A/N: Well, here it is at last, the final chapter. I hope you don't mind that I supersized it. And I make no apologies for the following sentimentality. What can I say? I read too many romance novels, watch too many chick flicks. In short, I'm a typical American woman, lol.

Chapter 8: Conclusion and Epilogue

After a cyclone goes through, clean up usually begins immediately. And so it was that two hours after lunch, a package arrived for Rigsby via special messenger. Rigsby opened it cautiously, although security had likely been over it with a fine-tooth comb. The rest of the team looked on curiously.

Inside, wrapped in crisp white tissue paper, was a white dress shirt along with a beautiful silk tie, the labels proclaiming that a guy named Georgio had been proud enough to put his name on them. The shirt was his exact size, of course.

"Holy…"trailed off Rigsby, touching the garments reverently. He'd never owned anything so expensive.

"There's a note," Van Pelt pointed out.

Rigsby found the folded card and opened it, reading aloud:

Excuse me, Rigsby.

Jane

"Wow, Wayne," said Van Pelt.

"Nice," said Cho.

From her place in the bullpen doorway, Lisbon smiled, feeling her eyes watering at Jane's extravagant gesture. Lisbon supposed she shouldn't be too surprised, however; she'd received a few extravagant gifts of her own from him over the years.

"I think I've found my new favorite shirt," Rigsby commented with a grin, looking from the faint coffee-stain on his stomach to his beautifully pristine acquisition. He caught Lisbon's eye.

"Say, where is Jane?"

Lisbon shrugged. "I got a text from him after lunch. He said he had something to take care of and would be back tomorrow."

"What's up with him, Boss?" asked Van Pelt with concern.

"I have no idea," she said, her expression suitably baffled.

She turned away to walk back toward her office, the grin she'd been fighting slowly overtaking her face. She and Jane had shared lunch earlier, had bought sandwiches and lemonade from the vendor on the street and taken them to the park for a picnic. They'd laughingly hopped over puddles from the morning rain to find a mostly dry table in the sun.

She shivered now, thinking about how his head had blotted out that sun when he'd leaned toward her for a kiss.

She really didn't know where he'd gone, but when he'd dropped her back at HQ, he'd squeezed her hand and smiled warmly as he said good-bye. She hadn't questioned him, used to his mysterious disappearances, so was surprised when the text had come an hour later. She found she wasn't worried, perhaps because of the way her lips still tingled from his earlier attentions.

If you love someone, she thought, you have to find a way to trust them…

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

After the seven-hour drive, Jane arrived at his destination, tired but somehow feeling revived by the journey. He'd driven mostly in silence, and completely alone, lost in thoughts of the past, plans for the future, and how those plans seemed to revolve mostly around Lisbon rather than Red John. But the killer was definitely still part of his future, ghost or no ghost.

He sat in the driveway of his Malibu home, looking at the place where he'd spent so many happy moments, and he realized he hadn't allowed himself to think of the good times in years. He remembered when he'd first bought the place, surprising Angela when he'd opened the front door with his shiny new keys. She hadn't been happy with him at all, at first, and they'd had a horrible fight. How dare he make such a major decision without her input? He shook his head and smiled, remembering how she'd eventually come around, how they'd made up on the empty living room carpet.

His mind flashed forward to the day they'd brought Charlotte home from the hospital, how he'd been nearly petrified with fear for what he'd gotten himself into. How the hell was he supposed to be a good father, when he himself had had such a lousy example? That he'd been and overprotective parent would be an understatement, and Angela had spent almost as much time seeing to his needs as she had to baby Charlotte's.

The years had passed, and he'd become more relaxed with his new role, more successful in his business. He wanted to be closer to his family, so he began working often out of his home, taking summers off to take the family to Europe , to Asia, convinced that Charlotte's education wouldn't be complete without exposure to the world beyond California's shores. He was proud of his family, proud of himself because he knew he was such a good provider, even while he tamped down the guilt he felt for how he made his money. And then, all at once, the very reasons for his existence had been taken from him, and he'd found himself alone, his previous pride fading to self-loathing and obsession.

"No more of that, Jane," he said to himself.

He took a deep breath, released it, and got out of the Citroen. He went round to the trunk, pulling out a can of white paint and a paint roller. Thus armed, he climbed the familiar steps to the front door. The keys on his ring weren't quite as shiny now, and when he stepped into the foyer, it no longer felt like home, but then, it hadn't for a long time. He paused, waiting for the horror of that long-ago night to wash over him anew, but for once it didn't, and he shut the door behind him, flipping on the lights.

"Angela?"

"Yes," said the ghost, materializing from the direction of the kitchen.

He smiled at her. "I figured you'd be here."

"I'm always here when you are."

"I realize that now," he said, his grin turning melancholy. Looking back, he knew he'd felt her presence in this otherwise empty house, but had resisted allowing himself to acknowledge it; it had been much too painful to think she had been watching him here, so weak, so pathetic.

"I'm glad I don't have to hide from you anymore," she said.

"Me too."

She nodded toward his painting supplies. "Doing some late-night home improvement?"

"I think it's about time, don't you?"

"Yes, Patrick, I do."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

When the paint was nearly dry, he dragged his mattress into the guest bedroom. He'd never slept in this room before—the only room in the house with no memories attached, painful or otherwise. It was the first time in years he'd slept through the whole night without medication. Perhaps it was because his last thoughts before drifting off had been of Lisbon, and not of Angela, or Charlotte, or even Red John.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He rose early in the morning to the sound of the ocean, made himself some tea, and sat on the patio steps in his boxer shorts, watching the tide go out. It was chilly out there, but he didn't notice it, just reveled in the soothing music of the waves and the wind, punctuated by the calls of seagulls flying overhead.

When his cup was empty, he rose and stretched, then made his way to the beach. The sand was cool beneath his feet, becoming cooler still as he found the water's edge. He began to run. His body quickly warmed as his blood began to pump, and he only grinned at the odd looks he received from other joggers, who noted his lack of appropriate attire and footwear.

He'd gone perhaps a mile before he slowed to a brisk walk, then, a half-mile more and he stopped. He stood panting with exertion, but he felt good, invigorated even. He was sorely tempted to dive into the ocean, but without a wetsuit, he knew he'd freeze his ass off. Besides, he thought, as if hearing Lisbon's voice, that would be taking symbolism just a tad too far.

He caught sight of Angela out of the corner of his eye as she stood there beside him, her long hair blowing in the wind.

"How are you this morning, Patrick?"

"Good," he said, meaning it for the first time since he could remember.

They were quiet a moment, looking out at the wrinkled surface of the Pacific, and Jane's right hand began idly twisting the ring on his left. It occurred to him now why he'd really come out here, and he slipped the golden band from his finger.

He looked at Angela, and she smiled her encouragement. "It's okay, Patrick. I think it's more than fitting."

His eyes welled with tears and he allowed them to fall unchecked down his cold cheeks. The wind dried them as quickly as they fell.

"I have to do this," he told her. "Otherwise, I might be tempted to retrieve it, and I—I can't do that to Lisbon, or to myself anymore. Or," he said finally, "to you."

"Thank you," she said, and he saw that her face too was wet with tears.

He held the ring tightly in his fist, afraid now to look at it since he'd made his decision. He left Angela in the dry sand and walked closer to the edge of the water, barely feeling how icy cold it was as the small waves of the ebbing tide swirled around his ankles. Then, before he could change his mind, he reared back his arm and flung his hand forward, releasing the ring at the last second, watching it plop into the distant waves and disappear.

When he turned back toward where Angela had stood, she was gone.

"Good-bye, Angela," he whispered to the wind.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It was after ten o'clock at night when the knock came on Lisbon's apartment door. She flipped on the porch light and looked through the peephole, surprised at the identity of her late-night visitor.

"Hey," she said, opening the door.

"Hey," he said, his gaze taking in her familiar old football jersey, especially where it stopped mid-thigh. "Glad you're still up."

He was wearing the same suit and shirt from yesterday, and he looked tired, though not haggard as he usually did when she found him thus attired. He grinned at her and brought from behind his back a basket of giant navel oranges.

Her eyes brightened at the treat—they both shared a weakness for fresh fruit.

"Where on earth did you find these beauties?" she said, ushering him inside and inhaling the fresh citrus fragrance.

"Roadside stand, long about Bakersfield," he said. "I had to smell them all the way up here, and I confess I couldn't help eating one or two."

He knew he'd lost her at Bakersfield, because she was trying not to look at him now like he'd been with a lover. He avoided her eyes and walked past her to her couch, making himself at home as if he'd been there more than a handful of times. Lisbon was still standing in the open doorway, trying to wrap her mind around why he had felt the need to go to Southern California. There was only one thing she knew of that would take him there.

"You're letting in the cold air, Lisbon," he said softly. She turned back toward the door, closing and locking it automatically, then followed him into her cozy living room. She sat at the other end of the couch from him, tucking her attractively muscled legs beneath her. Jane's heart pounded, both from being in her presence as well as from the residual effects of the long road that had led him there.

He swallowed, nervous about what he had to tell her. Then her eyes fell to his left hand, to the glaring white tan line where his wedding band used to be.

"Jane—" she began.

"It was time, Teresa," he said. "I have no regrets. I have a feeling this is what Angela would have wanted for me to do."

Lisbon's eyes grew misty, and she closed them briefly, blinking back tears. She reached for his cool hand with both of hers, lightly rubbing it between them as if to warm it.

"I imagine she would," she told him. And then, because she had the curiosity of a detective: "Did you leave it in Malibu?"

"Sort of," he said, grinning slightly. "It might have drifted out to Santa Catalina by now."

"Oh, Jane."

He squeezed one of her hands. "Stop. You're gonna make me cry too, and I'm done with crying over this."

She sniffed, releasing one hand to wipe at her eyes self-consciously. "Sorry…So that's what you had to take care of?"

"Yes. That, and more. I put my house on the market, for about half what I paid for it. In this economy, I'll be lucky to get that."

She looked at him in shock. She'd just been there with him a few months before, when she'd made the painful decision to use the memory of his former suffering there to bring him out of his temporary fugue state. She'd felt guilty at the time for doing it, but she had selfishly wanted to keep him with her, unable to bear the thought that when he came out of his amnesia and remembered everything, he might either have been all alone, or worse, with some floozy that really didn't give a damn about him.

Because of the power that house had over him, Lisbon knew this step was almost as big as the disposal of his ring. She tried to calm her heart, tried to tamp down the hope that rose within her like a freshly uncovered spring.

"The realtor said she'd handle everything, even the sale of my car collection," he was saying, trying to cover his nerves with words. "I won't ever have to go down there again if I don't want to."

"Good," she managed. "I'm really happy for you, Jane, if that's the right sentiment."

"Yes," he grinned. "It is. And do you know why?"

She could only shake her head as he shifted closer to her on the couch, his eyes intent on hers.

"Because everything thing I want most in the world is here, in this room right now."

"It is?" she said inanely.

He smiled to himself at her sudden loss of focus. It must be because he was nibbling on her ear, and both their pulses were racing toward one inevitable finish line.

"You know, Lisbon," he whispered, his breath stirring the fine tendrils near her ear. "A little birdie told me you were in love with me."

She stilled at his words, her hands coming up to shakily push on his chest so she could look at him.

"What? Who, uh—who told you that?"

He shrugged. "It doesn't matter, really. I've known this for some time, myself."

Her blush moved from excitement to embarrassment.

"I can only deduce by your reaction that my conclusion was accurate. Well, glad to see I haven't lost my touch. It was all there, I suppose," he said, punctuating each phrase with a warm kiss to each corresponding area of her sweetly enamored face. "In your eyes. In your flushed cheeks. In your adorable dimples. In your deep, sexy kisses…"

He was caught up momentarily in that last point of interest, and he pressed her back down onto the couch, moving her body more comfortably beneath his as he devoured her lips languidly, his hands brushing back her soft hair.

"It's okay to admit it now, Teresa," he said, lifting his lips a fraction. "Because I believe I feel the exact same way."

"I need to hear you say it before I believe it, before I risk embarrassment not hearing it back," she told him, her eyes sparkling into his. "I don't possess your mad psychic skills, remember?"

"Seriously? You're not just going to take my word for it? Why, Lisbon, that is truly hurtful. Then again, actions do speak louder—" he began, diving in to resume his exploration of her intoxicating mouth.

She chuckled, turning her face away and holding him back with her deceptively strong hands.

"We could say it together," she suggested.

"Now that's romantic," he said rather sarcastically, trying in vain to sidetrack her with his hand sliding up her bare thigh. She clamped her legs together and gave him a look of feigned irritation.

"Fine," he relented, rolling his eyes. "You count to three…"

"One," she breathed unsteadily. "Two….Th—"

"I love you," he blurted, before she'd finished saying the number. To his amazement, he hadn't choked on the words.

"You do?" she said, surprised even though she'd been expecting it. He looked heavenward.

"And still the woman doesn't believe me. I didn't think we still had trust issues, Lisbon."

"A girl can never trust a conman completely," she told him.

"Me? This from the girl who just tricked me into confessing my love, leaving me hanging out to dry. Never mind, Lisbon," he said wickedly, his hand tickling her thighs again, then sliding up to her ribs. "I have ways of making you—"

"Stop!" she said, laughing helplessly. "Okay, okay! I love you already!"

His hands stilled and he looked down into her face, her eyes alight with love and laughter. He swallowed at the wonderful gift he'd been given, a gift he still was coming to terms with believing he deserved. His lips formed a small smile.

"Well, now that's out of the way…I must warn you, Lisbon, I intend to kiss you until you tell me to stop, so if you have anything else to say, you might want to get it off your uh…chest…" His eyes cast down to the feminine anatomy in question, rising and falling quickly beneath her jersey, then slowly moved to her eyes, green and glittering in the light of the table lamp.

"I have nothing more to say to you, and I don't think I will again…at least not for a very long time," she promised, lowering her hands and letting his hard body fall against hers. He gasped at the sudden, intense contact. She pulled his mouth back down to meet her lips once again, and, true to her word, she didn't utter anything beyond a moan for a good hour at least.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Angela's ghost watched her husband sleeping peacefully in Teresa Lisbon's bed, the petite CBI agent curled around him much as she had once done. It was a sweet sort of torment to see this, but a necessary one, for all of them. With this final step he had made, they could all move on.

She bent over and kissed his warm temple.

"Good-bye to you, my love," she whispered, her image fading away like shadows into darkness.

Something awoke Jane in the night and his eyes blinked slowly open. For a moment, he felt disoriented in the pitch-black room. Then he felt the warm woman in his arms and remembered everything in vivid, sensual detail. He felt a cool, familiar tingling on his forehead, and he knew instinctively that Angela had been there one last time, to wish him well, to set him free…

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

It took two days for Jane to find a chance to talk to Van Pelt alone. He approached her when she'd come in early from lunch, after she'd put her purse in her desk drawer. He glanced in the direction of Lisbon's office, noting she was watching them curiously from her window.

"Grace," he said. "You have a minute?"

"Sure, Jane. What's up?"

He glanced down at the orchid on her desk, where the necklace Craig O'laughlin had given her hung from its limbs like a Christmas ornament.

"You came to me for advice a few months back, and I'm afraid I steered you in the wrong direction. Or, more precisely, I steered you not at all."

"Hm?" she said, at first unsure what he was talking about. Then: "Oh." She reached out and touched the heart-shaped charm in remembrance of their long ago conversation.

"Listen to me, Grace," said Jane, his voice low and earnest. "Grieve, mourn, get over O'laughlin however you must, but get on with your life. Don't waste nine years angry, embittered, and alone…like I did."

She looked at him in awe, seldom having heard Jane so impassioned, unless Red John was at the center of it. She wondered where this was coming from.

"Thank you," she said hesitantly. "But how-how do you do that?" Her eyes welled. "How do you free yourself from such a life?"

His hands came up to clasp both her shoulders and he looked intently into her brown eyes. "You forgive yourself," he whispered. "A little at a time, every day, until the ghosts stop haunting you and someone else comes into your life who loves you just as much. They won't be the same, but at the very least, you'll be alive again. At most, you might find that it's possible that a person can have two soul mates in one lifetime."

"Really?" she asked shakily.

"Yes," he said, taking the girl in his arms and giving her the comfort she'd been seeking for months. He rubbed her back in hypnotic circles while she calmed herself.

A moment later, Rigsby and Cho entered the bullpen, Rigsby telling a joke to Cho, who briefly smiled at the punch line.

"Isn't that hilarious? I heard it on the radio this—"

He paused when he saw the remarkable vision of Jane and Van Pelt embracing. At the sound of his voice, Van Pelt pulled away, reaching for a tissue to dab at her eyes.

"Everything okay here?" Rigsby asked curiously, and, to Jane's mind, rather jealously.

"Fine," Van Pelt said. "Jane was just—I'm fine, really."

"Okay..." But Rigsby wasn't completely convinced

"Thank you," she muttered to Jane. He nodded and caught Lisbon's eye, who had been watching the scene with blatant curiosity. He excused himself from the team and headed for her office.

As he had since the day he first opened up to her about Hightower and Todd Johnson, he wanted to tell her everything, which was what you did when you loved someone.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Epilogue

Six years later…

Sometimes, when Jane looked back on those days when he'd made the decision to move on with his life, he would wonder if he'd really seen Angela's ghost at all. It could very well have been his subconscious, manifesting his inner turmoil in the guise of a "ghost." But then he would be at the ocean with his new family, watching little Angelo playing in the sand with his mother, and he would feel a familiar presence. It was then that he knew that she was somehow still there, watching over him, smiling her approval.

Lisbon had told him once that she could always tell when Angela was nearby, because Jane would get a certain faraway look on his face. She would come up to him where he sat on the beach and sit beside him, wrapping one sun-warmed arm around his firm waist, leaning her head on his strong shoulder.

"Hey," she would say. "Where are you?"

He would come back to her and bestow upon her that wide smile that still made her melt.

"I'm here, Teresa," he would say. "Right where I'm supposed to be."

About a year after they'd married, he'd told her of his ghostly visitor, and she hadn't laughed. In fact, she'd believed him wholeheartedly.

"See," he would reassure her, focusing completely on pressing his lips to hers.

On this occasion, their son interrupted them, as a five-year-old is wont to do his parents.

"Aren't you guys ever gonna quit doing that," said their dark-haired son in disgust. "Come on, Daddy, let's go swimming," he urged, tugging on Jane's hands. "You promised to teach me how to body surf today, and if you don't do it, Uncle Rigsby said he would. He taught Ryan two years ago."

"And you don't want Uncle Rigsby to be one up on you in the Daddy Wars," said Lisbon, tongue firmly in cheek. The two men had started a game of one-upmanship shortly after Angelo was born, and with Cho goading on the competition, it had gone to extreme lengths on more than one occasion.

Jane gave her an annoyed look, but his eyes sparkled green with mischief, just like she saw in her little boy. With his father's curly hair and dimpled smile, she knew it was only a matter of time before she'd be fighting off the girls. Maybe with a tazer.

"Never mind Daddy," Angelo said with an exaggerated sigh, his eyes turning sly. "Uncle Cho says you're gettin' too old to teach me anything anyway."

"Oh he did, did he," said Jane, eyes narrowing at the betrayal.

"Yeah, and he said somethin' 'bout old dogs learnin' tricks…"

Teresa laughed at her son's antics—a chip off the old block in the manipulation department.

"Go on you two," she said to Jane, when he looked longingly at the inviting picture she made in her black bikini. He'd just been fantasizing about kissing her senseless in the warm sand. "I'm gonna take a nap anyway," she told him. She reached for her sun hat in preparation for a short siesta.

Jane relented at last, but gave his wife another kiss that had his son fake gagging behind them.

"Keep that spot warm for me," he whispered.

"I'll do that," she grinned, her eyes alight with sensual promise.

As she watched her two men run laughing to the water, she found herself looking heavenward.

"Thank you for letting him go, Angela," she said to the sky.

And as she always did when she offered up her gratitude to Angela Jane, Teresa felt an overwhelming sense of…peace.

THE END

A/N: Thanks so much for following me throughout this story. It really was fun to write. For those of you who are wondering about where Red John was in my epilogue, I thought about adding his fate, but I couldn't find a way to make it go with the flow, so to speak. I would have had him dormant for the past six years, as if he too had given Jane his freedom. Or maybe, Angela had had something to do with it….

Also, while I'm not much for sonfics, the whole time I was writing this conclusion, I was either listening to or humming "I Believe," by Diamond Rio. It's one of the most beautiful, touching songs I've ever heard, and I was inspired by it to write this chapter. I cry every time I hear it :).

I'm not quite sure what my next "Mentalist" story will be, but I honestly don't know when inspiration will strike. In the meantime, please check out my recent tags and future tags. For you new readers, I'd love for you to read my older stuff—just click on my profile and go to town! See you next time…