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Patrick sees a lot of husbands and wives in his line of work. Some kill each other. But most—most love each other.
He watches as Mr. and Mrs. O’Keefe hold each other before they even approach the CBI staff. He sees the weariness in their faces and the tension in their shoulders. Mrs. O’Keefe hasn’t slept since last Saturday. Mr. O’Keefe has lost weight. But when they touch each other, things ease. Just for a split second. Just enough. Mr. O’Keefe lets out a breath when his wife’s arm wraps around his waist and Mrs. O’Keefe stands like she knows he’ll catch her.
Just last week, Patrick spoke with some newlyweds. Initially he means only to speak with the wife about the death of her sister, but the husband insists on coming with. The week before, an elderly couple, who provided him with information on their murdered tenant. Their wedding rings are old and worn, thinned and scratched by time. The way Angela’s never got to be, and the way Patrick’s will be.
He thinks of Angela a lot in those moments. Her laugh, the same as Charlotte’s. Her horrible chicken recipe. Her habit of locking the car twice.
He thinks of her always, and he thinks of Charlotte, and he doesn’t think he’ll stop thinking of them until he stops breathing.
But sometimes. Once in a while. Only on the rarest of occasions that he can cannot admit to himself—he thinks of you.
It must be coincidental. It must be nothing—just object association.
A wife he’s interviewing makes her tea with two rose-petal sugarcubes. Your favourite perfume is one of roses. Just roses. No other notes. You say gourmand scents make your teeth hurt.
A husband drapes his coat over his wife’s shoulders. His mind brings him back to rain and the stale stench of the office, the sticky fog of sleep. Your coat, settled gently over his dozing form as he curled over his desk.
It must be nothing. It has to be nothing.
Today is one of those days where the husband is the prime suspect instead of a loving partner. Patrick looks at the wife’s body, still in the bedroom, dressed in a cream silk nightgown. There’s a slash down the middle, and blood is congealed between the threads.
You like silk. Your favourite top is a silk chiffon, dyed a powder blue. It looks nice on you. The thought crosses Patrick’s mind every time you wear it to the office.
Angela wore a silk nightgown just like this one, the night she—
Patrick leaves the crime scene and vomits in the bushes behind the house. His wedding ring is cold around his finger. His guilt strangles him as he dry-heaves into the grass. Fear takes its place quickly as images flash through his mind.
The murder victim, lying there. The final look of horror on her face. Except it’s not her face, it’s yours. His wife. You.
Patrick Jane is terrified of many things, and yet this terror shocks him. Fills his veins with ice water and his lungs with concrete. Distantly, he can feel tears streaming down his cheeks. The sensation is wiped away when he throws up again.
And then, suddenly, you’re there—a soothing hand on his shoulder, a soft voice in his ear.
“Jane,” you say, voice teasing, a finger pointing towards your cheek, “you’ve got a little something…”
Despite it all, he laughs. Your hands cup his face as you brush away his tears. Your left index finger rests against his jaw and he feels the warmth there, and for a second imagines a ring.
He knows you prefer diamonds that are emerald cut.
It feels like defeat when Patrick finally accepts the truth.
Sometimes, he thinks of you.