She watches as the doors close and the elevator disappears down the shaft, taking her world, as she's known it, with him. He said he was done. Done with the CBI? Huh! What CBI, Bertram;s killed that! Done with Red John? Hard to believe. Done with her? No he said he would call.
She walks slowly back to the bullpen, FBI officers are still swarming like flying ants devouring her life, taking everything. She notices something shiney on the floor, she bends down and picks it up between her fingers. It's a small fragment someone missed as they cleaned up Jane's cup. The expression on his face as he looked at the broken pieces was almost comical, as if he'd just lost the most important thing in the whole world to him.
She shakes her head, because, of course, he had. Red John had just been taken away from him, not to mention, the only life he has, his only home. A motel room certainly isn't a home and his house in Malibu hasn't been a home since Red John ravaged it.
She moves to the kitchen, as she's about to put the fragment in to the bin, she stops as the rest of the pieces look back at her. Discarded trash like her job, her colleagues, her life. She scans the kitchen but finds nothing suitable. She rushes to her office and grabs her purse. Returning to the kitchen she carefully lifts out the fragments and puts them inside her purse. She feels a sting on her finger as she's withdrawing her hand, catching a rough corner. Blood bubbles up from the pinprick and she sucks it hard, until it stops. She takes another look into the bullpen, the room is almost empty, She turns on her heels and leaves.
She closes her apartment door. Sinking down into the couch she holds her head in her hands. It's over, Red John is dead. His words are on a constant loop in her mind.
"I'll miss you."
It's over, he's gone. She will never see him again, hear from him again. He's a murderer on the run. They won't catch him, he knows how to get out, how to hide. He's been a part of her life now for so long, he became her best friend. She'll never see that cheeky grin that was both infuriating and charming. She hopes that now that it's over it will one day reach his eyes.
She remembers and reaches for the purse she hasn't used for a few days. She opens it up and sure enough the fragments are still there. Tears spring to her eyes as she realizes that it's a metaphor for her life, their lives: broken. She reaches in and gently, carefully picks up a piece. She turns it over, she can see traces of remaining fingerprints on the surface, she places her own finger over it, its his. She whispers:
"I'll miss you too."