Sorry for the lengthy wait on this chapter - clearly, that whole two-chapters-per-week plan isn't going to pan out. I have part of the next chapter written, and will try to get the rest done in a more timely fashion this time around, however. Thank you so, so much to everyone who has left such kind reviews for this fic; I apologize for not getting back to more of you individually, but rest assured: those reviews really do mean the world. And it appears from the feedback I got that no one is opposed to a good, tasteful love scene, so you can definitely expect that in the next couple of chapters. And now, without further ado... Let's dig into the next chapter!

CHAPTER SIX

Lisbon fell asleep in the car on the way back to the house. It was only a twenty minute ride, but she was out within five minutes of leaving her apartment. If Jane had needed proof that she was exhausted, that was certainly sufficient.

He should have been more insistent from the start, he realized. How long had it been like this for her? How long had she been sleeping on the sofa, plagued by nightmares and the absolute, unerring certainty that her brother's death was her fault?

Well, he was damned well going to do something about it now. She could threaten him all she wanted, but when things were at the very worst for him, Lisbon had never abandoned him. He could at least do the same for her.

When they reached the house—his house, something that still felt strange to say—he leaned over and shook Lisbon.

"Teresa," he said. She started, her eyes opening blearily. "We're home. I could carry you in if you like."

"Not if you want to live to see sunrise you couldn't. I'm tired, Jane, not crippled."

"Just trying to help, dear," he said, squelching a grin. At least her temper was still intact. He got out, allowing Lisbon to do things at her own pace.

When he went inside, Rachel was dozing in an easy chair in his living room. Jane wasn't especially surprised to find that she wasn't alone: Annie was curled up on the sofa, sound asleep. The old woman woke when Jane opened the front door, and quickly put her index finger to her lips.

"Ssh—she just got back to sleep. I think maybe putting her in the basement was a little ambitious."

Jane nodded. "It was what she wanted," he whispered. "And it's pointless arguing with these Lisbon women."

Rachel smiled. She looked at the door curiously, noting that Jane was alone. "Speaking of which…"

"She'll be right in—but she's a bit prickly at the moment."

Rachel stood, stretching wearily. "Then I best be on my way."

"Thank you for coming out," Jane said. "I know I wasn't gone long, but I didn't want to risk Annie waking alone; she's been having trouble with nightmares. Sorry to have inconvenienced you."

"Oh, hush, Patrick," Rachel said, waving him off. "First off, you know perfectly well that you're not the least bit sorry. And secondly—I'm an old woman. I can spare a few hours' sleep now and again, particularly for a worthy cause. I'm glad you called."

Lisbon came in then, with her overnight bag in hand and an unmistakably sheepish expression on her face. With the flush climbing her cheeks, you would have thought she was doing something untoward.

"Looks like everyone's present and accounted for," Rachel whispered cheerfully. "So I'll just see myself out. Sleep well."

Lisbon nodded, catching sight of Annie on the couch. The girl stretched, her eyelids fluttering as she woke and looked around.

"You got her to come back?" she asked when her eyes found Jane.

"I did. But you are supposed to be sleeping," Jane said.

"The basement was lame. I decided I wanted to try out the couch tonight," she said, all false bravado. She sat up, pulling the blanket with her. "Rachel said it was okay."

"Rachel's not in charge of you," Lisbon said. "We are. You can't sleep on the couch—but maybe tonight you could try one of the bedrooms upstairs." She hesitated. "I'd feel better if you were closer; I know it's a pain."

Jane hid a smile, silently pleased at Lisbon's effort to save her niece's pride by making it seem more about her fears rather than the teenager's.

"I guess that'd be fine," Annie grumbled, purely for effect. "It's a good thing Patrick decided to get all those beds set up right off the bat. Whenever me and Dad moved anywhere, it took us, like, months to unpack."

Lisbon looked at Jane knowingly, an eyebrow arched. "Expecting company, were you?"

He shrugged. "Not at all, Lisbon. I don't like feeling unsettled, that's all. I can hardly feel as though I've moved in properly when I have a handful of bedrooms with unmade beds, can I?"

"Right," Lisbon said. Her tone suggested she didn't believe him for a moment.


Within twenty minutes, Annie was settled in one of the three bedrooms upstairs, and Jane and Lisbon stood together in the second floor hallway. Jane nodded toward the far end of the hall. "I've already settled in that room- but this one is nice, I think you'll like it." He pushed the door open. "You'll have your own bathroom."

"Jane, that's the master bedroom."

He shrugged. "I prefer the view of the river that I get with the other room. And I like being a bit farther from the noise of street traffic."

"Fine," she said. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing, though."

He grinned inwardly. That was an easy victory, at least. "Excellent. Then it's all settled."

He moved out of the way to allow her entrance to her new bedroom. She paused at the door. Jane hesitated, uncertain of what his next move should be. He took a breath and stepped into the room, heading for the bathroom while he attempted to recover his equilibrium. Go to bed, he told himself silently. Leave the room now; give her space.

"This is the bathroom," he said instead.

"Yeah, Jane… I figured that one out. I am a detective, you know. The toilet and the shower were a dead giveaway."

"There are fresh towels—not many, of course. If you need more…"

"I'm not that big," she said. She looked amused. "I only need one."

"Of course," Jane agreed. He stood awkwardly at the door to the bathroom. Go to bed, you idiot, he told himself silently, unaccustomed to feeling so off balance. "If you need anything…" he began.

"You'll be down the hall?" She was all but laughing at him now. He found it didn't bother him that much, though; if his being off balance made her smile, he would have to do it more often. Besides, he had a new house. A new house, and Lisbon was living in it. Well… Lisbon was staying in it. Things had certainly been worse.

"Exactly," he agreed, beginning to relax. "Extra blankets; a glass of water; anything at all. I'm happy to serve."

She took a step closer, turned him around, and bodily pushed him toward the door. "I'll be fine, Jane."

He turned at the door, just before she propelled him back out into the hallway of his new house. The laughter faded from her eyes, something deeper replacing it. Something unmistakably tender. She lowered her eyes, a blush climbing her cheeks.

"Thanks, Jane. You didn't have to do this…"

"I know that. I wanted to do it."

She nodded, as though she was just beginning to realize that he might actually be telling the truth on that particular subject. Unexpectedly, she lay her palm against the front of his t-shirt, leaned up, and quickly kissed him on the cheek.

"Thank you, Patrick," she said again, more quietly this time.

"My pleasure, Teresa," he said, just as quietly. "I'll see you in the morning."

He closed the door and walked down the hallway, to his new bedroom. In his new house. In which Lisbon and her niece were now living, with him.

All things considered, it hadn't been a bad Saturday at all.


The next day dawned cold and rainy in Sacramento. Teresa woke while Jane was making breakfast, and came down with what seemed to Jane an endless list of things she simply had to do.

"I'm not giving you my keys," he announced, after Lisbon had showered (without eating any of the breakfast he'd prepared) and was headed for his front door.

"I never asked for your keys," Lisbon said. Annie looked on curiously from the kitchen table, where she appeared to be reading a textbook about California police protocol. Jane had never met two women less capable of relaxing in his life. "I can call a cab, Jane. I just need to get back to my place to pick up my car."

"And then what are you planning on doing?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. I figured I might head to the office to get some paperwork done."

He sighed wearily. "It's Sunday, Lisbon. You got virtually no sleep last night—and neither did I. And neither did Annie, for that matter."

"I'm fine," Annie said, raising her head from her book. "I don't need much sleep, anyway. I thought maybe we could hit the gym."

The gym. On a Sunday, for crying out loud. Jane shook his head. "Is the concept of a day of rest completely lost on you two? It's raining. We have a whole house to ourselves; surely we can find something appropriately unproductive to do with our time."

Annie closed her textbook and looked up, clearly intrigued. "Like what?"

"I don't know," Jane said. "Cards. Movies. Napping. Junk food. Anything with little to no socially redeemable value."

Lisbon looked ready to revolt, but she stopped when she realized just how invested Annie had become in the scheme. That, Jane knew, was his trump card: whatever was best for Annie, Lisbon would by default end up doing. If it just so happened that what was best for Annie also happened to be best for Auntie Reese... well, all the better.

"Do you have a TV?" Annie asked.

Jane frowned. "I haven't set up cable or anything. But I have a television. And I get Netflix, so I can watch my nature shows. And they have an excellent selection of old movies."

Annie merely scoffed. "Yeah, we're definitely not doing an old movie crapfest. I've got my Wii with me—I can set it up so we can stream Netflix to the TV. You haven't seen the last season of TVD, have you?" she asked Lisbon.

"What's TVD?" Jane asked. It was clear his control of this situation was diminishing rapidly.

"The Vampire Diaries," Teresa and Annie said at the same time. Despite herself, he could tell Teresa was intrigued.

"Vampire Diaries," Jane repeated. "What is that? As in, moments from Nosferatu's secret journal?"

"Something like that," Teresa said. She bit her lip, looking sorely tempted. Her eyes drifted to the refrigerator. "Got any ice cream?"

He grinned. "You do whatever technical wizardry's required for this fanged marathon; I'll take care of the snacks."


"I just don't understand how no one notices that all these people are being killed in back alleys in what is presumably a small town," Jane said. They were six hours into The Vampire Diaries. Honestly, he was starting to get a little worried. How could anyone watch this much television in one go? The Lisbon twins, however, seemed not to share his concerns. "And I know I never went to high school, but do they really have that many dances? Formals and semi-formals and costume balls… it's no wonder the youth of America can't read or subtract properly. They're too busy dancing."

"You have to suspend disbelief, Jane," Teresa said sourly. "I know that's hard for you, but give me a break."

"It just seems a little silly," Jane said. "And anyway, don't think for one moment I believe either of you are watching this for the plot."

Annie looked at him innocently. "What are you talking about? Of course we're watching it for the plot. Why else would we be watching?"

"Then it's not for the Gaelic-looking fellow with the quippy one-liners and the unhealthy habit of devouring his girlfriends?"

Annie looked at Teresa, waiting for a translation.

"He means Damon," Lisbon said.

"Precisely," Jane agreed with a nod.

"I might watch for Damon," Annie said, "but Aunt Reese is all about Stefan. Right?"

"Liar liar," Jane said when Lisbon started to agree. "Your aunt may pretend she's thoroughly evolved, but she still prefers the bad boys. Why else would she be here with me, instead of out with the very eligible Detective Montrose?"

"Because Montrose is a tool?" Annie asked. "Anyway, since when are you a bad boy, Patrick? You drink tea and wear suits and listen to classical music all the time. You can't even shoot a gun. You're a little prissy to be a bad boy. No offense."

His eyebrows shot up toward his hairline. Patrick Jane was not prissy. "Just because I don't lock and load everywhere I go doesn't mean I can't shoot a gun. And what, exactly, is wrong with tea and suits and classical music, anyway? I am too a bad boy," he said, honestly offended. "Lisbon, tell her how bad I am."

"He's the worst," Lisbon said dryly. Annie grinned.

"A lot of help you are. You can forget all about me making dinner, if that's your attitude."

"That sulk doesn't exactly sell your argument," Lisbon pointed out, just barely managing not to grin. "But if it makes you feel any better, I can attest firsthand to what a pain in the butt you are and just how many cops, lawyers, judges, politicians, agents, security guards, and random family members would agree that you are anything but a nice guy."

"Thank you," he said, slightly mollified. He stood, stretched out the kinks in his back, and nodded toward the kitchen. "And now, because in addition to being a bad boy, I also happen to be a gentleman, I'll go start dinner while you two ogle the vampire in peace." As he was walking away, he huffed under his breath, "Prissy. I'll show you prissy." Once they thought he was out of earshot, however, his smile returned at the sound of the Lisbons' laughter behind him.

Yes, indeed. The weekend had been more successful than he'd ever dared hope.

If only it could have ended there.


It was dark by the time Jane took Lisbon back to her apartment to pick up her car and a few of her things. Annie had insisted on staying behind, saying she wasn't a baby and didn't appreciate being treated like one—she was more than capable of being alone for a couple of hours. Jane suspected this was more about her giving he and Lisbon some time alone than anything else; something he very much appreciated. It was nice to know someone was in his corner in all this.

They drove in companionable silence until they reached Lisbon's apartment. Despite Lisbon's insistence that she could go in alone, he trailed along behind her. He noted the faint tremble in her hands as she was unlocking the front door, but remained quiet—remembering all too well experiencing that same sensation when he used to return to the bedroom in Malibu where Red John had slain his wife and daughter.

He rested a hand at the small of her back wordlessly. She unlocked the door after a brief struggle, and they stepped inside.

Instantly, Jane felt a chill. Not an emotional chill, however—this was a genuine, physical chill. Lisbon felt it, too; she looked at him in alarm before she stalked across the apartment and closed the living room window, now standing wide open.

"Did you…?" Jane asked.

"Of course not," she snapped. "I know better than that."

Of course she did.

Jane silently cataloged the room as Lisbon did the same, but he could find nothing out of place. He walked to the stairs, a nameless dread already forming at the back of his throat and the pit of his stomach. Lisbon caught the look on his face.

"What?" she asked.

He nodded toward the stairs, his stomach clenched. A sound drifted down from the second floor. He froze.

"Jane?" Lisbon asked. She drew her gun at sight of the crimson droplets on her carpeted stairway. The sound from above transformed into voices: a child's laughter that struck Jane like a bolt of lightning. He couldn't move.

Lisbon took the first few steps. "Call the team," she ordered Jane. The terse command made him feel better; she was in control. He knew he should be stronger about this—he should protect her, keep her away from whatever awaited them both. That's what he'd been working on, wasn't it? Being the kind of man she could rely on.

If only he could move.

He finally forced himself from his spot at the bottom of the stairs when Lisbon was nearly at the top, punching number two on his speed dial as he moved. Cho answered on the second ring.

"I'm at Lisbon's. Can you come? Call Rigsby and Van Pelt, too."

"Give me ten minutes," Cho said without hesitation. Jane hung up.

The blood droplets on the stairs grew larger and more frequent as they approached the crest. The sound of the child's laughter grew louder, a woman singing softly in the background. Behind that, a familiar male voice spoke, laughter plain in the words. 'Say 'Guggenheim,' Charlie. Let's see one more big smile for the camera, sweet girl.'

Jane's voice.

Lisbon reached her closed bedroom door and glanced over her shoulder at him. "Stay there," she commanded, but he could see the terror in her own eyes. She'd recognized the voice, as well.

Jane didn't listen to her.

Instead, he followed behind as Lisbon kicked the door opened, gun poised to fire.

She gasped at sight of the room, and immediately pushed Jane backward. "Stay here, dammit—I mean it, Jane," she threatened. She stalked into the bedroom. The walls were painted crimson, howling smileys covering every surface but one wall. A video played on the television screen: Charlotte in a ballerina's tutu, a tiara topping her golden curls. Another howling smiley had been painted over the TV screen, partially obscuring the picture. Jane's eyes slid to Lisbon's fourth wall- the one without the smiley faces. He took it in for barely an instant before the world tilted sideways. He turned and strode toward the bathroom.

The wall was covered with photos.

A dozen of them—all in Technicolor, blown up to 8x10s and larger.

As Jane hovered over the toilet in Lisbon's bathroom, he heard her turn the television off. Then, the bedroom door shut quietly.

A moment later, he heard water running. A cool, damp washcloth was placed at the back of his neck. He flushed the toilet and sank to the floor, his back to the cool tile.

He should say something.

He needed to say something.

But he couldn't seem to speak.

Lisbon sat across from him on the floor, a hand on his knee. It was the only contact she initiated. He was grateful—both for her presence, and for the recognition that he needed that space so desperately right now.

His mind flashed back to the pictures: Red John, standing over Angela.

She was still alive, in that photo. Barely—her eyes were wild as she stared into the camera lens, Red John grinning maniacally.

Jane turned and heaved into the toilet again, his head spinning. The ground was shifting beneath him—reality and fantasy merging, past and present indistinguishable. They were dead. They had been dead and in the ground for a decade now; there was no turning back the clock. Another wave of nausea washed over him at the look in Angela's eyes. He had never seen such pure terror before.

He'd been an idiot, thinking he could just leave all that behind- just shut the door on that part of his life. He didn't deserve to leave it all behind. What kind of man would he be, if he just moved on after his wife and child were butchered because of something he'd done? The agony Angie experienced in those final moments... there was no way he deserved even an instant of happiness after that.

What the hell was he doing? He bought a house, for God's sake. Packed up his life with Angela and Charlotte, and put it in storage. Sold the house he'd bought for Angie- the house they had picked out together. This is the kind of house kids grow up happy in, Paddy, she'd said. She spun around the living room that first day, arms outstretched. It's the most beautiful place I've ever seen in my life. Nothing bad could ever happen, in a house like this.

"Jane."

He started, recognizing the steel of Lisbon's tone. When he looked at her, he found no pity in her gaze. There was sorrow, and anger, and profound worry. Lisbon didn't feel sorry for him, though. She knew what he was going through better than anyone, but she wasn't going to break. Lisbon never broke. And if she wasn't going to break, neither was he.

"We're gonna get her, Jane," she whispered.

He nodded grimly. "Yes. Yes, we are."


"You're not staying here anymore, right?" Van Pelt asked half an hour later. She sat at the table downstairs with Jane and Lisbon, still at Lisbon's apartment, her forehead furrowed with concern. A dollhouse—something Jane hadn't even noticed upon first glimpsing Lisbon's bedroom—sat on the kitchen table.

It was a replica of Jane's new house. The only appreciable difference between the miniature and Jane's actual house was the carnage inside the dollhouse. Another gift from Ellie Jennings.

"No," Lisbon said quietly, in response to Van Pelt's question. Her eyes slid to Jane's, though she made no move to touch him. "I'm staying with Jane for awhile."

Despite being near catatonia himself, Jane didn't miss the tenderness that flashed in Grace's eyes at the words. She actually sighed in relief.

"Oh, good. I was afraid you were gonna be dumb about this—" She stopped, her eyes widening as she realized what she'd said. "I mean—not dumb, boss. Stubborn. Stoic. You're never dumb—"

Cho and Rigsby thankfully descended the stairs then, intervening before Grace dug herself any deeper. Lisbon stood, arms crossed over her chest.

"What do you think?" she asked, her gaze directed at Cho.

"I think Ellie Jennings is a psychotic nut job with too much time on her hands."

"But this is definitely her," Lisbon said. Cho merely nodded. "Yeah. That's what I figured."

"So, those pictures upstairs…" Rigsby began awkwardly. Lisbon glared at him, silently directing him to be quiet, but Jane shook his head. His stomach turned, but he held himself together.

"It's all right, Lisbon." He looked at Rigsby evenly. "They were clearly from the crime scene, when Red John killed Angela and Charlotte."

Rigsby lowered his eyes. "Well… yeah, we kind of figured. But… the other pictures, I mean?"

Both Jane and Lisbon looked at him blankly. Rigsby looked at Cho, desperation in his eyes.

"There were other pictures, spread across the bed," Cho said. "You didn't see them?"

"I didn't go back in after Jane…" She stopped, uncertain how to continue. "No. I didn't see them."

Cho frowned. "There are pictures of Tommy up there," he said flatly. "And Kristina Frye. A couple of what look like surveillance photos, too…"

"Surveillance photos of what?" Lisbon asked. Jane had only to take one look at Cho's face to know.

"Of us, Lisbon," Jane said quietly, that sinking feeling in his stomach again. "Ellie took photos of you and me." He raised his eyes, looking for confirmation. Cho nodded.

"You mean pictures of them…?" Van Pelt's recently-earned hard edges vanished; with her eyes wide and a blush climbing her cheeks, she looked every bit the innocent ingénue she'd been when she first arrived on the team.

"They weren't playing cards," Cho said.

"That bitch," Lisbon whispered. She stood, her body coiled tight. Jane glanced at the others.

"Could you give us a minute?"

Even Cho looked relieved. The trio filed out, while Cho called back over his shoulder before closing the door.

"Just let us know what you want to do, boss. I can call the crime scene guys if you want."

Lisbon looked as horrified as Jane was sure he did, at the thought.

"We'll handle it ourselves, Cho," Jane said. Lisbon nodded her silent agreement. "Just give us a minute."

The door closed. Lisbon paced furiously for a few moments, arms crossed over her chest, body strung as tight as a bow. Finally, she pulled herself up short and looked at Jane, her eyes dark with concern.

"Are you all right?"

He laughed grimly. "Sure. Peachy."

To his relief, Lisbon echoed his laughter for a moment before that darkness descended once more.

"She was spying on us," she said. "That whole time while we were in Mexico. She had to be. How the hell…?"

He thought back to that single night they'd shared, posing as husband and wife at the orphanage. Mentally, he went over the layout of the room: the headboard of the bed centered against one wall; a single window placed high up. His stomach bottomed out again when he thought of the pictures he'd glimpsed before he had fled Lisbon's bedroom. Mentally, he forced himself to return to the room. In his mind's eye, he viewed each and every one of the macabre photos tacked to her wall. A new, chilling realization suddenly dawned.

"Those photos that were up—the ones Ellie left on the wall. Were they snapshots, or were they, uh…" He stopped, not sure of the right terminology. "You know—freeze frames?"

Lisbon paled. "From a video camera, you mean?"

Jane nodded. He didn't need to wait for her answer, though: he already knew. "They've taped everything," he said. His voice sounded hollow to his ears, his mouth bone dry. "Every murder Red John committed; everything Ellie has done.. everything we've done, trying to catch them…"

"That's insane. This is all…" She shook her head. "Jane, this is nuts. You think she has some kind of... what, video archive of this whole thing?"

"Think about it," he said. He paused and wet his lips, trying desperately to draw some moisture back into his mouth. "These dollhouses Ellie's been making- there has to be some way she's able to create them as accurately as she has, and clearly not all of them duplicate the crime scene photos available in the official case files. Which means someone else had to document the crimes..."

"You think Ellie stood by and videotaped while Red John killed the victims?" Lisbon asked.

"I think it's a strong possibility."

They fell silent for a moment, each of them considering the implications of that. Finally, Lisbon sat down at the table again. She touched his wrist lightly. When their eyes met, the worry in her gaze was impossible to miss.

"Jane, that tape that was playing upstairs…"

"It was one of ours—Angela and mine," Jane said, answering before the question was actually asked. "I shot it on Charlotte's second birthday."

"How did Ellie get it, then?"

"All our videos, photos… I've had them in storage. I haven't been able to…" He trailed off, his eyes drifting back to the table. A barrage of images ran through his mind: Charlotte coming home from the hospital, Angela holding her as though the infant might break; first steps, first words, skinned knees and birthday parties, bath time, swim lessons; the security of having his wife and daughter in his arms, in his heart; the certainty of knowing where he would be, what his purpose was, for the rest of his life.

All of that, replaced with bloody still frames and two broken, lifeless bodies.

"I'm so sorry, Jane," Lisbon said softly. The truth of the statement was clear in her voice, her hand warm as her fingertips slid over his palm and the inside of his wrist. Drawing comfort as much as giving it, he realized after a moment. She was scared, though she would never admit it.

In front of him, the miniature replica of the house he'd just bought stood open. Blood was spread throughout the rooms, but it was the master bedroom that held his attention. In it, a blond male and a teenage girl with dark hair lay on the bed, in pieces.

A tiny brunette doll sat staring face front, her eyes eerily empty, blood soiling her clothes.

On the wall, written in small, childish red letters, was a message:

CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR NEW HOME, TERESA

"There was a letter too, wasn't there?" Jane asked, voice still flat. Empty.

"No," Lisbon said. He looked at her in surprise.

"Are you sure? She's been out of touch so long… Ellie would want to say more than just a few words. She'll want to begin a conversation. She wants us to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that she's coming for us. That she's been thinking of us."

She looked uncertain for a moment. "Hang on." She started for the stairs. Jane jogged after her, stopping her with a hand on her arm.

"You don't have to go up there. Get the others to do it."

"I'm not running from this," Lisbon said. Her jaw was set. "Just stay here. I won't be long."

"Do you want me to… I could come with you."

Her eyes were filled with compassion—though still not pity, he noted with definite relief—when she shook her head. "Stay here, Jane. I can handle this."

He stood at the bottom of the stairs, wrestling with himself once again as she climbed to the second floor. It was a solid ten minutes before Lisbon finally returned. She looked at him seriously as she descended the stairs, several photos in her hand.

"No letter?" he asked.

"I didn't see one."

He started to go past her, determined to find what he was sure must be there. She blocked his path.

"There's nothing up there, Jane. And even if there was, you're not going in there again," she said flatly. "It's…" She shook her head. He noted that her eyes were puffy; she'd been up there crying. His heart twisted in his chest.

"The images are from a videotape, then?" he asked. She nodded. He thought with dread of the implications of that: the tapes that existed out there somewhere, documenting the final, agonizing hours of his wife and child's lives.

Lisbon walked past him and tossed four fuzzy black and white photos onto the table. Though she was trying to maintain some semblance of professionalism, there was no hiding the blush climbing her cheeks. Jane took one look at the photos and shook his head.

"Well, that's hardly my best side," he said dryly. "You'd think they could have found a more flattering angle."

"She must have planted a camera somewhere in the room—maybe while we were out playing with the kids that night."

Once again, he thought back to that night: Lisbon playing soccer with a group of rag-tag orphans on that hot, dusty Mexican evening. What the hell had he been thinking? Of course Ellie had known they were there; she'd known every move they made, from the very beginning. He was willing to bet there wasn't a single thing they'd done that had surprised her, from the time Jane broke out of jail and the two of them left town. He found himself more and more annoyed at the realization that he'd been bested.

Looking at Lisbon, however, it was clear that her concerns had nothing to do with the fact that Ellie had won their first battle. She stared at the pictures on the table. They were cheap, grainy, turning something that had meant a great deal to both of them, he knew, into something torrid and base. He picked up the pictures, barely glancing at them again, went to Lisbon's kitchen sink, and retrieved a lighter from the shelf.

"Jane, there could be clues in those pictures. Evidence."

"I don't care," he said roughly. He watched the fire, his anger growing as surely as the flames. "She wants to play with us? I'll give her a game she won't forget. I've had it with this shit."

Lisbon's eyes widened. Her mouth twitched.

"Oh, you think that's funny?"

She took a step closer, her hand slipping to his arm. "Actually, it's a little sexy." She shrugged. "What can I say—you were right, as usual. I do have a little bit of a thing for bad boys, I guess."

They stood together in silence for a moment, watching the flames consume the photos until nothing was left but damp black ash. Jane tried to think of something appropriate, something reassuring, to say. Instead, all he could think of was that day more than fourteen years ago: Say 'Guggenheim,' Charlie. It had been a joke between the three of them: one of Charlotte's first words was Guggenheim, for reasons no one could ever quite understand. Once she learned it, though, she said it constantly- laughing as though at some riotous joke only the little girl herself was in on. Most of her stuffed bears were named Guggenheim; even one of her dolls was Guggenheim. Say 'Guggenheim,' Charlie... one more big smile for the camera... She'd grinned, beaming in her ballerina costume, her tiara tipped haphazardly. Guggooheim, Daddy. After that, she'd rushed him while he was still holding the camera, nearly knocking it out of his hands in her excitement.

"Uh- boss?"

Jane started at the words, turning abruptly. The ashes from the photos were soaked now, steam coming up as scalding water filled the sink. Rigsby stood at the door, forehead furrowed with concern. Lisbon's fingers were digging into Jane's arm, as she tried to pull him back to the present.

"Just a second, Rigs," she said.

"It can't wait," he said. The agent entered the apartment and dropped an envelope on the table.

"What is it?" Lisbon asked. She was looking at it like it was a bomb about to go off.

"It was on your car," Rigsby said. "Looks like it's probably from Ellie."

She looked at Jane, a flash of irritation crossing her face at the fact that he was right yet again. It was such a Lisbon reaction that he found himself strangely comforted. Though there would undoubtedly be nothing that could help them with the case, Lisbon took care to use gloves opening the envelope. Which made it take forever, of course- Jane was tempted to just rip the blasted thing out of her hands.

Lisbon cleared her throat, and began to read aloud.

Dearest Patrick and Teresa,

Father doesn't know I've written this note—in fact, he doesn't know I've come calling at all. I'm afraid he wouldn't be happy with me if he learned of my actions; he's been very tiresome about keeping a low profile since our adventures in Mexico. But I did want you to know that I haven't forgotten about you. I'm delighted to see you moving on with our plan so well—it's pleased me so much to get to know Tommy's daughter, and to see that Patrick has welcomed her into his life, as well. You can see firsthand how tragedy draws people closer. Now, the game is well and truly afoot. I've left some mementos for you—a few remembrances I've kept of the times we've shared over the years. Some are from father's archives, some from Tim's, and many, of course, are from my personal collection. I'm so looking forward to seeing you again. To be honest, Tommy was a bit of a disappointment for me; he seemed resigned to die from the start, and wasn't the least bit creative about bargaining for his life.

His daughter, I'm sure, will show considerably more spirit.

And you fought so admirably to save your brother, Teresa—even though his spirit was broken and he was so easily eased into the grave. I can only imagine how desperate your attempts will be when young Annie—so full of vitality, such a bright future ahead of her—is at my mercy.

Lisbon paled. She dropped the letter and reached for her cell phone immediately.

"Cho and Grace are already on their way to Jane's place," Rigsby said.

"And I called Rachel as soon as we saw the blood on the stairs," Jane said. Lisbon was still shaking, paying no attention to their words. It wasn't until Jane heard Annie come on the other end of the telephone line that Teresa seemed to breathe again.

"You're okay?" she asked into the telephone. Silent tears rolled down her cheeks. Jane couldn't hear what Annie said, but it seemed to allay Lisbon's fears. "Grace and Cho are on their way over there. I want you to do everything they tell you to. I'll explain it when we get back." Another pause. Though Jane still couldn't hear the words, he could tell from Annie's tone and the frown on Lisbon's face that the girl wasn't being put off so easily. "I'm not shielding you from the truth, Annie - but I'm not gonna have this conversation over the phone. I'll tell you everything that happened when we get there. It won't be much longer."

They argued for a moment longer, Annie clearly not believing Lisbon when she said it would wait until they got home. It was only when Rigsby and Van Pelt arrived that Annie finally, willingly got off the phone.

"They'll keep her safe," Jane said.

Lisbon shook her head. "Nothing can keep her safe; nothing can keep any of us safe, as long as Ellie is still out there."

Jane wished he could disagree.

TBC

Poor Jane! And poor Lisbon! I know, I torture everyone mercilessly... but at least they got a little quality TVD time in before the world fell to pieces. Next up: Patrick and Teresa take a good, hard look at their relationship; Ellie continues to be batshit crazy; and we start easing our way toward Europe, for the next big chunk of the fic. I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter, and the recent, disturbing developments in the case!