Once again: This story is the sixth in a series. If you have not read "REaDy or Not, Here I Come", "Bleeding Hearts", "Ruby Crown" (a crossover with Criminal Minds), "Red Dawn Light", and "The Red Team", this story will not make sense. Also remember that TV canon only goes through S4E9. Anyway, I've been wanting to write this one for ages, and it's finally here! I can't wait to reveal the twist at the end! Get hyped! XD
A nostalgic feeling swept over Patrick Jane as he looked down from a dirt road into a ravine at police officers processing the crime scene, one that didn't fade no matter how many times he found himself in such a place. True, he was technically a PI, but low-level cops lacking in self-confidence couldn't help asking for his aid, and his one and only policy was to never say no if someone asked him for help. He was, if nothing else, a friend of the people, after all, and cops were people too.
The one who'd called him was briefing him on some basic facts that he'd picked up on at first glance while they half-walked, half-slid down the dusty slope; tuning the boring man out, Jane focused on the body: long blond hair sticky with blood from a massive head wound, a bloody rock sticking out of the ground nearby. How anyone could misunderstand what had happened here baffled him. Still, doing his duty, he carefully took in every detail. Confident that he wasn't missing anything, he was about to cut off the man who was still talking when his cell phone rang.
It was all he could do not to laugh. Right on cue.
Not even checking the caller ID, he stepped away and answered. "Don't tell me," he said by way of greeting.
"Would it kill you to say hello like a normal person?" his wife demanded.
"Why waste time?" he bantered.
Lisbon sighed. "Look…"
"Don't say it," he told her, smiling. "Honestly, why won't you just let me be the designated picker-upper? You always do this."
"I'm her mother," Lisbon said sternly; "I brought her into the world, she's my responsibility, I have to be committed to taking care of her whenever I can."
"Wouldn't it be more responsible to assign the job to the person you know will end up doing it anyway?" Jane pointed out.
"We can discuss this later," Lisbon said. "Right now-"
"Yes, don't worry, I'll pick Charlotte up from daycare," Jane cut her off.
"Thank you," Lisbon sighed with audible relief.
"Why are you always so relieved?" Jane asked with feigned offense. "Do you really think I'm going to say 'no' one of these days?"
"Hey, it's not like you don't have a job too," Lisbon said.
"Meh, not really," Jane replied; "basic cop stuff today, I'll be done here in two minutes."
"Why do you even let them call you?" Lisbon asked, though she was smiling now. "Cops and PIs aren't supposed to work together, that defeats the point!"
"They pay well."
She chuckled. "Liar."
He smiled. "I'll let you get back to work," he told her fondly.
"Thanks. Hey, um, listen…"
The break in their usual pattern brought Jane up short. "What?"
"Um…" Lisbon seemed uneasy, and Jane forgot the scene behind him, all his senses focused on his wife's voice. "So…you know how you…always get Charlie's paper, every day, to see what she's saying about you?"
What? "Yes," Jane replied, uncertain where this was going.
"Could you, um…not do that today? Just today? Please?" Lisbon asked, a note of genuine desperation in her voice.
"Lisbon, what's wrong?" Jane asked.
"Just…You don't want to see what's in the paper today, okay? Trust me."
"So there is something?" he responded, his curiosity piqued.
"Yes, there is, and it is serious, and I promise I'll tell you the important part as soon as I get home tonight," Lisbon said; "just please, don't read it for yourself."
"Why not?" Jane asked.
"You don't want to," Lisbon answered with certainty. "Trust me on this."
Though he said nothing, Jane couldn't help the wry grin forming on his lips.
"Wipe that smirk off your face," Lisbon snapped over the phone. "I'm telling you this for your benefit, not mine!"
"Oh, Lisbon, you know you can't say something like that and not make me curious," Jane teased.
Instead of bantering, static rattled over the line as Lisbon drew a deep breath, and again, Jane's merriment faded; clearly, she was serious. "Listen," she said in a low voice, "how many times have you asked me to trust you against my better judgment?"
"Uh, many," he replied.
"And how many times have I been glad to have done so even if I didn't want to?"
"All of them."
"That's right," Lisbon said instead of snarking at him. "This time, I'm asking you to trust me, even if you don't want to. Don't get today's paper. Please. I'm begging you, just this once, trust me."
"I do trust you," Jane told her seriously. "…But…"
"You - it - You know what? Fine," Lisbon sighed resignedly. "Do whatever you want. Just don't say I didn't warn you."
"I wouldn't dream of it," he promised.
"Fine," she sighed again. "I'll see you tonight. I love you."
"I love you too," he said, and they hung up.
"Mr. Jane?"
Jane turned to the officer who had dragged him halfway across town for a scene a toddler could have figured out. "Yes?" he asked.
"What do you think?" asked the young cop, gesturing to the body.
"Uh, I think you need to do your job," Jane told him frankly.
The man blinked. "Pardon me?"
"It's obvious what happened here," Jane said, and he gestured up the hill the way they'd come. "She slipped and fell down here, her head hit the rock, she died."
"We have concerns about it being a hate crime-"
"Oh please," Jane dismissed, waving his hand. "Why does everything have to be a hate crime these days? I guarantee you, no one in her life knows she was transgender. She came out here to a deserted stretch of road in the middle of the night where she could practice wearing women's clothing without being seen, getting a feel for it where no one could judge her. Have you ever tried walking in heels?" he asked abruptly.
"Uh, no sir."
"Yeah, me neither, but my wife says it's very difficult, and I believe her, it's certainly unnatural. So she comes here alone, tells no one where she is, practices walking in heels, gets too close to the edge, she's already off-balance, the ground gives way, and she falls. It's tragic, but there's no crime here."
"Are you sure?" the cop asked.
"Yes," Jane replied, "and so are you. You, my friend, need to learn to trust your own judgment. You didn't cheat on tests in school, did you?"
"…No…"
"Then why would you stoop so low as to cheat in real life?" Jane asked. "Because that's what you essentially see me as: a cheat sheet, the one with all the answers so you don't have to do any thinking of your own. Do you have any idea how many calls I get from cops just like you every week? It's really quite irksome."
"Mr. Jane, I-"
"I could have said anything about this scene and you wouldn't have questioned me," Jane went on matter-of-factly; "you're lucky I wouldn't make things up about something as serious as a tragic death."
At this, the man blanched.
"I have to pick up my daughter from daycare in an hour," Jane told him with finality. "Thank you for wasting my time. Don't worry about the fee, your only charge is to not call me again. Do your job."
Ignoring the embarrassed "Yes, sir" stammered at his back, Jane slung his coat over his shoulder and returned to his car.
~o~
With yet another of his typical thrice-weekly time-wasters taken care of, Jane drove the long route home so he could swing by the daycare on the way. All the while, his wife's request burned in his mind. He didn't have to look in her eyes to know she was dead serious about him not reading the newspaper today, and if she was that sure he didn't want to see it, then he probably didn't; on the other hand, he was an inherently curious man, and he couldn't help wondering what she was trying to shield him from. As gas station after newspaper stand passed him by, he resisted the urge to stop, again and again, but just as he approached the seventh carrier of his sister-in-law's newspaper, an idea for a prank occurred to him, and he couldn't help himself. He stopped and bought a copy, taking care not to actually look at it, and placed it in the passenger seat folded in such a way that he couldn't accidentally glimpse the front page while he drove. Though the temptation called to him for the rest of the drive, he resisted it, exercising restraint he knew Lisbon still to this day didn't realize he was perfectly capable of, just didn't feel like using most of the time.
Despite the stop, he was still a bit early to pick up his daughter, so he waited in the parking lot. It wasn't unusual for him to be early, but he never stopped being proud of himself for it; it was a reminder that he wasn't repeating the past…a past he wondered if he would ever stop thinking about despite it all. Not that his daughter's name would ever make it easy…
Eventually, the daycare program ended, and all the kids ran to the playground in back to wait for their parents. Jane waited a little while, knowing that this after-care time was when his daughter and her friends tried to fit in one last game of make-believe or whatever before they were dragged home. There was no rush, after all, he'd done his duty for the day, and he closed his eyes and listened to the muffled shrieks of children at play. As more cars drove in, he slitted his eyes back open, watching for the parents of Charlotte's friends so he wouldn't be the one to ruin their fun; when one couple finally arrived, he got out of his car and followed them back to find his daughter.
The moment he rounded the building, he spotted his daughter's long, curly, dirty-blond hair next to the big anthill in the corner of the play yard with her usual friends. He couldn't help smiling to himself; only children would find entertainment in an anthill. When the parents of one of her friends were the first to call out and interrupt whatever game they were playing, she looked up, saw him, and came running.
"Daddy!" she squealed.
"Hey, sweetie!" Jane exclaimed, getting down on one knee to catch her in a tight hug. After embracing her for a minute, he lifted her into his arms with a grunt of effort. "Ooh, you're getting big!" he commented.
"How many bad guys did you catch today, daddy?" she asked.
"Oh, no bad guys today," he told her.
She frowned. "They got away?"
"What? No, there were just no bad guys," Jane told her, smiling. "Do you think I'd ever let a bad guy get away?"
Grinning, she vigorously shook her head. "No."
"Good," he said.
"Why isn't mommy here if there are no bad guys?" Charlotte asked as he started carrying her to the car.
"Oh, you know mommy, she always finds reasons to be busy," Jane dismissed.
Charlotte giggled. "Mommy's no fun," she said.
"No," Jane agreed, grinning, "no she's not."
"Can we go to McDonald's on the way home, please, daddy?" Charlotte pleaded as he set her down.
"Oh, sweetie…"
"Pleeeeeeeeease?" Charlotte begged, clasping her hands and making puppy-dog eyes. "Please please pleeeeeeeeeease?"
"…Oh, all right," Jane relented, "but don't tell mommy when she gets home."
"I won't!" Charlotte promised.
~o~
The drive home was spent with Charlotte chattering about what she'd done at the daycare that day, interrupted only by her favorite Happy Meal, a cheeseburger with only ketchup and fries with a small Sprite. What she saw in McDonald's food, Jane would never understand, but he figured that at her age, when she was already such a bundle of energy, it was harmless. It was much easier to ignore the temptation to look at the newspaper when he was conversing with his daughter, and he almost forgot to pick it up and bring it inside when they got home.
Once they were in, still taking care not to actually look at it, he set it on the table by the door with the front page facing up, then turned away to hang up his coat. Barely had he taken a breath, though, before Charlotte piped up.
"Daddy, why are there two of me?"
"Two of you?" he asked, turning around. "Honey, what are-?"
He stopped short when he saw that she was holding the newspaper. There, on the front, were two photos…one of which he recognized.
"I don't remember this one…" she was saying when he lurched forward and snatched the paper out of her hands, giving her a couple of papercuts.
"Owww!" she cried. "Daddy!"
But he couldn't hear her over the ringing in his ears as he stared at the pictures on the front page of his sister-in-law's newspaper. The one on the right was a recent picture of his and Lisbon's daughter, Charlotte; the other was much, much older, but eerily similar. From the article attached to it, a few phrases leapt out: "…bears a striking resemblance to the late Charlotte Jane…"… "…anniversary of the tragic day approaches…"… "…anonymous source says friends of Red John…will reenact that terrible night…"
"Daddy!" Charlotte sobbed, and she started tugging on his shirt. "Daddy!"
"Huh? Oh! Oh, sweetie, I'm sorry!" Jane exclaimed, snapping out of it and setting the paper aside. "What's wrong?"
"My hands!" Charlotte whined.
"Oh, sweetie, I'm so sorry," he told her, bending down and reaching out. "Here, let me have a look?"
Crying, Charlotte offered her barely-sliced palms to her father.
"I'm sorry, baby," Jane repeated. "I'm so sorry. Here, let's get you cleaned up…"
Though he felt bad, Jane was glad, as he tended his daughter's minor wound, that it had distracted her from asking more questions about the newspaper.
Lisbon had been right.