Patrick Jane had spent over a decade alternating between red-hot anger and cold despair. He hated Red John almost as much as he loathed himself, his drive for revenge the only thing that kept him alive in spite of how frozen he felt inside.
However, sheer relief washed over him at the news that his enemy had died at the hand of an obscure FBI agent.
He met Lisbon's gaze and something warm stirred inside his chest, as though a bitter frost were yielding at the first faint presage of Spring.
Maybe he could start living again at long last.