As he comes to the end of the note stuck to his bedroom door a rushing sound fills his ears, this is quickly followed by a pounding in his head. His soul is filled with dread, he doesn't want to open the door but his hand turns anyway, slow and deliberate. He is shaking uncontrollably but there is strength to push open the door. He sees it! It is there! The small bit of hope that it was a cruel joke leaves him like the final puff of air from a deflating balloon. The image before him seems to bounce back and forth, joining with the rhythm in his head, mocking him. It roots him to the spot,as if it has encircled him and bound him, unable to move.

A smell creeps up his senses, faint at first but it enter through every orifice and fills every vein and artery, continuing its insipid invasion until he is filled with it. It enlarges him and he bursts free of the face that has entrapped him. His eyes recognise the smell that has accompanied every Red John scene he has encountered. They grow wide in anticipation and preparation of the horrors they are about to convey to the poor soul within. As they focus on the images of a wife and daughter, savaged and stilled, the mind tries to shut down the screen in recoil but with each beat of the rhythm in his head it opens again resulting in flashing images of blood and love.

The limbs of the dead reach out like tentacles and draw him to their resting place. His tears are falling, drops hitting the floor, drop, until he turns into water and he falls upon his reasons for living, gathering them up in the flow, cradling them, rocking them as waves pound the shore, bang.. The ocean turns pink as he tries to will them back with the sustaining force. The pounding in his head, the dripping of his tears retreat, the tide recedes and removes with it his despair, his love, his will, his humanity. All that is left is an empty beating heart that mocks the lifeless bodies of this family. Beat. Beat. Beat.