A/N: Well, we are finally to the conclusion of this fic. I hope it adequately ties up all the lose ends and leaves you with your own feeling of closure. After the very end, you will also find a deleted scene. I wanted to bring back Erica (like the bad penny she was on The Mentalist), but I wasn't ultimately happy with the scene I wrote, so I took it out. But I spent a lot of time on it, so I thought I would share it anyway. Hope it's not too cringeworthy, lol. You may agree that it was too silly.

Chapter 10

"You had one job, Miss Lisbon: to keep my daughter safe. Where the hell were you when she was pushed down the goddamn stairs?"

Teresa felt her face flush scarlet with guilt and embarrassment as Grace Van Pelt's furious father towered over her in the hospital corridor. Everyone was acutely aware that the camera crew was still filming, and the bachelorettes were now standing in the hallway, their mouths open in awe of the excitement around them.

"Now wait a second," said Patrick, his voice deadly calm. He stepped protectively between them. "I understand you're upset, Senator, but there's no need for incivility here." The two Secret Service agents stepped menacingly closer to their charge.

"Who the hell are you?" asked the Senator, but then realization dawned. "Ah, you're the bachelor gigolo. This is none of your business."

"On the contrary—" Patrick began angrily, but Teresa had finally found her voice and put a hand on his arm to silence him. She stepped around him.

"Yes, I did have a job, and I was derelict in my duty, sir. I accept full responsibility, and of course we can just forget my fee. I will pay for Grace's hospital bill and—"

"You certainly will not!" The trio in the hall looked up to see Grace standing unsteadily in the doorway of her hospital room, her broken arm held awkwardly against her breasts, while her other hand pulled her IV cart like a tethered puppy beside her.

"Daddy, this was not Teresa's fault. It was Lorelei Martins'. Teresa has been watching out for me, I realize that now. She was even staying in the same room with me. But she has a life, and I don't begrudge her that."

The senator had rushed to his daughter's side, his face a mask of concern. He immediately steered her back inside toward her bed.

"What the hell are you doing up?"

But the senator seemed to ignore her words as he helped Grace back into the bed, pulling up her blankets, adjusting her pillow, and making sure the IV line was straight. He glanced behind him to see the camera was still pointed at them. "Turn that damned thing off! I want some privacy with my daughter! And get all these other people out of here." He nodded at the two agents, who shut the door in the cameraman's face and, with the help of a nurse and an orderly, ushered the crew and the women contestants toward the elevators. Then the agents took their places just outside the hospital room door. Teresa and Patrick had managed to slip into the room with Grace and Senator Van Pelt.

"Did you hear me, Daddy? Please don't blame Teresa. After all, it was my idea to defy your wishes and go on the show to begin with. You were right; someone was trying to kill me. I should have listened to you."

The senator reached down and caressed his daughter's bruised face, brushing back her hair from her forehead as he likely had done countless times when she was little. He smiled tenderly, his ire melting with the relief of knowing his child was all right.

"Everything's going to be okay, sweetheart. No need to worry now." He turned back to Teresa and Patrick.

"Our business here is done, Miss Lisbon. For one thing, I learned last night that the author of those threatening letters was apprehended in Sacramento-some mentally deranged kid who held me responsible for his father's murder because of my stance on gun control. News should hit the media today."

"So, Lorelei didn't attack Grace to get to you; it must have had to do with the show-some jealousy on her part." Teresa glanced at Patrick. Things were starting to fall into place, and Mashburn was firmly at the center of it, given Lorelei's screaming accusations when she was taken away by the police.

"Don't think this alleviates any of your responsibility, young woman" said the senator. "Because you didn't do your job, my daughter could have been killed. Now, I'd appreciate it if you left, along with Mr. Wrong here." And he waved them away dismissively.

"Teresa, Patrick, wait," said Grace, frowning at her father. The couple approached her bed warily. "These two people are my friends, and I say when they go. They had nothing to do with my being here, and you're not going to bully them, Dad."

Her father's mouth formed an angry line, and she knew he would indulge her, but only for a minute.

"I'm not mad at either of you," Grace continued, "and I certainly don't blame you. I'm glad you've found each other."

"What?" said the senator, rounding on Teresa. "You two are together? So you managed to use my daughter, not to mention my money, to pick up a date?"

Patrick had had about enough of the man's bluster, and he lunged for the senator to punch his lights out. He would have done it had Teresa and the Secret Service agents, attracted by the senator's raised voice, not stopped him. Teresa held him Patrick back, perp style, her surprisingly strong arms holding his behind him.

"He's not worth spending time in a federal pen," she growled into his ear. Assaulting a US Senator was a federal crime. The fight went out of him somewhat, and he allowed the agents to calmly haul him out of the room, escorting him to the elevator.

"You'd better hope I never see either of you again."

Teresa fervently shared that hope, though for not the same ominous reasons the senator had. Grace looked apologetically at Teresa, but this time she knew better than to push her father anymore while he was this upset. There was his heart to think about.

"I'm sorry," Teresa said to both Grace and her father, then ran after Patrick.

He was waiting for her just outside the hospital's main doors, still fuming. He took her icy hands in his, looking critically into her pale face.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Yeah. That was tougher than I thought it would be."

"You should have let me hit the bastard; I know I would have felt better."

She smiled a little at that. "Not that I don't appreciate your defending my honor and all, but that guy was a decorated Marine…"

Patrick raised his eyebrows. "You mean he would have wiped the floor with me?"
She shrugged. "Well, if he hadn't, the Secret Service surely would have."

He drew her closer, wrapping his arms around her. "Your faith in my physical prowess is overwhelming," he said dryly.

"You're a lover, not a fighter," she soothed, smiling against his vest. "Besides, they had guns."

"You're just trying to make me feel better."

She felt him kiss the top of her head, take a deep, calming breath. After a moment, she drew reluctantly away from him and they began walking hand in hand toward the parking lot.

"I wonder what will happen with the show now," she asked. "Two more of your prospects are eliminated, and I bet if we checked the internet, the video of Lorelei's arrest will be on the way to viral by now." Teresa had no doubt someone in that hospital had recorded the whole damn thing. Actually, she wouldn't put it past Stiles to leak it himself, just to boost ratings.

"It doesn't matter; I quit."

They'd reached her rental car and she stopped abruptly. "You can't, Patrick. Are you forgetting that video Stiles has of us?"

He had, actually, for a blissful few hours. He ran a frustrated hand through his hair, swearing under his breath. "Maybe I can find a way to break into his office and delete the thing."

Before Teresa could discourage him from yet another illegal activity, a car pulled up in the empty space next to theirs. Rigsby, in his own rental. He disembarked, awkwardly maneuvering his long legs out of the economy car. He reached back in to retrieve a blue file folder.

"Hey, Boss. This is your lucky day."

He walked around his car and handed Teresa the folder. She glanced at Rigsby's excited face, then opened it. It was a print-off of an email from a mutual friend who still worked for the CBI. She scanned the document, her eyes growing wider with each sentence.

"Oh my God, Rigsby; you're a genius!"

Rigsby blushed, his grin spreading from ear to ear. Patrick moved to stand closer so he could read over Teresa's shoulder. "What is it?"

"We got him, Patrick-Stiles. Apparently he was a founding member of the religious cult, Visualize, though back then he went by a different name, obviously fake: William Blake."

"Like the poet?" asked Patrick.

"Yeah."

"Well, that's interesting…" He was drawing a blank as to the significance of this supposedly damaging information on Stiles.

"Don't you read the news? Red John, the serial killer, whose crime syndicate had infiltrated the CBI, was the other founder of the cult, called the William Blake Association. The AG and the FBI came in and cleaned house, firing everyone in Serious Crimes who had worked on the case under suspicion that they might have been on the take from Red John. Even though my team caught and killed the bastard, we all got the ax. We were later fully exonerated, but Rigsby and my other business partner, Cho, vowed we'd never go back after they'd treated us like crap, so we started our own investigative and security firm."

"So Stiles is a serial killer too?" asked Patrick. Of course he'd heard of the Red John murders and the man's dramatic demise at the hands of the CBI. He hadn't heard who'd brought him down, however. He looked on Teresa now with new eyes; she was even more formidable than he'd thought. It wasn't like him to underestimate someone so much; love must be blind. He grinned.

But Teresa was frowning at his half-serious question. "I don't know. Red John's partner supposedly got out of Visualize long ago, but we never could find the man, never learned who he really was." She looked over at Rigsby. "They must have found him after we left, when all the resources of the FBI got involved."

Rigsby nodded. "That's what Reed said when I called him after he sent that email. They questioned Stiles, but they could never link him to any of Red John's crimes, and Stiles claimed that when the religious aspects of Visualize started to take on cult-like status, he got out fast, and never looked back. The FBI never released Stiles's name in connection to Red John, in exchange for his full cooperation and all the background information he could give on Red John's origins."

"They found out Red John was a county sheriff," Patrick added, some of the details from two years ago coming back.

"Yeah," said Teresa. "We'd actually worked with the man in that capacity in the CBI. He was right under our noses the whole damn time." She shook her head in remembrance of, in her mind, a past failure. One look at Rigsby, and Patrick read similar bitterness there.

"At any rate," Teresa concluded, "we now have something on Stiles that if it got out could ruin his career."

"The FBI wouldn't be too happy about that," said Rigsby. "There are still aspects of the investigation that are ongoing. They're still not sure they've found everyone who was a member of the Blake Association…"

"Well, Stiles doesn't need to know that, and hopefully just the threat of us leaking this information will keep him in line."

"What's he got on you, Boss?" asked Rigsby. It seemed pretty clear now either she or Jane was being blackmailed. "I don't mean to pry, but this seems really personal."

"It is," she said, closing the folder. Impulsively, she gave Rigsby a big hug of gratitude. "Thanks, Wayne. You're a life-saver. If you want, you can head back home. Hopefully I'll be back up there in a few days. I'm sorry I screwed up our chance at getting paid by Van Pelt. I'll think of something else to save us, I promise."

Rigbsy didn't seem too concerned. "I know you will, Boss. And besides, you deserve a little happiness." He nodded toward Patrick. Rigsby could see the writing on the wall where the two of them were concerned, and he really was happy for her. "Oh, by the way…I couldn't get a meeting with Brenda Shettrick, but I was able to talk to the onset security guys. She and Stiles are totally doing it."

"As I guessed," said Patrick, who had suspected as much all along. "This means she likely knows what Stiles is up to as well, and is probably in on the whole thing with him." He shivered dramatically. "Yuck."

Teresa concurred, blanching at the thought of the two of them together.

"Good job, Rigsby. Now, I guess we need to go find Stiles. See you back in Sacramento."

As Teresa and Patrick drove away, Patrick happened to look in the side mirror. He saw that Rigsby didn't immediately get back into his car, but reached back inside for a large bouquet of flowers. Patrick grinned as the young swain shut his car door and walked back toward the hospital, a definite spring in his step.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Well, Patrick, you'll be pleased to know that, given the scandals that have rocked this season, the network has pulled the plug on the whole damn thing."

They'd found Stiles in his office on the network studio lot in Hollywood. On the shelves behind his large mahogany desk were a few Emmy statuettes and a Golden Globe. Posters of his various past projects hung artfully on the walls.

"Then I suppose we won't have to resort to this," said Teresa, tossing the blue folder onto his desk.

He eyed it warily, and Patrick could tell from the man's expression that he had a feeling he knew exactly what was inside it. He reached out a resigned hand and opened it, his face betraying no emotion as he read. After a moment, he looked up at his visitors.

"I'm found out, am I? How the devil did you get this information?"

"I used to work for the CBI," she said.

"Ah. Well, check mate, as it were." There was a sparkle of genuine appreciation in his blue eyes.

"Where's the video?" asked Patrick, cutting to the chase.

With a sigh, Stiles opened the laptop on his desk and pulled up the file, then turned it around so Patrick and Teresa could see it. Teresa, who knew more about technology than Patrick, stepped forward and deleted the file, then deleted the recycle bin's contents as well. She took out a flash drive and plugged it into the side of the computer, then, with the touch of a few keys, transferred all the other files on the computer to the flash drive before deleting them off the computer. She presented Stiles with the small device, then promptly shut the laptop and put it under her arm.

"You're taking my computer?"

"Yes. I know you could always get someone who could retrieve the video off your hard drive. I'll have my tech guy totally sweep it and returned to you later. I trust there are no other copies floating around…?"

"None, I swear it."

"Excuse me if I don't quite believe you," said Patrick. "And I suggest you speak to your lover and partner in crime Brenda, warn her that if we can dig up this kind of dirt on you, we'll spare no expense to get the goods on her as well. Keep in mind that the bit of information we have on you will hurt your career much more than that video will ours. One hint on the internet or on TV, and you're done for in this town, understand me? I did say you would regret this decision one day, if I remember right."

Stiles chuckled. "I underestimated you, Patrick. And for the record, I am genuinely sorry this whole thing didn't work out. It would have been a hell of a show."

Patrick reached for Teresa's hand. "Oh, I say it's worked out pretty well for me. I guess I owe you my thanks for that at least."

The adversaries shared smug grins. "I hope we meet again, Patrick, under much more…congenial circumstances."

Patrick shook his head. "You'll forgive me if I don't return the sentiment. Goodbye, Bret."

"Goodbye, Patrick. And farewell to you as well, lovely Teresa. And may I say, the camera adored your face. If your investigation business doesn't work out, you'll look me up, won't you?"

She sniffed indelicately. "Not likely."

"Pity."

As they stepped out of the office building they were nearly run over by a speeding red vintage Ferrari. Patrick had both heard the vehicle and caught sight of it out the corner of is eye just in time to pull Teresa out of the way. When Teresa saw who was driving, she wondered if the near miss had been intentional.

"That was Mashburn," said Patrick, trying to catch his breath. "Guess he's getting away before the police catch up with him."

"You're thinking he put Lorelei up to hurting Grace, aren't you?"

"Yeah, because he knew you were there to protect her," he said, "and he wanted you away from me."

He looked cautiously both ways in case he came back to try to finish the job, before taking her hand and walking again toward the car. She grasped it tightly; it had been a long time since someone had looked out for her, and it made her love him all the more.

Xxxxxxxxxx

Patrick and Teresa spent the next three days holed up in a hotel room, waiting for the initial one-two media punch to die down a little. Senator Van Pelt had held a new conference after word had reached the airwaves that the man who had been threatening him and his family had been apprehended. At the same time, it began to seep out that the senator's daughter had been caught in the center of the Mr. Right scandal, that she had been injured by a jealous contestant. Days before, it had already been leaked that Kristina had also had an accident on set and was still recovering in the hospital. Further fueling the flames of controversy surrounding the show, the host had mysteriously disappeared at the same time he'd been named a person of interest in Grace Van Pelt's assault. Everyone wondered whether the show would survive renewal.

To cap it all off, pictures of Patrick and Teresa were out there (thankfully, they were completely clothed) from the set of the show, kissing and looking blissfully into each other's eyes, and there was speculation that the two of them had ended up together, that Mr. Right had found his Mrs. in spite of it all.

Fortunately, LCR Surveillance and Investigations hadn't been implicated in the scandals, though some savvy social media expert had linked her likeness with the former CBI agent who had helped take down Red John. Teresa couldn't decide whether it was really good for business to have her picture front in center of every online gossip site and the subject of numerous tweets and shares. Back home, Cho said they were having to turn away prospective clients, and pleaded with Teresa to come back as soon as she could. He didn't rat out Rigsby, who had come straggling back two days later than he'd said he would, looking outrageously happy and gushing over his plans to meet Grace Van Pelt for dinner in San Francisco.

But while Teresa was worried about her firm, she wasn't too anxious to give up days spent in bed with Patrick along with all-night pizza and burger deliveries. For one thing, he lived in Southern California, and she was a day's drive to the north. They were both keenly aware of all that would soon divide them.

She lay now, naked against him on the bed, her head pillowed on his chest.

"We can't stay in this bubble forever," she said, her heartbeat still thrumming from their most recent exertions. "We both have responsibilities…"

"I hate to admit when you're right, but I must say, all this sex is getting pretty tedious."

She gave him a quick slap to his chest in retaliation, and though it stung a bit, he laughed.

"You hate to admit I'm right?" she repeated, affronted.

He laughed again. "I wondered which declaration you'd harp on first."

Her hand wandered lower beneath the sheet, and he gasped with renewed interest. "Well, I know you were clearly lying about the second part."

He lifted his head to kiss her, but before one thing could inevitably lead to another, he removed her hand from his most sensitive area.

"As much as I want to begin round—what is it today, four?—it is time to face reality. It's evening now, I think. This would be the best time to make our escape. I'll have the concierge get us a car, and I'll make arrangements for yours to be returned to the rental agency in the morning."

She sighed. "Okay. I call the shower first."

"You want some company?" he asked, his hand cupping her breast.

She took his wayward hand in hers and kissed his knuckle. "We'll never get out of here at this rate." She was pleased to see the reluctance in his eyes as he let her go.

As she stood beneath the hot spray, she pondered the past few days. They hadn't spoken about what would come next, only that they would each return to their work. They had been living in a bubble, and the hours spent making love and talking had made them considerably closer, and even more cut off from the outside world. Neither of them had had the courage to talk about their future together. Teresa hated not having a plan, not having an inkling of what was expected of her, but she was also afraid to ask him what he wanted.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

They rode in a hired limo to the airport, where Patrick would drop her off. She wore her baseball cap low over her face, her sunglasses at the ready, even though it was nighttime. The car would take Patrick on to his home in Malibu, yet still they had not spoken about the future. Had they still been on the show, he might have been close to proposing marriage to her.

The car stopped at the loading zone at Departures. He took her hands in his.

"Call when you get home," he told her.

"I will."

He leaned forward and kissed her, and she felt a sadness settle in the pit of her stomach. His lips were hot on hers, and by the time he raised his head, they both tasted her tears.

"I love you," he said. "Remember that, no matter what happens." His thumb brushed aside a stray tear from her cheek.

She was surprised at the finality in his voice, but she didn't question it. "I love you too," she replied, her voice trembling.

"Be careful."

"You too," she said, and squeezed his hand. Patrick nodded to the driver, who got out and opened the door for her before retrieving her luggage from the trunk. Patrick stayed inside the car, not wanting to draw attention. Their pictures had been all over the TV and internet for days.

With a last wave, she was gone.

Patrick stared sightlessly out the window all the way home.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Two weeks passed, and except for the initial call when she got off the plane, communication between her and Patrick had abruptly stopped. A couple of times, the LA police called to verify parts of her statement she'd given the day of Lorelei's arrest. She'd have to testify when the case finally went to trial.

Teresa dealt with the crazy influx of business that came with her newfound notoriety, and began compiling a list of former CBI colleagues she could call to see if they wanted to come and work for her. She didn't have much time during the day to miss him, but the nights were a different story.

Had it all just been a fairy tale, she wondered, staring up from her bed at the dark ceiling. Was their budding relationship destined to become part of the many Mr. Right failures that far outnumbered the successes that had come from the show? It would seem so. He didn't call to reassure her, but then, neither did she.

As for Patrick, he had all but disappeared from social media (she checked daily), and his shows in Vegas had been postponed indefinitely. She wondered if he was okay, but more than that, she wondered is she would ever see him again. She barely ate, and it was a constant battle not to stop at the bar after work every night.

It was at the beginning of the third week that the doorbell rang in the middle of the night. Teresa awoke from a fitful sleep, disoriented by yet another bad dream. When the bell rang again, she reached for her gun out of long years of habit. Grabbing her robe, she pulled it on while walking toward the door, turning on lights as she went. At the door, she flipped on the outside light of her townhouse apartment and looked through the peep hole.

It was Patrick.

Her heart skipped a beat, and she had to take a deep breath before she opened the door.

"Patrick," she said calmly.

He smiled tiredly, then looked at the gun in her hand in mild dismay.

"I know I haven't called, but…"

"Occupational hazard," she said coolly, but kept the gun. "It's very late, Patrick." Perhaps in more way than one.

His smile faltered. "You're mad, I see."

She didn't comment, just waited for him to speak.

"Look, I've been on the road for hours. All I could think of was seeing you. May I come in at least before I fall asleep standing up?"

She hesitated a moment, but let him in with an audible sigh.

"Thank you." He crossed the threshold that led right into the living room. He plopped own on her couch without being invited. "Hey," he said. "Comfy couch."

"What do you want?" she asked sharply. She stood before him, too nervous to sit down.

"I'm sorry. I should have called. But you know, you didn't either."

"I did call when I got home. I figured it was your turn to call."

His eyebrows rose. "Ok, I get that. I'm sorry. I screwed up. I admit I've been a little…confused. When you left, everything suddenly overwhelmed me. I started second-guessing, wondering if everything had been real. I needed to step back a little."

She set her gun on the coffee table and sat on the arm of the couch. "You don't think I felt the same way? Especially after all the shit hit the fan in the days before I left? We were in this together; we could have talked about it. I would have understood, given you some time. But cutting me off completely wasn't fair."

"You're right," he said meekly. "But I want you to know, I've come to my senses, and I've made some other big changes too. Last week, I gave up my Vegas show and put my Malibu house on the market. I'm through with the spotlight, Teresa. All the media attention, all the gossip and scandals showed me I don't want to live under a microscope anymore. I want to do private psychic readings here in Sacramento, maybe do a TV special once in awhile for the money. But the whole idea is to be here…with you."

She stared at him in shock, and her heart was pounding loudly in her head.

"Please, Teresa. Give me another chance. I've been an idiot, but I still love you, I still want to make a go of this, if you can forgive me."

"You're moving here?" she said, as if from a distance.

"Yes, if that's what you want."

"I don't know. It's been hard on me; how do I know if I can trust you now? I used to believe in the fairy tale, but you ghosted me completely these past two weeks. Maybe we're not really ready for this."

He slid closer to her on the couch, reached for her cold hand and looked up at her through sleepy eyes. "I'm ready. Could we try please, just to see?"

She looked down into his beloved face, felt herself swaying toward him, both literally and figuratively, but she still hesitated. He maneuvered his hips to dig into his pants pocket; then, pulling out his car keys, he presented them with a flourish.

"I never got to give you the final key to my heart." He grinned hopefully. "It's not an official key from Mr. Right; actually, it's to my Citroen. But it's the closest thing to my heart that I own. Please say you'll accept it."

A hint of a smile played about her lips. "You're giving me that run-down old relic?" she said dryly.

"If you'll have us both."

Her face remained serious, but her eyes flashed with amusement. "Are they mutually exclusive?"

He pulled her into his lap. "No," he said, before he took her mouth in a searing kiss.

"What the hell am I going to do with that car?" she asked much later in her bed.

"Show it off. It's a classic." He laughed when she rolled her eyes. "Okay, how about a trade?" he said, reaching on the floor for his suitcoat. He brought out a small jeweler's box and put it in her hands. Teresa felt a wave of dizziness and was very happy she was lying down.

"Patrick…"

"Open it."

She did, with trembling hands. It was a diamond solitaire surrounded by emeralds. She gasped as the jewels glittered in the lamplight.

"My first instinct was to buy you the biggest stone I could find, but I didn't figure you for something ostentatious. And the emeralds reminded me of your eyes."

He took the ring from its velvet nest and slipped it on her left ring finger.

"Marry me," he said.

A million protests came to mind, among them the very real idea that it was too soon. Also, she'd just been furiously mad and hurt an hour ago.

"We both took a chance on finding love, and got much more than we bargained for," he said, seeing her hesitation. Had he read her completely wrong? Was he slipping in his mentalist skills? He rushed to fill in the silence, his heart squeezing with fear. "I love you, Teresa. Life is about risks, and I'm tired of playing it safe. Be my Mrs. Right."

"Yes," she said, her eyes shining. "And you can keep the car."

He smiled in relief and joy. "Deal," he said, and sealed it with a kiss.

THE END

A/N: Thanks for sticking with this fic, despite how long it took to write it. I appreciate your support and lovely reviews. Below, you'll find the deleted scene I spoke of. It takes place back in the LA hotel, right after Teresa took a shower…

Deleted Scene

She hadn't heard the knock on the door, and when she finally came out of the shower in the hotel robe, it was to a scene that she never could have imagined. Erica Flynn was sitting on the bed with a half-naked Patrick, one hand on his bare thigh, the other holding a gun to his side. She was wearing the practical uniform of a maid from the hotel, but somehow she made even that look sexy. Teresa's heart leapt, but years of training and experience brought an instant calm.

"What do you want, Erica?"

The woman laughed, caressing Patrick's leg. "Isn't it obvious? It's what I've always wanted." He jolted involuntarily as her hand brushed over the front of his briefs.

Teresa tried not to take her attention from Erica's face. "You can't have him. You lost."

Erica's eyes moved to angry slits. "I don't appreciate being ignored or embarrassed, especially because of the likes of you. You're not good enough for him; you can't give him what he needs."

"So if you can't have him, no one can?" Teresa said nodding toward the gun.

"Oh, I'm going to have him all right, but I'll let you watch." From her uniform pocket, she withdrew a few zip ties and a bandana and presented them to Patrick. "Gag her and tie her to that chair—and make it tight. No funny stuff." Erica watched him like a hawk, the gun trained on both of them.

Patrick met Teresa's somber eyes and she inclined her head slightly, hoping to convey to him that he not take any risks with this crazy woman, that he should do whatever she said. But she could already see the wheels turning behind his blue-green eyes, and there was an edge of danger there she'd seen when he'd threatened the senator days before. He pulled a straight-back chair from the nearby small dining table where the remnants of their recent pizza feast lay in the closed cardboard box. She tried not to show any emotion as she watched him palm a plastic knife from their takeout delivery, but when he moved the chair in front of her, he winked.

She sat down and let him zip tie her hands behind the back of the chair, and at Erica's instruction, tied each of her ankles to a corresponding chair leg. When the gag was in place on her mouth, he turned back to their captor.

"Now your turn, Patrick." She held up another pair of zip ties. "Get back on the bed near the headboard." He complied, but for the first time, he spoke.

"What do you expect to come of this, Erica," he said, stalling. "You'll have to kill us both to keep us from talking. Do you really want to do that?"

She shrugged. "I'd probably regret killing you. Teresa, not so much."

From her vantage point tied to the chair, Teresa watched as Patrick moved his hand palm down on the bed, surreptitiously sliding the plastic knife beneath the pillow. He was staring directly into Erica's eyes, and she heard the change in the tenor of his voice from calm to almost soothing.

"You're worth loving, Erica. You don't have to force yourself on people. You're beautiful, successful. Any man would want you."

"Any man but you, apparently. But you haven't had a chance to see what you've been missing yet. Once you do…"

She moved closer to him on the bed, gave him another zip tie. "Put one of these around your wrists, Patrick. You can tighten it with your teeth."

This time, he didn't immediately follow orders. "Tell me what happened to you. I'm guessing your father wasn't in the picture growing up."

She frowned. "Stop trying to mentalize me. My father was there, for your information. He was a good provider. I got everything I ever wanted."

"Except for him to be emotionally present," he countered. "I bet he didn't even push you on a swing, or rock you in his arms when you skinned your knee. Back and forth, back and forth…wouldn't that have been nice? Warm and comforting. Back and forth…soothing, like you were floating in the ocean with the waves. Back and forth…back and forth…"

Teresa stared. Was he hypnotizing her?

"You don't need to hurt anyone, Erica. Daddy is here. Daddy loves you. Let me have the gun, baby. You don't need that anymore…"

To Teresa's amazement, Erica gave him the gun. "Daddy?" she said, her voice raising in pitch to that of a little girl.

Patrick stood up from the bed, moved to put his arm around her. "It's okay. Time for bed. I'll rock you to sleep. Back and forth, back and forth…"

He pushed her down on the bed, then took the zip tie and pulled it gently around her wrists, then her ankles. He pulled the sheet up to her chin. "Sleep now, little Erica." Keeping the gun on her, he backed up to Teresa's chair and pulled the gag down from her mouth.

"Oh, my God," she whispered. "What the hell did you do to her? I never believed that part of your show was real."

"Oh, it's real, all right." He eyed Teresa's zip ties, then grinned sheepishly. "You have any scissors?"