Lisbon still visited him sometimes. She showed him pictures from her daughter's wedding, and the christening of her grandchildren.

He always insisted on making her tea; the caregivers had learned a long time ago to leave a box of Earl Grey on his nightstand, along with a kettle of hot water.

Most of the times they stayed silent, watching as the shadows grew thicker outside the window. He knew that she was probably thinking of her husband who'd passed away last winter; he wished he could comfort her, but then he was still grieving for the family he'd lost over forty years ago.

When the visiting time was over she kissed him lightly on the cheek and walked away.

"She's a nice woman," his roommate used to say. "And a blind man could see that you care for her. Why don't you tell her?"

"Too late now," he replied quietly, pushing his wheelchair towards the window.

The hard cold truth was that he'd just let life pass him by, wasting his time in the fruitless chase of a man that he'd never been able to find.

No one had heard of Red John in the past two decades; the police thought he was dead, but Jane knew better than that. As likely as not the bastard was still hidden somewhere, enjoying his retirement and laughing at his old enemy.

"I've seen the newspaper clippings in your drawer," his roommate told him once. "Forget about that serial killer, buddy. Obsession is a young man's game."

"You can't even begin to understand."

"I do."

He searched the other man's eyes for a moment. "How so?"

"You don't really want to know," his companion murmured softly, staring into the distance as the hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.