Jane didn't know what everyone was acting so strangely about, but an educated guess told him it was probably Red John-related; thus, he was far too preoccupied with the promise of a new lead in the case to worry over how his colleagues might be acting towards him.

Jane pressed play on the video on Lisbon's screen that he was evidently meant to watch, leaning back comfortably at first, but quickly sitting up, his back stiff as he recognized the large house that had just appeared in the frame, the first image after a blank black screen. The camerawork was wobbly, but nonetheless clear, although the scene took place at night. As the screen appeared to approach the front door of the house Jane was in no doubt that this was his own beach-front mansion in Malibu.

His heart was pumping at a hard, eager pace as he maximized the screen and drew his face as close to the monitor as possible. Still at the front door, a black-gloved hand reached into the picture and used an unbent paperclip to expertly shimmy open the front door's lock. From the way the camera angle tilted when the hands unlocked the door, Jane was able to decipher that the camera must have been fixed to the head (or hat) of the person now quietly gliding into his home, making his way past the sitting room littered with children's toys. If Jane had suspected before the time period in which this little film took place, he was now sure. That house hadn't contained the remnants of a child resident for almost a full decade. The person behind the camera passed the sitting room without stopping, as though he knew exactly where he was going, heading straight for the stairs that led up to the house's family bedrooms.

Jane felt ice cold. He had been tormented by the idea of what had happened on that night, tortured by the thought of the pain and terror that his wife and young daughter must have experienced. And yet, now, as he had that very information at his fingertips, he didn't know if he could bear to watch it, bear the inevitable screaming and stabbing that it would surely include. His friend Kristina Frye had once told him that, on the night of her death, his daughter had never woken up. Jane wanted so much for that to be true, but knew in his most logical of minds that it couldn't be; for he was aware, far too well aware of Red John's agenda when it came to killing… a cold-blooded exercise in horror, and there was no way he would have ever let a victim sleep through it.

The intruder behind the camera was now at the top of the stairs, and seemed to stand still for a moment. The screen pointed directly to the closed door at the end of the hall, the same angle at which Jane had first seen the printed letter taped to the white-painted wood. Jane watched without blinking, expecting the intruder to head straight for that door, just as he had done a few hours later. Instead, the camera turned to point to the right, to the door on the side of the hall that was slightly ajar, and had a little paper sign hanging from it that said "Charlotte." The sign grew larger in the frame as the camera drew near the door, and Jane recalled his daughter as she sat at the dining table drawing it with colored pencils. She had made each letter to look like an animal, and Jane was for a split second distracted as he remembered delightedly laughing at her 'h' that looked like a giraffe, her 'l' that was a spotted green snake.

The happy emotion was fleeting, and Jane was pulled back into the horrifying reality of what was about to happen, indeed, what had happened. The black gloved hand reached out to push the door fully open, revealing a large room with walls that were sky blue during the day, but stood shadowed and gray during the night. There were yet more toys in here, stuffed animals strewn around the rug shaped like a butterfly, a charming little dollhouse that looked much-used standing in the center of the room, miniature toys and furniture lying all around its perimeter. In the corner of the room was a small single bed, supported by a simple white wooded frame. In the bed was a tiny girl sleeping on her side, her face toward the door. Her flowered blanket was pulled up to her shoulders and her two little hands stuck out near her face, one on her pillow, one resting beneath her head, which was topped with thick blonde hair, only half of it remaining in the braid she had gone to sleep with.

Jane's jaw was clenched. His hands were clamped into tight fists on the desk. But, painful as it was, close as he was to those hot, angry tears before the violence-inducing rage that had sent him to a mental hospital, Jane knew he had to keep watching. He had vowed to get his revenge for his family, to make Red John pay for what he had done, and it was therefore his duty to sit through the very act which he was avenging, watch every moment of the event that had torn his life apart, and would continue to do so until he reached his goal.

And yet, the sight of his little daughter, the little girl for whom he would have given his own life, would have done anything for, loved more than humanly possible, induced such a raw pain in Patrick Jane that there was no fighting the tears that came now, thick and fast. The utter ragged guilt he compressed inside himself every day was spilling out and for once he was glad that the CBI building seemed to be empty around him. His daughter, his Charlotte's delicate, innocent face, so animated with life despite being asleep, was a brutal reminder of how soon her short existence was to end.

Charlotte's resting face was now crystal clear on the screen, as the intruder appeared to loom over her, the white moonlight shining onto her bed through the un-curtained window above her head. The tiny creaks of the floor as the intruder approached had apparently disturbed her sleep, and she rustled the covers for a moment as she unconsciously adjusted her arms from over the covers to underneath them, her eyes closed and her breathing slow as she drew the blanket up to her chin.

The black gloved hands reappeared in the frame, the left brushing some stray hairs away from Charlotte's eyes, stopping briefly to tenderly touch her cheek, the left hand brandishing a large knife with a pointed, thin blade and a worn wooden handle. The hand that was touching Charlotte's face is now on her shoulder, jostling her until her eyes fluttered open, revealing large blue irises that looked around the room, confused to be woken up so suddenly in the night. The little girl stared into what was presumably the face of the intruder, and then right into the camera perched on his head. She looked down at the knife now being held against her chest and her eyes grew wide and round, though she stayed quiet.