Sorry for being a little late in the day with this, but here's the next chapter, as promised. And I don't know if you folks are into fanvids at all, but I posted two of my fave Mentalist vids at the website today. Just click on the Daily Fanvid banner and you'll find them there, at www[dot]bwfanficezine[dot]com. Enjoy!
Chapter Ten
After work that evening, Jane invited the team over for dinner at his place – ostensibly to discuss his encounter with Kristina Frye, though secretly he was also hoping that they would pitch in to get a bit more of his apartment done. Otherwise, he was convinced he would spend the rest of his days on his new sofa in a cordoned-off area in the corner, his refrigerator still in a box in the hallway.
They ordered pizza. Rigsby brought beer. Everyone had gone home and changed into weekend attired, but for Jane – who didn't much care for weekend attire in the presence of the entire team.
At Lisbon's request, they had included only the core group – Rigsby, Van Pelt, and Cho. Jane might have thought her paranoid, if he hadn't been convinced himself that agents at the highest levels of the CBI and California government had been – and still were – somehow involved with Red John.
Once they were seated around his newly assembled (thanks to Lisbon and Van Pelt, who were predictably meticulous about the process) dining room table, Grace took out pen and paper.
All eyes turned toward Jane.
"So?" Grace asked.
Jane hesitated, not particularly looking forward to recounting the bizarre events that had transpired behind closed doors with Kristina.
"You hypnotized her…" Lisbon prompted him.
"Yes. Exactly." He folded his hands in front of himself at the table.
"And I guess it must've worked," Rigsby said.
"It did," Jane confirmed. "It got a little… weird, though."
"Weirder than a live woman thinking she was a spirit you were contacting from beyond the grave?" Cho asked.
"Strangely enough, yes."
Grace looked at him, her eyes wide. "A little weird how?" Her pen was poised, her body tense.
"You're going to make something of it, when in fact there's absolutely nothing to make of it," Jane said. Van Pelt looked unconvinced. Understandable. Hell, he was unconvinced.
"So, what happened?" Rigsby asked. He'd just devoured nearly half a pizza, but was now eying Jane's piece as though he hadn't eaten for days. Jane pushed it toward him.
"A few minutes into the trance, Kristina Frye stopped speaking as Kristina Frye," he finally admitted.
"What do you mean she stopped speaking as Kristina?" Lisbon asked.
"I mean… Kristina Frye left the building. So to speak."
"Who started talking in her place?" Van Pelt asked. She was gripping her pen so tightly it looked as though it might snap.
Jane wet his lips. His skin crawled at the memory of that serpentine smile.
"Red John," he said grimly. He held up his hand when everyone began speaking at once.
"I've seen things like this before, of course, though typically in the context of something like multiple personality disorder. Not that that's what this is. I believe this was no more than the power of suggestion."
"Suggested by who?" Van Pelt asked. She shivered, her forehead furrowed, lips tight. "This is the creepiest thing I've ever heard of. What did he say to you?"
Jane skipped the taunting remarks about his wife and child, and went straight to what he perceived as the most significant portion of the message.
"I asked who Ellie was. Kristina said – and I quote – 'My muse. My canvas. Creator and creation. Ma soeur de l'ame.'"
Grace hastily wrote down the words.
"What's that last part supposed to mean?" Rigsby asked.
"Sister of my soul," Cho answered immediately.
"How do you think that ties in with the whole Frankenstein thing?" Lisbon asked.
"What Frankenstein thing?" Rigsby demanded.
Jane shot a glare at Lisbon, but she shrugged it off. "Sorry – if we're all in this, we should all have the same information."
She was right, of course. Still, it rankled a bit to have all the facts laid out so baldly. Jane stood and retrieved the miniature Frankenstein volume from among the information he'd been gathering.
"Jane found that in the first dollhouse – he says it wasn't in the original scene," Lisbon said.
"And you think Jennings is sending a message?" Cho asked. He picked up the tiny book, examining it thoughtfully.
"I don't think she chose it randomly," Jane said.
Cho nodded, obviously deep in thought.
"So, you think this Ellie Jennings might actually be Red John's sister?" Rigsby asked.
"That's too literal," Cho said, before Jane had an opportunity to say the same. "In the book, Elizabeth Lavenza is a girl taken in by the Frankensteins – she's raised as a member of the family, then marries Victor. Uh – Dr. Frankenstein," he explained to the others, at the blank faces that stared back at him.
"Dude – how do you know so much about Frankenstein?" Rigsby asked.
"It's Frankenstein," Cho said simply, as though the mere title should explain everything. "Everyone's read Frankenstein. It's not like we're talking Dostoevsky here."
"But Elizabeth is killed by the monster," Jane interrupted, before they got any farther off-topic.
Cho considered this, the others looking on. "So, in Ellie Jennings' version, who's the monster?"
"That's what we haven't figured out yet," Lisbon said. When Jane didn't say anything, she looked at him in surprise. "Or have we?"
"I'm quite certain Ellie views Red John as Dr. Frankenstein," he said.
"So that would make her Elizabeth," Cho quickly surmised. "Or else Justine – the martyr," he explained.
"No," Jane said definitively. "She's no martyr. But Elizabeth would make sense, I think. Victor's muse."
Rigsby sighed. "Well, that's great – but what's it gotta do with what's going on? And what's her next move? I mean, this stuff is creepy, don't get me wrong, but so far has she actually broken any laws? Other than having a really crappy sense of humor? Which, last time I checked, wasn't illegal."
"He's right," Grace said thoughtfully. "So far, there hasn't been any real crime. As long as we're still thinking Red John was the one who did the actual murders…?"
"We have no evidence that would necessitate changing that theory," Lisbon said. She sat with one foot up in the chair, her arm wrapped around a jean-clad knee, hair up in a ponytail. With her oversized sweatshirt, she looked more like a high school student than a senior agent with the CBI. Had it not been for their disturbing conversation, Jane would have been charmed by the paradox.
"She'll escalate fast," Cho predicted. Jane had been thinking the same thing. "Something like this – she's just laying the groundwork. But she's obviously got something up her sleeve."
Rigsby's face clouded, and Jane caught the concerned glance he directed at Grace. "You think the team's in danger?"
"I would definitely exercise caution," Jane said. He thought of the other words Kristina had said, when she was still 'channeling' Red John. She'll need to make more of you.
What the devil did that mean?
"You had them increase security around Kristina?" Jane asked Lisbon.
"They've got a couple guards on her, and they've increased security on her floor and around the facility."
The information didn't go far in reassuring him, but the fact of the matter was, he didn't know what else he could do – short of going there and attempting to protect her himself. He thought back to the look on Kristina's face when she had spoken of his daughter, and suppressed the urge to physically shake himself to clear the memory. No – it might be selfish, but for the moment, he would let the police and private security protect Kristina Frye.
God help him, he didn't want to be anywhere near her.
"So, what else did you notice while you were talking to Red John?" Grace asked. "Did he say anything else?"
"It wasn't a 'he,' Grace," Jane said. "I told you – this was merely the power of suggestion."
"But suggested by whom, exactly?" Lisbon repeated Grace's earlier question. Her face went dark once she recognized his implication. "You think Ellie Jennings has been there? That she's visited Kristina?"
"At least once," Jane confirmed. "I managed to get a copy of Kristina's file – " he didn't bother to say how, exactly, he'd gotten it – "and she's only received a handful of visitors, all of whom were easily confirmed as legitimate. But it would be a simple task to sneak in. Or Ellie may have posed as an employee at the hospital."
There was a moment of silence, as this information sank in to the rest of the group.
"What else did she say?" Grace asked. "Did she say why Ellie's doing this? What her goal is in this whole thing? I mean – what's the point of all this… torture, and cruelty? It's inhuman."
The strain was clear in her voice, her rigid posture, her furrowed brow. Jane reminded himself once again that, of all of them, Van Pelt was the only one without intimate knowledge of the darker side of life. She stood abruptly and walked across the apartment to the bank of windows. Rigsby sat, clearly wanting to go to her, until Lisbon nodded her head in Grace's direction.
"Go," she said.
"Thanks, boss," he whispered.
And then there were three.
"So," Cho said, picking up where Grace had left off. "Anything else you can tell us?"
"There wasn't much beyond that," Jane said. He turned to Lisbon. "What about you? You came in the room at the end there – did you notice anything? Any peculiar smells, for example?"
She quirked an eyebrow at that. "Smells? I was in there for like two seconds, Jane, and the only thing I smelled was freshly snuffed candles and incense."
He looked up sharply. "Incense? What kind?"
"I don't know, Jane – the smelly incense kind. Sandalwood, I think. Don't tell me you didn't – "
She stopped, as a look of sudden comprehension crossed her face. They locked eyes for a moment, Lisbon's narrowed with a realization Jane had been hoping to keep to himself for a bit longer.
"Wait a minute. You mean to tell me you can't – " she began.
"Possibly justify keeping everyone any longer on a Friday night," he interrupted, leaping to his feet so abruptly that he nearly toppled his chair. "You're right, Lisbon. This is important, of course, but there's no need for it to take over everyone's weekend."
Cho stared at him in confusion, Rigsby and Van Pelt echoing the expression from across the apartment.
"It's not even eight o'clock," Rigsby said, as he and Grace returned to the table.
"I didn't have any other plans," Grace agreed. She still looked shaken, but had clearly pulled herself together and was prepared to forge ahead.
"I did," Cho said. All eyes turned to him. He shrugged. "It's Friday night. The rest of you might be okay sitting around talking monsters and undead dollhouses. Elise and I want to catch a movie."
He put on his jacket, which mercifully led to Rigsby and Van Pelt doing the same. Lisbon, however, gave no indication that she had any intention of leaving.
Sure enough, once everyone had gone – promising to exercise extra caution over the course of the next two days – Lisbon remained behind, studying Jane with a set jaw.
"Couldn't wait to get me alone, eh, Lisbon?"
"Spare me. What the hell's going on, Jane?"
"You'll need to be more specific," he said. "Do you mean in a universal sense?"
"I mean, the other day with you having Rigsby play bloodhound with the dollhouse. And Van Pelt told me you had her nosing around a crime scene – literally – because you told her your allergies were bothering you."
"Well, they were."
"I've known you seven years. Since when have you had allergies?"
"Oh… Adult onset, I expect. Environmentally caused. It's dreadful the things we're doing to the planet."
"Jane." She took a step toward him, clearly intending bodily harm. He retreated, hands held high.
"Fine, fine – have it your way. But before I tell you…" He stood with the dining room table between them, amused despite himself at the wrinkle in Lisbon's forehead. "…What's it worth to you?" he asked, prepared to flee or duck, depending on the veracity of her response.
"What's it…?" she repeated in amazement. "Are you kidding me? We're talking about – hell, I don't even know what we're talking about, because you won't tell me. But if there's something wrong with you…"
"There's not," he said quickly.
She didn't look convinced. "Are you sure? How do you even know? I mean… What are we talking about here? Is it only your sense of smell or – "
"And I repeat," he said, more calmly now, "What's it worth to you, Lisbon? If I agree to tell you all about my recent olfactory challenges, what do I get in return?"
"Well, for starters, I might not kick your ass, or report this to Hightower or Bertram – "
He arched an eyebrow, affecting an utterly unruffled air. Lisbon glowered for a moment before she showed the first hint of surrender.
"What do you want?" she asked, her voice thick with suspicion.
"Oh, calm down – I'm not out for your maidenhead, Lisbon. Honestly."
"Well, that's good, because I'm pretty sure that ship left the dock a while ago," she said dryly, though there was a spark of humor in her eyes now.
"I merely want information," he said. The suspicion returned to her eyes. It occurred to him that he probably would have been better off asking for sex.
It was the first time they'd been alone in the apartment together since her phone call from Tommy – something she had, as yet, refused to talk to him about. Though that evening Jane had admitted to himself that there was a growing… awareness, for lack of a better term, between the two of them, he had no intention of doing anything about that awareness. He doubted that Lisbon had even come so far as to admit there might be an attraction, so it seemed to him that things were at a suitable stalemate. Mutual attraction, mutual denial of that attraction.
Perfectly normal, perfectly healthy, he thought wryly.
But just because he wasn't interested in pursuing a romantic entanglement didn't mean he was content to let their friendship grow stale. And if she thought she could continue to simply shut him out of her life, she had another thing coming.
"What kind of information?" she asked.
"About you. Your childhood. Tommy. I just want a little insight – that's all. I tell you things all the time… You have a file detailing my darkest days, for heaven's sake. It only seems fair."
Her brow furrowed more deeply as she chewed her lip, considering the deal.
"And you'll tell me everything I want to know, about whatever's going on with you since Red John died. Everything about Ellie Jennings. Whatever it is that happened in that room with Kristina, that you're holding back."
"Everything," he agreed. The fact that he had no intention of giving her all the details did not give him pause; there was no doubt in his mind that Lisbon would likewise withhold whatever information she was uncomfortable sharing.
She huffed and glowered a bit more before she finally nodded.
"Fine. One question – whatever you want."
"That's hardly what I had in mind," he said in dismay. "Three questions."
"Two," she countered.
They agreed.
While Lisbon would have no doubt preferred diving in then and there to get it over with, Jane insisted on cleaning up and settling in before they began their conversation. While he did the dishes, Lisbon commenced spackling his walls – which sounded like a euphemism if ever he'd heard one, but in this case most decidedly was not.
Once he was finished, he changed into jeans and t-shirt – noting that he was still a bit uncomfortable in casual wear around Lisbon, but determined to take that step regardless. At the look in her eye and the faint smile that touched her lips when he emerged, barefoot in t-shirt and jeans, he decided he'd made the right decision. He poured a glass of wine for each of them and brought it to the sofa.
The sun had gone down, casting long shadows throughout the apartment. Lisbon continued to work while he sat and watched, studying her speculatively.
"So – shoot," she said over her shoulder. "What do you want to know?"
He squelched a smile. God, the woman was exhausting sometimes. "You're really going to continue working while we have this conversation?"
"Your apartment's not gonna renovate itself, Jane. I might as well get some work done here."
Had he not known her better, he might have been frustrated. The tension in her shoulders and the weight in her eyes convinced him to leave it alone – as it was, it was clear that she was terrified at the prospect of whatever this conversation might hold.
"So, I'll just shout my questions across the room, then?"
"Unless you want to help."
He stretched out on the couch and took a sip of merlot. "No, no. This will do. Two questions, right?"
She nodded, by now spackling with such fervor that Jane wasn't certain his walls would survive the night.
"How much trouble is Tommy in?"
She tensed for a moment, then drew a deep breath and turned to face him. "He got a DUI last month. Second time in six months. I pulled a few strings, managed to get the judge to agree to treatment instead of jail time…"
"But he doesn't want to stay in treatment."
She laughed humorlessly. "He doesn't think he has a problem. Convinced it's everybody else."
"Methamphetamines?" he guessed.
She hesitated. "Is that your second question?"
All right, now he had to admit to a touch of frustration. "No."
She relented before he could continue, and came over to sit on the arm of the sofa – as far from him as possible, while still remaining on the same piece of furniture.
"He went to vocational school to be an electrician. Did well, too – he's good at it. He could fix just about anything when we were kids. But I didn't have the money to help out with tuition, so he started looking around for a way to make the cash."
"And started making meth."
"And using." She stared at the floor. "It's horrible stuff, you know? What it does to the body… I mean, it's basically poison." She shrugged. "But he can't kick it – I've tried everything I can think of. My other brothers gave up on him a long time ago."
But not St Teresa, Jane thought sadly, still studying her. The patron saint of lost causes.
"Is there anything I can do to help?" he asked softly.
She looked at him for a moment, her eyes searching his. It seemed to him that she was looking for something – some sign of insincerity or malice. When she didn't find it, she smiled her lopsided, winning smile.
"Nah. It's my problem, I can handle it. I'll figure something out, right?"
Before he could reply, she moved from the arm of the sofa to the sofa itself, curling her legs beneath her as she turned to face him. She helped herself to the glass of wine he'd poured for her. All around them, they were surrounded by boxes and odd bits of furniture, paint cans and plastic wrapping. The sofa and coffee table, wine and a couple of flickering candles Jane had put out at the last moment, seemed like an oasis in the midst of the chaos.
She waited until he met her eye before she spoke.
"So, my turn. What's going on with your nose?"
He grinned despite himself at her phrasing. "Ah yes… My nose." He considered the question for a moment. "My nose no longer knows."
"Your nose no longer smells."
He nodded. "That too."
"Since when?"
"A few days after I began serving my time."
"Before or after you were stabbed?"
"This seems like a lot more than two questions," he noted amiably, taking another sip of wine.
"That wasn't the deal. You get two questions. I get however many I need to figure this thing out. Before or after you were stabbed?" she repeated.
"Before."
"Have you told a doctor? This could be a sign of something serious…"
"It's not," he said. "They gave me a complete checkup while I was in the infirmary. There's nothing wrong with me."
"Except you can't smell anything."
"Or taste much," he amended.
She raised an eyebrow. "Seriously? This doesn't worry you at all – not being able to smell anything, not even being able to taste your tea? You don't see that as a reason to be concerned?"
This time, he didn't respond. They sat in silence for another few seconds, lost in thought, before he stood abruptly, wine in hand, and headed for the wall she'd been assaulting earlier.
"Teach me how to do whatever you were doing," he said suddenly. The wine was getting to him, just a bit – a pleasantly light feeling that would get heavier in time, he knew. Best take advantage of it while it lasted.
"Spackling." There was laughter in her voice. "It's not exactly rocket science, Jane. You see a hole, put some goop on the putty knife, and slap it in there."
Nevertheless, she set her wine down, stood, and joined him. Her arm was warm against his as they stood together, she demonstrating while he watched the sure, steady way that she worked. She had strong hands, but still pleasingly feminine. He liked Lisbon's hands.
"What was your favorite game as a child?" he asked, as she continued to work. She glanced at him for a moment, rolling her eyes.
"Is that your second question?"
"Yep."
"Guess."
It wasn't technically a condition of their agreement, but the game intrigued him. He decided to go along. Abandoning the spackling before he'd really given it much effort, he returned to the sofa. The wall she was working on was nearly twice her height, and the light fell in pleasing ways on her arms as she worked. She'd removed her sweatshirt, wearing a flattering, blue cotton blouse that went nicely with her coloring. He'd always liked curvier women in the past - there'd been a time after Charlotte was born when Angela had been downright plump, and it hadn't bothered him a bit. Lisbon didn't have such obvious curves, but the jeans she was wearing certainly made good use of the ones she did have.
"Are you guessing or what?" she asked, glancing over her shoulder.
Jane set his wine down, somewhat disturbed at his train of thought.
"Did you skip rope?"
She snorted at him. Lisbon was the only woman he'd ever known who could make a snort endearing.
"What do you think?"
"Right. How silly of me." He thought for a moment more, stretching his legs out on the coffee table. "Red Rover?"
"I don't even know what that is."
"No, I suppose not," he conceded. "Three brothers. Something more rough-and-tumble. Tag? Touch football?"
She paused for just a moment in her work. Ah – so that was it.
"Really? Football. But you're so small, Lisbon. And it logically follows that as a child you would have been that much smaller. What about when your mother was alive? Surely she didn't play touch football with you."
She paused with the putty knife once more. When she returned to her task, she put her shoulders into it a bit more, focusing all of her energy.
"So, perhaps touch football was your sport of choice later on, but what about when you were two, three, four years old?" The thought captivated him, thinking of his own experiences with a toddling daughter. What had Lisbon been like, before life taught her to erect all those fences?
"You were active, I bet? Hell on wheels, as they say." He straightened suddenly, triumphant. "I have it! Musical chairs. I've seen the way you – "
"Ow! Dammit."
She suddenly whipped her putty knife at the wall, one hand clutching the other. Jane could already see blood from where he was sitting, halfway across the room. She let loose with a litany of curses that would have made the heartiest sailor go crimson.
"Are you all right?"
"Yeah, I'm fine," she bit out.
He did his best to conceal his amusement as he hurried to her side. Really, were there no lengths she wouldn't go to to avoid talking about herself? At sight of the steady stream of blood flowing from between her fingers, however, that amusement vanished.
"Good lord, woman, what did you do?"
He made an attempt to look at the injured hand, but she pulled away quickly. "It's nothing, Jane. The knife just slipped – no big deal."
"Let me look at it."
"You don't need to look at it. It's fine."
"Lisbon." He fixed her with his sternest stare. It must have hurt like the devil, because – to his great surprise – a moment later, she surrendered her hand.
She'd sliced the fleshy part of her thumb – deep enough to hurt like hell, but not likely to require stitches.
"Put some pressure on it, to staunch the bleeding." He placed her other hand over the injured one, pressing gently to demonstrate, and winced sympathetically when her brow creased at the pain. "Here – come sit down. I'll get something to clean it with."
She dutifully followed him to the sofa.
"Sit."
"Jane."
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Lisbon – just sit, would you?"
She sat. He scrounged for a bit until he found a clean towel and the first aid kit that Grace had left for him his first day in the apartment. When he returned, Lisbon was looking a shade paler than usual, her freckles standing out in stark relief. He sat on the coffee table facing her, and took her hand once more.
"You don't look so good, Lisbon. I didn't know you got queasy at the sight of blood."
"I don't," she said shortly. "It just caught me by surprise, that's all. If you hadn't been badgering me…"
"Ah, yes. All my fault. 'Damn that Jane,'" he said, doing his best Lisbon impression.
He washed the blood away with a damp cloth. Once he had a better visual on the wound, he hedged at his initial assessment.
"Perhaps we should take you to the hospital."
She glanced at it, her color already returning. Shook her head. "For that? What are you, kidding? I told you, it just caught me by surprise."
"Well, at least let me put something on it and dress the wound."
She shrugged. "Suit yourself. But I told you – "
"Yes, I know. You're fine."
He finished cleaning the wound and put on a large Band Aid. "Charlie always insisted on rainbow Band Aids – she said the others didn't work."
"Who's Charlie?"
He'd been so absorbed in the task at hand that he'd forgotten himself – literally. He tensed. After a moment he wet his lips, anchoring himself with the feel of Lisbon's soft, strong hand in his own.
"My daughter."
She went still. It seemed for a moment that the whole world was between breaths, silence on all sides.
"I'm sorry. I've never heard you call her that."
"Angela didn't like it when I did." He met Lisbon's eye with a small smile. "But then, after a while, there was no going back – someone would call her Charlotte, and she'd barely acknowledge them. She was like that, though… Consumed with her play, oblivious to the world around her."
His chest constricted painfully. Everything had gotten so quiet. Night had fallen, a few random shouts and laughter in the street below. Lisbon tilted her head, her eyes never leaving his.
He looked away first. "I think you'll survive," he said, nodding toward her hand. It was a marvel, really – Lisbon's hand. So deceptively delicate. He lifted it and brushed his lips gently across the Band Aid. She flinched, blinking as she pulled her hand away.
"What're you doing?"
"It wasn't a come on, Lisbon," he said with an amused glint, the gravity of a moment before mercifully broken. "I was kissing it to make it better. It's standard protocol. Didn't anyone kiss your skinned knees when you were a child?"
She scoffed. "Yeah, right. Three brothers, remember? Nobody kissed much of anything around my house."
"Well, it helps," he said, pulling her hand back under the guise of inspecting his work. "Scientifically proven. Mark my words, that kiss probably just saved your hand."
"Well, then, I guess I should thank you."
For a few moments they merely sat, knees touching knees, her wounded hand in his. The silence became infused with an energy that hadn't been there before. His fingers ghosted over hers, taking in the warmth, the texture. Her pulse raced - he could feel it, fluttering beneath the skin at her small wrist. When he raised his eyes, she was watching him.
"Patrick," she said. It sounded like a warning.
He set her hand back in her lap and stood, a feeling of near-panic making his own pulse just as thready.
"It's getting late," he said.
She stood, nodding vigorously. "Yeah. I should go."
Before they were faced with the awkward task of saying goodnight, she grabbed her sweatshirt and bolted for the door. Had he not been so unnerved at the turn of events himself, Jane might have been amused at the rise he'd gotten from her. As it was, though, it seemed to him that she was holding herself together far better than he.
"I'll see you Monday, then," he said. She was already out the door and halfway down the hall. She turned back.
"Right. Monday. Rigsby's picking you up, right?"
"Yeah – yes, he is. Good," he said, still nodding. "So… Monday, then."
The conflict was still clear on her face, but she'd at least stopped her flight. She took a couple of steps back toward him.
"Jane – uh, thanks. For listening – all that stuff about my brother. And for the Band Aid."
He smiled faintly as a sudden wash of grey enveloped him. "Anytime, Lisbon. Anytime."
He closed his door, and listened to her retreat.
It was well past two a.m. when Jane's cell phone rang that night. He'd fallen into a restless sleep on the sofa, plagued by vague dreams and haunting memories. At the sound of the ring tone, he fumbled for a moment until he found the phone, glaring at the display.
Lisbon.
He answered with a prickly feeling in his chest, spiderwebs ghosting across his skin. This wouldn't be good.
"What is it?"
"I'm on my way to your place – I'll be there in five minutes. Tell Brad you need to come with me."
There was no trace of sleep in her voice.
"Lisbon, what the devil is – "
"They found another dollhouse."
His body went rigid. "Which crime scene?" And he knew – before she said the words, before a syllable was out, he knew – in that maddeningly prescient way that had proven too late once before.
"Turn on the news. She left it in the studio at WKBI – the producer got an anonymous call about an hour ago." She paused. "It's Kristina's room, Jane."
He hung up without another word, and dressed by the damp glow of the streetlights outside.
TBC
I may not get to the next chapter until Sunday, though I'll do my best to post before that - loads of deadlines in the next few days, though, so I make no promises. Hopefully this long chapter will tide you over 'til then. Be sure to drop a line to let me know what you thought, I do love hearing what you have to say!