and Lisbon quietly marvels that she gets to tell Katie that all of her dreams are possible.

29 May 2005, Patrick Jane.

It’s his phone that startles him out of his midnight melancholy. His screen lights up the small bedroom and the body of the thing wobbles in time with its vibration. It’s a number he recognizes, although he doesn’t have it saved. It’s safer that way.

His thumb hovers over the green phone button. He shouldn’t answer. If he does, there will have been provable communication between them – and late at night at that. It suggests familial intimacy. Trust. Care.

There’s no telling what kind of information Red John has access to. Maybe he works for Jane’s phone company, or he’s a cop, or someone else who’d be able to access phone records. ‘Cop’ has for a long time been at the top of his list, in terms of viable careers for a serial killer, especially one so knowledgeable about forensics and police procedures.

It’s midnight and Katie is calling him.

The phone buzzes. It’s like an injured animal in his hand, thrashing and writhing, begging him to help it. He lets it sit on his palm, unheld.

And then it goes still. Dead. He let it die. 

Nausea overwhelms him. Without warning, his hands begin to shake. In the dark, he sees Charlotte’s limp arm hanging off the side of the bed.

Sudden vibration startles him. The animal is resurrected. Katie’s calling again. This time, he doesn’t hesitate.

“Katie?”

Her voice is small. “Hi,” she sniffs, “um, sorry– uh, sorry for calling you, I know you don’t– you don’t wanna, um,” her voice breaks, “hear f-from me–”

“Listen to me.” Even as he interrupts her, he keeps his voice soft and calm. “It’s okay, it’s alright, you’re fine. Take a deep breath and then tell me what’s wrong.”

Her shaky exhalation momentarily overwhelms the microphone on her cell. It makes it sound like a storm on his end. “My, um, my friend left me. I-I’m supposed to be staying at her house.”

“Is Lisbon not answering her phone?”

“I… I didn’t call her. I’m… My friends and I… we’ve kinda been drinking, and Mom’s on a date, a-and I’m not supposed to be out, a-and…” As she trails off, a sob rips through the wire and Jane closes his eyes against the pain of it hitting his chest.

It’s true, Lisbon’s on a date. He forgot. She wouldn’t say with whom, but she let her plans slip when he joked about her not having a social life. I actually have a date Saturday, she said. Not that it’s any of your business.

“Where are you?” he asks, because he can’t find it in himself to reject Katie.

“Downtown somewhere. Um, I’m pretty close to McKinley Park.”

It’s a good thing he hadn’t gotten for bed yet. He’s ready to grab his keys and shoes. “Go to the corner of 33rd and H. I’ll be there in ten. Stay on the line till then.”

“O-okay.” She sniffles again. “Thank you, I’m sorry if I woke you up, I-I just didn’t know who else to call, I didn’t– I mean, Mom’s not been on a real date for, like, years and I really don’t wanna ruin it for her, I-I think she really– oops! It’s okay, I stumbled, but I’m fine. Um. Anyway, I think she really likes this guy and she never has any fun, she just works all the time and…” 

As Jane ties his shoelaces and rushes out of the door, his daughter keeps speaking in his ear. The words flow out of her like water from a spring. Whatever alcohol she’s consumed has completely destroyed the barrier between her brain and her mouth. She’s not slurring her words, though, so she’s not that drunk.

Katie continues to unleash her thoughts on him throughout the drive. It’s like she’s never spoken to another human person before and has to make up for lost time. It’s strangely soothing, and she must think so as well, because her musings over her mother’s dating life distract her enough to stop the sniffling.

“I’m coming up H now,” he warns her. “Blue Citroën, I’ll flash my lights at you.”

There she is, huddled in on herself on the street corner. She’s in low rise jeans and a top he would’ve sworn was meant to be a doll’s dress. It leaves a concerning amount of midriff uncovered.

As soon as he pulls up, she climbs into the passenger seat. She’s wearing makeup, too: lots of eyeliner, blue eyeshadow, and sparkly lipgloss. Mascara and eyeliner are streaked down her cheeks. She smells of vodka and something sweet. There’s no need to remind her of the seatbelt; she does hers immediately.

She looks so young. Was this really the age at which he and Lisbon met?

“One sec,” he tells Katie and speeddials Lisbon. It goes straight to voicemail. Damn. Must be off. He didn’t know she ever turned her phone off. “Hm, your mom’s phone goes straight to voicemail.”

“I already texted her goodnight earlier,” Katie admits, “so she probably thinks she doesn’t need to worry about me.”

Jane thinks for a moment. “Okay. New plan: I’m gonna take you home and we’ll see if she’s there.”

“I left my key at Jenny’s.”

“That’s okay,” he says as he pulls away from the curb, “I won’t need a key.”

It seems Katie’s well of words has dried up. They drive in silence. She stares anxiously out of the window and he tries to ignore the voice in his head that tells him she’s as good as murdered already.

The garage is empty. Jane parks and kills the engine. “Looks like she’s out. Come along.”

They walk to the front door. The garden is sad. It’s just a poorly-kept lawn and a single apple tree. The house is similarly unadorned. Anonymous. “How long’ve you lived here?” he asks before he can stop himself.

“Like two years. We rent.”

He wonders if Lisbon will buy something once Katie’s at college. Something smaller, meant for a single professional, without a garden to keep.

“What’s that?” He points behind them.

In her addled state, Katie falls for his trick. As soon as she looks away, he whips out his lockpicking tools. “Uh, it’s an apple tree?” The lock clicks and the door opens. Katie turns back around.

“Lisbon must’ve forgotten to lock it,” he lies, tools already up his sleeve.

Katie squints. “I heard the click.”

“What click?”

“You said you didn’t need a key,” she remembers. “Did you pick the lock?”

Cleverness deserves a reward. His tools drop back into his hands and he waves them gently in front of her face. “Guilty as charged.”

“Mom would call this ‘breaking and entering’,” she says and grins. Her teeth glint in the moonlight. The tear tracks shine, too.

“Didn’t break anything,” he says and gestures for her to go inside. “Haven’t entered.”

Katie hesitates on the threshold. Her hand grips the doorframe. That brief smile has disappeared and left a vulnerable expression on her youthful face. “I–” The syllable hangs in the night air for a few seconds. Her shoulders fall. “Um, thank you, Patrick.” Her body sways gently, her balance ever-so-slightly off-kilter.

“I should stay,” he says and Katie’s eyes snap to his, “till your mom comes home.”

She nods. “Okay.” Hope shines from her face.

The inside is as impersonal as the outside. While Katie gets changed, Jane goes through the fridge and finds ingredients for an omelette. The logic of Lisbon’s kitchen is predictable. Everything is exactly where he thinks it’ll be, even where the organizational principles are idiosyncratic (who places bowls and plates on opposite ends of the kitchen?). 

Teresa Lisbon is more than an open book to him; she’s a book he’s reread enough for her spine to be falling apart and for her margins to be painted blue by tightly packed notes written in pen.

The omelette is large enough for two. He plates them up a half each and pours them large glasses of water. “Katie?” he calls.

She appears in the doorway, face washed and clothed in PJs. Her eyes and nose are red. There’s been more crying. His throat tightens.

“Have a bite.”

They sit by the kitchen island and poke at their omelettes. At least she’s drinking her water.

“You wanna tell me what the fight was about?”

Katie stabs the omelette. The fork connects with the plate and makes a sound like a scream. “Who said we fought?”

“Friends don’t just leave friends. Something must’ve happened.”

Her shoulders hunch. There’s sudden fear on her face. “It was just something stupid.” Lie. It was important. “I don’t even remember.”

“You don’t have to tell me. But if you do, I won’t tell your mom.” It’s a risky promise to make but his concern strains against his ribs and he can’t breathe around it.

Katie tells the omelette, “I-I just told her something a-and she freaked a-and–” Her whole body is suddenly shaking and he cannot let her sit there unheld. Carefully, he places a hand on her arm. Its gentle squeeze releases a sob from her and then she slips off her barstool to shuffle into his embrace.

It’s awkward. His body is twisted. Neither of them manage to fully relax into the hug. But it’s nice. Her hair smells like coconut, a different shampoo from Lisbon’s. 

He holds his daughter.

“It’s okay,” he tells her but his voice is foreign to him. It’s thick. It trembles.

It makes her cry harder and then he’s crying, too. His tears, stored somewhere in his head since Angela and Charlotte’s funeral, water her hair.

His arms cannot unknow her now. 

“Promise you won’t tell Mom?”

Whatever she wants, it will be hers. “I promise.”

“I’m– I– I-I like girls.”

This piece of information slots in so perfectly with the rest of the puzzle that is her. “Well, that’s a relief.”

Her stiff muscles melt. “It is?”

“Mh, won’t have to worry about teenage pregnancies.”

There’s a sound like a hiccup. It’s a strangled laugh. “I guess.”

Katie extracts herself from Jane. He lets her. There must be an unmistakable tenderness in his eyes as he looks at her red face. Lisbon’s nose but his forehead.

Belatedly, he runs a hand over his face to remove traces of his own emotional outburst.

“I’m sorry your friend didn’t take it well,” he says. “You’ll find people who will.”

“When?” she asks with a sigh and resumes her attack on the omelette. This time, she actually cuts and eats it. “I’m gonna be younger than the other people at college, too.” His daughter is lonely, maybe as lonely as he is. “I’ve tried talking to Mom about it but she just doesn’t get it. She doesn’t get why I want friends. That’s crazy, right? Like, that’s not normal.”

“Lisbon’s always found it hard to relate to her peers,” Jane says. “When I met her, she was raising your uncles and taking care of her dad. Nobody at school had the same worries and responsibilities as her. It’s hard to make friends when no one around you understands.”

Katie swallows her bite of omelette with a frown. “Mom raised my uncles?”

It’s no wonder their relationship has been strained lately. Katie must be searching for understanding and guidance and feels hurt and confused that her mother can’t give that to her. Without the knowledge of Lisbon’s own upbringing, Katie has no chance of understanding why her mother doesn’t seem to care.

Lisbon will thank him for this. Eventually. “Yeah, when her mom died, her dad wasn’t able to take care of the boys or himself, so Lisbon did. Just imagine what that must’ve been like for her. It’s not that she didn’t care about her classmates, it’s more like she didn’t speak their language and they didn’t speak hers.”

“Oh.” Katie chews on his words alongside the omelette. “You guys became friends, though.”

“I’m good at speaking other people’s languages.”

“By lying?”

“Sometimes.”

They each take a long drink from their glasses of water. In the background, a clock ticks.

“So did you have a lot of friends in high school, or in college?” she asks.

“Uh, no. I didn’t go to high school or college. Didn’t go to any school, really.”

She frowns. “But that’s illegal. Unless you were homeschooled?”

“In a sense,” he says, remembering his father’s many lessons in swindling. “We didn’t have a permanent address and we travelled all over the country, so the government didn’t really find out.” Mostly. CPS did pick him up once after someone reported the entire Stoney Ridge camp. “I did have friends: other kids in the carnival circuit.”

“Can you teach me? How to speak other people’s languages?”

He probably shouldn’t. Katie’s an honest kid and what he could teach her is decidedly not. But her eyes are wide and wet and blue and her PJs are a little too big on her and she’s his daughter. “Mostly it’s about figuring out what someone wants, and giving it to them,” he explains. “Say your mother, for example. What does she want?”

Katie bites the inside of her cheek and stares at a spot behind Jane’s head. “Bad guys in prison?” she suggests and he has to smile.

“Fair point. I was thinking something more like… honesty and respect.” And for someone to glimpse the softness inside of her, that aching heart she tries so hard to hide, but he won’t say that to Katie.

“Oh. Right. But how do I figure out what someone wants?”

“Observation. You pay attention to what they respond to. What makes them feel at ease? What makes them smile? What repulses them?”

“What if what they want isn’t me?” Her fingers tug at her sleeves.

“Then you’ve got two choices: you can lie about who you are, or you can find people who don’t need you to lie. I recommend the second option; the first one doesn’t get you genuine friends.”

Katie nods slowly. Her eyes are fixed on a spot somewhere over his shoulder but he can tell she isn’t actually looking at anything, she’s deep in thought. “I’m a really bad liar,” she says finally.

It startles a laugh out of him. “You are,” he agrees. “You and Lisbon, open books. It’s a good thing.”

“Are you and Mom friends now?”

“Uh.” It would be a stretch to call them ‘friends’. They’re coworkers who are friendly with each other and conceived a child together almost seventeen years ago. There isn’t exactly an easy label for that. Neither of them even want to be friends: Lisbon because she won’t lower her walls for anybody, especially not the absent father of her child, and he doesn’t want to have to screw over a friend once the time to kill Red John rolls around. With any luck, they’ll never be friends.

They might not have a choice. Katie has left a mark on him now. His jacket will not forget the tears that stained it, nor his back the press of her arms, nor his chin the silk of her hair. By a reaction that is almost chemical in nature, he has been irrevocably changed.

He wants to be a father again.

“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!” Charlotte stumbles in the sand. Catches herself. Behind her, Angela laughs and calls out, “Sweetie, you okay?” But Charlotte’s already running again and he drops to his knees and spreads out his arms and she runs into his embrace with a squeal and she smells like sunscreen and salt and Angela’s lavender perfume.

“Patrick?”

The memory blurs. Jane blinks it away. There’s something rising in his chest, though. Something he thought he’d left behind with Sophie Miller. “Where’s the bathroom?”

“Uh, end of the hall?”

It’s a good thing he’s practiced at masking his feelings. His movements are measured even as his heart hammers and sweat breaks through his pores. I’m dying, he thinks. I’m having a heart attack. He shuts the bathroom door and rips off his jacket. His fingers fumble with the vest buttons. He’s not dying, but it feels that way. A wave of something like foreboding ripples through him, starting in his heart.

It’s a panic attack. He’s not had one in ages.

His vest joins his jacket on the floor. Then his ass does, too, as he sits himself down against a wall and takes a deep breath. His whole body is shaking and already covered in sweat. Those rushes of dread keep rattling through him. He leans his head back against the wall and forces himself to breathe slowly.

He should be better than this. He’s a lot smarter than his body.

The cool air sticks to his sweat and lowers his body temperature considerably as he sits there and breathes.

I need to kill Red John. I need to kill Red John before Katie goes off to college.

He hears muffled voices. Katie’s and Lisbon’s. In a flash, he’s on his feet and throwing his layers back on. He flushes the toilet and runs his hands under the tap for good measure.

“– did you even get his number?”

If his mind weren’t whirring with existential dread, Lisbon's look would’ve made him pause. Her chin-length hair is lightly mussed, either from wind or from a man’s caresses. There’s a smokey ring of kohl around her eyelashes and her lips carry the remnants of dark red lipstick. Her clothing is understated but a lot less formal than what he normally sees her in: mid-tone bluejeans and a satin-weave camisole in dark green.

“Uh, from your phone,” Katie admits.

“Lisbon,” he says, “good, glad you’re here.”

“What the Hell is going on?”

“I’m sure Katie can fill you in. I gotta run.”

He doesn’t look at Katie’s face. It’s not necessary. He knows he’s hurting her.

He has to. For now.

Lisbon’s not happy either. Her freckled arms are crossed over her chest. “Where are you going?”

“Uh, home,” he says and looks her straight in the eye. The picture of shamelessness. “It’s pretty late.”

“‘Home’?” she echoes. There’s a tight line along her neck. It runs from just above her clavicle to her ear.

“Yes.”

Her jaw tenses. “Fine. I have to move my car so you can get outta the garage.”

They exit the house together. Jane doesn’t say goodbye to Katie. He doesn’t look at her at all.

“Good date?” he asks Lisbon.

“Nunya.” Her voice is as tight as her muscles.

“I feel bad for the guy; I set the bar pretty high for first dates.”

She stops abruptly and turns on her heel. “You’re a cold bastard.” In the dark, he can’t see colors, but there’s a reflection of the moon in her eyes. It’s pale and thin. It gives her a feline slit. “Do you know that? Do you know how much you hurt people?”

Along with guilt comes a grim satisfaction to be seen for who he is. It doesn’t feel good but it feels right . He wants her to say more horrible things about him. He wants her to excavate the worst parts of him and punch him in the face again. If he doesn’t wake up with swollen eyes, he’ll be disappointed.

He also wants to keep his job.

“I don’t know what you want me to do here,” he says. “I’m keeping my distance for her safety.”

Her face unpinches and relaxes into melancholy. “I know. I just wish it was as hard for you as it is for her.”

You’ve no idea, he thinks. “I’ve got a lot of motivation.”

A car drives by and momentarily bathes her in light. Some people are so beautiful it makes one ache to look at them. Lisbon’s one of them.

Gratitude suddenly rushes over him. “Thank you.”

Her shoulders stiffen and she shifts her weight to her heels. “For what?”

“For raising her.” She’d already had her brothers and father to care for, not to mention high school to attend and a part time job, and she kept Katie anyway. Not only that, but she managed to raise an empathetic, honest, and sweet girl. Everything that Katie is and everything that she has is thanks to Lisbon.

He owes her so much. Everything, possibly.

She ducks her head. “I’ll move my car.”

“Okay.”

Those are the last words they speak to each other that night.

18 June 2005, Teresa Lisbon.

“A couple margaritas, thanks.”

Lisbon’s surroundings snap back into place. Spanish guitar plays over the speakers but is nearly drowned out by lively chatter. Although the restaurant is small, it’s packed. 

Across from her, Bobby smiles. “You okay?”

Her answer is automatic and not necessarily truthful. “Yeah, sorry.”

“Katie?”

She sighs. Today marks three weeks since Katie snuck out to go drinking. That night is still shrouded in mystery to her. Katie won't tell her what's wrong and Jane claims not to know. Even though Katie's behavior has gone back to her usual, dependable self, Lisbon can't shake the feeling that she missed something important. She might be the worst mother in history.

“We don't have to talk about it,” Bobby says, “but if you want to, we can.”

They've not talked much about their kids so far, just the surface level stuff. She's not in any rush to tell him more. “I don't really want to.”

“Then allow me to distract you. What are you thinking of having?”

For all that she stared at the menu, she didn't actually read it. She does now. “I do love a cubano.”

“Lisbon?” Jane calls and she immediately looks over her shoulder. 

What? she almost asks before she realizes that he has no business standing here, right next to her in this restaurant, while she’s on a date. Where the Hell did he come from? Did he follow her? “Jane?”

A waitress places two menus on the table next to Lisbon and swiftly clears the mess left by the previous customers. A woman thanks the college-aged kid. This woman is tall and blonde. Her hair falls down her back in waves. She’s in a cheerfully-colored sundress.

“What are you doing here?” Lisbon asks Jane. “Who’s this?”

Jane’s suit is all-black. It’s the first time she’s seen him wearing three pieces that fully match. “Uh, this is Beth. Beth, Lisbon.”

The smile that breaks out on Beth’s face could’ve powered a small city. The wattage is blinding. “Agent Lisbon!” she exclaims and shuffles past Jane to stretch out her hand. Lisbon shakes it. “I’ve seen you around. Agent Elizabeth Fairbanks, I’m the new cyber initiative Director Bertram introduced last month. I’ve been hoping to work with your unit; I’ve heard great things.”

The picture becomes clearer to Lisbon. “Jane is helping you with a case?” Ordinarily, Lisbon would be informed first, but Jane rarely sticks to protocol anyway.

Beth looks to Jane, who scratches the back of his neck. “Uh, no,” he says. His fingers play with his wedding band. “No, uh, Beth is my date.”

“Your date?” Lisbon laughs. Jane doesn’t. “Seriously?” Less than two weeks ago, on the anniversary of his family’s deaths, he took the day off. The next day, he showed up hungover and filthy. He’s not dating. He can’t be.

“That’s right,” Jane confirms, impossibly. “Trust me, Beth knows she could do better.”

“Yeah, but I didn't want better, I wanted you,” Beth says and laughs when Jane mimes being shot. “Oh, you know I’m just kidding.”

Their back-and-forth is so familiar. How has Lisbon not heard about Beth before? We’re not friends, she reminds herself. He has no reason to tell me.

“Patrick Jane,” Bobby says and rises out of his seat to briefly shake hands. “Robert Whitmer. Patrick, I don't know if you remember me but you were a witness for one of my cases.”

“Johnston,” Jane says after a brief moment of consideration. “High school chemistry teacher. He was killed by a couple whose daughter was molested by him. You were the prosecutor. Jury found them innocent.”

“Largely thanks to your testimony.” Bobby’s severe tone doesn’t last long. It gives way to an indulgent smile.

Jane grins back. “Meh. You'll get ‘em next time, I'm sure.”

“If I don’t see your name on the docket,” Bobby agrees. “You could sell sand to a camel, couldn’t you?”

“Straw, probably,” Jane suggests and Lisbon rolls her eyes.

“Are you my date or his?” Beth asks and nudges Jane’s shoulder with her own.

“I’m taken I’m afraid,” Bobby says and gestures to Lisbon, “but you guys could pull your table over and join us. I’d love to get a do-over on our first impressions.”

“Sure,” Jane agrees. 

Nobody asks Lisbon for her opinion.

In large part, the men steer the dinner conversation, but Beth gets in her fair share of words, often as clever retorts that spiral into back-and-forths between herself and Jane. Several times, they get so caught up in their mock-arguments that they forget about Lisbon and Bobby, at which point Bobby winks at Lisbon and she tries to smile back.

This isn’t good. When Jane looks at Beth, there are stars in his eyes.

Halfway through the meal, Beth excuses herself to the ladies’. As soon as she has gone, Lisbon says, “Yeah, me too, actually,” and follows.

There are only two stalls, so they’re definitely alone when Beth exits the only occupied one. “Oh!” she exclaims. “Hello.”

Lisbon pockets the lipstick she’s been half-heartedly reapplying. “We need to talk.”

“Okay,” Beth says and begins washing her hands, “shoot.”

Lisbon waits for the right words to come to her. When they don’t, she says, “You know about Jane’s family?”

“Yes.” The suds make squelching sounds as Beth massages them into her hands. Her eyes are on Lisbon. They’re brown. In that moment, it strikes Lisbon how similar Beth looks to the crime photos of Angela: long, blonde hair and big, brown eyes. Oh, for fuck’s…

“Jane can’t date someone,” she says. “He’s not ready.”

The water runs over Beth’s hands. “I don’t think you get to make that decision for him.” Her tone is soft.

“He doesn't want to be involved. Er, he told me he doesn't want to get close to anyone.”

Beth smiles. “We've just gone on a couple of dates. If he doesn't want to see me, he can end it any time he wants.”

I'm not sure he can. Not if you look like her.

“I appreciate your concern for him. Genuinely, I'm glad he has you to look out for him. He's a good man, and if any of this stems from jealousy–”

“I don't want to be with Jane,” Lisbon says firmly. “I don't think anyone should be, right now.”

For a moment, Beth just looks at her. “Okay. I believe you. You're just concerned about him. Honestly, so am I. But I don't think it's fair for us to decide what's too much for him. I think he should get the dignity of choice.”

Dignity won't mean much to him when something happens to her and he tries to kill himself again.

There’s nothing Lisbon can say without sounding like an asshole.

“We okay, Agent?” Beth checks. “I respect you, and I don’t want this to bleed into work.”

Lisbon swallows. “Yes, we’re fine.”

Beth smiles and reaches out for Lisbon’s shoulder, but Lisbon instinctively draws away and Beth immediately retreats. “Okay,” she says. “Let’s rejoin the boys.”

There’s an awful sinking feeling in Lisbon’s stomach. For the rest of the dinner, she has to force her food down.

26 July 2005, Patrick Jane.

“Jane, you in?”

Cho’s voice startles him out of the slumber he’d been drifting into. “In what?” His voice reveals nothing about his half-asleep state.

“Papa’s,” Cho clarifies. “Closed case pizza.”

Right. “Sorry, boys, I won’t be able to join ya.”

“That cybercrime girl’s made you her bitch,” Hannigan says and laughs. At first, Rigsby laughs a little, too, but then he quietens. By Jane’s estimates, Cho will have given him a look.

“Don’t make me write you up for that.” Ah, Cho hadn’t been the ameliorating effect; Lisbon had. Jane cranes his neck to look up at her. Her hands are on her hips. “I don’t care what you say in the locker rooms, but this is work.”

Atta girl . Hannigan looks away. “Yes, Boss.”

“ Are you going out with Fairbanks again, though?” Rigsby asks.

Jane considers. “Define ‘going out’.”

“Going on a date.”

“Define ‘going on’ and ‘a date’.”

“Uh.” Rigsby looks around at the others for help, but none of them take pity on him. “Okay, fine: are you seeing her tonight?”

“Define–”

“Define my foot up your ass,” Lisbon interrupts.

“Uh, ‘anatomically unlikely’.” As expected, she rolls her eyes. “But fine, I’ll appease the gossips: yes, I am seeing my girlfriend tonight.”

Lisbon looks like someone’s just hit her over the head. “Girlfriend?”

“It’s been a while for me but I believe that’s the modern parlance, yes.”

“Congrats,” Cho says flatly. “Are the rest of us heading out for pizza or not?”

“Someone’s hangry,” Jane says and ignores Cho’s unimpressed stare.

“I’m with Cho,” Hannigan says, grabbing his jacket off his chair.

“Yeah,” Rigsby agrees. “Boss?”

“What? Er, yes. Gimme a sec, you guys go ahead.”

Uh oh, serious talk incoming . Lisbon doesn’t do many of those, but the ones she does he can spot from a mile away. He won’t make it easy for her, though. While the others mill out, he remains relaxed on the couch.

Eventually, a cushion dips and Lisbon’s lower back presses gently into the side of his knee. Jane cracks open an eye.

“I’m worried about you, Jane,” she says. Blunt as ever, his Lisbon. It’s always refreshing. Every time, it feels like an antidote to his childhood. “Beth’s nice but that’s not why you’re seeing her.”

He raises his eyebrows. “No?”

“No. I’ve seen pictures of your wife. She looks exactly like her.”

It’s rewarding to see Lisbon take the bait. It bodes well for his plan. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Don’t give me that. It’s obvious.”

It’s oddly satisfying that Lisbon has gotten comfortable enough with him to confidently call him out on his bullshit. Unfortunately for her, he won’t be giving her the truth she seeks. “Okay, I concede they might have a few physical similarities, but everyone’s got a type. Take you, for example: Bobby’s, what, ten years older than you? You love older, emotionally unavailable men.”

“Bobby is perfectly available,” she can’t help but defend herself.

“So the recent divorce is coincidental?”

She gives him a look. “Jane. What happens to you if something happens to her?”

“Lisbon,” he echoes, mimicking her severe tone. “I'm done trying to do the best thing I’ve ever done.”

“How am I supposed to believe you?” Her seaglass eyes quiver as they look from his left eye to his right and back again. They’re lit up by the evening sun.

“I wouldn't do that to You-Know-Who.”

As she regards him, a silent question hangs in the air: So you will get close to Beth, but not Katie?

Someone nearby clears their throat. Beth winks meaningfully when she and Jane lock eyes. She's dressed in office wear and carrying her bag. Her gaze wanders to Lisbon. “Nice to see you, Agent Lisbon,” she says and grins.

When Lisbon becomes too conscious of herself, she moves stiffly. Jane sees the change immediately as she gets up from the couch. “Agent Fairbanks.”

Beth’s smile doesn’t fade. It’s quite clear how fond of Lisbon she is, despite their limited and mostly hostile interactions. She’s told Jane plenty of times how much he admires Lisbon and she’s a very forgiving person, so Jane isn’t surprised. “You ready, Patrick?”

“Yep!” Jane rolls off the couch like a cat jumping into action: sudden and agile. “See you tomorrow, Lisbon.”

His hand finds the small of Beth’s back and he guides her all the way to the parking lot, where they both slip into his car.

As soon as the doors shut, Beth says, “You have to tell her.” Jane pretends to be too busy starting up the car and navigating them out of the parking lot to talk. As soon as they hit the road, Beth tries again: “She's clearly still worried.”

“Meh.” It's not his most convincing argument, he'll give her that.

“It might be useful for the plan, if she knew.”

“Uh, no. She has to stay in the dark or the whole con’s screwed.” Even if Lisbon would want to help (which he’s not entirely sure she would), her honesty would land them in hot water.

“So she's one of your marks?” Beth’s tone is disapproving. 

Jane rolls his eyes. “In the sense that the whole world is my mark right now? Yes, she's a mark.”

“She's your partner .”

“I'm not a cop,” he reminds her. “Partnership means nothing to me. Why are you so hung up on Lisbon being on board?”

“I just don’t think dishonesty is a good foundation,” she says vaguely and swings her feet up onto the dashboard.

“Foundation for what?”

“You tell me.”

Her implication is obvious. He shakes his head. If she only knew about his history with Lisbon… Of course, he’s not told Beth a peep about Katie. Hopefully, by the end of next month, he’ll be able to tell anyone he’d like. Jane tightens his grip on the steering wheel. There are still a few things he needs to put into motion within the week to make sure they’re all ready: the fake passport, the plane ticket, the gun… He’s identified a couple of unsolved murders for use, but he’ll have to wait and follow the LA bulletin to pull it all together at the last minute – unless he wants to go full cold case, but a hot one would move everyone to LA faster…

“You think you’re gonna get away with it?” Beth asks. In court, she means. They’ve already established that he won’t try to run from the law. There’s no reason to. Even if he spends the rest of his life in prison, he’ll be able to be a presence in Katie’s life. There’s a good chance he won’t serve time at all, he reckons. His story is sympathetic enough.

“Watch me,” he says and allows himself a smile.

Chapter Text

11 June 1988, Teresa Lisbon.

Her whole body twitches and her heart skips a beat as something hits her shoulder. The dimly-lit living room is blinding to her sleepy eyes. “Sorry,” she gasps, desperate to get on her dad’s good side despite her slipup.

“Hey, shh, it’s okay,” a voice that isn’t her dad’s says. She blinks up at Patrick, who’s standing next to the couch with a plate in hand. How did he get in here? Oh, right, she let him come in after he drove her home from work. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Her heart settles. “You didn’t,” she lies. “What’s that?”

“Dinner,” he says and hands her the plate, on which sits a hotdog in its bun. It’s what she’d told him she was making the boys tonight. “I already gave the boys theirs, they’re in their rooms.”

She could cry. She doesn’t. She hasn’t cried in years. She’s not sure she knows how to anymore. “I– er, thank you.”

They eat together in awkward silence. His presence is heavy. His eyes examine the worn furniture, the layers of dust, the indents in the walls.

Once she’s managed to push the food past the massive lump in her throat, she insists on doing the dishes. “The cook never cleans,” she says, which is a lie: she always cleans. Still, it’s what her dad used to say to her mom, and it feels right at that moment.

It’s not until her dad comes home that she finds out Patrick forgot to turn the stove off. At least Patrick isn’t there to see it when her dad presses her palm against the hot plate as a reminder to never leave it on again.

17 August 2005, Patrick Jane.

The tea is bittersweet. Not literally, of course. Literally, it is bergamot and smoke: an earl grey blended with lapsang souchong. This could be his last cup.

There is no guarantee the con will work. Red John might not have heard about Jane's relationship, or he might not care. If Jane had more time he would think of something foolproof. There is no time. Classes at Stanford University start in a month.

When Lisbon told him Katie had gotten accepted to do a bachelor’s in Mathematics at Stanford, he’d nearly broken his silence to congratulate his daughter directly. Nearly.

“It’s thanks to you,” Lisbon had said. “Without your money, we couldn’t’ve afforded it.”

He’d never been happier to have fleeced grieving daughters and the wives of unfaithful men.

The tea he drinks is not only good for its taste, it adds to his body temperature as well. He’s already sweating. It’s a product of the thermals he’s wearing underneath his suit. They’re thin but effective.

It takes the LAPD longer than he expected to react to the fax that he and Beth sent them anonymously through a complex series of tech magic, but finally Lisbon strides into the bullpen with a determined look on her face. “LAPD just called,” she informs the four men who all snap to attention, “they need our help on a potential serial killer case. A young woman’s been killed and someone claiming to be her killer has sent a fax to the LAPD claiming to have killed two other young women within the last month. We’re leaving immediately. Bring your overnight bags and meet me at the airport. Jane, you can ride with me.”

The others say variations on “yes, Boss”, while Jane jumps up from the couch. Mimicking the experience of headrush, he briefly sways. Lisbon instantly catches it, “You okay?”

He pretends to shake it off. “Yeah, fine. Meet you in the parking lot?”

Her brow crinkles but she says, “Sure. Er, ten minutes.”

“Gotcha.”

In Beth’s office, he acts with the assumption that it’s bugged. So does she. They perform their little play: he informs her of the sudden need to go to LA, she acts surprised, they share a quick kiss. On the way out, he winks. Let the game begin.

In the car with Lisbon, he unmasks his nerves and lets his real anxiety bleed through. His leg twitches. His fingers play with his wedding band. Sweat pearls on his forehead.

The entire drive to the airport, Lisbon stays quiet. Once she kills the engine, though, she says, “Jane.” He pretends to be startled out of his thoughts. “I would really appreciate your help on this case, but if you don't think you'll be able to, we can handle it without you.”

“I'm fine.”

“You look sick,” she says. Her tone is severe. It comes across as irritability but he knows it’s worry.

“Just what a girl wants to hear.”

His joke has its intended effect: Lisbon is annoyed. “Fine. Don’t be an ass.”

She’s not been very happy with him lately. It started with his unceremonious departure from her house after dropping Katie off, and her mood plummeted when she found out about Beth. Hopefully, finding out it’s all been a ploy to lure out Red John will improve her opinion of him.

Probably not.

Critically, she won’t be so upset with him that she’ll keep Katie from him if Katie wants to speak to him. That’s all that matters. If his tenuous friendship with Lisbon ends, so be it. In two years, Katie will be a legal adult and he won’t even need to be in contact with Lisbon anymore.

He’d miss her, though. It would be weird not seeing her every day.

In LAX, Jane forces himself to vomit. It’s a pretty standard (if unpleasant) trick, all to do with breathing. Rigsby jogs into the men’s toilets after him and overhears the second volley.

“I’m fine,” Jane is still insisting as they make their way back out to the others. “Stomach bug, probably.”

“Alright, that’s it,” Lisbon declares. “Hannigan, take Jane to a motel and get us all some rooms. Jane, you can join us tomorrow.”

The moment is anticlimactic. This is it: the last time she’ll look at him and not see a murderer. If he fucks up at court, it’ll be the last time she sees him this side of prison bars. He wants her to hug him. He thinks that it might calm the frantic beating of his heart.

“I can work,” he insists.

“Hannigan,” she says and that’s that. Hannigan grabs Jane by the arm and leads him away.

I’m sorry, Jane thinks.

As soon as Hannigan leaves the motel, Jane grabs a taxi back to LAX, where he boards a plane using his fake passport. The timing is near perfect.

Back in Sacramento, he takes a taxi to Beth’s place and lets himself in with the key she gave him. It’s nearing evening but she’s not home yet. His gun (legally registered so he at least won’t catch extra charges) is hidden away with her extras, in the bedroom safety box. He loads it.

When Beth arrives, she wishes him good luck and exits through the back door. A few houses down, her sister will be waiting in a car.

Jane slips into her bed. The gun rests on his chest. It gently rocks with his breathing. He stares at the ceiling and waits.

And waits.

He imagines Angela lying next to him. Her arm would be snaked around his waist. He would smell lavender and cold tar soap. She would say, “What the fuck are you doing, Paddy?”

“Avenging you,” he tells the ceiling.

“I don't care about revenge,” she would say. “I'm dead.” And she would kiss his cheek and although her lips would be chapped, they would be soft.

“I know,” he says. “I know.”

And waits.

“I'm protecting my daughter,” he tells her.

She doesn’t hear him, of course. She’s not there. She’s buried in the Alexandria Cemetery, next to their daughter.

It’s easy to stay awake but hard to stay still. He forces himself to take deep breaths and practices what he wants to say.

Once the sun sets, he pulls the covers over himself. All he can see are the faint lines where the streetlight meets the edges of furniture.

If Red John doesn’t show, he’ll have to think of something even stupider to lure him out. Something that might jeopardize Katie’s safety. This has to work.

It will, he tells himself. It will. Red John must have had an eye on him all these months. It’s what he would do. You don’t ruin a man’s life and forget about him.

Hours go by. There is only darkness and the metallic taste of excitement on his tongue.

With a soft click, the door slides open. In a single motion, Jane points his gun at the doorway and switches on the bedside lamp. “Don’t move,” he says, even as his eyes are still adjusting to the light.

A man stands at the foot of the bed. His hair and moustache have gone almost completely gray. He’s white, 6’, 170 lbs. His body language suggests military or a similar background of discipline, with his straight back and raised chin. He’s dressed in all black – dressed for purpose. From his belt shines a curved knife. The belt reminds Jane of work; the one Lisbon sometimes wears isn’t unlike it. So he’s a cop, maybe.

Red John’s hands are raised in the air but his demeanor is calm and there’s a slight smirk on his face. “Bravo, Mr Jane,” he says and his voice has a slight twang of south to it.

“Red John,” Jane says. His hand twitches.

“You can call me Thom,” Red John says. “So, you have my attention.”

“Attention?” Jane doesn’t understand.

“That’s what the girl was for, right?” Red John laughs. It makes Jane’s stomach turn. “Well, you’ve got me here now. What do you want?”

“What I want,” Jane wets his lips and grips the gun harder, “is you dead.”

“I’d reconsider that if I were you. Think for a second, Patrick: how do I know about Beth?”

If he’s a cop then it’s an easy answer: “Your inside man.” Someone within the CBI must have been feeding him information.

“Wrong,” Red John says and looks almost disappointed. “I have more than just one. There are a lot of people who respect me. You kill me and they will retaliate. You keep me alive and I can offer you protection. Friendship, even.”

“I don't need your protection.”

“Maybe you don't, but someone you care about does.”

It's a bluff. A last-ditch effort to save himself. He doesn't know about Katie.

“Who are they?” Jane asks. “Your men.”

The bedside light is caught by Red John’s teeth. They hold it captive there as he smirks. “That information is for friends only.” His tone is playful. “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t hate you, Patrick.”

“You came here to kill my girlfriend,” Jane points out. If Red John had known this was a setup, he wouldn’t have shown. The trap was successfully sprung.

“You got ahead of yourself,” Red John says, “but if you like her so much, I’ll let you keep her.” Red John slowly lowers his arms. It’s a move that signals confidence.

Is this even Red John? He could be one of his men. “What did my wife smell like the night you murdered her?”

Red John’s laughter grates in Jane’s ears. “Chekin’ my identity? Alright, I’ll bite. She smelled like, uh… like lavender and coal tar–”

Despite his many hours on the shooting range, the kickback of the gun surprises Jane. His grip tightens frantically around the weapon. Across the room, Red John’s body hits the ground. His breath rattles in his throat. Jane clambers out of bed. He kneels next to his wife and child’s murderer, heedless of the blood that already pools on the floor there.

Red John gasps. His eyes are light blue and panicked. There is no dignity in his death. He pisses himself and evacuates his bowels. It stinks. Tears run down his cheeks as he sobs wordlessly. Jane watches, enraptured. It seems far too soon that the light leaves Red John’s eyes.

Jane’s knees are red and wet. He places the gun next to Red John’s head and fumbles for his phone.

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

He gives Beth’s address. “A man’s just been shot,” he says. “He’s dead.” He hangs up.

Two years of fatigue hit him at once. Jane lies down where he sits, in Red John’s blood, and looks up at the ceiling where a small spider has begun spinning its web. You can have mine , Jane thinks. I’m done with it.

18 August 2005, Teresa Lisbon.

Lisbon leaves with the first flight out of LA that morning. SacPD called a few hours ago (when she’d just fallen asleep) to tell her they’ve arrested a man on suspicion of murder and he’d told them he’d only speak to Agent Teresa Lisbon and that he had information about the LA serial killer case, too. If not for the relevance to her current case, she would’ve told them to go take a hike, but nobody outside the police force knows about the serial killer angle. This guy likely has something useful.

One of the detectives walks her to the interrogation room. “I’ll take the lead,” he informs her. Lisbon wants to roll her eyes at the chauvinism on display but just mumbles her assent.

Like the gentleman he must think he is, Detective Reich holds the door for her. Her lips briefly pull into an approximation of a smile. It quickly fades when she sees the man sitting at the far side of the interrogation room table.

“ Jane ?”

There he is, dressed in yesterday’s suit and half a pint of dried blood. It’s soaked into his pant legs in particular but is also smeared across his vest and shirt. There are even traces on his neck along the shirt collar.

“You know this guy?” Reich asks behind her, while Jane marginally brightens and says, “Hey, Lisbon.”

“What the Hell is going on here?” She looks from one man to the other and back. Did Jane trick Reich into being part of some con?

“Uh, I shot a guy,” Jane says and nods towards Reich, “and he’s investigating it. Did we get an ID yet?”

“You don’t know who you shot ?” Lisbon asks, unable to control the way her pitch rises on every word.

“Well, I’ve got a theory.” Jane looks entirely unbothered by the cuffs around his wrists. His hands are folded on the table. “Red John came to kill my girlfriend and I shot him.”

Lisbon’s legs feel like thoroughly-chewed gum, completely without structural integrity. She flails for a chair and sits down a little too hard. Pain shoots up her tailbone. “You shot Red John?”

“That’s my theory,” he agrees. “I mean, who else would break into her house with a taser and a curved knife on his belt?”

“Okay, from the top: what happened?”

At first, Jane doesn’t say anything. He looks down at his hands and admits quietly, “The LA case made me feel sick.” A suspected serial killer of young women. Yeah, Lisbon had expected he’d react to that. “I-I used to have these, uh, panic attacks, when I was, you know…” Institutionalized . “Haven’t had them in months but I-I got one then and I-I couldn’t stop thinking about Beth. So I took a cab back to the airport, got on a flight back, and went to her place. I let myself in with the key she gave me but she wasn’t there. Sometimes she goes to her sister’s house, so I decided to wait for her in her bedroom. I was still feeling anxious so I took out my gun, which I keep in Beth’s safe. 

“I fell asleep and woke up in the middle of the night to a man creeping in. I pulled my gun on him and told him to put his hands up. He reached for his belt so I fired. I called 9-1-1 and waited for these fine folks to pick me up, but I thought you deserved the collar.”

“The collar?”

“Red John’s your case,” he clarifies. “I wasn’t gonna confess to someone else.”

It’s an unbelievable story. In fact, she doesn’t trust a word of it. It sounds too much like one of his cons. “And everything you’ve just told me is the truth?”

“The whole truth and nothing but,” Jane says and she thinks she might, for the first time ever, be looking straight through his facade.

She should push. Ask him more questions. Make him dig his own grave.

“Okay,” she says instead. “I believe you.” Now they’re both liars. “Cooperate with these nice detectives and they might not press charges. If that’s everything, I’m gonna head back to LA.”

“About that,” Jane says and her blood turns to ice. He can’t possibly have set that up, too, can he? “I don’t think it’s a serial killer. The victims are all very similar – same builds, ages, hair colours – but the methods of killing are all over the place: strangulation and suffocation might seem like the same thing to someone reading about it on the news, but they’re very different. I think your killer’s covering his tracks by linking this death to two others, so you won’t look too closely at this victim’s loved ones.”

That is remarkably insightful and sounds much more sincere to her. She feels guilty for momentarily thinking he’d be capable of orchestrating a serial killer hoax for his own gain.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she says. “Now please answer any and all questions Detective Reich has for you and I’ll see you when I get back.”

Reich walks her out. “So he’s your colleague?”

“Consultant,” she corrects.

“Right.” He eyes her thoughtfully. “Tyger, Tyger?”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh,” Reich laughs and waves his hand, “sorry, it’s this thing me and the guys say, it’s our way of saying ‘no BS’. What I’m asking is if he’s telling the truth: was he really sick?”

“He threw up at the airport,” she answers. “Er, he seemed very anxious and he was sweating. I had Hannigan, er, one of my agents take him to a motel to rest. I guess he bailed and didn’t tell us.”

Reich hums. “Alright, well, I’ll still need to talk to the actual resident of the house, hear her side, but it’s seeming like pretty obvious self-defense, huh?”

It’s not bait she’s stupid enough to take. He’s trying to gauge if she’s somehow covering up for Jane. “I’ll leave that for you guys to decide. If Jane’s big enough to kill a guy, he’s big enough to face the consequences. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got my own case to get back to.”

“You know, if he really shot Red John, you’d have grounds to take over this case,” Reich says. “You don’t want that?”

Does she want people scrutinizing this case because they suspect she’ll cover up for her consultant? Absolutely not. If she lets SacPD handle this, it’s more likely that Jane will get away with this, because there’ll be less oversight. Not to mention, they’re not trained to deal with Jane; he could easily run corners with them and make everything work out how he wants it to.

“I trust you,” she tells Reich. “Call me if you need anything else.”

At what point over the past year did she decide that she was going to cover for Jane, once this day came? She can’t say for certain. She’s always understood his desire for vengeance and, more than anything, for Katie’s safety, but she thought she was against vigilante justice.

Upon consideration, she realizes it was Rose Atwood’s murder that tipped the scales for her. It had not only been Lisbon’s first Red John murder scene, a visceral experience in its own right, but Rose had been such a young girl, only three-and-some-change years older than Katie. It wasn’t that Lisbon had wished death upon Red John then, but her strong feelings against Jane’s ‘eye for an eye’ approach had quietly weakened into indifference. Either she would get Red John, or Jane would. Whatever happened first, she wouldn’t begrudge.

The act of confronting her own feelings is humbling. She didn’t even realize this is where she stood.

Red John is dead. It’s an obvious fact but it nearly knocks her off her feet. Katie is safe. Lisbon will never walk onto a crime scene and see a smiley drawn above her daughter’s corpse.

It’s as if a heavy load is removed from her back. She can suddenly breathe deeper than before. Her muscles relax. There’s a strange pressure against the bottom of her eyes. As they mist over, she realizes she’s tearing up and resolutely blinks it back.

Just over a month until classes start at Stanford and Katie will be just as safe to pursue her studies as any other student on campus.

Her hand seeks out the cross around her neck. “Thank you,” she whispers. For a moment, her younger self possesses her and wonders if Patrick can hear the thought, too.

She shakes her head at herself, but for sixteen years she lived in the belief that if she spoke a message to her cross, there was a genuine chance that her mother would hear and deliver the message to Jane. It’s why she was unsure if he knew about Katie; she’d spoken about her to her mother so many times, she felt it must be impossible for him not to know. But then why did he never show?

He showed up for them tonight.

He could, if he wants to, continue to show up. Even if he gets prison time, he’ll be able to develop a relationship with Katie.

Oh, God, everyone is going to find out about her and Jane’s shared past: Minelli, the team, Bobby. Everyone in the freaking building will hear about her personal business. At least Jane will presumably be fired or quit, which should help everyone forget about it all, but her stomach clenches at the thought of everyone around her getting a glimpse underneath her veneer of professionalism.

She dreads telling the boys the most. Cho won’t care, but Rigsby will make something out of it and Hannigan will come up with new ways to be sexist towards her in a way that rides the line but never crosses it so she can’t reasonably, in this ‘boys will be boys’ environment, discipline him for it. Great. Maybe she should start compiling lists of everything he says. Every individual comment isn’t awful, but after two years she’s beginning to lose her patience.

With Red John dead, she feels oddly at peace with the idea of Jane getting involved in Katie’s life. Lisbon has known him for almost a year now – not counting the months he fell off the radar – and she’s certain that, although he can be an ass, he wouldn’t disappear on Katie. Patrick Jane is a damaged man, but he’s a good one (deep, deep, deep down). If anything, he might be excessive in his affections and spoil the Hell out of her. Well, she supposes Katie’s temperament is fixed now. Jane giving her a taste for luxuries won’t damage her when she’s spent her whole life under Lisbon’s roof. She deserves luxuries.

By the time she makes it back to LA, she’s already called ahead and asked the boys to scratch the serial killer idea and look into the victim’s family. It doesn’t take them long to uncover a dark history between the victim and her brother: he used to sexually assault her when they were kids, and she was beginning to talk to people about it. After a forensic breakthrough, they have more than enough to book him for the murder. 

Instead of satisfaction, Lisbon feels hollow. Certain cases don’t bring with them a sense of justice, only of tragedy.

18 August 2005, Patrick Jane.

With his arms full of groceries, Jane must resort to knocking the door with his foot. There’s no guarantee she’s home. If she isn’t, he’ll let himself in with the picks, but he doesn’t want to spook her if she is home.

There’s a faint sound of footsteps and then a pause. He gives the peephole a sheepish smile. The chain clatters as she undoes it. The door opens.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” Katie responds, quiet and hesitant. Her eyes search the garden and driveway for her mother but they don’t find her. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought I’d make you some dinner.” Based on the contents of their fridge and cupboards last time he visited, he’d wager Lisbon doesn’t cook much or well.

“Does Mom know you’re here?” Katie asks and crosses her arms over her chest.

“Uh, no,” he admits. “I, uh, I tried calling her but I think she’s busy.” Katie doesn’t say anything. Her tense shoulders tell a clear story. His heart drops. “I-I’m sorry for how I left last time. I’m not gonna do that again.”

Her head jerks up in surprise. “What?”

“I, uh, I know I’m a little late to the party, but uh,” Jane shifts the bags of groceries onto the ground to leave his arms unburdened and his face unobscured, “I’d like to be a part of your life… for however long the rest of mine is.”

Her whole body stills. Not even a breath passes through her. “Y–... I– y-you wanna be my dad?”

She’s so brave. He didn’t have the courage to say the word. Swallowing past the rapidly-growing lump in his throat, he nods. “I’d like that.”

Katie’s movements are slow as she approaches. Jane immediately opens his arms to her. It emboldens her to throw herself into them. He wraps himself around her shoulders and rests his cheek against her head. It’s only then he realizes she’s a little taller than Lisbon and he nearly laughs at himself for never noticing. She always seemed so small to him.

Tears stream down his cheeks in a steady rhythm, though he manages to hold back the sobs that press at his throat. Katie, on the other hand, lets hers out. Braver than him again. That’ll probably be a pattern. She shakes and he squeezes her.

After a few minutes, he asks, “You’re not a vegetarian, are you? I was gonna make chicken.”

Katie laughs, short and wet. “No.” She pulls away and he lets her. “Chicken’s fine. Um, I-I don’t really know how to cook, but, um, I could cut some veggies and stuff?”

The world blurs as tears spring back up into his eyes. He laughs at himself and says, “Yeah, yeah, that’d be helpful, thank you.” I’ll teach her, he thinks. I’ll teach my daughter how to cook before she goes off to college. “You wanna grab a bag?”

They put away all the groceries together. Even though he’s got a good sense of Lisbon’s organizational system (it’s not changed much in seventeen years), he lets Katie instruct him. Their roles reverse as soon as the cooking process begins.

Katie is chopping onions when her phone rings. It dances on the kitchen table and lets out mouse-like peeps. “That’s probably Mom,” she says and dries her hands on a kitchen towel before grabbing the squeaking thing. “Hey. Not yet, but we’re cooking right now, actually. Patrick. Yeah, I’m fine, we’re having a nice time.” She looks over at Jane and holds out the phone. “Mom wants to talk to you.”

“Sure, can you just– thanks.” Katie has dutifully taken over his spot at the stove. He blinks through the onion mist and grabs the phone from her hand. “Hey, Lisbon.”

“You’re at my house?” As he expected she would be, she’s displeased.

“Uh, yeah. Sorry. I know I should’ve asked you first.”

His immediate remorse mollifies her. “You should’ve,” she agrees but her tone has lost its severity. “No charges then?”

“No.” It’d been pretty open-and-shut as soon as SacPD had made an inventory of all the weapons the good sheriff had been carrying. There were traces of blood on his knife, which the lab will be processing for a while, but for Jane’s money he’s betting they’ll find it’s Angela’s or Charlotte’s. “You get the guy?”

“We got the guy,” she agrees but her sigh tells him it hasn’t been as satisfying as usual. “I’m on my way back from the airport now. I’ll be home in half an hour.”

“Great, we can all eat together.” Katie shoots him a look and a shy but excited smile over her shoulder. It’ll be the first time the three of them have actually spent time together and his daughter is clearly excited. The silence on Lisbon’s end, however, says it all: she’s terrified. “Okay,” he says when it becomes clear she’s struggling for words, “see you then,” and hangs up.

He treasures the next thirty minutes, when it’s just him and Katie in the kitchen together, making smalltalk about her college plans. She wants to live on campus the first year, to have an easier time making friends, and she wants to take a few classes outside of her curriculum to see what she might be missing out on. Even though she’s apparently crazy about math, and science in general, she has some creative hobbies as well, such as crocheting. Jane is reminded of the first time he fell asleep in the bullpen and Lisbon wrapped him in a blanket. That was crocheted. Did Katie make that? 

Tennis is another hobby of hers, as Jane guessed from the shape of her bag, and she hopes to join a team on campus for that as well. It seems like, above all else, she’s excited to meet people and make friends based on mutual interests and not feel like the weird kid anymore. She shyly adds that the college has a Gay-Straight Alliance as well and he remarks that it seems like the perfect place to meet nice people.

Since she finished highschool, doesn’t have a job, and her one close friendship fell apart, she’s largely been hanging out at home. It’s easy to tell that she’s been lonely, even without her outright saying it. He wonders if she’d like to spend some time together before she goes off to Stanford. It would be nice. Maybe he could take her up to Stoney Ridge or wherever Pete’s currently at. He could introduce her to Daisy and the rest of the crew.

It would be the first time he’d return there since Angela died. The idea loses its shine. 

Maybe a general road trip instead: rent a caravan and go see places neither of them have seen before. Get to really know her before she’s off to another city and will only be coming home for holidays and the odd weekend. They could go to the beach and build sandcastles and she could tell him about all the years he’s missed. He could tell her about her half-sister.

A quote comes to him – not Shakespeare, for once, but Victor Hugo, about Jean Valjean having found Cosette: Poor old man, with a perfectly new heart! That line lingered with him when he first read it. Charlotte had been two and he’d imagined her as the little Cosette so perfectly, with her blonde curls, and he’d recognized how it feels to love a child for the first time. (Casting Angela as Fantine and himself as Félix Tholomyès didn’t come until after their deaths, but then it seemed apt.) Now his heart moves within his chest as Valjean’s did, reinvigorated after years of disconnection.

“You wanna set the table?” he asks and Katie happily acquiesces.

It’s while Katie is clattering with plates that Lisbon must open the door, because there’s no warning of her arrival. Suddenly, her voice is just there, somewhere behind him: “Smells good.”

Jane glances over his shoulder. Lisbon looks small and tired. She’s in her work clothes and her shoulders are pulled up to her ears. Her lightweight makeup doesn’t hide the shadows under her eyes or the line by her mouth that he’s come to associate with her feeling self-conscious. Her hair has grown long enough that she can pull it up into a high ponytail, but a few locks have shaken themselves loose. They frame her face.

“I’ve got something to prove,” he tells her as he shuts off the stove.

“What’s that?”

“That I can make something more complicated than hotdogs.”

Her lips twitch. For a brief moment, they smile. She’s not forgotten it either, then.

“Hey, Mom!” Katie says as she reenters the kitchen. The significant heels on Lisbon’s boots do make her look taller than her daughter, which vindicates Jane’s blip in observation.

Lisbon’s smile comes much easier when she looks at her daughter. It’s fascinating to see her whole demeanor soften. “Hey, I see you’re letting in anyone who comes knocking.”

“I can have guests over,” Katie says and grins. “He’s my guest. Are you done in LA?”

“Yeah, that case is closed,” Lisbon agrees.

Jane gives them a few moments to themselves by finishing setting up the table and serving.

While he serves, Katie bounces over and grabs the single seat on the left hand side of the table. The other two seats they’ve prepared are on the right. Jane raises his eyebrows but figures she must want to see her parents sitting next to each other. That’s fine and understandable.

He grabs the seat across from her and calls out, “Lisbon!”

She appears, sans large boots. Her eyes widen when she sees the seating arrangement, but she quickly covers her panic and takes the last seat.

“Bon appétit,” Jane declares, and Lisbon wastes no time filling her mouth so that she cannot possibly be expected to speak.

“Holy fuck,” Katie says after a single bite and Jane laughs while Lisbon sends Katie a look that says, Could you not have said that in a different way? “This is so nice.”

“We make a good team,” Jane says, smiling.

“It’s better than plain boiled hotdogs,” Lisbon says.

“Told you I could do it.”

“I’ve learned not to take what you tell me at face value.” Her words are harsh but her tone is playful. It’s a joke. Mostly.

“Touché.”

“What’s with the hotdogs?” Katie asks.

Whatever she wants to know, he’ll tell her. “While we were dating, the only food I made your mom was hotdogs.”

“There were the sandwiches for the picnic with Daisy,” Lisbon argues.

“Those were not sandwiches, that was just bread and ham and cheese.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“I’d never kid about the importance of condiments to pull a sandwich together.”

Lisbon shakes her head and changes the subject by asking Katie about her day, but Jane sees the way her shoulders have relaxed. A bit of their usual back-and-forth has broken the ice for her.

Once there’s a lull in the conversation, Jane says, “You can ask me anything you want.”

Katie considers. “Why now? What changed?”

Next to him, Lisbon tenses, but Jane expected this. “I was worried that Red John would hurt you if he found out about you. Last night, I killed Red John.”

“ Jane –”

“She’s old enough to know. It’ll be on the news.”

The only fear in the room is on Lisbon’s face, not their daughter’s. Katie is surprised and apprehensive but not afraid. “How?”

“You don’t–”

He interrupts Lisbon’s protestations: “I shot him, when he came to hurt the woman he believed to be my girlfriend.”

A pin would’ve made a deafening boom in that silence.

Lisbon’s utensils clatter against the table. “‘ Believed to be’?” A careful glance tells him that her cheeks are flushed and her fists are clenched. Rage. He looks away and takes comfort in the fact that Katie’s presence will dampen Lisbon’s outburst.

“Uh, yeah, pretending to date Agent Fairbanks – who’s a dead ringer for my wife and was more than willing to help – was my clever ruse to smoke out Red John.”

“You–...” Lisbon’s anger rises to her brain like smoke and suffocates all logical thoughts; he can practically see it wafting out of her ears. “That is first degree , Jane, not self-defense!”

“Of course it was self-defense; if I hadn’t set up the con, he would still be a threat to everyone in this room. Now we’re all safe. I’d call that self-defense.”

Her wrath fascinates him, because he knows she won’t do anything with it. There’s no way she’ll go to SacPD with this information. She already knowingly covered up for him when she said she believed his story; it was clear as day to him that she knew something was wrong. When it counted, she could’ve pushed. She didn’t. Some part of her agrees with his actions, even if she won’t admit it to herself.

“You lied to me,” she says and everything slots into place: it’s not about him running a con on Red John and the police, it’s about him running a con on her . She feels hurt for not being let in on the plan

“I had to: plausible deniability just saved your job. And besides, you’re a terrible liar, you would’ve blown the cover.”

Lisbon raises a finger. “We’re not done discussing this,” she says and tucks her remaining protests away for later. “Katie?”

“So,” Katie, who is remarkably relaxed considering that her parents are fighting over a murder, says, “you don’t have a girlfriend?”

Jane almost laughs. “Uh, no, no, I don’t suspect I’ll have one for a while.”

“How many girlfriends have you had, aside from Mom and your wife?”

“I wasn’t really his girlfriend,” Lisbon objects. “I mean, it was a summer fling, for like a week.”

“Eight days,” Jane corrects automatically, “but she’s right, she wasn’t my girlfriend. To answer your question, though, uh, none. I met my wife not very long after saying goodbye to Teresa.” The first name slips out unintentionally but he refrains from awkwardly correcting himself, which would only highlight the mistake. “I didn’t have a girlfriend before her, and I haven’t had one since.”

Katie purses her lips thoughtfully. “If you’d lived in Chicago, too, would you’ve asked Mom to be your girlfriend?”

Going into this, he promised himself to be truthful with Katie, so: “Sure, yeah, I would’ve asked.”

For some reason, that makes Lisbon laugh. “Yeah, right.”

It’s a little hurtful considering that he’s making such an effort to be honest. “You don’t believe me?”

“I think you like attention, Jane, especially back then.”

“Everybody likes attention,” he argues before realizing who he’s talking to. “Okay,” he moderates, “a lot of people like attention. But I liked you more than attention from random girls. Besides, if I’d lived in Chicago, you would’ve told me you were pregnant and I would’ve probably proposed with one of those tacky candy rings.”

Lisbon’s indulgent smile vanishes. “Proposed?” she squeaks.

“That’s what you do,” he explains like she’s never heard of the concept of marriage before. “You knock a girl up, you marry her.”

“That’s very… er, traditional.”

He shrugs. “I always wanted a family.”

The ghosts of Angela and Charlotte are suddenly so present in the conversation that Jane imagines them sitting by the table, eating with Lisbon and Katie. For a delirious moment, he thinks he only needs to turn his head to see them. The moment passes but he still looks. The chair next to Katie remains empty.

“Well, we would’ve never worked out,” Lisbon says finally.

“Didn’t say we would’ve,” he agrees. “Just that I would’ve tried.” As he’s concluded time and time again, however, it’s no use lingering on the what ifs when Red John is involved. He could’ve never had it all.

As if she’s reading his thoughts, Katie asks, “Who was Red John?”

It’s a question he knows is on Lisbon’s mind, too. “His name was Thomas McAllister,” he says. “He was a sheriff in Napa. That’s all I know right now. SacPD is gonna be sending everything over to your mom, since he was her case.”

“He was a cop ?” Lisbon asks.

“Lots of violent types are attracted to the badge. I’m not surprised.”

“And you killed him so he wouldn’t hurt me?” Katie wants to confirm. “So you can be my dad?”

“Yes,” Jane says.

A silence settles while Katie thinks. Jane finds it to be quite peaceful, but he can sense Lisbon’s tension. Finally, Katie asks, “Can we do more cooking, before I leave?”

Jane smiles. “Every night, if you want.”

Her face brightens. The summer has brought faint freckles to her skin, not as pronounced as her mother’s but still charming. “Is that okay, Mom? I had fun today and I think I could learn a lot from Patrick – and we’d cook for you! Right?”

The question is directed at Jane, who grins back at her and echoes, “Right.”

“You wanna have dinner?” Lisbon clarifies. There is not the slightest hint of excitement on her face. “Here? Every night? For a month ?”

“Well, seems rude not to share with you,” he says, raising his eyebrows, “but if you’d prefer to work out your own dinners, then Katie and I can cook at my place.”

Lisbon’s expression pinches as she thinks about sorting out food for herself without her daughter’s needs to motivate her. It occurs to Jane that if it weren’t for Katie, Lisbon would probably be a lot more malnourished and overworked than she already is. In fact, as Katie’s gotten older, Lisbon has probably increased her work hours (there’s no way she raised a middle schooler on her own with her current schedule) and relied more on Katie feeding herself. It strikes him to be concerned for her: what happens when Katie’s at Stanford? 

She relents. “Fine.”

Katie’s smile is blinding. Jane wonders if she notices how much Lisbon overworks and underfeeds herself, too, and if this is also Katie’s way of taking care of her mother. “Thank you, Mom!” Her attention switches to Jane. “Can we make gumbo at some point? I had some once and it was so good .”

“Uhh.” A roux is a bit much to start with. “Sure, we can work up to it. How about we start with paella?”

They end up writing out a list of dishes Katie wants to try her hand at. It seems an interest in food has been simmering within her, without a proper outlet. He tries to include Lisbon by encouraging her to list some of her favourite foods, but all he gets are shrugs. “I’m not much of a food person,” she says. “Whatever you put in front of me, I’ll eat.” It would be fun to find her favourite dish. Jane decides to make that part of his mission.

While they make their list, Lisbon does the dishes. “The cook never cleans,” she says when Jane offers to help, and it sounds like a phrase she perhaps heard growing up, during a time when her mother would cook and her father would insist on washing up.

Eventually, Lisbon reemerges from the kitchen and says, “I’d like to speak with Patrick.”

Katie, buoyed by the prospect of several weeks of Jane’s presence, doesn’t protest. “You won’t leave without saying goodbye, right?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he promises. That satisfies her. She slips away into her room.

A few minutes later, Jane and Lisbon have settled onto the couch, each with a generous glass of wine in hand. It’s been hours since he last saw his jacket and she’s stripped down to her blouse. They’ve not been quite this intimate for over a decade. Her walls are sufficiently lowered for him to see the raw, pulsating mass they’re guarding.

“The truth,” she says. “Now.”

And he delivers: he explains how he realized he couldn’t let Katie go off to college without knowing she’d be safe; how he looked for a trained agent fit for his purposes and found a young woman who looked remarkably similar to Angela; how Beth actually knew a Red John victim herself and was eager to help.

“So you went on dates to convince everyone that you were in a relationship,” Lisbon says. “Is that why you showed up at that restaurant while I was there? To trick me?”

“No, that was a coincidence, I honestly had no idea you’d be there.” It’s the truth but she’d be well within her rights not to believe him. “But going on dates worked and you know what that means, right?” When she doesn’t confirm, he explains, “Red John has a friend within the CBI. He basically confirmed as much to me, except he claimed he had several. I’m not sure about that, but he must have at least one, who was keeping him updated on my life.”

She recoils. “Who would work with a serial killer?”

“No idea. Maybe they didn’t know he was Red John, maybe they’re as sick as he was. Whatever the case, I aim to find out who they are and I think we should be careful with who we trust in the meanwhile.”

“So you’re staying?” she asks, her eyebrows raising in surprise. “With the CBI? You’ll keep working with us?”

“It doesn’t sit right with me to leave this business unfinished. Red John’s friend might have been naive or misled, or they might be dangerous.” If anything happened to Lisbon because he walked away too early, he’d never forgive himself. He doesn’t believe that Red John’s friend would go out of their way to kill her out of loyalty to a dead man alone, but someone who’d work with a serial killer is a loose cannon. They could do anything.

“Do you have any suspects?”

“It could be anyone in that building, excluding yourself and Beth. So do not, under any circumstances, mention this to anyone. That includes Virgil. We’re gonna keep working like everything’s normal. Just keep your eyes and ears out for anything weird.”

“‘Weird’?” The way she echoes this word back to him suggests that she’s thinking of a particular example of something she would consider ‘weird’. “Like what?”

“You can start with whatever you’re thinking of.”

Lisbon laughs awkwardly and shakes her head. “I don’t think it’s relevant. Er, it was just something one of the guys from SacPD said this morning – the detective who was interrogating you, Detective Reich.”

“I think the detective who was interrogating me after Red John’s death is very relevant.”

“Er, he said this thing, he said it meant ‘no bullshit’, like as a way to check if one of his guys was being truthful with him. Er, he said… ‘tiger, tiger’. Does… does that mean anything to you?”

“‘Tiger, tiger’,” he repeats, rolling the words (or, rather, word) over his tongue like a hard candy. There is something vaguely familiar about them, but nothing he can put his finger on. It reminds him of Shakespeare but he can’t think of any play or sonnet to connect it to. It feels literary somehow, though, perhaps a line from a novel, a play, a poem, a song… It certainly has a rhythm to it. “What did he say right before?”

“Uh, I don’t remember exactly, he was basically checking that I wasn’t covering for you.”

“So it was like ‘man to man’ or ‘cop to cop’ – ‘tiger to tiger’?”

“I guess?” Their movements synchronize as they each take a long drink. “But,” she adds, “if Reich was Red John’s friend, wouldn’t you be in jail right now?”

The glass presses into Jane’s lip as he considers. “That’s a great point.”

When he looks back at Lisbon, she’s quietly glowing. Her smile is self-satisfied but not smug. He realizes he’s not complimented her detective skills in all the time he’s known her. This is the first time he’s acknowledged her thinking of something he didn’t. It makes him aware of how much she must respect his expertise, for her to feel so accomplished for having impressed him. It’s not something she’d admit out loud, he thinks, but it’s suddenly so obvious.

He feels both rotten and proud: the part of him that is still a conman preens; the part that has done everything over the last two years to separate itself from the former is ashamed.

“I’m sorry that I had to lie to you,” he says.

Her sea-glass eyes flicker up to look at him through black lashes. Her nose and cupid’s bow form charming, sharp points which are complementary to one another. Her bottom lip is tucked gently beneath the top, pushing the top into a slight pout. “That’s not a real apology.”

“No,” he agrees. “I don’t regret anything.”

“How do you feel?” There’s an uncharacteristic, almost vulnerable, curiosity on her face. In reaching out for knowledge, she leaves herself open. “Do you feel better now that Red John is dead?”

His answer is prompt. “Yes.” It’s untainted by doubt. As much as she wants his feelings to be complicated, they aren’t. He’s glad Red John is dead. He’s satisfied that he was the one to pull the trigger. There’s an emptiness, a listlessness in his body, but thanks to Katie it’s negligible. She’s an anchor – no, a compass. His life hasn’t lost meaning or direction. Whatever happens next, he gets to be her dad.

“Me too,” Lisbon admits. Being understood is something that rarely happens to him. It’s nice. From the way Lisbon’s body relaxes into the couch, it’s clear that she feels the same. He’s not seen her this comfortable since 1988.

A strange and sudden urge overtakes him then: a desire to make her laugh like she did when they were kids, snorting and cackling, unrestrained. He wants to see her face light up in that gorgeous, slightly-crooked smile that reveals her sharp canines and scrunches up her nose and gives her cheeks a dusting of pink.

It alarms him. He shuts it down.

“I should go,” he says, already setting his glass aside. “Work tomorrow.”

“We don’t have to tell the team,” she says. “Er, it’s not their business that you’re Katie’s dad.”

It shouldn’t surprise him that she wants to keep her personal life to herself, nor should it bother him. Still, right now, he wants everyone on Earth to know that Katie is his, so he is momentarily disappointed.

Looking at it from Lisbon’s point of view, though, he gets it: she’s already scrutinized by her colleagues on the basis of being a woman and young for her position. If everyone knew that she had a teenage child with her consultant (who, by the way, just murdered a man), she’d face social consequences of some variety.

“We can keep a low profile,” he agrees cautiously, “but they’ll probably work it out eventually.”

“We’ll cross that bridge.”

Before leaving, he drops by Katie’s room to say goodbye. She gives him a big hug. When he reemerges in the living room, Lisbon regards him with a soft expression.

“I’m glad you get to have each other,” she says. It’s lovely to see her this emotionally naked. Lisbon trusts him.

Jane crosses the distance between them and pulls her into an embrace. His arms wrap around her shoulders and squeeze. It’s a friendly hug, nothing more, but Lisbon tenses and does not reciprocate. Physical affection is still alien to her. He’s about to pull away when something changes. Her shoulders drop. She sighs. On her exhale, the rest of her frozen muscles thaw. Her arms snake around his waist. They tighten.

For two years, Jane has had very limited physical contact. With Lisbon’s arms around him and her chest pressed against his abdomen, he realizes how much he’s missed it. He doesn’t want her to let go.

Which is why he does.

“You gonna be okay?” she asks. With her face tipped up to look at him, he can smell the wine on her breath. If communion wine was as sweet as her breath, he could be persuaded to give Catholicism a try.

Careful now . Jane takes a step back. When he compartmentalized them, he must have shoved his fondness for Katie and his attraction to Lisbon into the same box, and now that he’s opened the lid to let one out, the other has followed. That won’t do.

Obviously, he’s attracted to Lisbon. The years have only made her lovelier, and she was already beautiful to begin with. Any man with a working pair of eyes would think she’s gorgeous. That’s not the problem.

The problem is that he’s not supposed to feel it. Know it? Sure. He can be intellectually aware of his attraction. But to experience the pull, the near-compulsion to reach for her? That needs to stay locked away, for everyone’s sake.

“Yeah,” he says, “I’ll be fine.”

She sees him to the door.

“Goodnight, Jane.”

“Bye.”

The door clicks shut. He cranes his neck and looks at the stars. They wink down at him like they’ve got a secret. They follow him home.

Chapter Text

12 July 1988, Teresa Lisbon.

Her route is practiced. Every step she takes is calculated to the precise plank of wood. One wrong move and a creak will tear through the air like a scream from a damned soul. Even the way she picks up her keys is deliberate.

“Reese?” Shit. Her father’s head sticks up over the back of the couch. His eyes squint against the daylight. “The Hell’re you doing heading out this early?”

Her palm still stings after last night’s meeting with the stove top.

“I’m going out with friends,” she says. “Tommy’s gonna do breakfast for you guys.”

“Tommy’s eggs are shit. Make something before you go.”

Her fingers curl around the key. Its angles dig into her sore palm. She takes a deep breath. “There’s cereal in the cupboard. I need to leave.”

Dad narrows his eyes. “You’re meeting that boy, aren’t you? Jimmy told me you’ve got a new boyfriend.”

Goddamn it, Jimmy. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

“You’re gone so much of the time, the boys never see you, and now you’re gonna spend all your free time on a boyfriend? Your brothers need you here.”

She tightens her grip on the key and nearly hisses at the pain. There’s a pit in her stomach the size of a crater. Patrick’s only in town for another few days, she reasons with herself. I’ll be with the boys all the rest of the summer. “I’ll be back in time to make dinner,” she says and rushes out of the door before he can protest further. That’s the benefit of his hangovers; they slow him down.

20 September 2005, Patrick Jane.

They say goodbye to Katie in her dorm room. Its walls are bare, waiting for its new inhabitants to personalize them. The floor is littered with luggage. Although she’s not in the room presently, they’ve all met Katie’s roommate already, and Jane has gotten a good read on her: she’s a loud extrovert studying Business who parties a little but has nothing to rebel against, so she keeps it to a reasonable level. If all goes well, she’ll be a great vehicle for Katie to make friends through, even if the girls don’t become super close themselves.

It’s not nearly as sad a goodbye as he expected. Having spent every evening with her for the past month, Jane knows he’ll miss his daughter a lot, but he’s also excited for her to connect with people (around) her age and he knows he’ll get to see her soon enough. They’ve talked about weekly phone calls and occasional weekend visits, not to mention the holidays.

That week they spent in the rented Airstream, road tripping up and down California while Lisbon and the team were away for a case, had been a balm for his soul. They hiked through woods, explored small towns, and spent many hours searching for glass on the beach. Katie told him about her whole life, as much of it as she could remember anyway, and about anything that struck her fancy. When she asked him questions, he’d redirect the conversation, not because he didn’t want her to know anything about his life but because it didn’t feel as important. Though, there were definitely details he didn’t want to divulge.

When Lisbon returned, she was apprehensive of their newfound closeness. It bothered her that they’d developed inside jokes. She didn’t say anything because she knew her feelings were born out of insecurity and jealousy. It was the first time she really had to share Katie and she wasn’t used to it. All this, Jane read on her face.

To Lisbon, this departure has all the severity of a wake. For Katie’s benefit she puts a brave smile on her face, but as soon as they’ve left her behind, it disappears. Beneath the parking lot lights, Jane sees tears glisten in her eyes. She very quietly sniffles and rubs at any wayward moisture.

“Want me to drive?” he asks. They drove to Stanford together, in her service vehicle. Ordinarily, she refuses to let him drive that, so she’d been behind the wheel on the way down.

“Absolutely not.”

“You sure?”

“I’m never letting you drive, Jane.”

“Never’s a little harsh, don’t you think?”

“I think it’s perfectly appropriate.”

It’s a point of contention between them that he sees speed limits as a suggestion. His driving really isn’t bad, just a bit fast for Teresa ‘never drive even 1mph above the limit’ Lisbon. His main priority isn’t following the law, it’s to fit in with the traffic around them, which does occasionally call for some speeding.

They settle in for the drive. He switches the radio from the new pop music they’d been listening to with Katie to an oldies station and turns down the volume. “It’s a right up here,” he says when he notices Lisbon’s confusion. She mumbles a thanks and he continues to guide the way based on his recollection of their earlier drive, until they make it back onto the highway.

An hour in, Lisbon’s phone goes off. “Can you take that?” she asks. “Might be work.” It’s a clear indication of how close they’ve gotten over the last month. Before all their dinners together, she would’ve never trusted him with her phone. 

Jane feels genuine pride and satisfaction and answers the phone with a jovial, “You’ve reached Teresa Lisbon’s phone, this is Patrick Jane speaking.” She shoots him a look but can’t hide her amused smile.

“Oh, hey!” a man says on the other end. “Uh, T alright?”

“Yeah, fine, she’s just driving. Who’s this?”

“Jimmy, I’m her brother. You’re Patrick, you said?”

Delighted that Jimmy seems to recognize the name, Jane says, “That’s right.” 

At the same time, Lisbon asks, “Who is it?”

“Cool, uh, tell her Stan asked me to call and tell her he’s got two rooms for you guys if you wanna stay with him over Thanksgiving.”

“‘You guys’?” Jane echoes while Lisbon continues to ask who he’s talking to. “I’m invited?”

“Yeah, didn’t T say?”

“Seriously, Jane–”

Jane covers the phone and says, “It’s your brother. He’s asking about Thanksgiving.”

“Tell him I don’t have my schedule yet.”

Well, that’s just bullshit. The CBI is shut for Thanksgiving. “T says she’ll be there,” he tells Jimmy.

In the darkness, he can’t see what shade of pink her skin turns, but Lisbon’s muscles all tense. “Jane–”

“Gotta go,” he says and hangs up on Jimmy before he can hear his sister lose it on Jane.

“That was beyond out of line,” she says, jaw clenched.

“Oh, come on, you’re not gonna deprive Katie of her uncles for Thanksgiving, are you? When was the last time you all celebrated together?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“As Katie’s dad, I think it is my business.”

It hits a nerve, a nerve that was already exposed by her separation from Katie, a nerve that is bleeding and raw. “I raised her for sixteen years without you, you don’t get to just waltz in here and dictate how we spend our holidays.”

“If I’d known about her–”

“You would’ve married me and we would’ve been one, big, happy family?” Her voice has raised, both in volume and in pitch. “And we’d all have Thanksgivings and Christmases and birthdays and baptisms and not be fucked up and dysfunctional and the boys wouldn’t hate me–”

“Lisbon.”

Her hands shake on the steering wheel. The tear tracks on her cheeks are bright yellow when they reflect the roadside lampposts, and a simmering red when all that’s there to illuminate them is the dashboard. She takes a deep breath and sniffs. “I’ve done what I could,” she says but it sounds less like she’s trying to convince him and more like she’s trying to convince herself.

“I know.” His intent hadn’t been to criticize her. “I-I’m sorry. I just think it’d be nice for you to celebrate with your brothers.”

She wipes her face with her sleeve and he pretends not to see. “Me and my brothers are complicated.”

He can’t help it. Seeing her so sad, witnessing the naked guts of her guilt, he has to get his hands in there and cut away the harmful tissue. “They don’t hate you.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Would they invite you to stay over Thanksgiving if they did?”

“Jane…”

“Teresa,” he says and sees some of her tension melt away as she’s reminded of the boy she once knew, “you had to leave. They still had each other.”

She sniffs, wetter than before.

“Pull over,” he says.

“I’m fine.”

“Teresa, please pull over.”

Reluctantly, she pulls into the next rest stop. As soon as the engine is off, a sob bubbles out of her. Jane undoes their seatbelts and reaches over to pull her into a hug.

It’s awkward and more than a little uncomfortable, but she willingly rests her cheek against his and allows herself to cry.

“This is gonna be the first big family holiday, isn’t it?” he asks as he begins to see the picture.

Lisbon sniffs and nods. Her soft skin rubs against his and he feels guilty for the stubble that’ll be scratching her in return. “Stan and his girlfriend just bought a house. They’re getting married next year.”

“You’re scared your brothers resent you as much as you resent yourself for leaving.”

“I abandoned them!” she replies so swiftly that it must be a thought that often plagues her. “Stan and Jimmy hadn’t even finished highschool, and I left them with Tommy who didn’t want the responsibility for them, and now they don’t talk to each other anymore.” Her body shakes gently as her sobbing intensifies. She lets her head fall even further into the embrace, her whole face pressing into his throat. Through ragged breaths, she says, “I should’ve stayed. Just another couple years. Until they could take care of themselves.”

A part of her, he realizes, fears that she’s just repeated the mistakes of her past and prematurely abandoned Katie, too. Her brothers were already on her mind before Jimmy called. Instead of being proud of herself for raising a kid smart enough to blast off to college, she’s terrified that she’s failed as a mother, again. It’s not logical, but it makes sense.

Jane brushes his hand over her back in calming circles. “You did what you had to do, for yourself and for Katie.”

“When my dad killed himself, he nearly took the rest of us out with him,” she confesses and he feels ice cold terror rush over him. “I couldn’t stay after that, I had to get away.”

His back hurts, his everything hurts, he’s thirty-three, he’s not meant to bend into this shape anymore, but he tightens his hold on her and swallows the pain. It’s worth it to feel her breathing slow down and her body incrementally come to a rest.

It’s a relief, though, when she pulls away and he gets to stretch his sore back into a different position. It lets out an audible crack and Lisbon actually laughs, a sound so welcome he doesn’t mind being the butt of the joke. “Dad for a month and your body’s already falling apart.”

“So much for gratitude.”

Her eyes soften. As does her voice. “Thank you, Jane.”

The gas station lights outside reflect in those eyes. If he concentrates, he can see the orange shell from the logo scribbled across her pupil. “What are friends for?”

She raises her eyebrows into two slim arches. “Friends?”

“Only Teresa Lisbon could think that sharing a child is fine but being friends is too intimate.”

“Shut up,” she says but she laughs. “Fine. Friends.”

Strange how winning Lisbon’s friendship is more satisfying than killing Red John was. The latter left him mostly empty. Without Katie’s existence to guide him, he would’ve been lost. 

“What?” she asks. “You’re smiling.”

Oh. So he is. He wasn’t aware. “I’m thinking that you’re gonna let me drive the rest of the way,” he lies.

“No, I’m not.”

“You are. I can see your future and it’s inevitable.”

“You’re a fake,” she says and the engine rumbles as she revives it.

“You wanna know what else I see? I see you in a white dress and Bobby in a nice tux–”

“Shut up.”

“Inevitable, Lisbon. Good for you, he’s a good man.”

“Shut up now or I’m kicking you out of this car.”

23 November 2005, Teresa Lisbon.

Over the course of October and November, Jane and Lisbon settle into a new dynamic. He’s still a pain in the ass during cases – in fact, he begins pulling more and more elaborate stunts to tease out confessions and she has to run interference constantly – but between cases he nearly disappears. He conducts what he calls his ‘private investigation’ into Red John’s man (or men) and refuses to elaborate, which is really just another way for him to be a pain in her ass, but she lets him get away with it. She’s not interested in working with a dirty cop either.

It doesn’t take him long to exclude Cho. “He figured out Katie was mine months ago,” Jane says, which does not do Lisbon’s nerves any favors. Who else knew and never said? “Given that Red John didn’t know, that means Cho’s in the clear.”

With Cho cleared of suspicion, Jane asks him about the thing Detective Reich said, ‘tiger tiger’. The well-read agent identifies it as the first line in William Blake’s poem The Tyger. “When God made the lamb, he also made the tiger,” Jane summarizes. They agree that even if it’s not connected, it’s weird as Hell.

Soon, Rigsby, Hannigan, Minelli, and a half dozen more are ruled out, too. It gives Lisbon some degree of relief.

Outside of work, Jane takes it upon himself to arrange for weekly poker nights for the team. Lisbon isn’t sure what’s possessed him, but she figures he might be lonely and she doesn’t have a teenager at home to feed, so she tags along. It’s actually kind of nice to be distracted from her empty house and to joke around with the boys. Sometimes she cancels on them in favor of Bobby, though.

Bobby is scary. Whenever she’s around him, her heart beats a little too fast and she feels dangerously fragile, like he could break her with the smallest movement. He doesn’t. He is just kind. She comes to trust that he won’t hurt her. She comes to enjoy the thrill of her irregular heartbeat and the buzzing in her ears. It feels real with him, in a way she’s not sure she’s ever experienced before. It’s similar to how she felt about Patrick as a kid, but deeper. If her infatuation with Bobby was a lake, her teenage crush on Patrick would be a reflection on its surface.

Jane teases her about it. When Bobby stops by to say hi, Jane points out her inextinguishable smile. It’s embarrassing.

When Katie visits one weekend in October, Lisbon introduces them. “If he makes you happy that’s all that matters,” Katie says after Bobby has left, but Lisbon can tell her daughter isn’t a fan. When she pushes Katie on it, Katie shrugs and says, “I just think you could do better. He’s a bit boring.”

It’s true that Bobby doesn’t joke around much, but Lisbon likes his sincerity. At the end of the day, Katie doesn’t object to him, so Lisbon figures he’ll win her over eventually. That’s a scary thought: ‘eventually’. Apparently, she’s in it for the long haul.

Even his reaction to Jane being Katie’s dad endeared him to her. He understood why she had kept it a secret and he displayed only mild jealousy over hers and Jane’s friendship. Their conversation was mature and direct, and afterwards they had a round of incredible sex.

Bobby even approved of the Thanksgiving arrangement. It helped that he already had plans to be with his kids and his parents, but he gave his blessing for her to take Jane with her to Chicago. That did score him points with Katie once Lisbon told her.

On the morning of the 23rd, Lisbon, Jane, and Katie are the first at the airport to check into their flight. Immediately, Lisbon has a bone to pick with Jane. As soon as they’ve gone through security and Katie has disappeared to buy a sudoku magazine, Lisbon strikes: “You didn’t ask me if I wanted to pay for First Class.”

Jane raises his eyebrows. “Uh. No. I didn’t think it would matter.”

“You realize that all the money you gave me is going to Katie and I’m still living off a government salary?”

Copying her exact level of hostility, he says, “You realize I was the one who paid?”

“You bought them so we could all sit together–”

“And I like the leg room in First Class.” There’s an infuriating expression on his face, the kind he always displays whenever his elaborate tricks result in equal parts chaos and case-cracking. Insufferable ass. “I don’t expect you to pay me back.”

“It’s a waste of money,” she argues, but the fight has left her, because personal space does sound tempting.

“Meh. This way, a stranger won’t fall asleep on your shoulder – and if you’re very good, they might give you one of those damp towels.”

Yeah, alright, he has convinced her. “Oh, hush.”

Like the smug bastard he is, he grins down at her. The way his cheeks and eyes crinkle creates an optical illusion of his smile being bigger than his mouth. It takes over his whole face. Even though his eyes only remain as slits, they glint with such mischief that they’re even nicer than when fully open. As if by magic, she feels the corners of her own mouth move. She clamps down on them with her teeth and shakes her head to further obscure her amusement.

In a blink, Jane’s expression changes from mischief to soft fondness as he spots something behind Lisbon. “Prodigal daughter! What’ve you got there?”

Lisbon looks over her shoulder at Katie, who approaches them, eyes darting curiously from one to the other. “The newspaper you requested,” she says and hands Jane a local paper. Under her other arm, she’s got the sudoku book for herself.

“Ah!” Jane takes it and glances at the headlines. “Hm.” Something seems to pique his interest. Both Lisbons wait to hear what he has to say while he thoughtfully rolls up the paper. 

Then, quick as a flash, he gently thwacks Katie over the head with the rolled-up paper. Katie squeals, “hey!” in surprise and ducks behind Lisbon for cover while Jane chases after her. Reacting on pure instinct, Lisbon thrusts out her arms to stop the madness, but Jane and Katie just laugh as Jane tries to bap Katie wherever he can through the Lisbon barrier. It reminds Lisbon of trying to stop her brothers from play-fighting.

“Alright,” she says, “that’s enough.”

Jane feigns an attack on her right side before grabbing onto her back for balance and leaping at her left instead. Katie’s squeal tells Lisbon the newspaper hit its target. 

Thankfully, it’s very easy for Lisbon to grab Jane’s outstretched arm and yank the newspaper from his hand. She holds it up under his chin like a knife. “Jane, stop it.”

If Jane’s mischievous grin from before was captivating, then this smile is blinding. With his arm around her back, they’re practically embracing, and his mouth is at her eye height – it’s like a flashbang: sudden, close, startling. Her breath sticks in her throat.

Apparently, the tension is not mutual. Jane’s laugh is easy as he releases her and steps back, hands raised. “That’s still a point to me,” he tells Katie.

“Point?” Lisbon asks, confused.

Behind her, Katie says, “It’s, like, our game. Right now it’s 9-7 to Patrick.”

“10,” Jane corrects, hands still raised.

“10,” Katie agrees begrudgingly.

It must be another one of their inside jokes. Lisbon hates that her stomach drops. “Whatever it is, it can wait until we’re not in public.”

“Fine,” Jane says. “Can I have that?”

“Nope, I’m keeping this until you can act like an adult. Let’s go find somewhere to sit.”

Once they’ve found a place to settle while they wait for their gate to be announced, Lisbon cracks open the newspaper. Jane peeks over her shoulder.

“Huh,” he says and she’s about to tell him that his trick won’t work twice in a row when he continues, “wasn’t that one of Bobby’s?”

A massive headline reads: DEATHROW INMATE RELEASED AFTER NEW DNA EVIDENCE FOUND. An accompanying picture shows a man with facial tattoos hugging a woman and a dog. Scanning the article, Lisbon gathers that Mr Lopez was convicted of first-degree murder and sexual assault four years ago, but that an advocacy group has been working to prove his innocence for the last two. They were recently able to sue for mistrial when it became clear that DNA evidence had been improperly handled and an untainted sample did not match Mr Lopez. 

The case already sounds vaguely familiar to Lisbon, but when the newspaper even cites Bobby by name, it falls into place: Bobby was this man’s prosecutor. The article quotes Bobby as saying, “Unfortunately, as much as we would like to believe that our justice system is infalliable, it is only as human as those who work in it.”

“Hm,” Jane says. “Not very empathetic.”

“He’s right,” she says reflexively. “Mistakes happen. Sounds like a screw-up on SacPD’s end. Wait, how did you recognize him as Bobby’s case?”

“With my ‘tiger investigation’, I’ve been looking at every serious criminal case tried in California for the past decade. Been collecting ones that looked particularly hinky for further inspection. That one’s one of them. I guess I was right.”

“‘Hinky’?”

“They were a bit quick to find their killer, didn’t follow up on some solid leads, you know, hinky. And you’ll never guess who was on the case.”

It takes her a few seconds, but the intense mental gymnastics are worth it because of how Jane’s face brightens when she guesses, “Reich?”

“Give the woman a prize.”

“So you think Reich really is dirty, and that this ‘tyger tyger’ thing…?”

“Some kind of code, not just for Red John’s man, but for dirty cops generally.”

“What, like a whole group?”

“More like a decentralized, anonymous network. If Reich knew everyone in the group, he wouldn’t have used the code with you. He was testing to see if you were part of the network. He probably didn’t even know McAllister was part of it, or that he was Red John.”

“Shit.” 

Jane nods in agreement. The trouble with structure- and leaderless organizations is how hard it is to shut it all down. If it were an official investigation, she might suggest having an undercover agent infiltrate the network and feed them information, but no one would buy her as a member (certainly not Reich) and Jane is out of the question. Cho’s good for undercover work and his gang background might serve him well, but it could never be an official thing, which means he’d be going in without any protection. When all they’ve got is speculation, she’s hesitant to even ask him.

But what else are they supposed to do? Hope Jane sniffs them out, one by one, and doesn’t miss anyone?

They could go to Internal Relations, but that’s an obvious place to imbed an inside man.

Lisbon massages her temple. A headache has started forming.

“Forget about it for now,” Jane says and sweeps the newspaper away from her. “Let’s just enjoy Thanksgiving with the Lisbon clan.”

“Oh, God,” she says and massages more vigorously.

The comfort of First Class becomes a kind of curse. In Economy, she could’ve found a distraction to preoccupy herself with, but in First Class there is only quiet tranquility. Her understimulated brain insists on showing her reruns of her greatest failures as the boys’ mother figure. The last time she went to see Stan and Jimmy was two years ago. To her, it feels like yesterday, but she knows they’ll think it’s been a long time.

A stewardess offers her coffee and she accepts it with much gratitude. “And your husband?” the stewardess asks, glancing at Jane, who fell asleep during the safety demonstration and hasn’t stirred since.

“Er, tea, thanks.” If he wakes up before they reach Chicago, he’ll be pleased to have tea waiting for him. It does feel weird to claim him as her husband, but given that they’ve got Katie right there as well, it’s easier to just let people think they’re together. A nuclear family is easier to understand than whatever the Hell their dynamic is.

Tension builds in her over the four-hour flight. She picks at the club sandwich she’s offered for lunch, and she outright refuses dessert and the steady stream of snacks. Her only lifeline is Katie’s old portable MP3 player, which Lisbon inherited from her last year after upgrading Katie to an iPod for her birthday. It’s loaded with Alicia Keys, Maroon 5, and a variety of other current Billboard-topping pop artists. It’s not quite enough to mellow her out but it’s easy to listen to. She should ask Katie to transfer some Spice Girls onto it when they get back. At some point, Katie notices Lisbon’s thousand-yard stare and slides her a few pages of sudoku, which Lisbon feels obligated to fill out. Jane, for the most part, sleeps. She wonders how much he gets at night these days. Has killing Red John improved his sleep at all?

It’s a little past two when they make it to the right address. Their surroundings are decidedly suburban and the house is a mansion next to the little, yellow one she and the boys were raised in (and Katie lived in for the first year of her life). It might actually be able to comfortably hold that big of a family. Only Jimmy lives in the old house now. With any luck, she won’t be asked to visit it.

Because Katie only barely knows her uncles and Jane doesn’t at all, Lisbon begrudgingly leads the charge. She rings the doorbell, uses the knocker, opens her mouth – and manages to hold herself back from calling out. Behind her, Jane snickers. “You were about to yell ‘CBI’,” he observes, which makes Katie laugh, too.

“Hush.”

“T!” Stan greets, delighted, as soon as he opens the door. He’s almost thirty and Jesus, did he have those gray hairs last time? There’s even a hint of lines around his mouth. It’s unsettling. He’s so unlike the boy she raised. What if he’s a stranger to her now? When he rushes to hug her, she tenses. “You made it!” He pats her back and turns to Katie. “Kate! Wow, you’re, like, a whole person!” Katie gets a hug as well. “And you must be…”

“Patrick,” Jane says and steps forward to shake Stan’s hand.

“Patrick, yes, of course,” Stan agrees with a grin. “Stan. This is my fiancée, Karen.” He gestures behind him, where a gorgeous brunette has appeared. Lisbon and Katie met her last year when Stan and Karen took a trip out to California. “Come, come in.”

They all mill in through the door and take turns greeting Karen, her three siblings, and the partner of one of the siblings. It’s a bigger gathering than Lisbon realized it would be. Katie is the only child there.

“Jimmy’s running late?” Lisbon guesses.

Stan laughs. “You know how he is. He’ll show up eventually. Might even bring a girlfriend.”

“Anyone serious?”

“Oh, God, no. Can I get you a beer?”

“Please,” she says with feeling and he laughs again.

“Seriously, T, thanks for coming, it means a lot. We wanna make this an every year kinda thing. You know, make real family traditions.”

Her smile is tight. “That’s great.”

Stan claps her on the back. “I’ll get you that beer. Patrick,” he adds, addressing Jane who has just approached them, “beer?”

“Uh, you’ve got tea?”

“Tea?” Stan echoes. “Uh, sure, I think Karen’s got some kind of green stuff.”

“That’d be great, thanks.”

For the special occasion, Jane is wearing a matching suit in striped navy. Lately, he’s been ditching the mismatched black and gray and veering towards all-blues. They’ve been more accurately tailored, too. It makes him appear more put together, even with his top buttons undone as ever. He looks good.

Once Stan has disappeared, Jane slips into her personal bubble and asks, voice lowered, “You okay?”

His concern is both touching and unsettling. There’s an odd tension in the air. She suddenly can’t look him in the eye. “Fine,” she answers quickly. “Where’s Katie?”

“Karen’s brother is apparently doing a science PhD at Stanford, they’re chatting about that.”

“Oh.” She’s not sure why that’s disappointing to her. Maybe she expected Katie to be her ally in this, her sidekick to turn to when she feels awkward. That’s not reasonable to demand of her daughter, though.

“You know,” Jane says, “everyone’s a lot nicer to me than I expected – your brother especially.”

“He did invite you.”

“I know, but I figured there’d still be an undercurrent of suspicion. I did make a single mother out of his sister.”

“Takes two to tango.”

That gets her a laugh. She finally looks up at him and he smiles down at her. “Not sure that’s how your brothers see it.”

There’s a sudden hubbub by the front door. Even though they’ve moved into the living room at this point, Lisbon can still hear Jimmy’s voice when it rises above the rest to greet Karen. “Brace for impact,” she advises Jane. “Jimmy can be a little… uh, overwhelming.”

Sure enough, Jimmy enters the living room in a bomber jacket and sagging jeans. “Hey, T!” he exclaims and pulls her into a hug that lifts her a few inches off the ground. Unfortunately, she squeaks in surprise.

“You put me down right now, so help me God,” she warns him, easily falling into the tone she used with him as a teen. Jimmy was always the troublemaker. Well, Tommy as well, but the tone never worked on him. Jimmy at least had some shame.

Instead of lowering her to the ground, Jimmy squeezes her even harder and spins her in a circle. It would seem the tone is ineffectual these days. “You little shit!” she whines and, presumably just for that, he gives her another spin before returning her to the ground. The floor wobbles underneath her. Jane grabs her arm to steady her.

“Long time no see, Jimmy,” Jane says, offering his free hand for a shake. “Patrick.”

Jimmy shakes his hand but frowns. “Have we met before?”

“Uh, briefly, back in the day, I don’t expect you to remember.”

Stan rejoins them, carrying a beer in one hand and a steaming mug in another. “Jimmy, hey,” he says and distributes the drinks appropriately. “The tea might need to, uh, sit for a bit longer.”

“Steep,” Jane says and Lisbon gives him a look. “What?”

“Don’t mind him,” she tells Stan. “He’s an ass.”

“Rude,” Jane says.

“Yeah, that’s another word for you,” she agrees and he places a hand over his chest to signal his hurt.

“Wow,” Jimmy says with a laugh. “How long have you guys been together again?”

Beer finds its way into the wrong hole. It burns. Lisbon coughs violently in an attempt to get it out. Next to her, Jane says, “Ah, now it all makes sense.”

Air wheezes painfully through her irritated but unobstructed throat. “Jane and I–” she begins and is interrupted by another coughing fit. When Stan asks if she’s okay, she nods and tries again, eyes watering, “We’re not together.”

Stan and Jimmy share a look of confusion. Jane says, “I think I know what’s happened here. Stan told Jimmy to call and remind Teresa that she and her boyfriend were invited for Thanksgiving. When I answered the phone late at night, you assumed I was the boyfriend. Neither of you remembered that Teresa’s actual boyfriend’s name is Robert, or Bobby.”

“Wait, what?” Stan says, at the same time as Jimmy asks, “If you’re not T’s boyfriend, who the hell are you?”

“I’m Katie’s father. We actually met while I was seeing Teresa, when you were both kids.” Jane’s tone is casual. He punctuates his nonchalance by sipping his tea.

“The psychic?” Jimmy exclaims.

“Uh, no. Conman. I don’t do that anymore.”

Lisbon could kill him for making himself look this bad. “Guys, I swear, when he’s not being a smug asshole, he’s a decent human being.”

“You found Katie’s dad?” Stan asks. His voice is not as raised as Jimmy’s but there’s a sadness in his eyes that makes her feel like absolute crap. “And you didn’t tell us?”

“I did!” she says, but she’s beginning to realize that she can’t remember actually telling them, only imagining doing it. “I, er, I thought I did.”

“You didn’t,” Stan says and Lisbon could actually throw up. There we go, she’s still a fucking deadbeat. All she does is disappoint them, over and over and over again. They hate her and they’re right to. She hates herself for it, too.

“I need a drink,” Jimmy announces and storms off.

Lisbon’s throat is tight. “Sorry.”

“In Teresa’s defense, we were keeping it quiet for a while, for safety reasons,” Jane interjects. “If people had known Katie was my daughter, there was a high chance she’d be harmed by someone who hated me. That man is gone now.”

Stan takes a moment to chew on that. “How long has he been gone?”

When Jane hesitates to answer, Lisbon says, “Two months.”

“Two months,” Stan repeats, unimpressed. “Shit, I need a drink, too.”

“Not a single straightedge among the kids of an alcoholic?” Jane asks as soon as Stan is out of hearing range. “That’s interesting.”

“They don’t want me here. We should leave.” At this moment, she wants nothing more than to fly back to Sacramento.

“Did either of them ask you to leave? Stay. They just need a moment to process.” To process what? That she’ll always let them down? “Let’s see if there’s some sportsball on, c’mon.”

Jane’s hand snakes around her elbow and gently guides her to the couch. His warmth seeps through her thin blouse. As he reaches for the remote, it disappears. He flips through channels until a rerun of Monday’s Vikings v Packers pops up. “Who’re you rooting for? Packers, your neighbors from Wisconsin?”

“Vikings won.”

His shoulder gently bumps against hers. “Lighten up, Lisbon. They’re happy you’re here, just a little surprised that I am, too.”

It’s easy enough for him to say. He doesn’t know about all the times she only had half portions of dinner for everyone, the times she yelled at them to keep them in line, the times she didn’t manage to step between them and their dad. God, she sees Stan’s feet bleeding from stepping in glass, his bloody footprints across the floor, hears the hiss of air through his teeth as he bites back curses. Her shoulders raise to her ears. Any second, Dad’s gonna yell at her for letting the kid get hurt and drag blood through the house, completely forgetting that he’s the one who broke the window. He’s gonna give her a push and glass is gonna dig into her own feet and she’s gonna pull the pieces out before she goes to look for the broom to sweep it up.

Someone touches her and she flinches away, heart pounding.

“Hey,” Jane says and his face swims into view. His eyes are clear, like spring water. “It’s okay. Whatever you’re remembering, it’s in the past. Look around you. That was then, this is now. Breathe.” To demonstrate, he inhales deeply and lets his exhale rush out of him. Her body is tense. She feels like a hunted animal might, and she wants to curl up into a ball like one. Jane keeps breathing. Her lungs slowly imitate him. The tension melts. She imagines it seeping into the couch. 

When Jane envelopes her hand with his own, she doesn’t startle. Two of his fingers slide to her wrist. His eyes haven’t left hers. “Good. Just keep breathing.”

“I wasn’t planning on stopping,” she says dryly, feeling a bit more like herself.

He smiles and it’s in that moment that she realizes he’s not smiled at her like this before (or at least not within this decade), open and warm and fond. All his lines are softer, like his skin was creased paper before and now it’s folded silk. It looks sumptuous to touch.

“Do you often feel like that?” he asks. “Like it’s happening again?”

Of course he can tell. Who was she kidding, thinking she could try to hide it from him? They shouldn’t have come here. She’s like a turtle without its shell, fragile and exposed. 

“No,” she says. “Just when I visit.” It’s an embarrassing confession. She’s a grown woman and her father’s been in the ground for a decade and a half. Memories, however disturbing, shouldn’t bother her. Still, she tells him. Jane would just work it out himself anyway. It’s better to feel somewhat in control of what he knows.

They’re interrupted by the reappearance of her brothers. Lisbon yanks her hand from Jane’s. While Jimmy looks like a storm cloud, Stan is wearing a neutral expression. “You guys wanna see the neighborhood?” Stan asks. It’s obviously code for having a conversation outside of the house.

“Sure,” Jane agrees immediately. “A little walk around the block sounds refreshing.”

Before they leave, Lisbon checks that Katie is going to be alright on her own for a minute. Her daughter is engaged in a spirited debate with Karen’s brother and sipping on an ice cold coke so she’s very happy to stay put while the adults go check out several dozen identical houses.

“So,” Stan says as soon as the front door shuts behind him, “how the hell did you find him?”

They spend a while on explaining the basics of Red John. Both Stan and Jimmy’s sympathies are greatly affected by Jane’s story about his family. It doesn’t take long for Jane to win Stan over entirely, while Jimmy remains standoffish but begrudgingly respectful. 

When Jimmy asks Jane how he can be a consultant when he’s not a psychic, Jane tries to explain his ability to ‘read’ people. “Take you, for example,” Jane says. “You’ve got a drinking problem.”

Jimmy half-scoffs half-laughs. “What, because I’m drinking a beer? Then Stan and T’s got a problem, too.”

“No,” Jane says, “because your first response to emotional distress was to grab a drink. Stan here took the time to ask some questions first. I wouldn’t be ashamed; addiction is a disease, not a moral failing, and there’s a genetic component to it. I’d do what your siblings do and make it a point never to drink alone.”

“How do you know I never drink alone?” Lisbon asks, surprised to hear Jane assert as much with complete confidence. It’s true, but she’s never indicated anything like it to him.

“Well, unlike Jimmy, you’re a control freak,” he says frankly and her brothers chuckle to themselves. “You’d have at least one rule for yourself. You’ve gotten quite drunk at poker before–”

“One night–”

“–so it’s not ‘amount’. You’ve drunk while sad, so it’s not ‘mood’. You’ve had hard liquor, so it’s not ‘type’. You don’t allow Katie to drink and you’ve got a bottle of expensive liquor in your desk at work for when you feel indulgent, so you don’t have any hard liquor in your home, just occasionally wine or beer for when you have company. You’re a creature of habit, so even though Katie’s moved out, you haven’t changed that setup. Plus, one of the telltale signs of alcoholism is regularly drinking by yourself, and you know that. Hence, your self-imposed rule is to never do so.”

“Wow,” Stan says.

“That’s kinda creepy,” Jimmy says.

Jane shrugs. “That’s why they pay me the big bucks… Actually, the bucks aren’t anything to write home about.”

“Why do you do it, then?” Stan asks. “Now that Red John’s gone. You could do anything.”

“The cases are interesting. And, I guess, after so many years of cheating people, it feels good to do something meaningful.” Lisbon knows the real answer is the Tyger investigation, but for a second she thinks he might mean it. Two things can be true at the same time, right?

When they make it back to the house, Lisbon immediately goes to the upstairs bathroom for a moment alone. She takes a deep breath. That went well. Stan seems to like Jane, and even though Jane accused him of alcoholism, Jimmy isn’t nearly as hostile as before. Everything can continue as expected from now.

As she exits the bathroom, she hears Jane’s voice in one of the nearby rooms. It has a slight echo, like the room he’s in hasn’t been furnished yet. One of the bedrooms? Curious, she follows the sound. It’s replaced by Stan’s voice just as she reaches the right door. When she hears his exact words, she pauses.

“... not even a little part of you that wishes she’d dump that lawyer guy?” Stan asks.

“I’m not Bobby’s greatest fan but Lisbon clearly likes him,” Jane says. “That’s good enough for me.”

Stan huffs a humorless laugh. “Seriously, Patrick. Man to man. I see how you look at her.”

There’s a brief pause. Jane’s tone is sarcastic when he asks, “Using my eyes?”

“Don’t be cute,” Stan says. “You like her.”

Yeah, right! It’s such a funny thought that Lisbon nearly laughs. What on Earth is Stan seeing in Jane’s eyes that makes him think Jane could have feelings for her? It must be the fact that they dated as kids that clouds Stan’s judgment, which is reasonable enough. Much like when the stewardess presumed Jane was her husband, Lisbon can understand how they must appear to other people – especially with the bickering and inside jokes. It’s not hard to imagine them as a couple. Still, the idea amuses her. It’s silly.

“I can assure you I left my romantic feelings for Teresa in the nineteen eighties,” Jane says and Lisbon’s smile stiffens. His tone is hostile. Is it really that awful to be accused of liking her?

She pushes open the door. As she expected, the room is mostly bare. There are two twin mattresses on the floor, pushed to either side of the room. They are still close enough that the sleepers could reach out in the night and find each other's hands. They have been furnished with blankets and pillows. In the corner of the room sit hers and Jane’s bags.

“You can put away the shovel, Stan,” she tells her brother. “Is this where we're sleeping?”

Stan jumps. “T! Uh, yeah. Originally, we had pushed the mattresses together, but luckily they’re twins and not a double.”

“There's a twin mattress in the room next door but I thought it would be nice for Katie to have her own room,” Jane says, unbothered by Lisbon's sudden appearance. “If she needs a break.”

That's very thoughtful of him. She has to agree. For now, Katie has been doing very well, but it must be overwhelming for her. Lisbon nods. “That's fine.”

“And I don't sleep much, so your snoring won't wake me up.”

“I do not snore!” she protests.

Jane raises his eyebrows. “Well, that's a nice improvement with age.”

“I never snored!”

“Huh. Did you have a pet bear?”

The joke is so beneath him. “Hush.”

“Was Tommy a chainsaw enthusiast?”

“Alright, that’s it, I’m going downstairs to spend time with my daughter. You idiots can join me if you want.”

In the living room, Karen has taken out board games and a deck of cards. That shapes the rest of the afternoon and evening. Much to Lisbon’s chagrin, Jimmy and Jane teach Katie how to play poker. When she protests, Jimmy brings up the fact that she was the one who taught him when he was much younger than Katie is now. Jane smokes them all, as he always does at the weekly poker game with the guys.

“We’ve started blindfolding him,” Lisbon says after Jane rakes in a particularly large pile of the potato chips they’re using as poker chips. “We just let him see his own cards and tell him what’s on the table.” Jane kisses one of the potato chips and shoves it in his mouth, chewing it pointedly at her.

Once losing to Jane has lost its appeal, they switch to Charades: Lisbon, Jane, and Katie versus Jimmy, Stan, and Karen versus Karen’s siblings. It makes Lisbon feel incredibly uncomfortable to get up and act stupid in front of people, especially with strangers in the room, but Katie is having fun so she can’t quite get herself to refuse. She’s awful at it, though. Jane doesn’t even manage to guess half of them and Katie is totally lost. The two of them are, predictably, born for the game. Still, thanks to Lisbon’s ineptitude, Karen’s siblings win the game handily. Stan and Jimmy get into a mock-fight over which one of them lost them the victory.

In-between games they eat pizza. Tomorrow, all hands will be on deck in the kitchen and Jane hasn’t had an honest-to-God Chicago-style pizza before, so Stan declares that it’s a necessity. As they all sit there and eat on the floor because the table is full of games, Lisbon feels like she’s back in college. At 33, she and Jane are the oldest. She wonders why Karen’s parents aren’t here. Did Stan ever tell her about them?

At some point, Jane lets it slip that he used to do a bit of stage magic, and suddenly he’s cajoled into doing a performance of primarily close-up card tricks. For one of them, he tells Lisbon to pick a card, any card, and when she pulls it out it’s the Jack of Spades. She laughs and he winks at her and no one else understands what’s so funny.

They go to bed late. Jane lets Lisbon have the bathroom first. In the brief moment when she’s in an oversized Cubs shirt and leggings and he’s in the full suit, she feels self-conscious, but then he disappears into the bathroom and reemerges wearing a very ‘old man’ style pajama set, with long sleeves and buttons and everything. 

“Sexy,” she jokes.

“HR will hear about that,” he says and shuts off the ceiling light.

“They’d run screaming in the opposite direction if they saw you coming,” she tells the darkness.

Following some rustling by the other mattress, a flashlight switches on. Its cone of light is a deep yellow. It gives Jane’s hair a golden glow. “Does this bother you?”

“No, that’s fine.”

He settles in with his book and she shuts her eyes. In the suburbs, all is quiet, save for Jane’s breathing and the rasping of paper when he turns a page. Nevertheless, Lisbon is tense. Playing games with her brothers has unearthed childhood memories. With her eyes shut, they play in front of her like a movie. 

For some reason, she keeps returning to the time their dad nearly killed Tommy. The other boys had been playing loudly in the living room. Dad told them to stop. Tommy talked back. She wasn't fast enough to step in between them. The crunching of bone was so loud she could hear it above Dad’s shouts and Tommy’s cries. She threw herself at Dad's arm but he kept kicking and kicking and kicking until Tommy was still. It might have been her scream that finally made him stop. “Call 911!” she yelled at Stan as she dropped to her knees. Her hand shook. She pressed it to Tommy's throat. His pulse greeted her fingertips, strong and stubborn, and she sobbed.

That's when Dad came to his senses. He drove them to the hospital himself. The whole drive he told them about all the things he would do to whoever did this to his boy. She didn't dare say it was him. Not while the car zigzagged down the road. She imagined them crashing into another car, one carrying a nurse on her way home from work. Instead, she prayed.

She prays now. The night is dark. Headlights from another car flash against her eyelids.

“Lisbon?”

The car sways. Tommy groans in the backseat.

Daylight suddenly fills the car. She blinks open her eyes. The car is a room. The sun is the ceiling lamp. It's not Tommy who is calling for her, it’s Jane.

“It's okay,” he says. “Everyone is safe.” He moves towards her like he would a wild animal. “Anything you wanna talk about?”

She shakes her head. If she tries to speak, she'll start crying. She hates crying.

“Okay. Look at me.” The delicate skin beneath his eyes is darker than usual, but his laughter lines are also more pronounced. There's a glow of contentment around him. Of peace. “Hey,” he says and she laughs wetly.

“Hey,” she replies, voice shaking. 

“I would offer to read to you but, uh, I'm reading one of Katie's course books. My theoretical math is only so-so. To tell you the truth I'm, uh, I’m kinda struggling. She's a smart kid.”

“You're reading her course book? Why?”

“Gives me something to talk about with her.”

The contrast between how Jane treats Katie and how Lisbon’s father treated her and the boys almost makes her sick. Words cannot describe how grateful she is that Jane is a good father. A sob tears through her.

Fuck. What's wrong with her? Why can't she keep it together? She's not an easy crier. 

The pillow provides some dignity. She buries her face in it. A moment later, the room returns to blackness. There’s shuffling. Something soft slides across the floor. She turns her face and blinks against the darkness until she sees that Jane has pushed his mattress closer to hers. He lies back down and quietly offers his hand.

She takes it.

“Breathe with me,” Jane says and squeezes her hand. “Inhale.” After a few seconds, he loosens his grip and says, “Exhale.” His hand continues to squeeze in step with his breathing. Lisbon follows his lead.

Their clasped hands rest next to her hip, on her mattress. Jane’s arm is a bridge across the chasm. Their chests move in tandem. If someone told her their hearts beat the same rhythm, she would not be surprised.

“That was then, this is now.” Jane’s voice washes over her. “You’re safe. You’re right here.”

I’m right here, she thinks and squeezes his hand. I’m right here.

Chapter Text

28 November 2005, Teresa Lisbon.

It’s not often Jane makes it to the crime scene before her, especially this early in the morning. There’s an easy smile on his face as he hands her one of the two takeaway cups he’s holding. “Morning, Lisbon.”

A brisk breeze tosses her hair over her shoulder. The paper cup is hot to the touch, which is welcome in the sixty degree weather. What’s even more tantalizing is the promises of caffeine that the cup holds. “Thanks. You’re early.”

“Still on Chicago time,” he says. A string dangles from his cup. Its tag is yellow. Green tea with lemon would be her guess. “How’s Bobby?”

“Fine.”

Their crime scene is a gorgeous hotel in red brick with its own doorman out front. The victim will be someone with money, maybe someone connected to local politicians, which could be why SacPD decided to hand this one over to the Bureau.

“Spare me the gory details,” Jane jokes and nods to the doorman.

“Hush. We’re going to Room 309.”

She tentatively sips her coffee while the elevator carries them upstairs. It’s the perfect drinking temperature, and the taste isn’t half bad either, especially after an extended weekend of instant. For the sake of future Thanksgivings, she hopes someone gets Stan and Karen the coffee maker on their registry.

On the third floor, the police presence becomes apparent. Uniforms and forensics guys mill about behind the crime tape. Officer Brennan lifts the tape for them as they exchange brief greetings. 

Lisbon ducks under but Jane is interrupted by the sudden appearance of Officer Gordon, who says, “Mister Jane?”

“Yes?”

“I found something weird,” he says, looking between Jane and Lisbon. “I thought you might wanna see.”

Officer Gordon is one of those familiar faces that appears at most of their Sacramento-based crime scenes. He’s young and relatively green, and he has a habit of watching Jane work to the detriment of his own tasks. That’s not unusual and Lisbon sympathizes. If she didn’t work with him every day, she would probably do the same.

It would seem Gordon has now adopted Jane’s strange methodologies, or at least his eyes are open to unorthodox clues. Not a bad thing, but not something she’s interested in spending her own time on.

Jane, on the other hand, lights up. “Lisbon?”

“Go,” she sighs, and he goes bouncing after Gordon like a kid on Christmas.

Inside Room 309, Rigsby is standing over the dead body of a middle aged white man. She takes a fortifying drink from her coffee. “Hey.”

Rigsby looks up from his notepad. “Hey. Where’d you get coffee?” His envy is very poorly hidden.

“Jane,” she explains and shamelessly tips another generous stream into her mouth.

“Where’s Ja–”

BANG! 

The noise is unmistakable. In an instant, her cup is on the floor and her gun has taken its place. Her heart jumps and the world blurs as she rushes in the direction of the gunshot. “JANE?” she calls out automatically, unsettled to have him out of sight when there’s a gunman on the loose. “JA–”

BANG!

Only half aware of the colony of cops around her, Lisbon runs to the door of Room 310 and kicks its doorknob in.

She sees the blood first: bright, fresh, pooling. Bits of meat are strewn across the floor. A man lies with his head in the pool, dead. Gunshot to the temple.

Next, she sees his suit and the man within it. “Jane!”

Like the dead man, he’s on the floor. Like the dead man, he’s bleeding.

“AMBULANCE NOW,” she yells over her shoulder and falls to her knees next to him, hands grasping for his stomach. His hands cradle the wound ineffectively. She pushes them away and presses her own against him. It’s easy to put her whole body weight into it.

“He shot me,” Jane says. His eyes are wide, his breathing frantic. “He-e-e shot me!”

His blood is warm and wet. It leaks through her fingers. “You’re gonna be fine,” she tells them both. “Stay still.” Her voice is wound tight.

A kicked dog’s whine pushes itself out of his mouth. His eyes squeeze shut. There’s barely any movement from his diaphragm while his chest heaves rapidly. Sweat already glistens on his forehead.

“Breathe,” she tells him. “Through your stomach, Jane.”

“My stomach’s a little–” Gasp. “–sore.”

“That’s what happens when you get yourself shot!” Her voice trembles.

“Ambulance’s on its way!” Rigsby calls out. “They’ll be here ASAP, ten minutes max.” Jane’s face pulls tight.

“Boss,” Cho says, appearing with a small bundle of ripped-up hotel sheets. He presses the fabric against her hands and she slips them out so that Cho is the one putting his weight on Jane’s wound. She brushes her hair out of her face.

Already, his stomach has begun to swell.

Pillow, she thinks and hauls herself up to grab one from the bed. Her hands stain the white pillowcase. She drops back down next to Jane and lifts his head. He opens his eyes. The terror in them makes her chest feel tight. “Here,” she says and slides the pillow in place. As she lowers his head onto it, he groans. 

His hair has fallen into his face. She wipes her hands on her shirt before pushing his hair out of his eyes. His forehead is damp.

“Breathe, Jane,” she reminds him. She doesn’t like how quickly his chest moves.

“I don’t know if you’ve–” groan, “–noticed,” deep breath, “but there’s a whole Cho–” gasp, “–on top of me.” It’s an exaggeration, Cho only has one knee on Jane, pressing hard against the covered wound.

Inspiration strikes her. She wipes her hands on her clothes again before grasping his left hand. “Inhale,” she says and squeezes. His lungs stutter as he struggles to follow the slower pace. “Exhale,” she says and loosens her grip. His lips purse. Air audibly rushes past them. “Inhale,” squeeze, “exhale,” loosen. 

Slowly, his breathing falls into her rhythm. She stops speaking but continues squeezing his hand. With every squeeze, his wedding band pushes against her fingers.

His gaze has settled on her, too. It is wide and frightened.

“You’ll be fine,” she insists.

Something changes. His eyes pull shut and a shudder runs through him. A noise somewhere between a whine and a groan, loud and guttural, tumbles out of him. She grips him desperately. “Jane?”

“Katie,” he manages through gritted teeth and uses his fingertips to coax the wedding band off his ring finger. It falls into her hand. “Give that– to her– tell her I– love her.”

“I’m gonna take this,” she says and is proud of how even her voice is, “and I’m gonna keep it for you,” she slips the ring around her cross, where it fits perfectly, “and you can give it to her the next time you see her.” To Rigsby, she calls out, “Any news on that ambulance!?”

“They’re about three minutes away,” he says.

Thank God. “Three minutes, Jane.”

Jane groans an acknowledgment. She grabs his hand again and settles back into the squeezing pattern, which his breath follows haltingly.

After a minute of silence (she counts), he says, “T’resa– stay– with me?”

Her stomach drops. His voice is like a little boy’s. “Yes,” she promises and swallows past a lump quickly forming in her throat. “I’ll stay with you.”

“Hurts,” he says – and then he laughs. Weak as it is, it startles her. “Getting– shot– hurts.”

“Incredible observational skills,” Cho says and Jane laughs a little harder.

Lisbon wants to cry. It’s not funny. None of this is funny.

“Cheer up– Lisbon,” Jane says, blue eyes peeking at her from small slits in his eyelids. “If we– meet again– you get to– say I– told you– so.”

“Don’t talk like that,” she snaps. “You’ll be fine.”

His eyes fall shut. There are no more words in him. All he has left are bestial grunts and creaking breath.

Lisbon lifts their hands to her cross and mouths a Hail Mary.

EMTs rush in. They take over from Cho and push her aside. She moves mechanically and watches them close while they stabilize Jane and transfer him to the gurney. His animal sounds reassure her. He’s still alive.

“Cho, you’re in charge till Hannigan gets here,” she says and takes off after the EMTs striding out with Jane.

They try to stop her from joining Jane in the ambulance. She grasps for a term that encompasses everything they are to each other. “I’m family,” is what she settles on and it feels truthful. They let her ride along, probably also thanks to her badge.

She holds his hand the whole way. Although he continues to make noises, it’s unclear if he’s fully conscious. Her lips never stop moving, shaping Hail Mary after Hail Mary. Save him, please, God, she thinks.

At the hospital, they take him directly to emergency surgery.

The chairs in the waiting room are made from hard plastic. A TV is playing the news without sound. Lifestyle magazines are spread across a table. Lisbon looks at these things without seeing. Her body doesn't feel the hard plastic.

Time passes, she thinks.

“Boss?”

She turns her head very slowly. “Cho?”

He holds out an armful of fabric: cotton and denim. “Go change. You're a mess.”

She decides to follow orders. He is in charge after all.

It’s a gray men’s t-shirt several sizes too big for her and a denim jacket of similar proportions. Cho’s undercover gear, from the trunk of his car.

She looks at herself in the bathroom mirror. Her white work shirt is covered in bloody hand prints and the sleeve-ends of her dark blazer are damp. There are smudges of dried blood on her cheeks and forehead. Some of her hair is stiff. Her hands are rust-colored.

Using lukewarm water and soap, she scrubs herself clean. Jane’s blood drips into the sink and disappears down the drain.

She did this as a child, too, except it was usually her own blood, and much less of it.

She tucks Cho’s t-shirt into her pants and leaves the jacket open. Her fingers dig out the necklace. Her mother’s cross and Jane’s wedding ring gleam in the white light, both gold, hers ornate, his simple.

Will Katie wear Jane’s ring on a necklace, too?

Nausea overwhelms her. Lisbon throws herself into a stall and flips the seat back just in time. Her stomach empties itself into the bowl.

For minutes, she retches and coughs and sniffles. Bile coats her mouth. Snot drips from her nose. Her eyes water.

She eventually collects herself from the floor. She rinses her mouth out at the sink. She picks up her abandoned clothes.

Cho takes her ruined shirt and blazer. “I need to ask you some questions. Is this because of the Tyger investigation?”

“I don't know.”

“Who knows?”

“No one. No one but the three of us.”

“You didn't tell Katie who then maybe told someone else?”

She shakes her head.

“So we're looking at bugs, maybe,” Cho mumbles.

But something awful has just occurred to her.

“What?”

“Sorry, er, it's a poem. I'm trying to work out what it means.”

“You read poetry?”

“No, definitely not. Er, Jane thinks it's to do with a case.”

“Really? How?”

“I'm not sure. It's more of his case. I'm not really involved.”

“Bobby,” she says quietly. “My boyfriend, Robert Whitmer.”

“Whitmer the ADA?”

She nods. “I told him about the poem last night. I didn't say what case it was for. I said it was Jane's case, not mine.”

“The network isn't restricted to cops,” he says slowly, vocalizing her dark thoughts.

“We need to call in the FBI. This is too big for us. I'll stay with Jane. I'm armed. You do whatever the FBI tells you to.”

Cho hesitates, but after a moment he says, “Okay.”

That's the end of their conversation. Cho leaves. On the TV, the scrolling chyron reads: SHOOTING IN DOWNTOWN SACRAMENTO, 1 DEAD, 1 IN CRITICAL CONDITION.

Chapter Text

13 July 1988, Teresa Lisbon.

Tomorrow, Patrick leaves. The sun is already setting on today. They walk through the scent of salted butter popcorn and candifloss, fingers intertwined, strolling as if along the beach. It’s been quiet between them. Usually, Patrick fills the silence, but today his gaze has been pensive and his hand firm around hers. Whenever she asks him what’s wrong, he kisses her. It’s obvious what’s wrong anyway.

“You should stay,” he says when they’re sitting in the evening-cold grass and watching a couple of men disassembling the ferris wheel. “Sleep in my tent with me tonight. Go home tomorrow when we leave.”

“Okay.” They’ve already slept together in the colloquial sense. Spending the night together in his sleeping bag isn’t overstepping any boundaries, except for her father’s. Whatever punishment her dad deems necessary, though, she will gladly take for another few hours with Patrick.

For the first time that day, a smile erupts on Patrick’s face. A squeal peels off her when he tackles her to the ground. “Yeah?” he asks, nose pressed to hers.

Teresa laughs into his nostrils. “Yeah.”

28 November 2005, Teresa Lisbon.

At a certain volume of thoughts, Lisbon’s brain reaches max capacity. It numbs itself, pulling a transparent screen between it and the world. Sounds become muted. Everything slides out of focus.

Somewhere, time passes.

It is with great difficulty that Lisbon raises her head. Someone, she realizes, is speaking to her. A white-coated doctor looms above her. “Agent Lisbon?”

Her head moves as if through molasses. She nods. 

“Mr Jane is out of surgery. He’s stable. We’re keeping him under observation for 24 hours at least. Has his next of kin been informed?”

The plexiglass in her mind quivers. “He’s alive?” she asks. “He’s gonna be okay?”

The doctor’s words reach her clearer now. “At this stage, it’s too early to make promises, but it’s looking good. You can tell his next of kin they can visit during visiting hours.”

The barrier between Lisbon and reality melts away. Sounds come rushing back. She becomes aware of her stiff back and aching tailbone.

“I’m it,” she says. “Er, we’ve got reason to believe that Mr Jane might be targeted again. We’ll need to put him in a private room and station a guard.”

“Very well, I’ll have a chat with some colleagues, wait here a second.”

A room is found for Jane and Lisbon insists on guarding it until a replacement can be found. The hospital staff is not inclined to argue with her federal badge.

Lisbon’s journey to Jane’s room is an opportunity to refamiliarize herself with her limbs and her senses. Her head hurts. The hallway smells like cleaning products. There’s a pit of dread in her gut.

Jane is still. Cool-toned fluorescents paint his skin an ashen pallor. Only the steady movement of his padded stomach differentiates him from a murder victim on a mortuary slab.

Death and loss are no strangers to Lisbon. She knows anybody could be gone in a second. It’s why her faith is so important to her, it connects her to those that are gone. If Jane were to die, she knows she would see him again one day.

Nevertheless, this vision of him hits her like a knife to the chest. She can barely breathe around it.

It brings her some peace to sink into the chair next to his bed and cup his left hand in hers. His skin is cold but she feels his pulse, beating in unison with the heart monitor’s beeps. She takes care not to disturb the IV tube.

“You’re gonna hate this,” she informs him. Her voice trembles.

They sit together in silence. The rise and fall of his stomach soothes her like the swing of a pendulum.

Her ringtone disturbs the tentative peace. “Lisbon.”

“Agent Lisbon! Dennis Abbott, FBI. Your man, Cho, called us in.”

Even though he can’t see her, she straightens her back. “Sir.”

“I’m in Director Bertram’s office,” he continues, and although his tone is pleasant, her hackles raise in anticipation. “Funny story, I was here half an hour ago. Talked to Bertram, he assured me you guys were conspiracy nuts, I left. Five minutes ago, I got a call. Bertram has gone missing.”

“Missing?”

“It would seem like you’ve been on the trail of something big, Agent Lisbon. We’re suspending all operations within the CBI. All staff are on paid leave from this moment until we sort through this mess. That is, everyone except for yourself and Cho. I’d like for you two to temporarily join my team. How quickly can you get to Bertram’s office?”

“I–” She half-expects Jane to wake up and give her a good excuse to stay. No such luck. “Jane’s not woken up yet. I’m worried they’ll send another hitman, if that’s what Gordon was.”

“A sensible concern. I’ll have my people get some uniforms in from out of state, and until then one of my agents can step in. I’ll send Fischer over immediately, I trust her with my life.”

Her hand tightens its hold on Jane. “With all due respect, sir, I promised I’d stay with him. I’d like to stay until he wakes up.”

Abbott is quiet for a few seconds. “I see. Stay, then. We’re gonna pick up Reich and Whitmer. Call me when he wakes up.”

“Yes, sir.”

Whitmer. She has never changed, has she? First Patrick when they were young, now Bobby. Lisbon can’t identify a conman to save her life. How could she be so stupid? If her gullibility costs Jane his life, she doesn’t know how she will live with herself.

What will Katie think of her? Will their relationship ever recover from this?

Jane’s hand has warmed in hers. It would be nice to intertwine their fingers, to challenge him to do his card tricks like this, to walk hand-in-hand as they did seventeen years ago. 

Even bloodless, his lips are beautiful.

In-between heart monitor signals, she admits to herself that she adores him. What she thought was lingering attraction and platonic fondness is much deeper. It has its roots in her. When they were planted there, she couldn’t say. It certainly wasn’t done with her permission.

Her phone rings a half dozen times in the next couple of hours. Every time, she checks the caller and ignores it. It’s her colleagues looking for answers. They can find them somewhere else.

Her hopes have begun to dwindle when pale eyelashes flutter against Jane’s cheek and his eyes roll open. They blink against the sharp lights. Lisbon’s heart swoops. Her hands wrap around his forearm. “Jane.”

His head tilts to look at her. Gradually, a drowsy smile lifts the corners of his mouth. “Hey,” he rasps. The reappearance of his smile lines reassures her.

“How are you feeling?”

“Great,” he says and his grin grows to a size too big for his face.

Relief loosens her muscles. “They’ve got you on the good stuff, huh?”

Jane looks from the IV in his hand to the stand next to his bed, to the heart monitor, to the rest of the room, to the bed, to Lisbon’s hands, to Lisbon’s face. In this inebriated state, he is unable to cover the gears of his mind. She watches them turn. Finally, he asks, “What happened?”

It’s a shame but not a surprise that he doesn’t remember. “You were shot,” she says. “You’re in the hospital.”

“Teresa,” he says seriously, “what on Earth are you wearing?”

She looks down at herself. Cho’s gray t-shirt hangs halfway out of her pants and his denim jacket is at least two sizes too big. “Uh, Cho’s civvies.”

“Hm, tomboy’s good on you,” he decides. “Very attractive.”

Heat blooms in her cheeks. Hopefully the opioid he’s high on is so strong that he doesn’t notice it. 

“Did I propose to you? I don’t remember, but you’ve got my ring, so,” he licks his lips, raises his eyebrows, and smiles widely, “mazel tov.”

Does he have to look so elated at the prospect of marrying her? It’s such a ridiculous idea. They’ve not even been friends for that long, and the deadline for a shotgun wedding has long since passed. “I was just holding onto it for you,” she explains and extricates the ring from the cross. After a second of consideration, she places it on the small bedside table instead of his palm.

His face falls. That’s not fair. He is supposed to be swallowed by inconsolable grief over his wife; he should not be available to marry anyone, much less Lisbon. If he is available, that makes her situation much worse. Her feelings will become very difficult to ignore.

“Guess it’s a little late for a shotgun wedding,” he says, echoing her earlier thoughts.

“Yeah, you missed the boat with that one.” It’s not a joke she’d dare to make if he were in his right mind, but she doubts he’ll remember any of this. 

“I’ll just have to knock you up again,” he says far too quickly to have thought it through.

It shocks a mortified laugh out of her. “If you weren’t high as a kite right now, I would’ve punched you in the nose for that.”

“I’m high?” he asks. “Oh, so I am. Well, that explains a few things. Are you high?” He squints at her, as if that would help him to scrutinize her better.

“No,” she says, silently relieved that the conversation is turning to safer grounds. “I’m not the one who got shot. Look, Jane, if you’re alright, I need to leave. Work stuff, I’ll fill you in when your brain is working again.”

“Where’s Katie?”

“Stanford. I was gonna call her, I’ll do that now. You want her to come here?”

“I miss her.” It’s been less than twenty-four hours since he last saw her. Lisbon smiles.

Katie answers her phone after the third beep. “Mom? Hey, what’s up?”

“Hey. Everyone’s okay, you don’t need to worry, but Jane had an accident at work and he’s in the hospital.”

“Oh my God! Okay? Uh, is he gonna be okay?”

“They’re keeping him for observation for twenty-four hours but it’s looking good. He’s awake. If you’re able to come up, he’d like to see you.”

“Of course, I’ll be there as soon as I can!”

Lisbon gives her daughter all the information she needs to find Jane’s hospital room and hands the phone over to Jane at Katie’s request.

“I’m fine,” Jane says. “Your mother will tell you I’m quote ‘high as a kite’ end-quote, but don’t listen to her, Katherine, she’s a habitual liar.”

“Alright,” Lisbon says and holds out her hand. “I think that’s plenty, you’ve got each other’s numbers if you need to chitchat.”

“Okay, I gotta go, love you,” Jane tells Katie and obediently passes the phone to Lisbon, who has just been paralyzed by those last two words. Are they new? Or does Jane frequently tell Katie he loves her? Lisbon didn’t think he was capable of saying those words.

She distracts herself by calling Abbott. “Jane’s awake. As soon as we've got a guard on him, I can meet with you.”

“Excellent. Ask for Agent Fischer in the hospital waiting room.”

“Wait, how long has she been here?”

“Meet us at CBI headquarters. We've got Reich and Whitmer.”

So that’s how it’s gonna be. “Yes, Boss.”

To Jane, she says, “I’m gonna go now, but a woman named Agent Fischer is gonna come watch over you to make sure nobody else pulls a gun on you. Please refrain from hitting on her so I don’t have to deal with whoever does HR for the FBI.”

“I resent the implication that I’d hit on just any federal agent.”

“Sober up before your daughter gets here.”

The right kind of deal makes Detective Reich talk, thank God. Cho and Abbott’s team have held out on interrogating anybody until her arrival, in the hopes that she has a pressure point they don’t know about. And she does. Wednesday’s paper in hand, she marches into Interrogation Room One. Abbott is by her side and Cho and the rest of the team watch from the one-way mirror. 

Once Abbott has needled Reich sufficiently and a deal has been agreed upon, Lisbon opens the newspaper and points to the picture showing a newly-released Mr Lopez embracing his girlfriend and their dog. With some encouragement, Reich haltingly admits that his team knowingly messed with the DNA samples.

“The ADA told us to,” he says. “Robert Whitmer. He wanted Lopez convicted for some reason. Lopez was already a career criminal, so I figured we’d at least get someone dangerous off the streets.”

“Lopez had one prior conviction,” Abbott says calmly. “Possession. No intent to sell. Not a  violent criminal, nor a repeat one.”

“Have you seen that guy? Come on. Definitely beats his girlfriend.”

“Do you have any evidence of that?” Lisbon asks and Reich squirms. “Was that the only time Whitmer asked you to tamper with evidence?”

It wasn’t. As it turns out, Whitmer’s whole career has been built on tampered evidence and intimidated witnesses and juries. Worse, one of his closest comrades was Thomas McAllister.

Halfway through the interview, Lisbon excuses herself to go throw up in the ladies’. Cho takes her seat. They continue without her.

Thanks to her, Jane broke bread with one of Red John’s closest friends.

God, Red John’s friend spent time in her house. He fucked her and she let him, repeatedly, enthusiastically, for months. Lisbon wants nothing more than to go home and take a shower. She wants to scrub her skin until it sloughs off.

Instead, she joins the team behind the one-way mirror and watches the rest of the interrogation in constipated silence.

28 November 2005, Patrick Jane.

His sleep has never been so dreamless. It’s the most relaxed he’s been in his life, drifting in and out of consciousness and experiencing no distress either way. It’s no wonder people lose themselves to this stuff. If he didn’t have people to anchor himself to, he’d find it very tempting to let this be the rest of his life. It’s peace he wouldn’t think he could achieve in any other way, had he not gone camping with his daughter and attended the Lisbon family Thanksgiving.

“Dad?” A voice gently pulls him to consciousness. As he breaches the surface, he notices aches he didn’t before. That’s for the best. He was beginning to enjoy this state a little too much.

Blinking his eyes open, he sees his girl peering at him with deep concern. Dad, he realizes she just said and beams. “That’s the first time you’ve called me that,” he says.

Katie smiles shyly. “I hope that’s okay.”

“Of course. More than okay. Here, sit down.” He gestures to the chair Lisbon has left behind. Agent Fischer decided to sit outside of his room, by the door. “You got past the guard.”

“Mom apparently told her I’d be coming,” she says as she takes the chair. “I don’t think she expected me to be this old, though. Took her a sec to believe who I was.” They share a chuckle.

“Thanks for coming,” he says. “Sorry if I worried you.”

“What happened?”

“I was shot. The guy who did it is already dead. Your mom was there taking care of me the whole time. I was in good hands.”

Katie studies the room. Her eyes linger on the IV drip. “Don't get shot again,” she says. “Please?”

“I'm quitting policework.” Red John is dead. The FBI will deal with his friends. There were parts of police work that he enjoyed: the puzzles and problem solving and problem making. It gave him some satisfaction to bring justice to murderers. Above all, he got to work with Lisbon. He got to see her every day. But what they do is not resurrection. The victims stay dead. Their families will never be the same. What they do is a kindness, but it doesn't feel like enough.

With Katie in his life he doesn't want to put himself at risk anymore, not for such an unsatisfying payoff, and he can always manufacture reasons to see Lisbon. The CBI has served its purpose. He's done with that chapter of his life.

The way Katie's face brightens reaffirms his decision. “What’re you gonna do instead?”

“Oh, I don't know, the world is my oyster.” It could be nice to do something with his hands. Woodworking, maybe. Something productive and useful and grounding. With all his financial ducks in a row, he never has to work for money again if he doesn’t want to. He can dedicate his time to whatever he’d like. “But I’ll stay in the area,” he adds. “I’ll stay near you.”

“And Mom?” Katie suggests. “You guys are friends, right?”

There are many traits of his that Katie has inherited despite his absence. Subtlety is not one of them. “Yes,” he allows. “Poker night was a good suggestion, thank you.” It had indeed been Katie’s idea for Jane to set up a weekly poker night for the CBI team in the hopes that it would alleviate any loneliness Lisbon might feel from her nest suddenly being empty. 

“You know what Mom has always wanted to do?” Katie asks with a nonchalance so exaggerated that it borders on comical. “She’s always wanted to do one of those fancy wine tastings in Napa. You should take her.”

“I’m sure her boyfriend can do that.”

“Right, yes, but–”

“I know what you’re doing,” he says gently. “Lisbon and I are not going to get together. Not even if Bobby disappeared in a puff of smoke.”

Unfortunately, he understands where Katie has gotten the idea: Thanksgiving. 

In the mornings, he and Lisbon were the first to wake. Even without an alarm clock, she woke at five a.m. on the dot, and he found it impossible to fall back asleep once she was up, so they migrated to the kitchen together and made coffee and eggs in their pajamas. The last morning, Katie caught them gossiping and laughing in lowered tones. That was just yesterday.

Those quiet morning hours weren’t the only ones they spent together, either. Lisbon’s discomfort around her brothers meant that throughout the visit she gravitated towards Jane and Katie. When they sat, she would sit between them. When they went on walks, she would sling her arm around Katie and her shoulders would relax if Jane was nearby.

At night, of course, Lisbon and Jane shared a room. His mattress stayed close to hers, like on the first night, just in case, but he didn’t hold her hand again. They took turns changing in the bathroom and pulled their covers to their chins. But when all the lights were off, all they could hear was the other person’s breathing.

It was lovely. Getting to start his day by sharing jokes and coffee with Lisbon was a privilege, and spending every waking hour with her only confirmed how much he enjoyed her company; there was not a moment when he’d had enough. And of course she was beautiful, that was never a question, and her attraction to him was clear as day, too.

Teresa Lisbon is extraordinary. Regardless of whether her feelings towards him are pure physical attraction or do consist of some romantic fondness (he couldn’t say; in this case, his judgment is irrevocably clouded by his own desires), she deserves so much better than him. Already, he has severely altered the course of her life once, and while he’s sure none of them would trade Katie for anything, it was not an easy path for her to go down. She deserves ease, now. Uncomplicated levity. That’s not something he can offer.

“Why not?” Katie pushes. Both Jane and Lisbon are stubborn. She could have gotten that from either one of them.

“That’s enough,” he says. “It’s not a negotiation.” A brief pause. “I think I’m gonna buy an Airstream, like the one we rented.”

28 November 2005, Teresa Lisbon.

It is made clear to Lisbon in no uncertain terms that she is not to interrogate Bobby. She’s more than happy to oblige. Even standing behind the mirror makes her skin crawl and fury rise to the tips of her ears. If Jane were here, he’d say smoke was coming out of them.

Bobby’s handsome face sorely needs a black eye. He regards Abbott like he’s nothing more than an irritating fly and refuses to talk. What did they expect from an ADA? They could’ve found him standing over a corpse with a bloody knife in his hand and he wouldn’t have said anything.

Abbott joins her in the observation room. “Alright, well, we've tried everything else,” he says. “You go. If he has any genuine affection towards you, you might be able to rattle him. Unless you have any lingering fondness for him?”

“No,” she says without hesitation. As if she could ever think of him as anything other than Jane's would-be killer.

She takes a deep breath before entering the interrogation room, alone.

Bobby's attitude immediately shifts. The man she was falling in love with appears in his worried frown and reaching hands. “Teresa? What are you doing here? Is Jane okay?”

How dare he. “That's all I was ever good for, right? Keeping tabs on Jane.”

“What?”

“I'm warning you, Bobby, I know everything. If you ever genuinely cared about me, you'll be honest with me now. It's the only way we can move forward.” Let him think there's a chance of salvaging their relationship. Hand him a shovel and help him dig his grave. “You started dating me because Red John told you to, didn’t you?”

For several, long minutes, Bobby sits in silence. His pretty, blue eyes scan her and it strikes her that their shade is uncomfortably close to Jane’s. Thanks to his older age, his hair is thinning but it’s a similar blond as well. Jesus. How did she never notice?

Bobby sighs and says, carefully weighing each word before pronouncing it, “Thomas McAllister was a friend of mine. I didn't know he was Red John. I would not have been his friend had I known. We'd have beers together sometimes. I told him about this gorgeous agent who’d been a witness for the McGregor case. He said he knew of you and that you worked with an old conman. He advised me to ask you out, but recommended I keep an eye on Jane and wanted me to keep him informed. He said he had personal history with Jane. I assumed Jane had scammed him. I didn't want you to be the victim of a con either so I kept my eyes open. When we saw him with that woman at the restaurant, I thought he might be scamming her, so I told Thom. Afterwards, when I found out he was Red John, I felt awful, but at that point he was already dead.”

If Jane were here, he could tell her if Bobby is lying. She doesn’t trust her own judgment. “You should’ve told me.”

“I should have,” he agrees. “I was ashamed to have been his friend. I worried that if you knew you’d look at me… the way you’re looking at me now.”

“If that were the whole story, things might be different,” she says, not bothering to hide her anger now that they’ve established a connection to Red John. “Jane was shot this morning.”

“You’re not thinking I had something to do with that?” Thank God Jane has taught her how easily people can lie, or she might be tempted to let the stricken expression on Bobby’s face affect her judgment. “Teresa. I’ve been nothing but supportive of your friendship. I think I deserve some credit for that.”

“Katie nearly lost him because of you.”

“I had nothing to do with that,” he insists, “and I’m hurt you’d think of me in that way.”

“Someone told Gordon to do what he did. If it wasn’t you, then it was the person you informed about Jane’s investigation. You’re the only person who knew about it.”

“Where’s your proof that anyone told Gordon what to do? Isn’t the most obvious explanation that he planned it and executed it by himself? I mean, who lets themselves be talked into suicide?”

She almost smiles. The details surrounding Gordon’s death have not been leaked to the press. Only the people on the scene and Abbott’s team know that it was a suicide. Granted, it’s not a very big logical leap, but he could’ve been killed in gunfire from other officers. With a man like Bobby, there won’t be a lot of slipups, so this one is worth its weight in gold. “Maybe you had something on him, something that, if it got out, would be worse than death,” she suggests. It’s how she thinks the network might work: everyone has blackmail material on each other. It’s just a theory but it would be a natural consequence of cops helping each other do dirty work.

Bobby’s jaw tenses. “I’m sorry, Teresa, I’m not saying anything else until my lawyer gets here. Please believe me when I say I had nothing to do with Jane being shot.”

“I don’t believe you,” she says and rises from her seat. It feels good to look down at him. “Rot in Hell.”

“Teresa–”

The door shuts behind her, cutting him off. She’s not wasting another breath on him.

28 November 2005, Patrick Jane.

“Hit me,” Katie says after some consideration on her ninth round of Blackjack. Jane draws an eight from the deck and Katie slaps her cards down triumphantly to reveal a five and a seven. “Twenty!”

Movement by the door catches Jane’s attention. It swings open to reveal Lisbon, dressed in what Jane thinks is Cho’s undercover gear and carrying a nondescript plastic bag. There’s a deep exhaustion in her face. It sinks her cheeks and pulls at her eyelids. Her lips are colorless and tight. Under the fluorescents, her skin is bone white.

All he remembers of waking up from general anaesthesia is that she was there, just as she promised she would be, and that she was beautiful.

“Hey,” he says, taking in the apprehensive glint in her eyes.

“Hey,” she replies. The door falls shut behind her. She raises the bag. “I brought dinner.”

There’s a burrito, a side of fries, and a soda for each of them. Katie’s is indulgent, with bacon and pulled pork, while Jane’s is packed with ground beef and jalapenos – Lisbon can be observant when she wants to be, too. Hers is as green as a burrito can get, she only has a few of her fries, and her soda will be diet. Ever denying herself pleasure while simultaneously allowing Katie a treat. What does she think she’s done so wrong that she needs to be continuously punished in small ways like this?

The large t-shirt swamps her. Its neckline slants to one side on her, revealing an inviting hint of collarbone. Her seaglass eyes stare into space, no doubt replaying whatever awful things happened at work. What could it be? Gordon killed himself, Jane saw it. But if the guard on his door is anything to go by, Lisbon thinks he’s still in danger. Why?

“Mom?” Katie asks and nudges Lisbon with her shin. Lisbon has seated herself on the end of the bed but carefully out of his reach. “You okay?”

Lisbon blinks herself out of her haze. “I’m fine,” she lies and wraps the uneaten half of her burrito in its foil. “Long day at work. Er, Katie, would you give us a sec?”

“Sure.” Soda and fries in hand, Katie happily strolls out of the door, shooting Jane a meaningful look on the way.

“So,” Jane says when the door shuts behind their meddlesome daughter, “what happened that’s so awful you can’t even look at me?”

All of her cool pretense crumbles. Her rigid shoulders and tensed jaw sag. Beyond the apprehension, he now sees its source: guilt. As he expected. Something is eating at her. “Bobby is dirty,” she says quietly, and everything falls into place.

“He found out about the Tyger Investigation through you and he ordered the hit on me. He’s one of Red John’s friends.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Look at me.”

There is nothing she would refuse him right now. Although her brows are framed by a frown, she obliges and looks him in the eye. Hers are a blue-green sea of regret. 

“I didn’t know, either,” he says. “He was a good conman. He had both of us.”

Her lips pucker. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, Jane–”

“If I didn’t suspect him, you didn’t stand a chance–”

“You almost died because of me,” she interrupts, her fists and jaw clenched. “Why aren’t you angry?”

“Have you seen our beautiful daughter?” he asks gently. “Teresa, you could shoot me directly in the heart yourself and I’d still be grateful to you.”

Her pale lips part in surprise, revealing a glint of front teeth. That slight overbite of hers has always charmed him. “Jane…” It’s a good thing she’s so far away. If she’d been closer, it would’ve taken a lot of strength to stop himself from reaching out for her.

“So,” he says to distract himself from how lovely her lips look, “bring me up to speed.”

“Er, after you were shot, I had Cho bring in the FBI. They’ve been running the show since. Apparently this network of corruption ran deep, so they’ve disbanded the CBI. Cho and I have been brought on as consultants to the FBI. Today, we got a confession from Reich, who implicated Whitmer. What about you, what have the doctors been telling you?”

“Oh, I’ll be fine. You guys did a great job minimizing blood loss with your first aid. They couldn’t save my gallbladder and I’ll be using a colostomy bag for the rest of my life, which I’m sure the ladies will love, but aside from that they’re expecting full recovery.”

“Oh, that’s good,” she says. “Maybe you’ll be more honest.”

From her strained tone and twitching lip, he can guess that she’s about to make a joke, but he’s at a complete loss as to what it’ll be. “Pardon?”

“Since you won’t be full of shit,” she says and grins.

“Clever.”

He loves that smile. He loves her sharp canines and the way her upper lip pulls up and out and the soft crinkle of her nose. He loves her.

Angela, he thinks, trying to shake himself out of it. Charlotte. But a voice that sounds like Katie’s wonders: Would they be glad that it’s someone I knew before them? Is it really replacing them if Lisbon is only taking up the space in my heart that she already claimed long ago?

“Alright, I should get Katie,” Lisbon says. “It’s getting late. I’ll talk to her and see if she wants to go back to Stanford tomorrow, or if she wants to stay a while. Abbott’ll keep a guard on you for the night, but it’s very unlikely anyone’s gonna try anything. Sound good?”

“Sounds good,” he confirms. “Good night, Lisbon.”

“Night, Jane.”

Just as she reaches for the door handle, he says, “Teresa?” She looks over her shoulder. “Thank you. For staying with me.”

Her smile is soft. “Told you you’d be fine,” she says quietly and slips out of the door.