Lisbon lurched through the next two days, zombie-like. She dug up additional background on the key players in the Ramseth story between assignments from Givens, piecing together as much of the puzzle as she could while she waited for Van Pelt to get back to her on the financials.

When Van Pelt finally messaged her later that week, she did not disappoint. She had traced a series of suspicious payments from an offshore account of a shell corporation owned by Blackhawk to Durst's personal account. She had also matched the timing of the three largest payments to the timing of three major contract awards Blackhawk had won in the past five years. She outlined all the steps she had taken to trace the information in her usual style of meticulous detail.

Out of curiosity, Lisbon checked the public records on the other two contracts. They had both been handled by contract officers other than Dorothy Ramseth.

Lisbon wrote up her notes, made copies of everything, then picked up the phone. "Hi," she said when the person picked up on the other end. "I've got something for you. Can we meet?"

They arranged to meet at the diner where Mrs. Ramseth had been killed.

Lisbon got there first. She ordered a slice of lemon pie and fidgeted while she waited.

"So," Officer O'Hara said, plonking herself down in the booth across from Lisbon, still in uniform. "What's this all about?"

Lisbon handed her a USB drive and passed her a file folder with printouts of everything on the flash drive. "I think I have a pretty good idea of why Dorothy Ramseth was killed."

O'Hara's eyes widened. "I'm listening."

Lisbon tapped the folder. "It's all in here. A contractor called Blackhawk, Inc. has been awarded three multimillion dollar contracts in the past five years. A guy named James Durst who works at City Hall signed off on all three awards. Dorothy Ramseth noticed a discrepancy in the books and wrote him a memo outlining her suspicions that the awards violated standard contract practices. She didn't realize he was the one who'd been cooking the books in the first place. I think she was killed to prevent anyone from finding out that Blackhawk has been bribing Durst for the past five years to get these contracts."

"You suspect Durst?"

"He's definitely on the shortlist," Lisbon said. "But personally, my money's on a guy named Thorpe."

"Who's Thorpe?"

"He works for Blackhawk. I have an audio file on there where Durst and Thorpe are talking at a party," Lisbon said, nodding at the flash drive. "Durst seems too relaxed to have just committed murder. Thorpe, on the other hand, is a nervous wreck. Very anxious to keep anyone from linking them to Dorothy Ramseth's death."

"You have a recording of a conversation between them?" O'Hara said, looking at the USB drive with wonder. "Damn. What else is on here?"

"Records from the contracting office. A memo from Dorothy Ramseth highlighting her suspicions. And a bunch of financial records linking payments to Durst to a shell corporation owned by Blackhawk."

"Shit," O'Hara said, impressed. "How the hell did you get your hands on all that?"

Lisbon's face heated. "Let's just say I got a few key pieces of information from an anonymous source." This, on the whole, seemed wiser than admitting to the police that she'd broken into a locked office in City Hall to acquire half the documents in the collection.

"Works for me," O'Hara said. "Is your source available for questioning?"

Lisbon bit her lip. "No," she said reluctantly. "But if you have any questions, I'll do my best to get the answers to you. You should have enough there to bring Durst and Thorpe in for questioning, though. I'm betting you can get Thorpe to crack pretty easily if you get the right interrogator in the room." She thought wistfully of Cho.

O'Hara squinted at her. "Are you sure you're a reporter?"

"What?" Lisbon said, startled. She straightened, defensive. "Of course I am."

"Sorry, it's just—usually the press aren't this helpful," O'Hara said apologetically. "Mind you, I'm not complaining. But won't your bosses be pissed that you aren't breaking the story before the police make a public statement about all this?"

Lisbon shook her head. "I want the person who killed Dorothy Ramseth to be caught. I have enough here to print a story on the bribery, but there's not enough here to identify her killer. And," she said, feeling the need to defend her press cred, "I'm not planning to wait to publish the corruption story. I need a little more time to write it, but I expect to break it the day after tomorrow. Should give you enough time to bring in Durst and Thorpe for questioning, as long as you don't sit on the information."

"I suppose you expect an exclusive if we get a confession out of one of them," O'Hara said.

Lisbon smiled. "I wouldn't turn one down, if you're offering."

"If this pans out, we'll definitely owe you one," O'Hara said, shaking her head. "Let me take a look at it and get back to you."

"Sounds good," Lisbon said, and took a bite of her pie.

Xxx

Lisbon headed back to the office after her evening rendezvous with O'Hara, too keyed up from her discoveries to settle down to sleep. Instead, she reviewed all the materials sent by Van Pelt again, and started writing her story.

She logged off her computer at eleven that night, tired but satisfied with her day's work. She would write the rest of the story tomorrow, then present it to Givens for publication. Even Givens wouldn't be able to dismiss the story after all the evidence she'd collected.

She went back to the hotel, her pleased half smile fading as she entered the bleak, empty room. It felt even colder than she'd remembered.

Jane would love hearing about her story, she thought wistfully. He'd been so supportive of everything she'd written, even going so far as to pin up several of his favorites on their refrigerator at home.

Home, she thought with a pang. She couldn't call it that anymore. Had that house ever had any real claim on the word? The whole marriage was a sham in the first place, she reminded herself. And the fake marriage was the least of it, she thought, twisting her origami ring on her left ring finger. Their entire relationship was built on a cracked foundation. All those lies. The broken trust. And perhaps more than anything else, all the words unsaid, accumulated over the years. A mountain of words building so slowly that she hadn't been aware of the danger they posed. That when they reached the tipping point, they would to crush her like an avalanche.

But then she thought of Jane pinning a printout of one of her articles to the fridge with that dazzling smile lighting up his eyes, and a small, sad part of her had to acknowledge that the house she'd shared with him was the closest thing she'd had to a real home in a very long time.

Depressed again, she curled up on her side of the bed and fell into an uneasy sleep.

xxx

The sound of her phone ringing woke her in the dead of night.

She fumbled for the phone on the hotel nightstand. "'Lo?" she muttered into the phone without opening her eyes.

At first, the only response was the sound of labored breathing. Then a rough, pained voice croaked, "Lisbon?"

She opened her eyes, instantly alert. "Jane?"

More ragged breathing. This time, her name was a sigh. "Lisbon."

"Jane, what's the matter? Are you hurt?" Lisbon was on her feet, fumbling in the dark for a jacket to pull on over her pajamas. She stuffed her feet into the first pair of shoes she could find and grabbed her keys.

His breathing slowly grew less ragged. "No." A long pause. "Sorry," he said finally, sounding more like himself. "I shouldn't have bothered you."

"Jane, it's okay." She was halfway out the door now, hurrying towards the hotel parking lot. "Tell me you're all right."

"'m all right." He was still fighting to get his breathing under control. "It was—it was just a nightmare." Another pause. "Sorry. I shouldn't have—"

"Shh, Jane, it's okay."

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "I didn't mean to bother you."

The line went dead.

Lisbon swore and quickened her pace.

Xxx

Fifteen minutes later, Lisbon turned the key in the lock of the front door and let herself into the house.

Jane was seated on the floor in the hallway. His back against the wall. Knees drawn up against his chest. Head in his hands. Shoulders tense with pain. He still clutched the phone in one hand, pressed against the side of his head.

"Oh, Jane," she said sorrowfully.

He must have been really disoriented, because he looked up with bloodshot eyes, apparently surprised to see her. "Teresa?" His voice a strange mix of despair and hope, as though he couldn't believe she'd really come.

She locked the door behind her. "I'm here, Patrick." She walked over to his side and slid down the wall to sit down next to him on the hall floor.

She eased the phone out of his hand and set it on the floor. "What's going on?"

Jane's shoulders hunched even further. "I didn't mean to wake you," he said miserably.

"I was worried about you," Lisbon said softly.

"I didn't mean to worry you," Jane mumbled.

"S'okay." She tilted her head. "You want to tell me about it?"

Jane grimaced. "Not particularly."

"Was it a new one? Or one you've had before?"

"What does it matter?" he said bitterly. "It's all variations on a theme."

"Oh, Jane," she said sadly. God, she hated seeing him like this. Despite everything, she still loved him. And that was never going to change, she realized. She'd had years to stop loving him, and every excuse in the book to do so, and she'd never managed it. She might as well face facts: she was going to love him until the end of time. She hesitated, then reached out and curled her fingers in the curls at the nape of his neck.

He flinched away from her touch as though afraid she were going to strike him, then relaxed as he recognized the familiar gesture, one she'd indulged in frequently since they'd gotten together. Some of the tension went out of his shoulders.

She stroked the curls at the nape of his neck again and leaned over to kiss him on the temple.

He shuddered in relief and curled into her. He clutched the front of her pajama top with one fist and buried his face in her neck as though he were trying to drown himself in her scent.

Lisbon put her arms around him and wound her fingers more deeply into the curls at the back of his neck.

"This is a fine pickle we've gotten ourselves into, isn't it?" she murmured, still stroking his hair.

He lifted his head. "What do you mean?"

"Just—we're so bound up in one another," she explained.

He looked away. "You're not bound. You could—you could be free. You could go have a real life."

This statement struck Lisbon as almost comically absurd, given the context of being on the run and waiting for the trial. "Yeah, right. What am I going to do? File for a fake divorce?"

Jane drew away, his shoulders stiffening again. "I suppose I've done a pretty good job shackling you to me," he said miserably. "At least until the trial is over, anyway." He sounded so desolate.

"Hey." Lisbon nudged him, bumping her shoulder against his. "Listen to me. I don't feel shackled, okay? But I am…bound."

Jane closed his eyes. "Will you—will you please come back?" he said hoarsely. "I'll stay in the nurs—the guest room. But if you could just—be in the house. I can't stay here by myself. The place feels haunted without you." His voice was pleading, though he made a valiant effort to pretend as though he still retained a modicum of control. Like he wasn't going to break into a thousand pieces if she said no.

Lisbon was silent for a moment, considering the weight of the request. She was still angry about what he'd done. But at the same time, she couldn't imagine going back to that hotel and not speaking to him until the end of the trial. "Yeah," she said finally. "I'll come back."

Jane's shoulders slumped in abject relief. "Thank you." He looked over at her, not daring to hope. "Will you—will you stay tonight?"

"Yes." Lisbon stood and pulled him to his feet. "Come on. Let's get some sleep."

"I'll make up the guest bed," Jane mumbled.

She looked over at him, taking in his bowed shoulders, his haggard appearance. The fathoms deep hollows under his eyes. She realized suddenly that she really couldn't comprehend what it must be like to be Jane. To be in that level of fear all the time. She thought about his face when he'd found her with that bomb strapped to her chest, his confession about his panic attacks. This latest move, as angry as it had made her, stemmed from a fundamental desire to protect her. He truly would do anything to keep her safe, whether she liked it or not. She still intended to have words with him about the manner in which he expressed that desire, there was no doubt about that. But still—to be treasured so deeply by a man like Patrick Jane…that was a tremendous gift. One she never wanted to take for granted.

She took his hand. "Patrick," she said softly. "You don't need to make up the guest room." She tugged him gently towards the bedroom. Their bedroom.

When they crossed the threshold into the master bedroom, she gave him a little shove towards the bed. Kicked off her shoes. Tossed her jacket on the chair in the corner.

She slid into bed next to him.

They lay on their backs on their respective sides of the bed, not touching. Still, something loosened inside her chest, just because he was there. She took a deep breath and absently twisted the rose ring on her right ring finger. They lay there a long time, staring at the ceiling and listening to each other breathe.