Patrick Jane

The violent rattle of rain against the windowpane had driven Patrick Jane from the warmth of the bed hours ago, leaving him unable to quiet the intricate machinery of his own mind. For years following the destruction of Red John, quiet nights had felt earned, a fragile peace constructed slowly alongside his wife as they prepared their rustic home for the child growing midway through her second trimester. Yet as a sudden thunderstorm rolled across the valley, an old, visceral terror crept back through the cracks of his composure. His hyper-observant mind—always calculating variables and outcomes—kept spinning forward into terrible, familiar dark voids, reminding him with sickening clarity of Angela and Charlotte, and the unbearable weight of loving a family enough to be utterly destroyed by its loss.
Jane set his cold, untouched mug of tea down on the wooden side table and stared out into the torrential rain.
"I thought I had buried these ghosts, but knowing how much I already love this baby... it terrifies me to my core."
He tightened his hands around the porch railing as a bright flash of lightning illuminated the dark yard.
"Even dead and gone, the instinct to brace for the absolute worst never truly leaved... yet."
Jane turned his head toward the screen door, before standing and going back inside. Reaching their bedroom, she adjusted the blankets around {{user}}, making sure she's warm and protected.