Author's Note: This story is not going to be kind to many of the characters involved. It will root through the psyches of both Jane and Lisbon and will explore a combination of their canon and non-canon histories. If I make any grave or slightly annoying factual errors concerning timelines or plot, go ahead and PM me. I'll fix what I can as long as it doesn't compromise the story I'm creating. If you're not into mild Jisbon, I fear Chapter Three will be as far as you will want to go.
Patrick Jane woke up. He was on the couch in the CBI and Lisbon was standing over him.
"C'mon Jane, we got a murder to go to."
He lifted his eyebrow at her. She was holding back information.
"Where?"
"Malibu."
"What?"
"Double homicide, mother and daughter."
"Who?"
"Are you teaching kids to write?" she snapped testily.
"No. Any suspects?"
"Yes. Well, no. Confirmed perp." She was still being evasive. And refused to meet his gaze. That could only mean one thing. He sat up and forced her to meet his eyes.
"Red John."
"Yes." She spun quickly and headed for the door. "Your hair's sticking up on the right."
He stood, stretched, and finger combed the hair back into place using a reflection on the window behind the couch. Patting his pockets to check for his phone, he followed Lisbon out the door.
He was miffed slightly. Although the plane ride was uneventful, Lisbon had refused to say more than a few sentences to him. It miffed him.
She started to act the smallest bit nervous, even turning to him at one point during the flight to say something and then turned away.
Lisbon was still being evasive when they turned off the city streets into the neighborhoods. She talked about the previous case, asking him to go back over what exactly had been his reasoning behind his initial decision on who the killer was. It had been a petty case as usual, dead husband with a mistress, a wife with her own lover, a huge missing fortune, and four layers of subterfuge before it became obvious enough for the jury.
Her knuckles suddenly whitened as she gripped the wheel harder.
Why?
He looked up.
"Daddy, can I have a pony for Christmas?"
In the rear-view mirror he sees her: pouty lips, puppy eyes, hands balled in pleading hands under her chin.
He smiles. "Let me guess? A white, shaggy one with light brown spots from a specific set of islands that start with A and C?"
She squeals "Yes, please!"
"Mommy has been reading Misty to you again, hasn't she?"
She nods emphatically.
"I'll talk to Mommy about it."
A hand touched his.
"You alright?" Lisbon looked genuinely concerned.
His voice stuck as he tried to answer, "Yes."
He had driven his daughter home through that intersection almost every day that he picked her up from school.
Lisbon turned the car down an eerily familiar street.
His house, where his life had started and ended, sat fourth in on the left side of the road.
The car drew even with it and turned right, pulling into the end of the driveway to face a house and yard swarming with police officers and CSIs.
"You didn't tell me…" his voice trailed off.
"I'm sorry, Jane."
He stepped out of the car and approached the house. Van Pelt, Rigsby, and Cho stood to the side, having already been into the house; they looked ill and would not look over at him.
This investigation was making him more and more nervous as every minute passed.
The sheriff walked up, nodded at Lisbon, but turned to him. "Patrick Jane? I suggest that you do not participate in this investigation."
He rocked back on his heels. "And what? Miss all the fun?" He smirked.
The sheriff's expression did not change. He stood for a moment, turned, and walked away muttering, "I told you not to."
He turned to Lisbon and smiled, attempting to ooze charm instead of the anxiety that burned in him.
"You're not going to tell me I shouldn't go, are you?"
"If I did would it stop you?"
"Should it?"
"Yes."
He leaned in. "To tell you the truth, Lisbon, I'm terrified at what I'll find in there." He smiled and nodded at Cho, who had looked over at him. "However, I feel compelled to see what it is that he's done. To see if there are any clues to who he is, where he is."
He walked through the open door. Sidestepping an exiting CSI, he stopped in a carbon copy of his own foyer. There was a hallway past a window into a small outdoor space, then a flight of stairs. He stopped at the top, his eyes closed.
"Lisbon."
"Yes?"
"Are the bodies in a room at the end of the hall?"
"Yes."
"Is– Is there a…" He swallowed and opened his eyes.
Turning, he started down the hallway. He stopped.
There was a note taped to the door, at eye level, with a strip of inch and a half by half inch masking tape.
He forced his feet to move again.
His back hurts from the studio chairs.
No, he was perfectly fine. Well, his back was.
The lights are low in the hall. She always keeps the lights like this when he's coming home. He's tripped over too many toys to count with the lights out.
No, what's happening to him? The lights are all on.
The hall is perfectly silent except for his footsteps on the carpet and heart racing in his ears. He is alone except for the note and whatever lay behind the door.
He'd stopped walking. The steps he heard were not his own, but Lisbon's. She placed her hand on his shoulder.
"Jane, you don't have to go there. You can stop here, turn around, Van Pelt will take you back to the hotel, and you can rest. You don't have to go back to that night." Her voice was soft.
"I have to go in there. This is for me, I know it. And Lisbon?"
"Yes?"
"I've been back in that day since the intersection."
He swallowed again and moved toward the door.
Dear Mr. Jane:
Happy Anniversary! It has been eleven years to the day since you killed your beautiful wife and child with those slanderous words of yours. You know I can't meet you in person for this momentous occasion, but I left you a present to remind you of our special day.
He pulled the note from the door, accidentally crushing it in his left hand. With a shaking hand, he pushed the door open.
On the bed were a woman and her daughter. The child, only seven or eight, had curly hair, he could see that. He stepped closer. She had not been asleep. Her face was twisted in terror and pain.
He collapsed.