A/N: Warning - This chapter depicts the murder of Jane's family. Please take care if this might be upsetting.
The lights from the living room provided enough illumination that she didn't turn on the patio light. She enjoyed the ocean view during the day. Now, she closed her eyes to listen to the waves crashing onto the rocks. They bought this house a year before Charlotte was born. She enjoyed living in this beautiful house, but it was Patrick who really wanted it. He was making what he called "serious money" and said they could afford it. She sighed as she remembered the times they had to live in their car, and later it was run-down apartments. With each move Patrick promised it would be better. And it always was.
She took a long sip of her ice tea. She wished Patrick would join her but, as usual, he was working. This time he told her he might not have to travel as much, if this succeeded. It was a shot at getting his own television series. Success would mean no more clients coming to their home for readings. Even though readings were done in his office behind the house, she still had to greet the clients. She hated looking in their eyes and seeing what they hoped Patrick could give them - a chance to speak to relatives or friends who had died. She and Patrick often talked about how she felt, as the readings were one of their few serious areas of disagreement. He inevitably gave her his speech about how he absolutely refused to have his family raised like he had been.
She looked at her watch and knew he wasn't going to be home early like he said. Rising, she picked up her glass and went into the house, closing and locking the sliding doors. She washed her glass out in the kitchen sink and and left, turning off the light. She was almost at the stairs leading to the bedrooms when she noticed a car pulling up the driveway. A smile bloomed at the thought that Patrick had made it home early after all. She frowned when the car backed out of the driveway and drove off into the darkness.
Entering Charlotte's bedroom, she pulled the blanket over her child and bent down to give her a kiss. She left and went down the hall to the master bedroom. She didn't change into her night gown; she wanted to talk to Patrick when he got home. She knew what she had to say, but wondered if she could convince Patrick of the changes she desperately wanted. They had enough money to last a lifetime. She was tired of calls from disappointed clients and alarmed at threats Patrick received mostly from husbands upset at the money their wives spent on readings. If the television show worked, then fine. If not, she wanted him to quit. This talk was long overdue. She dimmed the bedroom lights and lay atop the bedspread to wait.
An hour later the house was quiet, with both of Patrick's 'girls' sound asleep. They didn't hear the front door open. They didn't see a man dressed in black enter the living room.
The unexpected, unknown stranger stopped and listened. There was no sign anyone was awake. With the silence unbroken, he climbed the stairs slowly. In the dark hallway he smiled, white teeth gleaming. He softly opened the first door and stepped into a room full of dolls and plush toys barely illuminated by a seashell nightlight. A small child lay in the pink and silver bed shaped like a seashell. He walked to her. When one errant foot stepped on a toy that squeaked the child sat up, rubbing her eyes.
"Daddy?" she asked glad her daddy was home. The stranger stood by her bedside, not speaking.
"You're not my daddy, are you here to see him?" She had never seen a stranger in her room and alarm flooded her. Instantly he grabbed her, his hand cruelly covering her mouth and nose so she couldn't make a sound. His other hand lifted a large knife high. He brought it down, violently, savagely. The little girl struggled no more. He rose gracefully, loving the color and scent and feel of blood. He smiled at the little girl ... and his handiwork.
He left and silently made his way to the room at the end of the hall. He listened at the door. The room was quiet. He nudged the door, pleased that it was already half open - not for him, but he would accept her unwitting gift nonetheless. He entered. His shoes made little sound on the plush carpet. The dim light showed her lying on the bed, an angel with creamy skin and long ash blonde hair that was splayed across the pillow and over her face. He took a small bottle from a pocket and set it on the night stand. He delicately ran his hands up and down her legs, happy she was wearing shorts as he loved feeling a pretty woman's legs. She stirred and he knew she was close to waking. Her smile must reflect her sleepy thought that Patrick was there with her. He reached down and brushed the hair from her face, waking her. At first she didn't see who was in the room but she frowned and blinked in confusion, knowing it wasn't Patrick. She sat up quickly and saw the man standing by her bed. Heart pounding, her eyes widened in fear, even though the blood covering his clothes didn't show in the dim light.
"Who are you? If you want money or jewelry it's in top drawer. Take anything, I promise I won't call the police."
The man just smiled. He picked up the bottle from the night stand.
"I love red polish on toe nails, ... red lips and so many other places. Now you will listen and obey. Your precious child is sleeping in her room. We don't want her to wake, do we?"
Before she even finished the thought he recognized her impulse to run and grabbed her by the hair and janked her back on the bed.
Quietly, lethally, "If you move one more time I will kill you and then your daughter. Do you understand?"
Frozen with fear, even more for her child than herself, she nodded. He noticed her lips moving silently in prayer; she breathed quickly in panic. He opened the bottle and gripped one foot in his hand. He finished polishing the nails quickly - practice had made him efficient. He reached into his bag and pulled out a butcher knife. Hiding it behind his back he walked to the head of the bed.
She was shaking with fear. "Please don't hurt my baby … Please, please."
"Your husband slandered me tonight. Nobody says anything about Red John without paying for it."
At his name terror compelled her to move, to flee. She let out a breathless scream as he raised the knife. A few minutes later he looked down on Patrick's lovely wife. She was dead, red now covering all of her in glistening beauty. Sightless eyes - brown - stared up at him. The bed was wet with blood. He climbed on the bed, reaching down to her open chest to cover his gloved hands with her blood. Standing, he proudly left his signature. Another job well done. The last task was taping the letter to the door. He loved surprises and hoped - no, knew - Patrick would be surprised and impressed with his art.
.
.
.
The man lying on the bed was tossing and turning. He yelled, "No! No!"
Lisbon woke to see Jane breathing hard, hands tightly fisted and sweat pouring off his body. She knelt beside him and gently shook him.
"Patrick, wake up. It's just a dream. There is nobody here that is going to hurt us." She rubbed his hands to relax them while making soft sounds of comfort. After what seemed like forever he opened his eyes and sat up looking around. His eyes searched the room, though he wasn't sure for what. He heard Lisbon talking to him; she held one hand, uncurling his fingers to loosen them.
"It's okay Patrick, it was a bad dream, nobody is here, we are both okay. I'll get you some water." She got off the bed and hurried to the bathroom. After filling a glass she reached into the cabinet over the sink and took out a bottle of pills. She shook one tablet into her hand then returned to him with the water and pill.
Patrick sat on the side of the bed, still shaking. She handed him the pill and glass, and watched to make sure he swallowed the pill. He finished the water and looked at her. Tears streaked his face, unnoticed.
"You're okay, Patrick, it was just a dream."
She knew the medicine had kicked in when he began to look sleepy. She helped him lay back and pulled the covers up for him. She watched until he was soundly asleep. It had been over a year since his last nightmare. Doctor Carson's treatment was helping. The crushing weight of guilt and sorrow at his family's murder was lessening. She sat watching until she was sure he wouldn't wake up till morning.
The next morning found her in the kitchen drinking strong coffee. She hadn't been able to sleep after Patrick's nightmare. The tea kettle whistled and she added hot water to the milk in Jane's cup, putting the teabag in last. She dutifully dipped it the correct number of times. She was finally able to make tea that pleased him, or maybe it was just that he loved her and appreciated her imperfect efforts. She looked up as he came into the kitchen dressed for work. He gave her a kiss and sat down to his tea.
"I'm sorry I woke you last night," he apologized quietly. "I thought I was through with them."
"It's okay. It didn't last long."
He thought but skipped saying that a decade was quite long enough. Instead he said, "I can't think of anything that would have triggered it. I put it in the diary for Doctor Carson."
"Want to stop on the way to the office? I'll grab coffee and tea to go."
With a smile that was mostly determination to set aside the night, he bargained, "Add a blue berry muffin and I'll spring for the food." Without another thought about the nightmare the couple left for work.