Not the most original idea I know. Every man and his dog has probably done a tag to this episode. But I watched "Fugue In Red" this afternoon, and into my head came this story. So if you've got a few spare minutes...
K+ rating and as for the disclaimer, nothing is mine.
He sits in the car beside me, in the passenger seat like always.
But it doesn't feel the same.
He didn't try and steal the keys from me, or beg me to let him drive. He hasn't even asked me where we're going. He's just sitting quietly, watching the world go by. Probably thinking about Tamra, or Tamara or whatever her name is, and where he's going to take her to show off those ill-gotten diamonds of hers.
The Jane I know doesn't give a damn about material things, regards money as nothing more than an unavoidable fact of life. He's all about robbing the rich and giving to the deserving. I've known him to give away hundreds of thousands of dollars without blinking; he's generous to a fault, and even to his own detriment.
Never in my wildest dreams did I think he would steal. Oh, he'll lift the odd trinket from a suspect's house to test some insane theory or other, but never for his own personal gain.
It feels like there's an imposter in my passenger seat. An imposter that did his homework, that looks like him, and talks like him, but in the end, is just playing a part.
This man is a stranger.
He lets out a long sigh. "Intrigued as I am by this little road trip of yours, Teresa, I have things to do tonight." A sly smile creeps across his face. "Unless of course you're taking me back to your place to have your way with me, in which case, full speed ahead."
Everything he does feels unnatural, from the use of my given name, to the lascivious comments, to that creepy smile. Normally, his smile is one of his best features, it lights up his whole demeanour, seems to make the world itself seem brighter. Instead, it's a ghost of what it could be, darker, almost cruel. He uses it as a weapon, a tool in his deception. There's nothing honest about it.
"What about Tamara?"
"Meh." A careless flick of the hand. "She's as vanilla as they come. But you-" he lowers his voice to a whisper, and leans over until his mouth is an inch from my ear, "-I have a hunch Teresa, that when you let go, you really let go. And I'd be happy to be the one to get you there."
A shiver runs down my spine, not from pleasure but the chilling sensation of total discomfort.
He's not himself, I remind myself, as his fingers brush against my arm, and I resist the urge to slap him away. He doesn't understand what he's doing. He'll be mortified when he's back in his own mind.
If he ever gets back in his own mind.
No. Don't think like that. My best friend is still in there; I know he is, just like he always was. I just need to bring him back.
"Sit back," I order him. "We're almost there."
At long last, we arrive in Malibu, and immediately, my stomach starts to churn. This is my last, wild shot in the dark to get my Jane back. If this doesn't work…
"You seem tense, Teresa," he observes, and I realize that my knuckles have turned white from holding the steering wheel in a death grip. That awful smile again. "There's a motel coming up on the left, pull over, and I bet I can work that out of you."
My skin prickles. I've dreamed of him saying things like this to me sometimes, dreams born of over-exhaustion and too much tequila before bed. The kind of dreams that a woman sometimes has when she's got an impossibly gorgeous co-worker, and a non-existent social life. They mean nothing.
But in these dreams, he makes me feel warm. Powerful. Wanted.
He's never made me feel like this, uncomfortable, almost violated.
We reach the end of his street, and he looks with interest at the grand houses that line the road.
I can't do this.
But I have to.
He told me he's happy now. I should just leave it. This could be his only chance to get a normal life back. The slate is wiped clean. He can live free and unencumbered, blissfully ignorant of Red John and all the misery he's caused, bed a different woman every night, "connect' people with their dead relatives.
But I can't. There's one thing about him that hasn't changed. That brilliant mind of his is still intact, and sooner or later, he's going to remember. I know the doctors said it wasn't a guarantee, but even though they know brains, they don't know him. I do.
It'll come back to him one day, and he'll relive it all like it's the first time. He'll see the smiley-face and the mutilated bodies and all the pain will come rushing back, and I can't stand the thought of him being alone when that happens. Or being with another Tamara, who could never understand.
He'll crumble. He'll break, and it'll be all my fault. He'll need me, and this is the only way I can be sure I'll be there for him.
But as much as I try to convince myself that I'm doing this for him, there's no getting around the fact that I'm also doing it for me.
I want him back. Now. I can't just wait around for months until he comes storming back, demanding to know why I didn't tell him sooner.
He brings some balance into my life. When the case is so depressing it makes me want to curl into a ball and cry, he's the light in my day. He reminds me that there's more to my life than work and rules, and sometimes it's OK just to have fun. To smile, even though the world is collapsing around us and we're all just hanging on by a thread.
I'm not ready to give that up.
I turn the car into the driveway, up the long drive and park outside the front door. As I turn the ignition off, I can hear the ocean rolling in and out in the distance.
"Great house," he comments, flippantly, as we climb the front steps. "Whose is it?"
"It's yours."
The world seems to move in slow motion as we walk through the door and climb the stairs. He looks innocently curious, as though trying to figure out just what we're doing here, and I can feel dread rising inside me with every step.
It's not too late to turn back. I can stop this now. I should.
I wish I could.
The door swings open, the macabre calling card glows eerily in the moonlight.
I can pinpoint the precise moment when he remembers. He stiffens; his face screws up a little, as though his body is trying to force the memories out before they take too firm a grip.
He shatters.
"I'm sorry."
He turns to me, and I can see the difference immediately. He is no longer carefree, hopeful. His eyes have their familiar shadow back. He came back to me. The cost is high, his happiness, his sanity, and his peace of mind. But my Jane is back.
And I'm never going to let him go again.
No prizes for cutting-edge originality I'm sure, but as always, I hope you enjoyed reading this.