jennyapologist
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Jane stares wordlessly at the all-consuming fire. His stunned silence hurts them all more than any word could have. As if to steady himself against a strong current, Cho rests a hand on Jane’s shoulder.
“We can't just stand here and watch the Boss–” Rigsby can't quite say ‘burn to death’.
When Lisbon narrowly avoids being killed by a bomb meant for her, Jane decides the safest option is for them to pretend she's dead until the killer is found.
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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.
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“You went to therapy.”
“Excuse me?” -
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“He can't see me,” Annie pipes up. “Or hear me. You couldn't until your brush with death. It doesn't happen to everyone. I think there was something latent in you.”
Lisbon whips her head around to look at Annie. “What are you saying?”
Annie smiles. “That you are what he pretended to be. I'm glad. You know how Patrick is. He wouldn't believe anyone else. I'm sorry you had to get hurt, though. I like you, Teresa.”
In which O'Laughlin's bullet did more damage, psychic powers are real, and Lisbon gets to know Jane's wife.
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“You know the plane isn’t the first time you’ve told me you love me?” Even though they’re together now, have been for just under a week, she’s nervous to say it.