There are blanks in his memory palace – fathomless holes of pitch-black nothingness.
He can't remember coming home that night; he doesn't recall turning the key into the lock, nor walking upstairs to find the note taped on the bedroom door.
(All he remembers is the smell of blood, and a shattered teacup on the kitchen's floor. After that the world crashed down all around him, engulfing him in the mounting darkness.)
When he comes to life again six months have passed by. There are scars on his arms, marks that will never fade; he wishes he were dead, but even Death refuses to have anything to do with him now.
A fake smile dances on his lips as he says goodbye to the woman that kept him alive so far. She's always refused to heed his questions – What if there's no Red John? What if I killed them myself? – but they're still there, groping around his throat with every breath he takes.
Even the cops don't want to see reason when he forces his way into the CBI headquarters, confessing to the murder of his wife and child.
'You need to take some rest, Mr. Jane. Everything is going to be fine.'
He doesn't need rest though; all he needs is the truth, but they seem determined to keep it away from him at all costs.
In the end a petite brunette takes pity on him, offers him a cup of tea along with her sympathy – as she would do with a small child.
'We'll catch him, I promise.'
'Who?', he replies distractedly, and she's probably having doubts about his sanity.
'Red John, of course.'
'You're wasting your time. I did it.'
She sits down beside him, rests a gentle hand on his knee. 'I see. How did you do it then?'
There's too much sugar in his tea, just like the night of the murder; he was drinking tea, right before everything drowned in blood.
'I don't know. With a knife, I presume. My wife, she wanted me to quit my psychic act.'
'So you killed her, and your child too?'
It takes him a while to realize he's shaking with sobs. 'I never wanted to do her harm. She is – was – my precious little princess, I don't know why I did it.'
'That's because you didn't,' she says with conviction, and for the first time he looks her in the eyes. Green eyes she has, like emeralds in the sunlight – all of a sudden he's not afraid, not anymore.
'Your tea was drugged. I expect you believed what Red John wanted you to believe.'
Relief washes over him like the tide on the seashore, until he breaks down and cries against her shoulder.
'It wasn't your fault,' she whispers soothingly, and for a moment there he almost accepts her merciful lie.
She walks him to the door, tells him he has to go on with his life.
He smiles grimly as he finds a new drive in revenge.