Disclaimer: Anything you recognise is Bruno Heller's.

A/N: Hey peeps! Trying this again, see if it'll get the writing rolling. Nothing much different from canon in this chapter yet (it is set-up, after all), but things will pick up in the next one.

Reminder of the rules (same as Chasing Storms last year):
- One prompt a day, from November 1st to November 30 (just to be clear, one prompt means one chapter)
- Minimum 2000 words to be called a chapter (last year it was 500 words, but hey, it's NaNoWriMo after all)
- Every chapter has to be written in one day and published before going to sleep
- No chapter can be planned more than 24h in advance (except for very basic time markers following the episode)
- Only minimum editing can be made after publication (grammar, typos, sentences order to correct the flow, etc.)

Hope you enjoy! (Hope I manage to do this, haha.)

Hour 0: Lisbon
Sunshine

"Hey."

Tork's voice and light touch on her knee startles her awake, and for a moment she frowns, disoriented. The uncomfortable leather couch on which she's dozing isn't the one she's used to, and the smells – dust and cleaning products – are all wrong. But the sight of Tork's short cropped curly hair is a familiar anchor, quickly bringing her back to reality. Jane is in the recording studio playing psychic, and she –

– was supposed to stay awake and watch over him, damn it.

"What's up?" she asks, blinking the sleepiness away.

"Abbott sent me," answers Tork. "You can get out of here. I'll take Jane home when he's done."

"Oh no. I'm okay."

"No, forget it. You're beat. Go home."

She bites her lip. Truth is, the long sleepless nights are taking a toll on her, and she is beat. And Tork is watching her, his expression halfway between compassion and amusement, the quirk at the corner of his lips making him look like a little boy eager to do a grown-up job.

"Alright," she relents.

She gets up, waves to attract Jane's attention. He looks up and smiles, nods a few times – but the yellow lighting, so far from sunlight, deeply creases the lines on his cheeks and deepens the shadows under his eyes. She can't wait for this to be over.

"I'll be waiting for you at home," she silently mouths at him.

He nods again, smiles briefly and waves, then turns back his attention to the radio and the girl talking about some nonsense ghost story. Biting her lip again, she nods at Tork, opens the door, and takes a deep breath as soon as she steps out. A part of her is still worried about leaving Jane behind – will be until this is over – but she cannot deny being glad to get out early. Those stuffy recording studios always make her feel claustrophobic.

The parking lot is empty – unsurprising at this late hour – and she shivers when a light wind slithers under her jacket. Tiredness makes her more sensitive to cold, and for a moment she wishes she chose to wear warmer clothes this morning. But soon enough she'll be in the Airstream wrapped in a blanket like a burrito, she reminds herself as she reaches her car. And tomorrow it'll still be time to remember to dress appropriately for the chilly weather.

She slams the door, starts the car, and opens the radio.

"He rose from the dead," says a man's voice, and she shivers.

A creepy one. Great. There's always at least one, every time.

"So I hear," says Jane. "What's your question, Lazarus?"

She smiles. The sceptical, amused note in his voice is a pleasure to hear – as long as it's there, she knows he isn't quite beaten down by the memories this whole business never fails to rouse at night. Her sleepless nights aren't only because of the worry she feels – the constant screaming and shivering and waking up covered in cold sweat plays a part too. Both him and her. She spent too many years being called on Red John crime scenes not to be haunted by the same pictures tormenting him.

Just a little more, then this nightmare is over.

The lights of a car behind her flashes bright in the rear-view mirror, blinding her for a second. Eyes on the road, she does her best to avoid driving too fast – she's not into the habit of breaking the law but the call of Jane's sheets in the Airstream is coming strong, and she dreams of a full night of sleep followed by a lazy morning in bed with her –

– "boyfriend" to describe Jane is so weird, she thinks, but there's nothing that fits better. In her world "partner" doesn't describe the relationship she has with him anymore, and "lover" reminds them both too much of Lorelei. Boyfriend it'll have to be, though it makes her feel a little like a schoolgirl drawing hearts on her notebook.

"What else do you know about the man the FBI is hunting?"

"Well, I can't tell you everything I know."

"Why not?"

"Well, it's an ongoing investigation. The case is still open."

She grins.

We'll never make a cop out of you, but we did manage to hammer a few things down, haven't we?

"Why are you interested? Do you have information on the man?"

"You're the one who knows everything."

"I never said that."

"No, but you claim to be in contact with his spirit – if you're telling the truth. If you're not, why would the police want your help?" says the man on the radio.

She frowns. That doesn't sound good. She hopes Abbott is listening and tracking the call – and for a moment she wonders if she should turn back. Leaving Jane alone suddenly seems like a very, very bad idea.

She stops on the side of the road, picks up her phone.

"Cho."

"Hey," she says. "You tracking down that caller?"

"Yeah, we're on it," answers Cho.

"Okay. Need me to be part of the task force?"

"No. Go home, Lisbon. We got this."

She bites her lip, but a yawn breaks her train of thought and she's forced to admit she really isn't in the right condition to help right now.

"Alright. Call me if anything comes up."

"Of course."

She hangs up, swallows her anxiety – starts the car again, just as another vehicle drives past her on the road. Is that a pick-up? The tail lights blink red twice before it turns the corner. She continues ahead.

"I spoke to someone like you once before."

"Really? Who?" asks Jane.

His voice is mild, but she knows him too well to ignore the undercurrent of stress and uneasiness in the low frequencies of his words.

"He was a complete fake. You could practically see it written on him."

That's him!

She's tempted to call Cho again, but ultimately decides against it – by the time she gets there they'll have tracked the call and she'll be too late. They'll get him, she repeats to herself. They'll get him and it'll be over. Finally. So instead of rushing to the office, she stops herself from gnawing on her lips and focuses on the road, trying to ignore the pit of growing apprehension in her stomach.

"Is that so?" says Jane, after a short hesitation.

"Yes. He was pretending – just like you are."

"Let's take a short commercial break now!" cuts the radio host. "Lazarus, stay with us, we'll be right back on KPQC with Patrick Jane, the psychic who works with the FBI."

"No!" she groans. "Damnit. He'll never stay on the line, you idiot!"

A last turn and she gets to the road where Jane parked his trailer the night before. She doesn't get out yet, stays inside her car to listen to the show, hands clenched tight on the wheel. She has a set of keys to the Airstream, but the silver bucket is an horrible gas-guzzler, and the reception is better in her car anyway. Nothing to do with the fact she tolerates more than enjoys the Airstream, she swears.

"Aaaand we're back!" says the host. "Lazarus, are you still with us?"

"Yes."

He is?! What kind of idiot is he? Doesn't he know about tracking systems?

She frowns.

No, that's not it. He's not ignorant, he's cocky. What's going on?

"When we left, you suggested that you dealt with another psychic who wasn't on the up-and-up. Are you a sceptic now?"

"No, I believe in spirits very much. Just not everybody who claims to be in touch with them."

"Any spirit in particular?" asks Jane.

"You tell me. Isn't that what you do?"

She bites her lip again. Cold reading on the phone might be a little difficult, even for Jane.

"You want me to guess?"

"That's right."

"Well, if I were to guess, I'd say it's someone close to you," he says, with just a touch of hesitation. "Someone – someone who died recently. Maybe in the last year?"

"Go on."

"Is it your – mother?"

Lazarus' chuckle has a sinister quality to it. She winces.

"You're a fake, Mr. Jane."

"No no no, wait. Not your mother – your father. I see it now. He was a strong man. He meant the world to you, yes? The only person you were ever close to."

"Have to go now. Bye."

"Hold on – ! Lazarus? Hello?"

"Seems the caller has gone," says the host cheerfully. "We're gonna take a minute for a station ID, then we'll be right back with 'Night Talk' on KPQC."

The temptation to turn around and rush back to the studio is stronger than ever. Something isn't right – she can feel it in her guts, in every one of what Jane used to teasingly call her cop senses years ago. Whatever it is, something is wrong.

She stays in her car a few minute more, waiting until the show starts again – but when it becomes clear Jane isn't coming back on the air, she picks up her phone and gets out.

He answers almost immediately, calming part of the worry she feels – but far from all of it.

"Hey," she says, walking to the Airstream. "What happened to you? I was listening, you got cut off."

"Yeah, the call was a ruse. He's planning something. You need to get back to the office as soon as you can."

She's about to answer when she notices the door of the trailer – or, more accurately, the ajar door – and a small shiver of dread creeps up her back.

"Did you leave the door of the Airstream open this morning?" she asks, hoping for once he did forget to close it.

"No," he answer. "Maybe. W – why?"

"It's open."

She hears the sharp intake of breath he takes as if he was beside her.

"Okay, stop. Don't go anywhere near it. Don't do anything until someone else gets there."

And she hates causing him distress, but Abbott and the team aren't available right now. If a serial killer painted a target on their back, waiting there alone until backup – probably the closest beat cop around – arrives is the worst idea she could have.

"That could take forever," she answers, hand on her gun already. "I'm gonna check it out."

"Yeah – fine, but you're not hanging up!" he says, obviously upset.

She switches her flashlight on, brings it to her ear, and approaches the Airstream in a careful crouch. Slowly she reaches to the door, then violently opens it – the noise it makes as it slams against the side of the trailer makes her jump. Rolling her eyes inwardly at herself, she climbs the stairs, gun first and flashlight close second.

"Teresa, what's going on?"

A quick sweep of the trailer, and she sighs in relief.

"There's nobody in here," she answers, putting her flashlight down. "I guess we left it open."

"Okay. Get back to the office," says Jane, still upset.

"Alright, I'll see you there."

She puts her phone back in her pocket, but keeps her hand on her gun until she reaches her car, just in case. The night is eerily silent, and despite there being no one around – as far as she can tell, anyway – there's an uneasy part of her she isn't able to shut up. One that makes her feel like there are eyes on her back.

"You are the sunshine of my liiiife," blares the radio when she turns the key in the contact, startling her so bad she can't stop a yelp from escaping her lungs.

"Goddammit! Stop being so silly!" she groans aloud.

She slams the door maybe a little too hard, but the noise this time reassures her as it echoes outside. She's alone, nobody is stalking her, and when she gets back to the office she'll do her best to convince Jane to sleep at her place for a while. A house has to be more secure than a trailer – and if this keeps going on, she'll even take sleeping in the office. Anything but the silver bucket parked in a deserted, isolated, godforsaken road in the middle of nowhere.

The pebbles under her tyres make a grating sound as she drives off the small path and back to the main street. She turns slowly, making sure the road is empty, then sighs with relief when she gets to the first traffic lights.

Soon, civilisation.

Soon she'll see Jane.

She smiles to herself.

Then a flash of light in her eyes, a crash of glass as the pick-up truck slams into the side of her car, smashing pain to her temple, and she knows no more.

Tomorrow's prompt: Karma