Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Lena Hart stepped into the CBI headquarters, the glass doors hissing shut behind her. The sterile lighting overhead contrasted with the familiar, earthy aroma of coffee drifting from a nearby breakroom. She closed her eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply. After five relentless years of training, sleepless nights, and sheer determination—she was finally here.

She took a second to compose herself before heading toward the chief's office. The nameplate on the door read Virgil Minelli. She knocked once.

“Come in,” a voice called from within.

The man behind the desk looked up from a stack of paperwork, and his face brightened with recognition.

“Agent Hart,” he said warmly, standing up. “It’s so nice to finally see you among us. Come on, let me introduce you to your team.”

She nodded and followed him through the office and down the staircase. Her shoes clicked softly against the tile floor, but her heart thudded louder with every step.

“I’ll admit,” Minelli said casually, “I was sure you’d be heading to the FBI.”

Lena offered a tight smile. “Well, you know... things happened.”

Minelli gave her a knowing look but didn’t press further. They emerged onto the bullpen floor—a wide, open space alive with murmured conversations, phones ringing, and keyboards clacking. And then she saw them.

A muscular man leaning over a desk with a coffee in hand. An Asian man standing nearby, unreadable expression carved into stone. A red-haired woman flipping through a case file. And one woman, sharp-eyed and commanding, who practically radiated authority.

Minelli gestured toward the group.

“This is Agent Hart,” he announced. “Alongside Agent Van Pelt and Agent Minelli, she’s one of the newest additions to the team.”

The woman Lena had immediately pegged as the leader gave her a curt nod.

“I’m Teresa Lisbon,” she said, voice steady, no-nonsense. “Your boss.”

She pointed to the muscular man first. “This is Agent Rigsby.”

Rigsby gave a polite nod, his expression neutral.

“And this is Agent Cho.”

Cho glanced at her. “Welcome,” he said flatly.

Lisbon turned to the red-haired woman. “Van Pelt, like you, is new to the team.”

Van Pelt smiled and waved. “Hi!”

Lena offered a small, grateful smile back, but her mind had already snagged on something Minelli had said a moment earlier.

“You mentioned... Agent Minelli would be joining too?” she asked, trying to sound casual, though her gut had already dropped. Her brain repeated one silent prayer like a drumbeat: Please don’t be him. Please don’t be him.

Minelli opened his mouth to respond, but the answer came uninvited—from behind her.

“Oh, come on, Hart,” came the familiar, taunting voice. “Try not to look so devastated. You missed me. It’s okay to admit it.”

Lena froze.

She didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.

But she did.

There he stood, in all his infuriating, smug glory—Cole Minelli, her college rival and greatest academic nemesis. Leaning against the doorframe with a lazy smile, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and that irritating gleam in his eyes like he’d already won something she hadn’t agreed to compete for.

Of course it was him.

“Cole Minelli,” she said flatly.

“Agent Minelli,” he corrected with a wink. “We’re professionals now, remember?”

Lena grit her teeth, forcing herself to smile just enough to pass for civil. Inside, her brain screamed.

This was going to be a long day.

---

The commercial flight buzzed with a quiet murmur of conversation, punctuated by the occasional clink of a soda can or the crinkle of a pretzel bag. Lena sank into the aisle seat and tugged her blazer off, exhaling as she let her shoulders drop for the first time in hours.

“Mind if I sit here?” a voice asked beside her.

She looked up to see Grace Van Pelt holding a cup of coffee in one hand and a case folder in the other.

“Sure. Be my guest.”

Grace settled into the window seat and offered a smile—open, friendly, a little nervous. “First field trip with the new team,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Feels weird, right?”

“You mean the overwhelming panic and imposter syndrome?” Lena deadpanned, then gave a wry smile. “Yeah. Totally normal.”

Grace laughed softly. “I’m glad I’m not the only one.”

They sat in companionable silence for a moment, the engines humming as the plane taxied toward the runway.

“Where’d you transfer from?” Lena asked.

“Fresno,” Grace said. “Local law enforcement. What about you?”

“Quantico,” Lena answered, stretching out her legs. “I just finished the academy.”

Grace blinked. “Straight into CBI? That’s impressive.”

Lena offered a tight smile and turned to look out the window, watching the tarmac slip by.

“Luck. Timing,” she murmured. “And connections.”

She didn’t mention the late-night training sessions, the therapy she skipped, the fact that she hadn’t had a real friend in three years. She definitely didn’t mention the name that sat at the back of her throat like a stone.

Grace shifted in her seat, then nodded at the case folder now resting on Lena’s lap. “You seen what we’re working on yet?”

“Not yet,” Lena said, flipping it open.

The words leapt out at her instantly.

Red John.

Her stomach dropped.

Her fingers clenched around the folder as her eyes scanned the details—victim’s name, the message on the wall, the smiley face drawn in blood.

The world around her dulled.

She felt Grace glance at her. “You okay?”

Lena looked up, startled. Her voice was too soft when she replied. “Yeah. Just... just tired.”

Grace gave her a gentle, searching look, but didn’t press.

Lena leaned back in her seat, gripping the folder like it might float away if she let go. She’d prepared herself for this moment for years. She had trained, studied, obsessed. She’d known Red John would be out there, somewhere.

She just hadn’t expected it to come this fast.

Or to hit this hard.

The plane took off with a rumble, and Lena closed her eyes, willing herself not to feel the tremble in her hands.

---

She didn’t remember falling asleep.

But the dream came fast—sharp, brutal, like a punch to the chest.

The house was dark. Familiar.

She walked down the hall on bare feet, heart racing in her ears. The air smelled like copper and something rotting. The door to her mother’s bedroom creaked open and—

She was there.

Pale. Still. Eyes wide open.

On the wall above her—

A red smile.

Painted in blood.

Lena tried to scream, but no sound came. The smile stretched wider, until it split the wall apart and swallowed everything.

---

She woke with a gasp, eyes flying open, body jerking upright.

The cabin lights had dimmed. The passengers around her were either asleep or quietly flipping through magazines. Grace looked over from the window seat, concern knitting her brow.

“Bad dream?” she asked gently.

Lena blinked at her, then nodded. “Yeah. Just... a dream.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

Grace didn’t believe her, but she didn’t push. Instead, she offered a packet of peanuts from the seat pocket. “Want one?”

Lena hesitated—then took it. “Thanks.”

---

Palm Springs International Airport was humming with mid-morning traffic—travelers dragging suitcases, coffee cups in hand, and voices echoing against tiled walls and high glass ceilings.

Agents Lisbon, Cho, Rigsby, Hart, Minelli, and Van Pelt moved together through the concourse, a quiet procession of black blazers and government-issued purpose.

Lena walked near the middle of the group, her shoes clicking briskly against the floor, the air warm with desert sun bleeding through the windows. She didn’t say much—just kept pace, eyes alert, soaking everything in.

They were a unit now. It still felt foreign.

Just as they passed a fork in the terminal, Grace Van Pelt slowed and veered off toward the baggage carousel.

“Sorry,” Grace said quickly.

Lisbon turned on a dime, fixing Van Pelt with a raised brow and that signature clipped tone of command.

“You checked luggage? What, are you on vacation?”

Van Pelt stiffened. “No, ma’am. Won’t do it again.”

Lisbon didn’t slow. “When your trousseau arrives, grab the second rental and go straight to the Sheriff’s department. Hustle us up a couple of rooms, furniture, and phone lines.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Van Pelt murmured, red-faced.

Lisbon nodded to Cho and Rigsby. “Let’s move.”

The team peeled away in pairs, leaving Van Pelt by the baggage carousel, clearly deflated. Lena Hart lingered a beat behind the others, arms crossed loosely as she studied the scene.

Grace looked like she wanted to disappear into the floor. It was the kind of mistake Lena would never allow herself to make—too careful, too calculating. But she didn’t feel smug about it. Just… sharpened.

You didn’t survive this job by being sweet.

Still, Grace was trying. That was something.

Lena’s expression didn’t change, but her posture softened just enough to feel like permission. No pity—just a quiet acknowledgment. You’re not alone.

Before she could move again, Cole Minelli sauntered up beside her, coffee cup in one hand, duffel bag in the other.

“Well, that was brutal,” he said cheerfully, watching Grace with mild sympathy. “Do you think Lisbon practices her death glare in the mirror, or is she just naturally gifted?”

Lena didn’t look at him. “Not everyone can charm their way through their first day.”

“Not everyone needs to,” he shot back, grinning. “Some of us are just built different.”

She gave him a sidelong glance, cool and unimpressed. “Your ego’s showing, Minelli.”

“Can’t help it,” he said, tapping his temple. “Genetic defect. Like being devastatingly handsome.”

Lena didn’t roll her eyes—she refused to give him the satisfaction—but her silence was its own kind of dismissal.

They’d known each other too long for it to sting. College rivals turned accidental teammates. He was heat; she was ice. Oil and water with shared trauma and a matching badge.

He fell into step beside her anyway, like he always did.

“You don’t think Lisbon’s gonna eat us alive, do you?” he asked casually as they moved toward the exit.

“No,” Lena said flatly. “Just you.”

Cole chuckled. “Cold as ever, Hart. God, I missed you.”

She didn’t respond.

But as they left the terminal behind them—Grace lingering by the carousel, Lisbon already halfway out the door—Lena felt something shift. It wasn’t excitement exactly. More like... readiness.

Her first case. Her first chance.

And Red John was out there.

No more theories. No more lectures. No more hiding behind papers and professors.

She was in the field now.

And she had no intention of being forgettable.

---

The midday sun beat down on the Riverside County Morgue as Agents Lisbon, Cho, Rigsby, Lena, and Cole made their way up the paved path. Lena squinted at the squat white building ahead, the thick morgue air already hanging heavy even from the outside. She’d never been to a crime scene like this before—real, raw, and tangled up in Red John’s shadow. Her stomach was coiled so tightly she wondered if anyone could hear it humming.

A yellow cab pulled up just as they reached the entrance. The back door swung open and a man stepped out, loose-limbed and smiling faintly, like none of this touched him.

“Morning, everybody,” he said breezily. “How was your flight?”

Patrick Jane.

Lena knew his face before he spoke. She’d studied him—interviews, old footage, courtroom records. He was charming, brilliant, dangerous. And for years, he'd been the closest anyone had gotten to Red John.

Lisbon didn’t even break stride. “Go away. You're on suspension.”

“Thank you,” Jane said to the cab driver, handing over cash before catching up with the group.

“Mandated leave,” he added cheerfully. “Ends next week.”

“So come back next week.” Lisbon’s voice was clipped.

“Hot enough for you?”

Lena blinked. Was he seriously making small talk?

Lisbon turned her glare to the others. “Which one of you jackasses told him?”

“It was you, wasn’t it, Cho?”

Cho gave a subtle shrug. “Yes. It was.”

“Of course he called me,” Jane said, as if this were the most natural thing in the world. “It’s Red John. You can’t keep me out of this. Why would you want to?”

“You got a man killed,” Lisbon snapped. “There are consequences.”

Jane’s expression didn’t change. “A man that murdered his daughter because she wouldn’t have sex with him anymore.”

“You didn’t know that,” Lisbon hissed. “You did not know that. If she hadn’t left a diary—”

“But she did, though,” he said, simply. “Be reasonable. This is my case.”

“Your case,” Lisbon repeated, as if tasting something foul.

“Red John is mine.”

“Red John doesn’t belong to anyone.”

They stopped in front of the morgue’s double doors, tension radiating off them in waves. Cho and Rigsby didn’t wait—they exchanged a glance and slipped inside.

Lena paused just behind them, Cole at her side. She watched Jane and Lisbon, fascinated. This wasn’t a rivalry. This was a storm with history behind it.

Lisbon finally turned to the morgue’s security guard. “It’s not my call. Rules are rules. Come back next week.” She pointed at Jane. “Don’t let this man past.”

Jane raised a hand in mock surrender, but his eyes were already scanning for a way in.

Lisbon pushed through the morgue doors. Just as they started to swing shut, her phone buzzed in her pocket. She checked the caller ID, sighed.

“Boss…”

She turned back, clearly irritated, then set her sights on Lena.

“Go fetch Jane,” she ordered.

Lena straightened. “Who, me?” she asked, caught off guard. She’d been hoping to see the autopsy firsthand—her first case, her first real moment in the field—and now she was being benched?

Lisbon arched a brow. “Would you prefer me doing it?”

Lena quickly shook her head. “No, ma’am. Sorry.”

Lisbon didn’t wait for a response. She strode inside, where Cole was already holding the door open with one hand. Before Lena could follow, he smirked at her.

“See you later, partner,” he mouthed, then shut the door on her face.

Lena sighed.

Of course.

She turned on her heel and made her way back down the path, where Patrick Jane was still loitering just beyond the security guard’s reach, as if he’d been expecting her all along.

Jane was perched on the low brick ledge outside the morgue, sleeves rolled, sunlight glinting off his watch as he toyed with a loose thread on his vest. He didn’t look like someone who haunted crime scenes. More like someone who wandered into them for fun.

Lena stopped a few feet away, crossing her arms. “You’re coming with me.”

He glanced up at her, head tilting. “Well, you’re not Lisbon.”

“Observant,” she said dryly.

He stood, brushing off invisible dust. “Let me guess. You’re the new recruit.”

“I’m Agent Hart. CBI.”

“Agent Hart,” he repeated, tasting the name. “Fresh out of Quantico, or was it Berkeley?”

Lena blinked. “How did you—”

“The posture,” he said. “Textbook. You’re trying not to fidget, but your left thumb keeps brushing your belt—new holster, uncomfortable fit. The cadence of your voice still has that academy clip, like you’re reciting procedure even when you’re improvising. And the shoes?” He pointed down. “You polished them this morning. That sort of optimism doesn’t last long here.”

Lena narrowed her eyes. “You’re not nearly as charming as you think you are.”

“Wrong,” he said, already walking past her toward the building. “I’m exactly as charming as I think I am.”

She didn’t follow right away. She took a breath, then another, before moving in step beside him.

“So,” Jane continued, hands sliding into his pockets, “what’s your angle?”

“My angle?”

“Everyone on this case has one. Red John brings out the worst in us. And sometimes the best. Depends on the day.”

“I want to catch him,” she said flatly.

“That’s not an angle. That’s a fantasy.”

Lena stopped. “You don’t know anything about me.”

He stopped too, his expression gentling just a little. “Not yet. But I’m good at puzzles. And you—Agent Hart—you’re going to be a fun one.”

She stared at him. “I’m not here to play.”

“No,” he said, a small smile curling at the edge of his mouth. “You’re here to win.”

And with that, he turned again, strolling toward the morgue doors with the casual confidence of someone who had nothing to prove—and nothing left to lose.

Lena followed, her jaw tight.

She wasn’t sure what bothered her more—his arrogance, or the fact that he was already starting to figure her out.

---

The morgue was cool and sterile, the smell of antiseptic hanging just beneath the stronger scent of death. Lisbon stood beside Cho and Rigsby, her arms crossed tightly as the medical examiner gestured to the pale, lifeless body on the metal slab.

“We have Gregory Tannen,” the examiner said. “Caucasian, male, forty-three, single. We haven’t opened him up yet, but burn marks here—” she pointed along the man’s side “—suggest he was subdued with a civilian-grade stun gun. Death appears to be caused by multiple blunt-force blows to the back of the skull. The weapon was recovered at the scene—an aluminum golf club.”

Jane slipped in like a shadow, positioning himself just behind Lisbon. Lena followed a step behind him, falling in next to Cole, who gave her a slight nudge with his elbow like they were sneaking into a movie they hadn’t paid for.

“Sorry I went over your head,” Jane said lightly, slipping his ID out and flashing it toward the M.E. “I’ll redeem myself. I promise.”

Lisbon didn’t even look at him. “If you want redemption, be silent.”

Jane offered an obedient smile. “Okay. I can learn to do that.”

“Shh,” Lisbon snapped, then turned to the M.E. “Sorry. Please continue.”

The woman nodded. “The female victim is Alison Randolph. Twenty-seven, married, no children. Same stun gun marks, followed by binding—tight black plastic ligatures. Frenzied cutting and stabbing to the torso. The viscera was… abused. It’s consistent with prior Red John signatures.”

Cho exhaled sharply. “Textbook Red John.”

“Who found the bodies?” Lisbon asked.

“Her husband,” Cho replied. “Came home from the airport Sunday morning with his brother. He’s a professional golfer.”

“Oh yeah?” Rigsby tilted his head. “Anyone we’d know?”

“Price Randolph,” Cho said simply.

“What’s the connection between her and Tannen?” Lisbon asked. “Any history?”

“He’s listed as one of her physicians,” Cho said. “Family practice. No official red flags.”

“Maybe they were lovers,” Rigsby offered with a shrug.

Lena didn’t speak, but her gaze dropped to the victim’s shoes. Polished leather loafers—scuffed just at the inner heel, the kind of wear that came from walking with the toes slightly outward. The cut of his trousers was sharp, a little too sharp for a man who didn’t seem to care about the bloodstain on his collar. His nails were neatly filed, no ring mark on his hand, but he wore a thin gold chain tucked beneath his shirt—delicate, tasteful, probably expensive.

She glanced at the way his eyebrows were trimmed—clean, even.

By the time she opened her mouth, Jane beat her to it.

“No,” he said with certainty. “This one’s gay.”

Cole snorted. “Well, if he wasn’t, he definitely dressed like he wanted to be.”

Lena rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth twitched. She didn’t argue—he wasn’t wrong, and he knew it.

Jane looked over at her, a faint spark of recognition in his expression. Not approval exactly—but something like acknowledgment.

Lena said nothing, just folded her arms and stared down at the body, her mind already racing ahead.

This was Red John’s work.
And Red John was hers.

---

The hallway outside the morgue felt colder than the autopsy room itself—sterile and still, like it had absorbed the echoes of too many bad conversations.

Dr. Wagner stood waiting. Tall, slightly stooped posture, hands folded in front of him with the exact stillness of a man who'd learned to endure uncomfortable questions. His white coat was crisp. Not a wrinkle out of place. His shoes were shined. The kind of man who took care with appearances.

Lena tucked herself slightly behind Cole, observing more than anything. Just listening.

Lisbon stepped forward. “Dr. Wagner. Hi. I’m Agent Teresa Lisbon, California Bureau of Investigation. What’s your connection to the victims?”

Wagner offered a polite nod, his expression measured. “I work with Gregory—Dr. Tannen. The Randolph family have been clients of ours for years. Good people.”

He said it easily, but there was a tightness at the corners of his mouth. Not grief. Restraint.

Lisbon kept her voice even. “Are house calls the norm at your practice?”

Wagner shook his head. “No. Not usually. Gregory and Alison… they were close. Friends, outside of work.”

Rigsby stepped in, the question falling off his tongue without warning. “Lovers?”

There was a pause, just a breath longer than usual. Wagner didn’t bristle. He simply answered, with a small shake of his head. “No. Gregory was gay. They were just friends.”

Lena had already figured that. It was in the way Gregory’s hands had been manicured to an almost obsessive degree, the faint tan line of a ring worn on the right hand—European-style, most likely a commitment band—and the sharp, clean cut of his suit. There had been a certain fastidiousness in the photos they reviewed. The kind that was usually personal, not professional. But still, she said nothing.

Jane, who had been watching her, glanced over and smiled.

“Ah,” he said softly, confirming what they both knew.

“Impressive,” Cole muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Jane to hear.

Jane turned, winked at both of them like they were in on some private joke.

Lisbon rolled her eyes. “Stop trying to imitate the kids,” she said, half-hearted in her scolding.

Lena almost smiled. Almost.

Dr. Wagner’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “What in God’s name happened to them?”

Rigsby’s jaw tightened. “Looks like Red John.”

Wagner blinked. The words seemed to hang in the air between them.

"Who is Red John?" he asked.

Lisbon’s expression shifted slightly—wall up, tone clipped. “We don’t know who did this. We’ll be in touch, probably. Thank you.”

Dr. Wagner nodded, a touch too neatly.

As they walked away, Lena looked back once.

Just a man in a hallway. Standing still. Hands folded just right.

---

The Randolph house was hushed, like even the walls didn’t want to remember what had happened here.

Brett Partridge crouched near the entryway, gloved fingers dancing just above the carpet. He spoke with the giddy energy of someone describing a magic trick, not a double homicide.

“Red John enters here,” he said, gesturing toward the front door. “Excuse me.” He slipped around Rigsby without looking up. “He comes around here. Waits for her. She’s alone, he thinks.”

Partridge rose and paced into the living room, eyes glittering with excitement.

“Only thing is, her friend Tannen chose the wrong night to stop by for a Richard Gere and ice cream orgy.”

Cole gave him a sideways look, unimpressed. Partridge either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

“So Red John zaps them both with his trusty stun gun and—excuse me—” he said again, brushing past Cole like this was all some kind of performance. “—grabs a five iron from the bag right here and bam! Cracks Tannen’s skull wide open.”

He mimed the swing, eyes gleaming with theatrical flair.

“Then he takes his sweet time with Alison. That’s his thing. She’s a nice, big girl—so unless he’s pretty strong, I figure he grabbed her by the arms, dragged her upstairs…”

Jane had already wandered off, eyes drifting, half-listening.

Lena followed him.

Upstairs, the bedroom felt colder than the morgue. The bed was stripped of sheets, but not of memory. A dark bloodstain bloomed across the mattress like a flower pressed into old paper. Above it, on the wall, the familiar symbol in lurid red—Red John’s trademark smiley face, drawn in the victim’s blood.

Lena’s breath caught. She didn’t move.

She was ten again, small, staring at red on white walls. The bedroom looked almost the same.

An officer stood awkwardly in the corner, hat in hand.

“We believe the killer calls himself Red John.”

Her father stood like stone beside her. He didn’t speak for a long time.

Then:
“Red John?”

The name sounded heavier in his voice. Like it didn’t belong in the world.

Lena blinked.

The bedroom came back into focus.

Jane glanced at her sideways, quietly.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.

He just stood beside her, in the quiet, as the smiley face grinned back at them.

---

The bedroom was still and cold, the air thick with the sour tang of dried blood and bleach. On the wall, drawn in a gruesome shade of rust, was the infamous smiley face—staring down at them like some deranged brand logo. Brett Partridge stood just inside the room, practically glowing with morbid enthusiasm.

“There she blows,” Partridge announced, gesturing dramatically toward the wall. “The classic Red John smiley face. Drawn in the victim's blood, clockwise, with three fingers of his right hand. Rubber kitchen glove, as always. I’m stoked to finally see one in the flesh.”

Lena's stomach turned. His giddiness made her skin crawl.

Jane stepped closer, his eyes cool and detached. “This isn’t Red John.”

Partridge turned slowly, arching a brow and dragging out the word like a bad game show host. “Ri-i-ight.”

“Red John thinks of himself as a showman,” Jane continued, voice calm but razor-sharp. “An artist. He has a strong sense of theater. Every scene he creates is designed for maximum emotional impact. Always the same rhythm—first, you see the smiley face. You know instantly. Dread floods in. Then, only then, do you see the body.”

He pointed to the center of the room. “Here? The body’s the first thing you see. The smiley face is tucked away, like an afterthought. It doesn’t play nearly as well, does it?”

Lisbon shrugged, arms crossed. “Depends on your taste, I suppose.”

Lena shifted beside Cole, eyes scanning the scene. “He’s right.”

Cole glanced sideways at her, one brow raised. “And how would you know?”

She ignored his tone and took a step forward, gesturing slightly. “Red John always uses symmetry. The composition matters to him. The wall he chooses is never random—it’s the first thing in your eyeline when you enter. Here, it’s hidden. Sloppy.” Her gaze flicked to the floor. “And he never leaves that much mess.”

Cole scoffed under his breath and looked away, jaw tightening.

Jane turned to Lisbon, voice low and sure. “The killer could’ve painted the correct wall. It’s right there. But he didn’t—because he didn’t know better. Because he isn’t Red John.”

Partridge gave a low whistle, lips twitching. “Wow. Interesting.”

Jane’s gaze turned icy. “You know what your problem is, my friend? You enjoy your work way too much. You’re a ghoul. If you don’t get horny reading Fangoria, I’m Britney Spears.”

Lena bit back a laugh, lips twitching. Jane wasn’t wrong. The man gave her the creeps.

Cole chuckled—just once—but caught Lisbon’s death glare mid-sound and tried to disguise it with a cough.

“I resent that,” Partridge muttered, wounded ego showing through the bravado.

Lisbon shot Jane a sharp look. “This is your idea of redemption?”

He offered her an apologetic half-smile. “I’m sorry. He irks me. He’s irksome. You don’t need me here.”

Without another word, Jane turned on his heel and walked out.

Lena watched Jane disappear down the hallway, his steps light and unhurried, like he hadn’t just thrown a verbal grenade into the room and walked off whistling.

The silence he left behind was awkward—thick as fog and almost as suffocating.

Partridge muttered something under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly flustered for the first time since they’d arrived. Lena didn’t look at him. Her gaze lingered on the dried smudge of blood near the wall—the smiley face now barely registering as a symbol of fear. It felt…off. Jane was right. Whoever did this was copying Red John. And not very well.

She tilted her head slightly, noticing the uneven arc of the smile. Too quick, too crude. Red John was careful. Deliberate. This one had rushed it.

Lisbon broke the silence. “Let’s finish up here. Cole, Rigsby, stay with Partridge. I’ll check on Jane.”

Lena didn’t move to follow. She crouched slightly, pretending to examine the corner of the dresser, but really just taking a moment to breathe. The smell in the room was cloying now. She could still see the ghost of blood on the bedspread, could still picture the flash of memory that had surged up earlier—her mother’s case file, the blood on the wall, the detective’s grim face as he said that name for the first time.

Red John.

She didn’t say it out loud, but it echoed all the same.

Cole stepped up beside her. “You really buying Jane’s theory?”

Lena stood, brushing imaginary dust from her jeans. “You don’t?”

He shrugged. “I think Jane wants it to be a copycat. Keeps things tidy. Easier to control.”

Lena met his eyes. “Or maybe he just knows what he’s talking about.”

Cole didn’t respond right away. He just looked at her for a moment—really looked—before giving a slight smirk and walking away.

Lena exhaled slowly. Her heart was still racing from the earlier flashback, but she stuffed it down. Not now. Not here. She needed clarity, and clarity didn’t come with emotion.

She turned her focus back to the smiley face one more time. The blood had dried in clumps. The strokes were thick and impatient.

No, this wasn’t Red John. She could feel it in her bones.

But whoever it was… they wanted to be him.

And that was just as dangerous.

---

The CBI field office buzzed with a quiet intensity. Van Pelt was still settling in—carefully placing a small cactus and a framed photo of her family beside her monitor—while Lisbon, Cho, Rigsby, Cole, and Lena huddled around a laptop, the room dimmed slightly to make the footage easier to see. The screen flickered with familiar, grim imagery: a bright red smiley face painted on the wall… and then, the body.

Lisbon’s eyes didn’t leave the screen. “So yeah,” she said finally, exhaling. “This one doesn’t fit the pattern.”

Cho crossed his arms. “So Jane was right. We’ve got a copycat.”

“Or,” Lisbon countered, turning toward them, “we have Red John trying new things. Or we have Red John making a mistake. We don’t know. We’ll work the evidence until we do. Go talk to the husband”

Rigsby straightened. Will do, Boss”

“What are you waiting for?” Lisbon added sharply.

As Cho and Rigsby made their way out, Cole glanced at Lena. “Ready to see who claims the best desk?”

Lena arched a brow, already walking. “Already did. It’s called initiative.”

Cole followed with a low chuckle. “More like desk-hogging desperation. Classic Hart move.”

She placed her box down at the sunlit workstation with a self-satisfied smirk. “Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, Minelli.”

Cole set his things at the desk opposite hers. “Neither does losing. But don’t worry—you’ll get used to it.”

As he unpacked, he pulled out a small, scratched brass nameplate: C. Minelli. Lena noticed the way his fingers lingered on it for a second too long, just before he placed it carefully at the corner of his desk.

She said nothing—just quietly filed that moment away.

Across the bullpen, Lisbon pulled out her phone, voice dropping as she leaned against her desk. “Hey. So, you might be right about this case. Might be. Thanks for the insight.” She paused, clearly listening to someone’s smug reply. “No, did I say that? I’m acknowledging the fact that you might be right, that’s all.”

Another pause.

“I mean, if you wanted to come back, I couldn’t stop you.”

She listened again, biting her lip.

“Yeah, fine, I’m asking you to come back.”

And then, one more beat, followed by an eye roll so dramatic it could have knocked papers off her desk.

“Because…because you’re useful to the team.”

A snort.

“No! No, I won’t say ‘please,’ go screw yourself.”

Lisbon slammed the phone shut, muttering, “Jackass…” as she pulled a folder toward her.

At that precise moment, Patrick Jane walked through the glass doors behind her like a cat who’d never left the building.

“Good morning,” he said cheerfully.

Van Pelt glanced up from her desk. “Can I help you?”

“You must be Van Pelt,” Jane said, eyes twinkling. “A pleasure. Patrick Jane.”

“Oh—hi! Good to meet you.” She offered a quick handshake. “Agent Cho said you’d left town.”

“No. Nowhere to go,” Jane replied simply, scanning the room.

Van Pelt hesitated. “Um, do you want that desk over there or this one? I mean, that one gets more light.”

“That one. More light, by all means.”

But as he started toward it, he noticed Lena Hart already sliding a potted plant onto its surface, her leather-bound notebook open beside it. She looked up slowly, meeting both his and Van Pelt’s stares.

“What?” she said, flicking her long dark hair over one shoulder. “It gets more light.”

Jane grinned, intrigued. “I can see why you chose it.”

He made his way toward Lisbon’s desk, where she was pretending to work. She didn’t look up.

“Ah,” he said lightly. “One fiery realist with a chip the size of California, one prideful tactician with something to prove, and one quiet optimist who still thinks this job won’t break her.”

Lisbon’s eyes flicked up at that. “You’ve been here thirty seconds.”

“That’s all I need.”

At her desk, Lena glanced sideways at Cole. “Did he just say you're a tactician? He's clearly losing his touch”

Cole leaned back in his chair, arms folded. “I am a tactician.” he said emphasizing each word.

Lena smirked knowing she'd hurt his ego.

“Wow. That almost sounded like confidence.”

---

Dr. Wagner’s office was sleek, modern—and unmistakably themed. Rich earth tones, carved tribal masks, and woven baskets adorned the walls, creating a warm but curated atmosphere. A carved giraffe stood sentinel by a glass case of vitamins. Jane, as always, wandered instead of sat, drifting toward a zebra-striped wall hanging like a curious cat sniffing out something no one else could see.

Behind his desk, Dr. Wagner tapped at his keyboard, squinting at the screen. “We’re a full-service private practice,” he said, his voice smooth and practiced. “Primary care, cosmetic surgery, psychotherapy, sports medicine—you name it.”

Jane’s eyes swept over the décor. “What’s the African connection?” he asked, tilting his head at a carved lion mask.

Wagner gave a half-smile. “It’s what this place is all about. Half of our profits go to fund clinics in underserved African communities. Local staff, local materials. Real impact.”

Cole, who had remained quiet until now, raised an eyebrow. “That’s… surprisingly altruistic for a place that charges five hundred bucks for Botox.”

Wagner chuckled. “Guilt and glamour. It’s a profitable combo.”

With a click, he pulled up a file. “Here we are. Alison Randolph. Thin file. She was a healthy young woman.”

Lisbon leaned forward. “Any psychiatric history?”

Wagner shook his head. “Nope. Nothing recorded.”

“STDs? Abortions? Unexplained injuries?” Lisbon asked without flinching.

“No. Routine check-ups with me. The rest was with Dr. Tannen—mostly aesthetic work. Teeth whitening, laser treatment, that sort of thing.”

Jane perched on the edge of a chaise lounge, balancing a decorative gourd in his hand. “Did she keep a diary? Last case we worked was solved thanks to one.”

Wagner gave him a strange look. “A diary? I don’t think so.”

Lisbon redirected. “What about her marriage? Do you think she was happy?”

Wagner hesitated. “Hard to say. But… six months ago, Dr. Tannen came to me. Alison had asked him for a year’s supply of birth control pills. Off the books.”

Lisbon blinked. “That’s strictly against AMA policy.”

“I told him to do it anyway,” Wagner admitted, unapologetic. “Better us than some back-alley pharmacy. "

"Why the secrecy?" Asked Cole raising of of his eyebrow.

"Price Randolph had a vasectomy. April of '02." Said Wagner.

Jane chuckled under his breath. “Mystery, motive, and a man with snipped wires. Classic.”

Wagner stood, brushing invisible dust from his tailored blazer. “If there’s anything else I can do...?”

“Actually, there is,” Jane said suddenly, tilting his head. “I’m out of sleeping pills. Could you fix me up with something strong?”

Lisbon shot him a warning look. Cole glanced over, baffled. “What is he doing?” he muttered.

“Being Jane,” Lisbon replied under her breath.

Wagner gave a polite laugh. “Come in for a consultation. We’ll squeeze you in this afternoon.”

Jane waved a hand dismissively. “Ah, I was hoping to avoid the chit chat. You know. Just give me the pills, skip the talky-talk.”

“I’m afraid not.” Wagner’s smile stiffened. “I wouldn’t be comfortable prescribing without at least some sort of chit chat.”

Jane sighed theatrically, placing the gourd back on its stand. “Fair enough. I’ll call you. Maybe.”

Lisbon stood, brushing imaginary lint from her jacket. “We appreciate your time.”

As they walked out into the hallway, Cole leaned in close to her. “Does he always ask for meds mid-interview?”

Lisbon didn’t miss a beat. “Only when he’s trying to throw someone off.”

Cole frowned. “Throw who off? The doctor?”

Jane, walking ahead of them, turned slightly with a glint in his eye. “You’d be surprised how much someone reveals when they think you’re not watching.”

Cole muttered, “I think I preferred it when he was just annoying.”

---

The seafood restaurant clung to the coastline like a stubborn barnacle, the walls decked out in netting, mounted marlins, and a kitschy lighthouse mural that glowed faintly in the dim lighting. The team sat around a circular booth, half-eaten platters of lobster and crab shells scattered between them.

Cho cracked a claw cleanly and leaned back. “I like the husband for it. He hires a hooker he knows to create an alibi, hops on a red-eye, fillets the spouse, and jets back before anyone notices. It’s a classic—elaborate and clever, but ultimately stupid.”

Jane sipped from his water glass. “Have you looked at his PGA tournament record?”

Cho shrugged. “Not bad. Six million in career earnings.”

“From coming in second and third,” Jane said. “You put him on the 18th tee with a championship on the line, and like night follows day, he’ll shank it. He’s a choker. Doesn’t have the nerve to kill his wife. Didn’t do it.”

Cole raised an eyebrow. “You’re basing this on golf stats? We need more than that, buddy.”

Lisbon sighed. “Are you seriously suggesting we drop a prime suspect because he’s never won a major?”

“Oh, no, no,” Jane said airily. “Just idle conversation.”

He tapped a straw on the table, then slowly moved his finger away. The straw rolled after it, seemingly pulled by invisible force. Van Pelt’s eyes widened. Cole blinked. Lena just rolled her eyes.

“How’d you do that?” Van Pelt asked, eyes fixed on the straw.

“Telekinesis,” Jane said with mock solemnity.

Cho didn’t even look up. “He blew on it.”

“That’s another way to do it,” Jane admitted.

Van Pelt rested her elbows on the table, clearly intrigued. “Mr. Jane, can I ask you something about your old line of work?”

Lena and Cole turned toward her, Lena’s eyebrows arching with curiosity.

“Fire away,” Jane said.

“When you met other psychics—real ones—could they tell you were faking it?”

Jane gave her a gentle, pitying smile. “There’s no such thing as real psychics.”

Van Pelt stiffened. “I beg to differ. My cousin Yolanda is a psychic.”

Jane didn't blink. “Then your cousin is either deluded, dishonest, or both.”

“Hey,” Rigsby said, frowning. “Steady.”

Cole frowned as well. “Yeah. Just because you don’t understand something doesn’t mean it’s not real.”

Van Pelt shook her head. “He’s entitled to his opinion. He’s just wrong. Yolanda has power. She can talk to the other side. I’ve seen her do it myself.”

“She let you speak to someone who’s passed on?” Jane asked, voice suddenly softer.

“Yes.”

“Someone you loved. Someone you still miss.”

Van Pelt hesitated, then nodded. “Yes.”

“You wanted it to be real,” Jane said gently. “So it was.”

Van Pelt’s voice sharpened. “No.”

Rigsby leaned in. “You’re so sure you’re right, but science doesn’t explain everything.”

“Five hundred years ago, radio would’ve looked like magic,” Van Pelt added.

“Exactly,” Rigsby agreed.

Lena cut in calmly. “Except radio's built on testable, repeatable science. Empirical data. There's no measurable evidence for an afterlife. That’s the difference.”

Van Pelt frowned. “Is it, though? In five hundred more years, maybe talking to the dead will be just another frequency.”

Jane sat back and smiled. “Your father’s a football coach, isn’t he?”

Van Pelt blinked. “How did you—?”

Lena snorted. “Oh, come on. He’s showing off. It’s obvious.”

“It is,” Jane said. “From your whole posture, tone, everything.”

He leaned forward. “And what did Dad always say? Life’s like football. When the final whistle blows, game over. Done. There’s no overtime. No sudden death. No... other side. Just lobster and kitschy boat décor and then—pssh—nothingness.”

Van Pelt’s jaw clenched. “You poor, sad man. The kingdom of God is a real place.”

Cole shifted uncomfortably. “Grace...”

Jane smiled. “Later tonight, when Rigsby asks you back to his hotel room—”

Rigsby choked on his drink.

Lena snapped her head toward Jane, eyes narrowing. “Seriously?”

Jane went on, undeterred. “Say yes.”

Van Pelt stared. “Excuse me?”

“I know,” Jane said. “You were planning on shooting him down. First week on the job, gotta set boundaries. No funny business. But why not? Rigsby’s an excellent lover. I’m sure of it. Tough, but fair, right? Right?”

Van Pelt’s voice trembled with fury. “The kingdom of God is a real place, Mr. Jane. And you have an immortal soul.”

Jane stood with a flourish. “Oh, I do so hope you’re wrong.”

He walked off, leaving silence and awkward tension in his wake. Lisbon exhaled and rose, muttering something before heading after him.

The rest of the team exchanged uneasy glances.

---

Later, at the hotel…

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime. Cho stepped out, stone-faced.

“Goodnight,” he said.

“Goodnight,” Cole replied.

“Night,” said Van Pelt and Lena in unison.

“Later, dude,” Rigsby added awkwardly.

The doors closed. Silence.

Moments later, the elevator stopped. The doors opened again.

“This is me,” Rigsby said, stepping out. He hesitated, eyes flitting past Van Pelt without landing on her. “Welcome to the unit, Agents.”

“Thank you, Agent Rigsby,” Van Pelt said, composed.

The doors slid shut once more. One floor up, Van Pelt exited.

“Goodnight, guys.”

“Night,” Lena and Cole echoed.

Now it was just the two of them. Alone.

Cole’s voice came low, almost hesitant.
“Weird first day.”

Lena smirked without turning, the corners of her mouth twitching.
“We’ve had weirder. Finals week in college. And that time you superglued my car keys to the vending machine.”

He raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips.
“You deserved that. You hacked my email.”

Her grin widened, playful and unapologetic.
“And I’d do it again.”

The elevator chimed softly, doors sliding open. They stepped out together, their rooms side by side.

“Well,” Cole said, glancing at her, “try not to dream about Jane’s voice haunting your sleep.”

Her smile softened, the teasing replaced by something sincere.
“You were kind to Van Pelt. That mattered. Not everyone here knows how to do that.”

Cole paused at his door, surprised by the shift in her tone. For a moment, the usual banter fell away.
“Thanks… I guess. You weren’t too bad yourself.”

Lena gave a small, quiet smile before slipping inside. Cole lingered by his door, her words echoing in his mind, then stepped inside and closed it gently behind him.

---

Later, Cole lay awake in the dark, eyes fixed on the ceiling. He shifted from one side to the other, restless. Lena’s words drifted through his thoughts:
You were kind to Van Pelt. That mattered.

He exhaled softly, a fleeting smile brushing his lips before worry clouded his expression. Sleep wouldn’t come easily tonight.

---

Morning broke with the sharp buzz of Lena’s phone. Lisbon’s voice on the line was calm but urgent, instructing her to come to Jane’s room immediately.

As Lena stepped out, she nearly collided with Cole, who was just emerging from his own room, equally sleepless and bleary-eyed. Their eyes met briefly—a silent acknowledgment of shared unease—before they wordlessly moved toward the elevator together.

---

Jane’s room was quiet except for the soft rustle of paper as Van Pelt unfolded a worn letter and began to read aloud:

“Greetings, old friend. It’s been a while. I hope you are keeping well. I am thriving and happy. I have 11 wives now and will soon begin courting number 12. Why can’t you catch me? You must feel so powerless and stupid and sad. Oh well. All the best, Red John.”

A cold knot tightened in Lena’s stomach. The message felt too theatrical, too deliberately taunting—her instincts screamed this wasn’t the real Red John.

Cho was the first to break the silence.
“That sounds like the real deal to me.”

Jane shook his head, voice low and certain.
“No. Red John wouldn’t risk leaving something like this behind just to lure me out. This is a distraction.”

Lena’s gaze sharpened.
“Exactly.”

Rigsby frowned, breaking the tension.
“So, someone’s trying to throw us off the scent. But who?”

Lisbon stepped forward, already organizing their next moves with steady authority.
“Cho, pull surveillance footage from the surrounding blocks—especially any vehicles arriving or leaving within the last hour. Rigsby, check for any unusual financial transactions linked to Price Randolph. Van Pelt, I want a full forensic analysis of the letter—paper, ink, fingerprints. Lena, Cole — hit the streets. Talk to witnesses, local shops, and check for anything unusual nearby. Keep your eyes open for anything suspicious. Report back with anything you find.”

She looked around at the team, eyes sharp but calm. “Let’s move fast. Whoever sent this wants us chasing ghosts.”

As the team moved to leave, Lisbon paused beside Jane. “You okay?”

Jane nodded, voice steady. “Absolutely.”

Lisbon gave a nod. “Get some rest."

Lena and Cole exchanged a brief glance, the unspoken weight of the case settling back on their shoulders as they filed out together.

---

The hotel lobby was nearly deserted in the early morning light, the quiet broken only by the soft shuffle of a few staff preparing for the day. Cole and Lena approached the front desk, their footsteps echoing on the polished floor.

Cole flashed his badge with a half-smile. “CBI. Heard anything strange from the guests? Weird packages, odd visitors?”

The clerk blinked, looking between them. “Not really. Just the usual—business travelers mostly. Quiet week so far.”

Lena folded her arms, eyebrow raised. “You sure? No one asking questions, poking around?”

The clerk shook her head. “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

Cole exchanged a glance with Lena, then motioned to a bellhop nearby. “What about you? Seen anyone hanging around who doesn’t belong?”

The bellhop shrugged. “Nope. Same story. Nothing weird.”

Lena sighed, stepping back. “Great. So our mystery man is apparently invisible.”

Cole smirked, nudging her slightly. “Maybe he’s hiding better than you do.”

Lena shot him a glare. “Funny, coming from the guy who took two hours to figure out how to work the hotel keycard.”

Cole laughed, shaking his head. “Hey, I was distracted by your stellar detective skills.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a small smile. “Keep dreaming, Minelli.”

Cole grinned, watching her as they walked away from the desk. “Don’t worry. I’ll cover your back when you inevitably get us into trouble.”

Lena glanced over her shoulder. “Just try not to slow me down.”

---

The sheriff’s office buzzed with quiet activity, sunlight slanting through dusty blinds. Phones rang, coffee machines hissed, and Jane sat at a desk in the corner, completely unfazed by the chaos. His sleeves were rolled up, his fingers dancing lazily across the pages of a battered leather-bound journal. The phone next to him rang—again—and he didn’t so much as glance at it.

Rigsby strode in, reached past him, and picked up the receiver.

“CBI, Agent Rigsby speaking.”

Jane looked up briefly, offered a bright, almost annoyingly chipper, “Morning,” then went back to writing.

Lisbon entered just behind Rigsby, phone already to her ear.

“You didn’t sleep,” she said flatly, eyeing Jane.

He smiled without answering.

Lisbon turned slightly away as someone picked up on the other end. “Hi, I’d like to make an urgent appointment with Dr. Wagner. For Patrick Jane. Yes, I’ll hold.”

Rigsby hung up and turned to the others. “Forensics might’ve found something. The blood in the envelope? It’s Alison Randolph’s. But they also found a hair stuck in the clot.”

Van Pelt perked up. “Not hers or Tannen’s?”

“Nope.” Rigsby smirked. “Guess who it does belong to?”

---

The room was cold, the light a harsh, sterile white. A magnified image of a single blond hair glowed on a laptop screen in front of them. TAG sat across from Cho, his fingers clenching and unclenching.

Cho’s tone was even, calm, and devastating.

“It’s yours, Tag. Science is amazing, huh?”

Tag shook his head, wide-eyed. “This is insane. I didn’t kill Alison.”

“Then explain the hair in the envelope.”

“It’s gotta be a mistake. Or—or someone’s framing me.”

Cho leaned in slightly. “Who would want to frame you? Because we don’t.”

Outside the room, behind the one-way glass, Jane stood watching, hands in his pockets, his gaze steady.

“He and Alison were lovers,” he said, casually.

"Yeah, right" said Cole clearly not believing him.

Inside, Cho barely blinked. “Tag… who would want to frame you?”

Tag hesitated. “My brother.”

“Why?”

Tag swallowed. “Because Alison and I… we were sleeping together.”

There was a beat of silence in the observation room.

Van Pelt looked stunned. “Okay, I take it back. Jane’s definitely psychic.”

Lena, arms crossed, spoke before Jane could bask in the compliment. “No, it was obvious. The way Tag reacted when we mentioned her name—too defensive, too fast. And during questioning yesterday, he flinched when we asked about her family. Guilt, not grief.”

Van Pelt raised an eyebrow. “Is she always like this?” she asked Cole, only half-joking.

Cole smirked. “Oh, definitely. She’s a little weird.”

Lisbon joined them at the observation window, her gaze lingering on Jane, who was now absently twirling a pen between his fingers.

“I’ve scheduled an appointment with Dr. Wagner,” she said briskly. Then she turned, fixing her eyes on Lena. “You’re taking him. Make sure he actually goes inside.”

Lena opened her mouth to protest, then thought better of it. Arguing with Lisbon was like headbutting a wall—pointless and painful.

She gave a tight nod. “Yes, ma’am.”

Jane glanced over with a faint smile, clearly amused by the exchange. “Chaperoned? I feel like a teenager.”

Lena didn’t even look at him. “Keep talking, and I’ll make you wait in the car.”

---

The car hummed steadily along the winding country road, morning light cutting through the trees in golden slants. Lena drove with both hands on the wheel, eyes focused, jaw tight. Jane lounged in the passenger seat, one leg crossed over the other, absentmindedly rubbing his thumb over a silver coin.

The silence stretched for several minutes. Jane didn’t seem to mind. Lena, on the other hand, clearly did.

“I don’t get why you couldn’t just go on your own,” she said, breaking first.

“I could have,” Jane replied, eyes still on the coin. “But Lisbon worries. She thinks I’m prone to… diversion.”

“That’s because you are prone to diversion.”

He smiled. “It’s one of my more charming flaws.”

Lena gave him a side glance. “That, and your ego.”

“Ah, but you tolerate it. Which is interesting.”

“I wouldn’t say tolerate,” she muttered. “More like… endure.”

He looked over at her now, studying her with a hint of curiosity. “You and Cole. You’ve known each other a long time, haven’t you?”

Lena’s grip on the wheel tightened a little. “Since college.”

“Old rivals?”

“Something like that.”

Jane tilted his head. “You still compete.”

She gave a short laugh. “That’s just how we work.”

“Mm,” he murmured, then turned his gaze out the window. “Rivalry’s a funny thing. Sometimes it’s not about who’s better. Sometimes it’s about who needs to prove it more.”

Lena glanced at him, then back at the road. “Is that one of your fortune-cookie insights or are you projecting?”

He let out a soft chuckle. “Touché.”

A beat passed between them. Not tense—just quiet.

Jane studied her again, more gently this time. “You’re sharper than you let people see.”

Lena didn’t respond for a moment, then shrugged. “People see what they want. Doesn’t change who I am.”

He seemed to consider that. “Fair point.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was calm—two people with very different ways of reading the world, settling into temporary peace.

As they neared a modest, tree-lined street, Jane spoke again, voice lighter now. “I hope Dr. Wagner has decent magazines. The last one had a year-old issue of Cat Fancy. Fascinating article on Maine Coons, though.”

Lena rolled her eyes. “You’re not getting out of this. I’m walking you to the door and watching you go inside.”

“Like a mom dropping off her misbehaving kid at the principal’s office.”

“If the shoe fits.”

They turned into a small parking lot in front of a brick building. Lena pulled into a space, threw the car in park, and turned to him.

“No tricks. No wandering off. No pretending you’re having a psychic episode to avoid therapy.”

Jane sighed dramatically. “You wound me.”

Lena stepped out of the car, slamming the door behind her with just enough force to make a point. Jane followed more leisurely, brushing imaginary lint from his vest.

Together, they headed for the front doors of Dr. Wagner’s office.

---

The sheriff’s office buzzed with quiet tension as the door burst open. Price Randolph strode in with the fury of a man already tried and sentenced in his own mind. His lawyer followed behind, looking like he regretted every life choice that had brought him to this moment.

Cho stepped forward. “Mr. Randolph, good—”

Price’s glare could’ve cut steel. “Cut the crap. My brother’s innocent. You didn’t have the stones to come after me directly, so now you’re dragging him into this mess? That’s not justice. That’s persecution.”

His lawyer’s voice was clipped and weary. “Price, we agreed you’d let me do the talking—”

Cho didn’t flinch. “No one’s persecuting anyone. We have physical evidence—Alison’s blood on an envelope slipped under Jane’s door. And a hair. Not Alison’s. Not Tannen’s.” He held the silence for a beat. “Your brother’s.”

From where he leaned against a desk, Cole crossed his arms. “Not to mention a confession. Tag says that every time you weren’t around, he and Alison were... acoustically active.”

Price’s brows furrowed. “What?”

“Banging like a bass drum,” Cole clarified. Then, softer, “His words.”

For a moment, Price just stared. Then, a laugh—sharp, disbelieving—broke from his throat. “Tag and Alison? You’ve got to be joking.”

Cho didn’t blink. “He says you found out. And that you killed her.”

Something cracked in Price’s expression. Not rage, not yet—just the jagged sting of betrayal dawning behind his eyes.

Then the back door swung open.

Rigsby entered, dragging Tag by the arm. The brothers locked eyes.

“You bastard!” Price roared and launched himself forward.

Cho and Van Pelt caught him mid-lunge, bracing against his weight.

Cole didn’t move from where he leaned against the wall, arms now loosely folded. His gaze stayed on the brothers, not with judgment but with something quieter. Sadder.

This wasn’t just anger. It was grief with nowhere to go. Betrayal snapping bones from the inside.

“You treated her like trash!” Tag shouted as Rigsby dragged him away.

“I didn’t expect you to sleep with my wife!” Price’s voice cracked mid-scream, the sound raw and real. “You were supposed to be my brother!”

Cole exhaled, almost inaudibly. The kind of breath you let out when watching something fall that someone should’ve protected.

Van Pelt shook her head. “God. What a mess.”

Cole’s tone was dry, but laced with quiet sincerity. “It’s always sadder when it’s family.”

Cho turned toward him. “You’d know?”

“Yeah.” Cole’s lips tugged into a faint, wry smile. “I actually like mine.”

Van Pelt looked at him sideways. “That must be nice.”

He shrugged. “My dad’s the best person I know. Kind of ruins you for this kind of dysfunction.”

There was no bragging in his voice — just quiet truth, and a distant kind of ache. Like watching something break that you’ve spent your whole life lucky enough not to.

Cho looked back through the window at Price, now slumped in a chair, jaw clenched, chest heaving. “Think Tag’s telling the truth?”

Cole’s expression sobered. “Maybe. Maybe they both are. Doesn’t mean either one’s innocent.”

He stepped away from the wall. The quiet weight of the moment followed him, but didn’t crush him. It just settled beside him, like the memory of something worth keeping.

---

The sky had slipped into indigo by the time Lena checked the clock again. The engine idled low beneath her. Her fingers tapped the steering wheel with idle tension as she stared up at the warmly lit office windows of Dr. Wagner’s building.

Jane had been inside for almost an hour. She’d expected him to take his time, but this was dragging. Even for Jane.

Lena leaned her head back, eyes scanning the darkening parking lot, replaying everything that had happened since the case began. Alison Randolph. A fake Red John letter. A hair in an envelope. Two brothers tearing each other apart over a woman.

But the letter… the letter didn’t sit right. Jane had said it himself — it wasn’t Red John. And if it wasn’t Red John, then it was someone who wanted to make it seem like him. Someone clever. Someone with access.

Her thoughts drifted to the psychologist. Dr. Wagner had been present but quiet. Too quiet. His name kept appearing in small ways, like a signature barely visible in the corner of a painting.

And then — movement.

She straightened. Jane stepped out the front door at last, his familiar silhouette pausing at the top of the steps, as if considering whether to descend.

Lena exhaled with relief. “Finally.”

But then he stopped. Turned. And walked right back inside.

Her brow furrowed. “Seriously?”

She waited another minute, debating whether to text Lisbon. But a gut feeling crept in — not panic exactly, but unease. The kind that came before gunfire in her world.

She slid her gun from its holster and tucked it under her jacket before stepping out of the car. Cool night air brushed against her face as she crossed the lot and climbed the steps two at a time.

As soon as she reached the door, the silence shattered.

Gunshots. Two. Loud. Muffled.

Lena’s instincts kicked in like a switch being flipped.

She shoved open the door, weapon raised, sweeping the hallway as she advanced. Her pulse thumped in her ears, steady and focused. Then —

“Lena!” Jane’s voice echoed down the hall — not panicked, but pitched higher than usual. Running footsteps followed. Around the corner, Jane came barreling toward her, coat flying behind him like a cape, Dr. Wagner just behind, a pistol in his shaking hand.

Jane ducked the moment he saw her, diving behind her with unsettling precision.

Lena stepped forward, gun raised. “Drop it, Dr. Wagner! Now!”

Wagner hesitated, sweat pouring down his face. “I—I didn’t mean to—he was digging too close—!”

“I said drop it!” Her voice was ice now, cutting through the chaos.

The pistol clattered to the floor.

Lena kicked it aside, grabbed his wrist, and in seconds had him spun against the wall, cuffed.

Jane stood up from behind the potted plant he'd used as cover, brushing imaginary dust from his vest. He looked entirely too pleased for someone who had just been nearly shot.

Lena turned, eyes sharp, breath still steady but clipped with adrenaline. “You really couldn’t wait in the damn car?”

He gave her a small shrug. “What can I say? The man has a terrible poker face. I had to see for myself.”

“You nearly got yourself killed.”

Jane arched a brow, clearly unimpressed with her scolding. “But I didn’t. That’s the important part.”

Lena stared at him. “You walked back in knowing he might be dangerous.”

“I suspected. I didn’t know. There’s a difference.”

She stepped closer, lowering her voice as she guided Wagner toward the cruiser with one hand. “You're not a cop, Jane. You don’t get to make that call.”

He tilted his head, eyes flicking to her with a flicker of amusement. “And yet, you showed up right on time. Almost like you knew something too.”

“I didn’t have a hunch. I had a gut feeling. And a gun.”

“That’s the difference between us,” he said with a small smile. “You kick down doors. I knock.”

Lena gave him a tight smile. “Next time, knock from the outside.”

Jane watched her secure Wagner in the backseat, then leaned slightly against the passenger side, hands tucked into his pockets. “You handled that well, by the way.”

She blinked at the unexpected praise. “You thought I wouldn’t?”

“Oh, I knew you would.” He gave her a sidelong look. “I just wanted to see what it looked like up close.”

Lena rolled her eyes and got into the driver’s seat. “Congratulations. Now sit down and buckle up before I hit the gas.”

Jane slid in with a smirk. “Bossy. I like that.”

“Keep talking and I’ll forget to drive you back.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I walked home.”

Despite herself, Lena let out the faintest laugh as she started the engine.

And Jane just smiled — not the smug one, but the quiet, knowing one that said he’d just learned something new. Not about the case.

About her.

---

The office was in that quiet hum of an ending case. Files were being stacked, bags slung over shoulders. The tension that had threaded the last few days was slowly unraveling, thread by thread.

Lisbon sat at her desk, flipping through the final paperwork with a pinched expression, when Jane sauntered in, a cardboard box in his hands and a glint of mischief in his eyes.

“Case-closed doughnuts are here,” he declared like a victorious soldier returning from war.

Nobody moved—except Lena.

She crossed the room, plucked one from the box without ceremony, and took a bite. “Maple. Nice.”

Jane looked relieved. “See? Someone appreciates me.”

Van Pelt didn’t even glance up. “Right. You just happened to be out getting sleeping pills at the exact moment Wagner pulled a gun.”

Rigsby added with a smirk, “You didn’t set Wagner up. Didn’t know it was him days ago and let us spin our wheels.”

Cho, dry as ever, chimed in. “You definitely didn’t let us tear apart the victim’s family just to stage your little theater show.”

Jane set the box down with a sigh. “That family was already fractured beyond repair. Don’t blame yourselves, guys. Consider it… catharsis.”

The air shifted.

Cole, who’d been uncharacteristically quiet near Lena’s desk, stiffened. His voice was sharp. “That’s not your call to make, Jane.”

Jane’s smile wavered for the first time. “Maybe not.”

Lisbon stood slowly. “Don’t even start. I’m still angry.”

Jane raised both hands. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re not,” Lisbon replied.

He didn’t argue. Instead, he stepped forward and gently placed something folded from paper on her desk.

Lisbon blinked. “What is this? A frog? You think origami makes up for staging a suspect's near-death experience?”

Jane just smiled and stepped back.

The frog suddenly leapt into the air, springing from her desk like it had come alive.

Lisbon gasped, then laughed—short and surprised. Her annoyance cracked just a little.

Jane walked away, his grin widening.

Across the room, Lena met Cole’s eyes. She raised her doughnut slightly, as if in toast. He rolled his eyes—but smiled back.

They didn’t need to say anything. A kind of truce had been reached between them, unspoken but understood.

---

Later – Lena’s House

The contrast was jarring.

The station had been full of sound, of motion—purple walls and warm banter and the strange, chaotic comfort of people who had each other’s backs, even when they bickered.

But here… the silence pressed against her like a second skin.

Lena stepped inside, keys dropped in the bowl by the door. The house smelled faintly of dust and coffee gone cold.

She moved mechanically—kicking off her boots, shrugging out of her jacket—and walked to the back room, the only room that ever felt truly hers.

The walls were a muted rose, almost peaceful in the dim light. But one side was anything but.

Clippings. Photographs. Strings. Pins. Red ink and black-and-white crime scene photos. All of it centered on one name.

Red John.

She stood there in front of it for a long moment, her doughnut now forgotten in the paper bag in her hand.

The hum of laughter from earlier still echoed faintly in her mind—Van Pelt’s teasing, Cole’s dry wit, Jane’s maddening riddles. The team. The mess of them.

But the room reminded her that no matter how far she stepped into the light, there was always something waiting in the dark.

Lena let out a slow breath and stepped forward, pinning a new article onto the wall.

Then, without a word, she turned off the light.

The room fell into silence once more.