Chapter 23 – The Aftermath

Two days later

Nobody would mention the news. They just existed in a parallel dimension, reflected in lingering looks from her colleagues, in over-careful non-mentions of his name, in Abbott's It's okay, Lisbon. Go take some rest's.

Like when they broke into the old farmhouse and found Vega's rope but no Vega hanging from it. Everyone's mind sought the usual source of answers to their questions then. Rigsby raised his head, as if he would almost ask, but was shortly reminded, gathering his looks. She had been astounded for a moment, thought it could all be part of a Jane con. But it made no sense. If Vega was alive while she hanged, she had lost a clear chance to kill her captor.

A Jane con either worked perfectly or not at all. There was no room for in-betweens.

After hours of speculation, the most predominant theory was that the killer had kept her body to take her picture for his puzzle. Which was a satisfying conclusion for Cho. Because if the killer wanted to keep up his game, it meant there would be another chance to catch him. And if there was another chance… Cho would get his revenge.

This word. She was tired of it and its meaning. As if erasing the killer would erase the kill.

The tragedy had affected everyone in different ways. Rigsby and Van Pelt had suddenly grown worried of their kids, thanked the fact they were still alive. They returned home at first dawn after that night. She and Abbott immersed themselves in paperwork. And Cho isolated himself.

"I should have insisted on her not coming." Cho sat on the desk of the interrogation room, his back turned to her. There was the hint of tears in his voice, so Lisbon wavered between giving him a hug or keeping her distance.

"Cho... you could have done nothing to prevent the outcome."

He hushed for a while. Then said, firmly, "We shouldn't have trusted him."

It was the first time anyone addressed him. Nobody had expected this day would come. The day Jane would follow his hunch against all odds and warnings, and fail. Twice in a row. She knew they blamed him. Hell, she blamed him the most. Still it shook her to hear it from Cho. She could go on cursing him for hours in her mind, but someone else does it, and immediately she has the urge to defend him. How disorienting. Her logic still insisted there was no redeeming aspect this time.

"You trusted my trust. It's my fault," she answered.

"And Vega,"-he forced air out-"trusted me."

"What do you mean?"

He swallowed. "She had worried it all seemed too easy. I told her how Jane's plans work. Practically asked her to trust him."

"I don't think you did, Cho. You're always so matter-of-fact. You just told her what you knew. Stop beating yourself to it."

He didn't speak, so after a while she turned to go.

"How are you keeping up?" she heard him ask then. She turned and met his face, no signs of tears.

"I'm-" She would say fine, but at the last moment changed her mind, said, "trying", instead. She forced a smile. "Thanks."

Abbott had once again dismissed her with his barely concealed excuses. So there wasn't much to try for at the time. They were still wrapping up things in California, which meant the solace and pure comfort of her own house in Texas was a commodity far down the road. The cheap motel room didn't feel welcoming, especially with all the memories. The good and the bad. Well, now the good were also tainted. So she took on the streets.

She decided she would visit Wylie at the hospital. In all the turmoil and grief, she had forgotten about the boy. Now she felt a tinge of guilt. She wasn't even sure he had actually returned to the hospital after they had dismissed him that evening. And he must have been devastated. The more she thought about it, the more she regretted not seeking him earlier.

The secretary at the entrance told her what she feared. The patient Jason Wylie had not only skipped treatment but he had also stopped returning calls.

"His behavior changed right after that visitor," she complained.

Lisbon cocked her head. "What visitor?"

"A man with blond hair. He wore a fancy suit. I forbade him entrance but he slipped right under my nose. Next day the boy escaped."

Lisbon tried to remember. It was Wylie that had come to inform them about the locations. She knew his explanations had sounded weird. Of course, because they weren't his. They were Jane's. But why not tell them himself? Why take all the trouble to include the boy?

The question nudged her as she took the direction to Wylie's apartment. A flash of her badge had elicited his address. After ten minutes of walk, she arrived at a complex of houses. She climbed the external stairs, knocked on the door with the number seventeen and waited, called his name a couple of times, capped her palms to squint through his window. Until a middle-aged woman emerged from the apartment next door.

"Sweet boy's not here, lady. Now let us in peace."

"Ma'am, wait." Lisbon scurried to approach her. "Could you please tell me the last time you saw him?"

The woman studied her with sleep-swollen eyes, her door half-closed. Short curly hair halloed her chubby face. "And who are you?" she questioned.

Lisbon rolled her eyes, went for the badge. "FBI Teresa Lisbon."

The woman fixed her pose suddenly, tucked her messy hair behind her ear. "Oh." She nudged her head, curiosity overcoming her features. "He in trouble?"

"Just answer my question," Lisbon said. Then added a please.

"Three-four days maybe. He looked busy."

Lisbon nodded. "Thanks."

What a mystery. She wondered if Abbott knew anything. He was his boss after all. But then again, it was not his responsibility to pry into his agents' personal lives. And she probably shouldn't enquire into the matter further. Wylie could have fled as a means to manage his grief. She wouldn't blame him for it.

Volker had been following the red signal for days. It coincided with the news about the consultant, so he knew she wouldn't be with him. Or him with her, for that matter. He needed the two love birds to be in close proximity. His patience had grown thin. And the more days passed, the more likely it was someone would enquire about Susan, his assistant.

Luckily, he didn't have to wait for long. That night, the signal finally entered San Diego. So he opened his wardrobe and pulled fresh clothes, his brown leather jacket and a pair of jeans. He fastened a belt around his lean waist and pulled a gun from under his mattress. The sound of the safety trigger filled him with secureness, confidence.

There was one last thing to do, before he left.

He walked along his narrow hallway, until he reached the door to the cellar. He was about to acquire a new toy.

The old one was hence no longer needed.

She sat on a park bench, watched as the night pedestrians strolled by. A beautiful night it was. A full starry sky. Only it was all the more depressing, since she couldn't really appreciate it. Or share it with someone.

Part of her, no matter how much she tried to shake it off, was in constant worry and unease. It was so unfair. He had hypnotized her, treated her like a subject, and he was the damn reason her friend was dead. Yet she still caught herself praying. That he would find a way out, that he wouldn't be in pain. And that he wouldn't harm himself.

God, she was so stupid.

If only he had been more careful. Perhaps his mindless plan would have worked. But for that damned vest button. How couldn't he have noticed? He was always so important on details. Her obsession with the thought grew by the second. He couldn't not have noticed. And then, a more overwhelming thought.

He hadn't.

It was the first time her thoughts tackled the events on this angle. The lost-button angle. So far she had been struggling to reconcile with the unforgivable way he had pushed her aside. Like the coward he was. Emotions had battled to dominate her. Anger and hurt, pity and worry. But it was in the expense of clear thoughts.

Now she sat up, focused her mind. Fourth button, the report said he had missed the fourth button. A conversation from ages ago crawled slowly into her thoughts.

It was a night at her own house, she recalled. Second or third night after he had confessed. A night sweetened with wine and soft blues and lazy explorations. Both in kisses and in words. They were sprawled on her couch, legs entwined, and she had found the courage to express her worries. That she could no longer take his double games when cornering a criminal. That he should try to include her. He had once again mentioned how incapable she was of lying and that sometimes he needed her ignorance to play in an act. But it would still be weird now that they could share so much. So he had invented a secret communication between them.

"When in doubt, check the vest woman," he had said.

And she had joked, "Your vests are going to be left with no buttons."

Oh. my. God.

She stood upright, not knowing which direction to go, who to call, if she was even in the mood to follow his trail of crumbs. If there was even a trail to begin with, or if it was just her wistful desire to see more into it. To believe in a happy ending. But curiosity and hope had clutched at her heart. If Jane had left her a secret message, it meant he needed her to be discreet. It also meant it would be in a place only she had access to. She took the direction toward her motel.

Once she closed the door behind her, her gaze roamed the tiny space, considering the list of possible hiding places. She opened drawers, cupboards, lifted her mattress and once those searches proved fruitless, she took upon her discarded laundry. She had stuffed it in foil bags to deliver at the dry-cleaners by Monday. Now she sat on the edge of her bed and drew each piece of garment, fumbling in the pockets. Until finally, in a black jacket—of course, the one she had been wearing that day—her fingers came in touch with paper. She carefully withdrew it, letting the jacket fall.

It was an origami swan.

She smiled despite herself. Her eyes caught the edge of ink, sparking her interest. She unfolded the paper, a little sad to break its shape.

Lisbon, Jane started in that delicate handwriting she remembered from his letters.

I know I cannot ask you to forgive me, though I hope that you will. If not now, then someday. But for now, I need you to set aside our personal differences and focus on what I'm about to tell you.

I am once again faking my downfall, though for totally different reasons.

"Son of a bitch," she whispered.

Vega is alive. You read me? She is alive.

"You freaking son of a bitch…"

Wylie is taking care of her, but do not press him about her whereabouts. The killer must not know you did not find her body. Or that she is alive for that matter. I cannot say much here, but if you want the absolute truth, meet me at Saint Augustin Church of San Diego on Sunday morning. Ask to confess.

Bye… for now.

Jane

Relief flooded her. As if blood finally found passage to her edges. She was alive. Michelle was alive. The newly-created void in her chest sealed, completely healed as if it was never there. As if it had only been a nightmare. A ghost. She had spent two sleep-deprived nights in agony and now she knew the truth and she had to keep it a secret from others. From Cho. Poor Kimball. At least, she wouldn't have to bear the guilt for long.

Sunday was tomorrow.

A/N: I know it was cruel of me to make you think Vega died. Forgive me. Keep reading, it's all going to be explained in the following chapter. Also, this chapter turned out to be too long, so I split it in two, therefore still three more chapters after all.