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The expression on his face is inscrutable. “Excuse me?”
“Your wife,” Lisbon repeats. “Have you been in contact with her spirit?”
Patrick stares at her unblinkingly for several seconds. Then his breath rushes out of him like the air out of a deflating balloon. His shoulders slump. “Teresa, I’m not a psychic, I never was.”
“But,” her protest is instinctual, “you spoke with my mother.”
Teresa Lisbon was sixteen years old when she met Patrick at a carnival on the outskirts of Chicago. Now, at thirty-two, Patrick reappears at her job, grieving the loss of his wife and child to serial killer Red John and completely oblivious to the existence of their fifteen-year-old daughter.
Bookmarked by Mostacho1
20 Oct 2025