“Umm…Detective Lassiter?”

Buzz cleared his throat nervously and stood by the desk, waiting patiently until Lassiter finally decided to look up and acknowledge his presence.

“What is it, McNab?” He growled, throwing his pen down as if he had been interrupted while scribing the Declaration of Independence.

“There’s a call for you, Sir…a tip on the Brighton murder. Guy says he knows who did it.”

“Great,” Lassiter rolled his eyes. “Another crackpot. Who’s it supposed to be this time? Bart Simpson? The President? The Beatles? I’ve heard it all on this one.”

“No, Sir. This one sounds legit. I think you should take it.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, McNab.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Lassiter picked up the phone and covered the mouth piece, glaring as Buzz continued to stand in front of him, watching every move he made with the eager expression of a puppy waiting to go for a walk.

“McNab.”

Buzz jumped a little.

“Yes, Sir?”

“Go away. I can handle this.”

“Oh. Right.”

Lassiter shook his head as Buzz walked away, then uncovered the receiver and barked into it with the urgent, jaded authority of someone who couldn’t be bothered.

“Detective Lassiter.”

The voice on the other end stifled a laugh.

“Lassiter? Seriously? That’s your name? Dude.”

Lassiter hated this voice, whoever it was, already.

He sat up, his face twisting angrily.

“Look, Joker. This is a police line. If you have something to say, spill it. If not, get lost.”

“Okay, okay. Wow. You’re grumpy. You might want to consider adding fiber to your diet.”

“You have two seconds. One—”

“Do you want to know who killed the woman in the park or not?” The voice demanded, but not irritably. He (it was definitely a he, Lassiter decided) actually sounded more amused than anything else.

“Because, frankly, you’ve missed some pretty obvious clues.”

“Have I?” Lassiter asked with mocking sincerity. “Have I really? Please, enlighten me. What clues have I missed?”

“Well, for starters, how about the fact that the boyfriend did it?”

Lassiter’s sneer disappeared.

Who was this guy, anyway?

“What do you mean, the boyfriend did it?” He demanded. “It was a mugging.”

“Try to keep up here,” the voice sighed. “They just interviewed him on the news. In the span of four questions, he mentioned his alibi at least six times. Tell me that’s not just a little defensive of him. Plus, his shirt was wrinkled and his pants had three stains on them, but for some reason his shoes were meticulously polished. Recently polished. Like he cleaned them after traipsing through mud…and wasn’t it raining the other night?”

Lassiter was scribbling notes on his pad furiously. He tried to keep his voice cold and unimpressed when he finally responded.

“Is that it?” He asked, attempting to sound as if the entire conversation had been fruitless.

“Yeah. That’s it.”

“Fine. I need a name.”

“You don’t have one? I thought you said it was Rin Tin Tin…” the voice answered cheekily.

Lasstier’s hand closed around the phone just a little tighter

He really hated this guy.

“It’s Lassiter, clown. Detective Lassiter. And I meant I need your name for the file.”

“Oh! You want my name…well, granted, it’s better than Lassiter. But if you take my name, what will people call me?”

“Oh, something tells me no one has any trouble thinking of names to call you.” Lassiter snapped back, just about fed up.

“Detective!” The voice clucked reprovingly. “That was so uncalled for.”

“Just tell me your damn name!”

There was a long pause as the voice seemed to consider for a minute.

“Batman.” He said finally.

“Batman?”

Lassiter was squeezing the phone so tight he was sure it was about to snap in half.

“What? It’s not?” The voice asked innocently.

“No.”

“Captain Planet?”

“No.”

“Oh! I know! Lassiter!”

“That’s my name!” Lassiter roared.

“Right! Then we agree.”

The phone clicked, and the voice was gone.

Lassiter slammed his receiver down angrily a moment later.

“God he’s annoying,” he muttered to himself. “At least I’ll never have to talk to that idiot again…”

It was just bad luck.

That’s all.

The moment Henry saw her in the grocery store, perusing the produce section, he turned around and started to walk out.

Quickly.

Don’t see me…

Don’t see me…

But it was too late. He hadn’t taken four steps before his name was being called out across the aisle.

“Henry! Henry! Wait!”

For a moment, he considered pretending he hadn’t heard her.

Just keep walking…

But she was already coming up behind him.

There was no way out.

Crap.

He turned around slowly when he felt the tap on his shoulder, forcing the best smile he could muster.

“Hey, Karen.”

She smiled back and placed the pineapple she was carrying into her cart.

“Hey. Hi. Look, I’m glad I ran into you. Didn’t you get my messages?” She asked.

“Machine’s broken. Must’ve missed them,” he lied with a shrug.

He had been avoiding this conversation for days, ever since Shawn had told him about his stupid plan to fake being a psychic.

“I’m not going to lie for you,” Henry warned him from the get-go. “If Karen Vick asks me, I’m not going to lie.”

“You don’t have to lie,” Shawn had insisted. “Just don’t tell the whole, exact truth.”

“It’s not my job to cover your butt, Kid. You dug the hole, you dig your way out.”

“How would that work, exactly?” Shawn asked, raising his eyebrows. “Digging out of a hole…?”

Henry didn’t even crack a smile. He just shook his head defiantly.

“Shawn, I’m not doing it. Find another way to waste your time. What about being a mime again? That doesn’t involve committing a felony.”

“This isn’t like the mime thing, Dad! This is for real!”

Henry had been going to say something else. He was ready to tell Shawn to give up on the whole asinine plot, to find a real job, but something in his son’s eyes had stopped him.

A determination, a sincerity, he had never seen before.

But it was still a lie…

“No, Shawn. I won’t lie.”

He had meant it at the time, but now that Karen was really standing in front of him…really about to ask the question he had no desire to answer….

It wasn't so easy. 

“This is for real…”

“Oh,” Karen was saying as Henry was jolted out his thoughts and back into reality. “Well, I need to talk to you. Can you come down to the station this afternoon?”

“Yeah,” he sighed. “I’ll be there.”

“Great. Is three o’clock okay?”

“Fine.”

She smiled again and waved as she pushed her cart back into the bustling store.

Henry groaned once she was out of sight.

He already knew he wasn’t going to lie.

He couldn’t lie.

Not even for Shawn.

“You don’t have to lie…just don’t tell the whole, exact truth…”

Of course, Shawn would hate him for a while once he blew his cover.

Nothing new there.

But he’d get over it. In three months, he’d be onto something new.

Something that didn’t involve committing perjury...

Something that didn’t involve screwing up police investigations…

But no matter how hard he tried, Henry just couldn’t get that look out of his head…that pleading, earnest look in Shawn’s eyes…

He arrived at the station twenty minutes early that afternoon, eager to get it over with.

Karen was waiting for him in her office.

“Have a seat,” she said as he entered, settling herself behind her desk. “I figured you’d be early. You were always early for everything.”

“That’s me…”

Henry shifted in the chair, suddenly not sure he could do it.

“…This isn’t like the mime thing, Dad…”

“So,” Karen began, drumming on her desk. “I think you know what this is about.”

“Shawn. Right?”

Karen nodded.

“I have to ask…does he have any…special abilities?”

Henry hesitated, Shawn’s face flashing before his eyes one more time.

“…This is for real…”

“Yes,” he answered firmly. “He does.”

Gus blinked into the disorienting white light.

Sights and sounds slowly came into focus…but it was all blurred and fuzzy around the edges…even the noise…

Can noise be blurry? He wondered absently, somehow able to form a coherent thought through the pain of that blinding white light.

A hand appeared above him, shielding the light from his eyes. A familiar face followed it, smiling down at him.

“Shawn?” He asked hoarsely. Even his voice sounded pained.

“Yeah. It’s me,” Shawn answered in an uncharacteristically quiet voice.

Something’s wrong with me…Gus thought. He’s too calm…too quiet…

Shawn moved his hand, and once again Gus was over-powered by the light from above him.

“Where am I?” He asked weakly, turning his head away. It was as much motion as he could manage without passing out. “Am I dead? Did you finally get me killed?”

“No,” Shawn grinned gently. “I didn’t get you killed. Not yet.”

“What happened?”

“You don’t remember?”

“No.”

“Gus, you wrecked your car.”

“I did?”

Shawn perched on the edge of the bed. Gus did his best to sit up.

“Yeah,” Shawn continued, running his fingers nervously over the sheets. “A drunk missed a stop sign and plowed into you…it wasn’t your fault.”

“Was anyone hurt?”

“Just you, Gus.”

“Oh.”

He looked up at Shawn, who was still smiling…an oddly serene smile, even for Shawn…

Gus looked around the room for the first time, taking everything in. The only thing in it, apart from the blinding white light, was the bed he was lying in.

Yet, somewhere…he could hear the beeping of machines…heart monitors…

But there weren’t any machines around.

“Shawn…” Gus asked cautiously, his eyes growing wide as the realization dawned on him.

“What?”

“I’m hurt bad, aren’t I?”

“Yeah, Gus.”

“I’m…not awake, am I?”

“No.”

Gus lay back in the bed, staring into the light. Somehow, it didn’t seem so painful anymore…it was almost soothing…

“Shawn?” He asked, closing his eyes, still feeling the warmth of the light surrounding him.

“What, Gus?”

“Am I going to wake up?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh.”

He could feel Shawn stand up and begin to pace around the room. The footsteps echoed off the bare walls.

“Shawn?”

“I’m still here, Gus.”

Shawn’s voice sounded faraway now…like he was drifting away…the light grew brighter by the second. So bright, Gus could feel his body being swallowed into it.

“You’re not going to leave, are you?” Gus called into it, hearing his voice echo as if he were yelling into a vast, empty tunnel. He tried to sit up again, looking around the room frantically, but Shawn was gone.

“Shawn…”

He couldn’t hear anything anymore…the light was too powerful now…

“SHAWN!”

The light suddenly dimmed again, and Shawn was once more standing next to the bed, still grinning that same even, unruffled grin.

“What?”

“You’re not going to leave, are you?” Gus asked again.

“Dude…do you even have to ask?”

“Good…” Gus breathed, lying back, the pain in his head returning as the light fled. “…Just don’t leave…”

“I won’t.”

“The light, Shawn…” he murmmered, clenching his eyes tightly.

“I know,” Shawn whispered. “I know…”

“It’s so bright…”

“Fight it, Gus. You have to fight it.”

“I can’t.” Gus moaned, the light piercing through even his closed lids. “I can’t…it’s too bright…”

“Gus…”

“I can’t…”

“I’m here, Gus…I’m here…”

Shawn’s face faded into the light as it overpowered Gus again. Gus could feel himself stop breathing…he could hear the monitors beeping like crazy, somewhere in the distance…somewhere far away…

I’m dying…he thought to himself. I’m really dying…

But somewhere…somewhere…he could hear Shawn’s voice, cutting through the blinding light, piercing through the fog and pain.

“I’m here, Gus…”

“Shawn…Shawn…Shawn…”

The light was so strong…so warm, and yet so painful…Gus fought it…he tried to see Shawn again, but he was gone…he strained to hear his voice, to find him in the middle of the light…

“Gus? Gus? Can you hear me?”

The beeping of the monitors grew louder.

Gus slowly opened his eyes.

“Shawn?”

The light was gone.

In fact, the room was in almost complete darkness. Gus peered into it, knowing he had heard Shawn’s voice.

It was closer than before.

“I’m here, Gus.”

“I know.”

“Are you sure you need the Zwiki file?” Juliet asked, taking a hesitant step into the dimly-lit Records Room.

“Yeah. Zwiki.” Shawn answered, entering right behind her. “Z-w-i-”

“I can spell it, Shawn,” she almost snapped. “Are you sure you don’t need the Aaron file? Or Anderson? Or 1-2-3?”

“1-2-3?” Shawn laughed. “Who the heck is named 1-2-3?”

“No one. But numbers come before letters in an alphabetical filing system. ..so if you needed, say, a number…it would be right by the door…and I wouldn’t have to go in there…”

Shawn just continued to laugh as he watched Juliet squirm uneasily.

“Man,” he shook his head. “You really hate it down here.”

“You think?”

This time, there was no question about it. She was snapping at him.

“It’s dark, it’s creepy…and this storm isn’t helping, either,” she added as a particularly loud crack of thunder reverberated through the room, sending a cold chill down her spine.

“Ooooo…” Shawn moaned in his best ghost impression, thoroughly enjoying the moment.

Juliet was less than amused.

“Knock it off!”

She smacked his arm and pressed on deeper into the room, tentative step by tentative step. Shawn was always just one stride behind.

Another roll of thunder echoed off the walls, and the lights shuttered. Juliet gasped as the room was plunged into total darkness.

“Shawn!”

“What?”

He was doing the best he could to suppress the laughter he felt brewing.

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of the dark, Detective O’Hara.”

“Not afraid,” she insisted stubbornly. “Cautiously observant.”

“Right.”

Shawn felt a gentle breeze waft past his face. Then another one. Somewhere in front of him, Juliet was flailing her hand through the air, frantically searching the darkness for his.

He stretched his hand out, gently lacing his fingers through hers with a soft, reassuring squeeze.

“Don’t worry,” he cooed. “The only thing down here to be afraid of is that giant spider dangling over your head. I think it’s a black widow. And, of course, there’s that murderer with a hook hand standing right behind you…”

Her fingers tensed, then slowly relaxed. When she spoke again, Shawn could actually hear her teeth clenching.

“You…are…not…funny.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffed. “I’m hilarious.”

“Shawn…”

“Do you want to leave?”

“Yes!”

“Okay. We’ll get the file later.”

He fumbled through the dark, carefully feeling his way along the rows of dusty shelves. Her hand clung to his like a lifeline.

He kind of liked it…

Finally, when they were about four steps away from the door, Juliet stumbled over some unseen obstruction on the cluttered floor. Shawn heard her call out…felt her falling…

He somehow managed to get his arms around her before she hit the floor.

For a long moment, he held her. Close. Though they couldn’t see each other, Shawn could feel her eyes, firmly locked with his own.

“I can stand up,” she said quietly.

“Oh. Right.”

He released her, but she didn’t stand up. Not right away.

“I don’t need you to catch me, Shawn.”

“I know.”

“I can catch myself. I’ve always been able to catch myself.”

“I know,” he whispered into the black, knowing her eyes were still watching him even if they couldn’t see him. “But that’s because you’ve never had me around to do it for you.”

“I don’t want you to do it for me.”

“Okay,” he agreed, his lips brushing past her ear. “Next time, I’ll let you fall.”

Her fingers met his again.

“No, you won’t.”

“I will if you want me to.”

“Maybe I don’t.”

Even in the pitch black, Shawn could see a flash of her small, coy smile. Her hand pulled away as she found the doorknob and stepped back into the SBPD.

Shawn silently watched her leave. Once he was sure she was gone, his hand reached behind the door and flipped the light switch. Immediately, the room was flooded with light.

“Totally worth it,” he grinned to himself.

“Dad!” Shawn moaned miserably, flopping onto the couch and burying his head in the pillows.

Henry rolled his eyes.

He’d seen this before.

Every time some girl broke his dumb, lovesick teenage son’s heart.

“Who was it this time, Shawn?” He sighed.

“Candice,” Shawn answered, rolling over on his back and staring up at the ceiling as if the very mention of her name conjured up images too painful to fathom.

“Candice? What happened to….that other one?”

“Brooke? She was last week. Sooo last week. She’s into football players now. Stupid dumb jocks get all the good ones.”

Henry shrugged, fresh out of platitudes.

Not that he had the impulse to shower Shawn with them, anyway.

“That’s life, Kid.”

Shawn sat up, gawking at his father.

“‘That’s life’?” He repeated, dumbfounded. “That’s life? I get dumped, and that’s all you have to say?”

“What do you want me to say, Shawn? You’re sixteen. I think you’ll somehow manage to push through. Next week, there’ll be someone else…probably.”

“Probably?”

“Well…maybe. If you drop the smart-ass attitude. And maybe get a haircut…”

“What’s wrong with my hair?”

Shawn ran his fingers through his hair, clearly insulted by the insinuation.

“At least I have hair.” He muttered bitterly.

Henry pretended not to hear that one.

“I’m just saying,” He continued, clearly unsympathetic to his son’s plight. “The only common denominator here is you.”

Shawn shook his head, awed by this new level of Henry-ness.

“Wow. Yeah. It’s all my fault, Dad…You know, my parents are divorced. Maybe you can blame that on me, too.”

Henry’s eyebrows shot up. He sat down in the armchair across from the couch, leaning forward authoritatively.

Ready to pounce.

Aww, Crap. Shawn groaned inwardly. I activated SuperCop Mode…

“So, you’re innocent in all this, then?” Henry was asking, as if interrogating a suspect. “True or False, Shawn. When you were dating…Short Perky Blonde…you were also dating…Tall Perky Redhead?”

“True,” Shawn conceded without enthusiasm. “Though, in my defense, they weren’t supposed to find out about each other…actually, I think that was your fault, if I recall…”

Henry ignored the accusation and continued.

“True or False: You asked…Shifty-Eyed Blonde… to the dance, only to rescind and ask…Really Bad Perm…two days later?”

“Hey, perms were very popular for those two days.”

“Answer the question, Shawn.”

“Fine. True. But she was just so much cuter…”

“See? Any problems you have you bring on yourself. You’re your own worst enemy, Kid.”

Shawn stood up, his ears blazing red.

“Dad! Seriously…all I was looking for was a ‘That Sucks, Shawn.' Not a lecture.”

Henry blinked.

“Oh. That sucks, Shawn.”

“Thank you! Was that so hard?”

Shawn stomped angrily up to his room and slammed the door, muttering under his breath every step of the way.

Henry remained sitting impassively in the chair until the storm passed.

“…but it’s still your own damn fault.”

Shawn’s cheap toy walkie-talkie crackled to life. He could hear Gus’ voice, squeaking through the static on the other end.

“Shawn…Shawn…this is Gus…do you copy? Over.”

He grabbed the radio from his bookshelf and tumbled onto his bed, clicking the red button to respond.

“I read you, Gus,” he spoke into it. “But use our codenames in case my dad’s listening. Over.”

“I’m not calling you ‘Superstud’, Shawn. Over.”

“Don’t be a yogurt-covered raisin, Gus. Over.”

“Do you want me to help you get out of there or not? Over.”

“Fine. Fine. You’re not a yogurt-covered raisin," Shawn recanted with a half-hearted sigh. “Over.”

He crept to the door of his room and peered out; making sure his father wasn’t around.

“I think my dad’s downstairs,” he whispered into the walkie-talkie. “I’m going to see if the coast is clear.”

There was a long burst of static.

“You didn’t say ‘over’.” Gus scolded a moment later. “You’re supposed to say ‘over’.”

“Shhhh!” Shawn hissed, tip-toeing down the corridor. “I’m in the hallway…I don’t see him anywhere…”

He slowly went down the stairs, stepping delicately so they wouldn’t creak.

He ducked behind the railing about halfway down. Henry was in the living room, sitting on the couch reading. He didn’t seem to notice Shawn.

“Okay…I see him…” he whispered into the walkie-talkie. “He’s guarding the door…are you in position? Over.”

“Yeah,” Gus answered. “I’m at your front door. Over.”

Shawn nodded, watching his father’s every move.

“Okay…hit the doorbell and take off. I’ll make a break for the back door when he goes to answer it. We’ll meet at the movie theater in ten minutes. Over.”

“Affirmative. Over.”

“Affirm-a-what?”

“It means yes, Shawn. Over.”

“Then why didn’t you just say yes? You know I hate unnecessary syllables. Over.”

“Just tell me when to go, Shawn.”

Gus was growing impatient, Shawn could tell even through the crackling static.

He always hated trying to pull one over on Henry.

Probably because they always got caught, Shawn thought to himself.

And Gus really hated getting caught.

“Okay,” Shawn whispered. “3…2…1…go!”

Shawn held his breath and waited. A few seconds later, the doorbell rang.

Shawn watched his dad put the book down, check his watch, and slowly walk to the front door.

As soon as he was around the corner, Shawn took off for the back door. He ran out it, making sure to shut the screen quietly so Henry wouldn’t hear. He ran across the yard, rounding the corner of the house…and smacked right into Henry, who was standing with his arms crossed, looking very annoyed.

“Hi, Dad,” Shawn waved with a big, innocent grin.

Henry was clearly not in the mood to be charmed, however.

“I said you were grounded, Shawn.”

“Umm…”

“And just how stupid do you think I am?”

Shawn looked up at him hesitantly.

Was this a trick question?

“Uh-”

Henry saw he was considering actually answering, and put an end to that idea with one sharp scowl.

“Don’t answer that. But having Gus hit the doorbell? Come on. Did you really think I was going to fall for that? That’s just insulting.”

“It was worth a try…”

“Never underestimate your quarry, Shawn. If you’re going to try to pull something, at least be smart about it. Put a little bit of effort into it.”

Shawn rolled his eyes and went back into the house to serve out the rest of his sentence. Henry smiled to himself and reached into his back pocket, pulling out a small toy walkie-talkie.

“Never underestimate your quarry, ‘Superstud’.”

Detective Lassiter finally had what he’d always wanted.

The station was quiet.

Silent, even.

So silent he could hear the building settling as he sat at his desk and worked, the hours slowly ticking by.

Every breath he took seemed to echo off the walls and come right back at him.

He was alone.

Completely alone.

Just like he always wanted.

He was flying through his paperwork now, with no one around to hassle him… or bother him…or ask him stupid questions…or replace all his paper clips with jelly beans because they thought it was funny…

No.

Not today.

Today, he was productive.

Today, he felt useful. For once.

Today, before he left and went home, every single t would be crossed and every i would be dotted…or crossed, depending on whether it was a capital I or a lowercase i…

Today, he even had time to pay attention to those little details.

He was alone.

It was silent.

He had all the time in the world for capitals and lowercases.

As the “Finished” pile of paper work slowly began to grow and the “To Do” pile subsequently got smaller, Lassiter couldn't help but wonder…

Wouldn’t it be better if it was just him all the time?

Did he really need anyone else?

Didn’t other people just get in the way, mess everything up?

Wasn’t one cop all Santa Barbara really needed, anyway?

He could do the Chief’s job.

He didn’t need a junior partner.

And he sure as hell didn’t need Spencer hanging around all the time…

That thought was a mistake, he suddenly realized.

He hadn’t meant to think that one.

He shouldn’t have thought that one.

He put his pen down and dropped his head into his hands, unable to stop the lump from forming in his throat.

But it’s so quiet around here…he told himself doggedly.

It’s so peaceful…

Finally…

I’ve waited so long for peace and quiet…

He picked his head up again and glanced at the wall clock.

He couldn’t help it. He had to know.

4:00.

It started at 3:30…

They won’t have him in the ground for at least another half-hour.

They’re probably still talking about him…

Still pretending he wasn’t a pain in the ass…

Still pretending he was a psychic, though everyone knows he wasn’t…

There’s no way he was…

I just couldn’t prove it…

I just couldn’t prove it…

Now I’ll never be able to prove it…

He wins again.

Lassiter tried to convince himself he was bitter about that, but somehow…he just couldn’t.

He wasn’t bitter.

But he was enjoying the peace and quiet at last…

He lifted his pen off the desk and continued working on the To Do pile, but his heart wasn’t in it anymore.

Everyone else is there…

I should be there…

But I have so much work to do, and it will never be this quiet around here again…

And that’s all I want…

Peace.

Quiet.

Silence.

He put the pen down once more and listened, almost expecting to hear that irritating, nails-on-a-chalkboard voice again.

“Hey, Lassie.”

“Selling tickets to the policeman’s ball?”

“Is it your shirt? Please say no…”

“I have to be honest with you…I worked in a candy store. It’s nothing like this…”

God, he almost wanted to hear it.

He caught himself almost, just nearly, wishing he would hear it.

But he knew he would never hear it again.

The station would always be quiet now.

He had what he wanted.

Peace.

Quiet.

Silence.

Slowly, he stood up and crossed the room.

He turned the radio on.

It didn’t even matter which station.

It was just too damn quiet around there…

The rain had been pouring down in relentless, torrent sheets for three days now.

Three whole days.

Juliet turned her windshield wipers on full-speed, but it didn’t do any good.

She still couldn’t see a thing.

She sighed and flicked them off again, turning to Shawn in the passenger seat with an apologetic shrug.

“Sorry, Shawn. I don’t think we’re going to be able see anything until it lets up.”

“I don’t think it matters,” he answered, taking a long sip of his pineapple smoothie. “I can’t believe they’re going to show today, anyway. Not in this weather. We’re the only idiots out in this.”

Juliet nodded in silent agreement.

They had been sitting in that same parking spot for hours, waiting for their suspects to show.

Waiting to tail them.

Waiting to catch them in the act…

Waiting to finally crack this case wide-open…

But no one was going to commit any crimes today. It was just too wet and gross, even for criminal-types.

She sighed and turned the car off again, leaning her head back on the seat and closing her eyes.

There was nothing to do on a day like this...

Just stay inside…

Read a good book…

Maybe take a nap…

“You keep an eye-out,” she murmured, suddenly very tired. “I don’t think I can stay awake.”

“Okay,” Shawn agreed, but Juliet could already tell he had the same idea she did.

He stretched out lazily, his joints cracking and popping as he reclined his seat all the way back.

“Don’t fall asleep,” she ordered, trying to sound commanding.

But she was already drifting off herself…

“I won’t,” he promised with a drowsy sigh, rolling over on his side as best he could in the confined front seat.

She yawned again, knowing it was too late for both of them.

“Shawn…”

“…hmmm?”

“Don’t…”

“…Uh-huh...”

It was impossible to say who actually fell asleep first, but within another minute both were snoring quietly, curled up side-by-side with only the gearshift separating them.

Juliet woke up first, however; startled by a sudden gust of wind. She groaned painfully as the cobwebs slowly cleared. Both her legs had gone completely numb and her back and neck had cramped up.

She glanced at the dashboard clock as she slowly sat up and stretched, trying to get the blood flowing again.

They had been asleep for three hours.

“Shawn…”

She looked over at him now, still sleeping peacefully. He had somehow managed to contort his body into an uncomfortable-looking position, lying on his stomach with his feet up on the dashboard and his head nestled against his neck rest. One arm was tucked under his chest, and the other he had flung over the seats, resting it across Juliet’s lap.

“Shawn…come on…wake up…”

She tapped him, but he just shifted and continued to sleep, completely undisturbed.

“We missed them by now, Shawn. Come on. We’ll try again tomorrow…”

She continued to poke and prod him, but he wouldn’t be stirred.

Finally, she gave up and lay back down herself.

The rain was still falling, but it had let up some.

It was just a gentle summer shower now.

She closed her eyes again and listened to the rhythmic pit-pat, pit-pat.

Shawn’s arm was still across her lap, and occasionally she could feel it tighten around her, pulling her closer to him.

She listened to his quiet, hypnotic breathing, mingling with the soft rain…

“We should go…” she mumbled half-heartedly, her arm somehow finding its way across his chest. “I have to get home…”

But the truth was, she had no real desire to wake him up.

There was no reason to leave, she thought as she slowly drifted off once again.

There was nowhere else she had to be...

There was nothing else to do on a day like this…

“SHAWN!”

Henry was standing on the back porch, his hands cupped over his mouth as he shouted out over the yard.

Shawn heard him loud and clear from the tree house.

He knew that tone.

“Uh-oh,” he groaned, dropping the comic book he was reading.

“What’d you do?” Gus asked, turning another page and sounding less than interested.

“Nothing…”

“Yeah, right.”

“No, really!”

Shawn was mentally running over the past few days, trying to sift through all possible crimes he could be nailed for…but nothing was coming to mind.

“Maybe you’re in trouble for reading comic books,” Gus suggested with a dry shrug. “You know your dad hates them.”

“No,” Shawn shook his head thoughtfully. “I don’t think that’s it. How would he even know?”

“Maybe he found my Captain Incredible Issue 7 under your bed,” Gus muttered.

“Gus! I told you! I didn’t take your stupid Captain Incredible Issue 7.”

“Yeah, right.”

“SHAWN!” Henry bellowed again.

Shawn flinched, his eyes wide with innocent bewilderment.

“You better go,” Gus told him, nudging him towards the door.

“Yeah.”

“Good luck.”

"Thanks.”

He climbed down the ladder and slowly jogged across the yard.

Henry was still waiting for him on the porch.

“There you are. Where were you?” He demanded.

“At the tree house.”

“Do you have my hammer?”

“Your what?”

"My hammer, Shawn.” Henry snapped impatiently. “You know what a hammer is. Did you take my hammer?”

“No!”

Henry’s arms were crossed now. He glared down at Shawn skeptically.

“Shawn, it was on my workbench this morning. I need it. What did you do with it?”

“I didn’t take it!” Shawn insisted, his already wide eyes only growing larger.

“Shawn, knock it off. There’s no one else around. I didn’t move it…Did you lose it?”

“No! I didn’t—”

“Were you using it to test Gus’ bike helmet again? I told you to stop doing that!”

“No! I--”

Henry just waved off his protests.

“Just go to your room, Kid. I’ll find the damn hammer myself. And next time, ask before you take my stuff.”

“But I didn’t take it!”

Shawn was almost yelling, desperate to convince his father of his innocence.

But Henry had already gone back out to the garage to look for the hammer again.

Shawn stomped up the stairs angrily and slammed his door, flopping down onto his bed.

“I didn’t take the stupid hammer.”

After a few minutes of sulking, he rolled onto his stomach and felt around under his bed, fishing for the Captain Incredible Issue 7 he had stashed there a few days ago.

His fingers finally wrapped around the thin paper.

But something was wrong.

It felt…heavy.

Way too heavy.

Something was sitting on top of the book…

He pulled it out faster now, curious what this extra weight was.

When he finally managed to work it out from the abyss that was the space under his bed, he gasped.

Lying there, perfectly in the center of the comic, was his father’s hammer.

Taped to it was a note.

Next time, don’t take my stuff!

-Gus

Juliet tossed her purse and Biology textbook onto the passenger seat of her car, her mind lost in the seemingly insurmountable pile of homework she had to get done that night.

Sophomore year was such a bummer.

Way harder than Freshman year.

She sighed and started the engine, listening to the familiar popping and hissing sounds it made as it purred to life.

She threw it into reverse and started to pull away, still thinking about the three papers she had to write and the two tests she had to study for.

Suddenly, she heard another sound.

A sound that wasn’t a comforting pop or hiss.

A sound that came from the back seat, about two inches away from her right ear.

A sound something like a harsh, metallic click.

She held her breath as she slowly turned around, but she didn’t have to see it to know what had made that noise.

It was a gun.

She only got her head about halfway around before she heard the voice, low and hoarse.

“Don’t turn around,” it hissed.

She froze, all the blood draining from her face.

“Okay.”

She tried to sound calm and in-control, but her voice went up a few octaves on the “ay”, blowing her cover just a little.

“Drive,” the voice from the backseat ordered.

“Okay.”

Her voice was steadier this time, but still higher than normal.

Of course, the man in the back seat wouldn’t know that…

She pulled away from the curb and began to drive.

“Where am I going?” She asked after a few minutes of silently staring at the road ahead, not even daring to check the rearview mirror.

“Just drive.”

“Okay.”

He’s going to kill me…she thought to herself.

He doesn’t want the car…

If he wanted the car, he would’ve taken it by now.

“Turn here,” the voice suddenly commanded, indicating a dark road that Juliet recognized immediately.

It’s the back road to the reservoir…

Oh, God.

He’s going to dump my body in the reservoir.

Her heart began to pound as she slowly turned down the street.

“Can I put my high beams on?” She asked, feeling slightly stupid. “I can’t see anything.”

She knew she had to keep him talking.

She had to stall somehow.

“I don’t care.”

“Okay.”

She flicked the high beams on and continued driving, frantically searching for something else, anything else, to say.

“You can take the car,” she finally told him.

“I don’t want the car,” the voice answered coldly.

“I don’t have any money.”

“I don’t want your money. Stop here. Now.”

She hit the brakes, her heart leaping into her throat.

“Get out of the car.”

She could feel the gun being pressed against the back of her head.

Slowly, deliberately, she climbed out of the car and stepped in front of the headlights.

She knew it was stupid, but she somehow felt safer standing in their soft, glowing light.

She heard the back door slam right behind her.

She could hear his heavy steps crunching through the gravel, always just one step behind her.

She still didn’t dare to turn around to look at him.

“Keep walking.”

“Okay.”

They walked deeper and deeper into the woods.

Juliet knew they were getting closer to the reservoir. She could already hear the rushing water ahead.

She began to listen to his marching steps, always in perfect time with hers.

Always left, right.

Left, right.

Left, right.

She tried not think about how each step…left, right…was bringing her closer to dying…

She memorized the rhythm, chanting the cadence in her mind…

Left, right.

Left, right.

Left—

As she heard him set his right foot down again, she suddenly changed her stride, bringing her heel down directly on the top of his foot. She ground into his toes with all her strength until she heard him groan in pain, then whirled around and swung wildly with her fists, screaming at the top of her lungs. She felt them connect with face, heard him grunt as his nose shattered in a spray of blood.

He was stunned.

Too stunned to fight back.

This was her chance.

Still screaming, she charged at him, hoping he was stunned enough to not be able to use the gun. She plowed into him, knocking him to the ground.

She just kept right on running.

She didn’t stop running until she reached the car.

And she didn’t stop driving until she reached the closest police station.

An hour later, she was still there, telling a uniformed officer about her narrow escape for the fifth time.

“You took on an armed kidnapper?” He asked her, looking impressed.

She just nodded, still shaking.

“Yeah.”

“That was quick thinking, Kid.”

“I guess,” she shrugged, just wanting to go home.

“No, really,” the officer insisted. “I know men twice your size who couldn’t have done that. You ever think about going to the Academy?”

“What? Like the Police Academy?” Juliet asked, honestly surprised at the idea.

No one had ever suggested she become a cop before.

A teacher, maybe.

A nurse…

The usual “girl” careers…

But a cop?

“No,” she shook her head, almost laughing at the idea.

“Why not?”

“Me? I’m not a cop…”

Then again, she thought to herself, looking down at her knuckles, still raw from the fight…

Why the heck not?

“You said I could get ice cream,” Shawn grumbled from the backseat.

Henry glared at him in the rearview mirror.

“No. I said if you finished your math homework, you could get ice cream.”

“I did finish!” Shawn argued.

“You did not. You got half the answers wrong, and the ones that were right were completely illegible. If you’re not going to do it right, you’re not going to get ice cream. Period.”

Shawn folded his arms crossly, staring out the window in a sullen silence that only a ticked-off ten year-old boy could manage, until Henry pulled into the bank parking lot.

“Come on, Shawn. Let’s go,” he ordered, getting out of the car.

“No.”

“Move it! The bank’s closing in a few minutes. I don’t have time to mess around.”

“You promised me ice cream.”

“Yeah, well…get used to disappointment, Kid. Your life’s going to be full of it. Now move.”

“No.”

Shawn’s eyes locked with his father’s, brimming with a fierce determination that Henry had only ever seen once before.

In his own reflection.

“You know what? Fine!” He snapped, slamming the car door. “Stay here. I don’t care.”

He stormed into the bank, leaving Shawn to sulk alone.

He didn’t even look back.

By the time he returned from making his deposit a few minutes later, he had cooled off some.

At least he didn’t have the impulse to strangle the kid anymore …

But there was no way Shawn was getting ice cream.

He gazed wearily across the parking lot, fully expecting to see his son sitting in the backseat, still fuming.

Fully expecting to face another fight the moment he sat down…

But Shawn wasn’t there.

Even from twenty yards away, Henry could see the car was empty.

He could also see that the back door was hanging open.

“Shawn?”

Henry’s heart stopped. His breath caught in his chest, freezing painfully somewhere between an inhale and an exhale.

Even before he reached the car, even before he was searching it frantically for any sign of Shawn, his mind had played out every worst-case scenario possible.

Someone grabbed him…

He’s gone…

Oh, God.

I told him I didn’t care.

He was in the back seat now, searching the floor.

Analyzing every dust particle and candy wrapper.

He had already complied a mental list of at least twenty names.

Twenty people he’d put away.

Twenty people who wanted revenge.

Twenty people who’d do anything to hurt him.

The list was growing by the second, not even counting the random psychos and sickos wandering the streets…

I left him…

He’s gone…

I told him I didn’t care…

“Hey, Dad.” A tiny voice piped up from behind him.

Henry turned around.

Shawn was standing by the car, holding an ice cream cone and looking perplexed.

“What are you doing?” He asked, regarding his father as if his sanity might just be up for debate.

Henry’s breath finally released.

He hadn’t realized he wasn’t breathing until that moment…

“What am I doing?” He shouted, standing up, his face red. “What am I doing? What the hell are you doing, Shawn?!”

“Me?” Shawn blinked in innocent surprise. “The ice cream truck was right over there…I used my own money. I didn’t think you’d care.”

Henry stared down at his son…

Defiant.

Stubborn.

Obnoxious.

…There.

He inhaled again.

Slowly.

It felt good to be able to breathe again…

He jammed his fists into his pockets so Shawn wouldn’t see them shaking.

“Trust me, Shawn. I care.”

“Did that man ever throw anything away?” Shawn groaned, dropping yet another stack of boxes from the attic in the middle of the floor.

Gus glanced up from the pile of junk he was sorting through.

“Doesn’t look like it,” he shrugged. “There’s crap in here from before you were born. Newspapers…camping stuff…random gadgets…you’re officially the son of a packrat.”

“But there’s nothing of mine,” Shawn noted with just a hint of bitterness. “He couldn’t wait to get rid of my stuff. He didn’t even keep my baby pictures…and I was a darn cute baby, Gus.”

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

Gus opened another box, grimacing as he pulled out clumps of tangled fishing line.

“God!” He cringed, dumping the mess on the floor and wiping his hands off on his jeans. “Did he keep every piece of fishing line he ever owned?”

“That’s not his,” Shawn replied simply, nudging the pile lightly with the toe of his sneaker.

“Whose is it, then?”

“I dunno. But my dad never tangled a line in his life. Are you kidding me? The thought would have killed him…actually, that might be what killed him…death by fishing line…”

He glanced at the jumbled mess again.

“It must be mine…” he mumbled thoughtfully. “From when I was a kid, I guess. I was always tangling my lines. I never quite got the hang of the fishing thing…”

“Well, there you go,” Gus grinned. “Your dad did keep something of yours after all.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Shawn rolled his eyes. “He would keep that…mementos of every time I screwed up some fishing trip.”

“It’s fishing…string and water…how can you possibly screw that up?”

“You’d be surprised…”

Shawn squatted by the clump, his eyes running over the knots and tangles as the memories slowly flooded back to him.

A red-tinted strand suddenly stuck out. He picked it up; a slow, sad smile spreading across his face.

“What?” Gus asked, watching him.

“Nothing,” Shawn laughed, shaking his head. “I just remember this one. It’s red…it’s gotta be the line from the time I was trying to cast and I snagged his hand instead. It bled like crazy. He had to go to the Emergency Room to get the hook removed. I think that was the first time I ever heard him swear…”

Shawn untangled the red line from the rest of the mess and set it aside carefully.

A particularly gnarled, knotted segment near the bottom caught his eye next.

“Oh, man!” He laughed again, even harder now, as he worked it loose from the rest.

“What?”

“Look at all those knots! That has to be from that one summer we were in Scouts. Remember? He taught us how to tie all those stupid knots, and I decided to take all the fishing line out of my reel and practice. Man, was he pissed at that one!... ‘How are you going to catch fish now, Shawn? I’m not buying you a new reel…’”

“I guess you didn’t get to go on that trip, huh?”

“No,” Shawn answered quietly. “Actually, he just let me use his…we’d trade off…that was the only time I actually caught anything.”

“Oh.”

They sat in silence for a long moment.

Finally, Shawn scooped up the lines and dropped them back into the box.

"He sure was a packrat." He murmured to no one in particular. "He kept a lot of crap around."

"Oh, I don't know," Gus replied with a small grin. "I think he only kept the important things."

“O’Hara!” Lassiter barked, sliding into his chair and surveying his desk contemptuously.

“What?” She returned flatly, not even bothering to feign interest in what was sure to be yet another one of his endless tirades about someone’s incompetence.

“Who the hell took my Xanax pen?” He demanded, ignoring her complete indifference to his plight.

She looked up at him, a single eyebrow raised in a silent, private laugh.

Suddenly, she didn’t have to feign interest.

He had her at Xanax pen…

“Your what?” she asked, even though she had heard him the first time.

She just wanted to hear him to say it again…

Lassiter noticed her amused gaze and scowled.

“My friend’s a doctor. Those drug guys are always giving him free pens. And this one happens to be my favorite pen. I use it for all my reports.”

He gestured adamantly at an empty space on his desk.

“I left it right here when I went to get the Stevens file two minutes ago…who took it? McNab?...Wait…wasn’t Spencer hanging around?”

Juliet just shook her head.

“Not today. And it wasn’t Buzz. Are you sure you left it on your desk?”

“Of course I’m sure,” he snapped disdainfully. “I think I know where I left my own damn pen.”

“Okay…” Juliet shrugged, sounding disarmingly nonchalant. “But I thought you had a pen over by the coffee machine earlier. When you were signing those forms…”

“What forms?”

“I don’t know. Whatever forms you were signing earlier over by the coffee machine.”

“I didn’t sign any forms,” he muttered to himself, his forehead wrinkling in bewilderment as he stalked over to check it out, anyway. “And I haven’t had any coffee all morning…”

“Well, that explains it…” Juliet mumbled under her breath, rolling her eyes and getting back to work.

Two minutes later, Lassiter reappeared at her desk, looming over her silently.

In his hand, being dangled between his thumb and forefinger like a used tissue, was an extremely soggy pen.

He held it out away from him spitefully, letting it drip, drip, drip on Juliet’s desk.

“Did you find it?” She asked brightly.

He dropped it on her desk and sat down, too furious to even speak.

“Where was it?” She pried .

“It was in the coffee pot,” he spat through clenched teeth.

“Why did you put it there?”

“I didn’t! I haven’t even had any coffee!”

“Then how did it get there?” She wondered aloud, wiping the pen off and putting it back on his desk.

“I. Don’t. Know.”

His ears were scarlet, and Juliet wondered vaguely if steam would start to pour out of them in a minute, like on cartoons.

Lassiter picked up the pen again, almost resentfully, and spun his chair around so he was facing his own desk again.

“O’Hara!” He snapped again.

“What now?”

“Where’s the Stevens file?”

“The what?”

“The Steven’s file!” He exploded at last. “The Stevens file! I went to get it…came back…my pen was missing…I left it right here!”

Juliet shrugged, back to being indifferent.

“I didn’t see any file. Maybe you never got it. Maybe you just meant to get it…”

“I got it!” He insisted, running both hands over his head. “At least, I thought I did…I swear I did…”

“Maybe you should check the coffee pot,” Juliet suggested helpfully.

Lassiter just glowered, getting up again and going back to the records room, muttering to himself.

“I must be going insane…”

As soon as he was out of sight, Shawn appeared as if from thin air.

“Thanks for covering for me, Jules,” he grinned, tossing the Stevens file back on Lassiter’s desk. “That was just way too easy.”

“No problem,” she smiled back. “But is there any particular reason you’re tormenting my partner today?”

Shawn just raised his shoulders and let them drop again.

“Hey, it’s April Fool’s Day. The man should be on his toes. He should know better.”

“Shawn, it’s March 5.”

“Seriously?” He blinked, cocking his head to one side. “Man, I really need to get a calendar…”

Juliet wrapped her trembling arms around her knees, hugging them tightly against her chest as she slowly rocked back and forth on the floor. Her eyes were clenched and her lips were parted in a silent, painful sob.

She had only been there a week…

Just a week…

And she already knew she had made a huge mistake.

I can’t do this…she told herself over and over again, the images of that tiny body…bloody, helpless…flashing through her mind.

I can’t do this…

She could feel her stomach churning, and for a brief moment she thought she was going to be sick right there on the supply closet floor.

She considered making a run for the bathroom, but she could still feel the hot tears stinging her cheeks.

I can’t go out there…

I can’t let them see me cry…

They’ll never take me seriously…

Cops don’t cry.

It was different at the academy…

It was different when she had been dealing with hypothetical cases.

It had even been different at her first department, when she never got closer to a corpse than the crime scene photos.

Somehow, it hadn’t seemed real then.

But this…

This was real.

That little boy…

The accident…

The broken bike...

The smashed fender...

They were real.

Suddenly, the door swung open and Detective Lassiter stepped into the closet. Juliet leapt to her feet, in an instant banishing all tears from her face.

She could do that…

She’d always been able to do that.

But this time, it didn’t matter.

Lassiter had already seen her, cowering like a child.

He knew her secret now.

“O’Hara? What are you doing here?” He asked gruffly, reaching over her for a ream of paper.

“Me? Nothing,” she answered, her voice steady and cool. “Just getting some paper, too.”

She grabbed a ream and turned around to leave, hoping Lassiter wouldn’t look at her eyes.

They were the one feature she couldn’t harden on command.

They always gave her away.

But as she stepped towards the door, hoping to get out of the closet before he had her completely figured out, she could see he was watching her.

Especially her eyes.

“Hell of an accident scene, wasn’t it?” He asked quietly, stopping her in her tracks.

She looked up at him, fully expecting to see nothing but derision and scorn in his expression.

In the last week, that was all she had ever gotten from him.

But not this time.

This time, he seemed almost…just almost…sincere.

She nodded stiffly, wanting desperately to talk about it…wishing desperately that she didn’t want to.

“You puke yet?” He asked matter-of-factly. “Most first-timers do.”

She shook her head, still unable to form any words.

He nodded back, seemingly in approval.

“Good. Don’t, if you can help it. Sets a bad precedent.”

“Right.”

He sighed and looked down at his shoes, an awkward silence filling the room.

When he looked back up, his face seemed pained…like he was trying to accomplish a difficult, unnatural feat of strength.

“Hell, O’Hara.” He said finally, sitting on the floor where she had just been. “You have to get used to it. You don’t have a choice.”

“I know. I will.”

She sat down next to him.

That seemed to be the wrong move.

He inched away from her.

“I hope you’re not expecting some kind of sunshine and roses pep talk…” he growled uncomfortably as she backed away.

“No. I don’t need one.”

“Good. Because there isn’t one, O’Hara. I’m sure there’s sunshine out there somewhere….but you won’t see it. Ever. Not on the job. All you’ll see is crap. Crap people bring on themselves that you have to clean up after, crap that’s just bad luck, and crap that’s just plain…crap. It’s all crap O’Hara.”

Juliet’s stomach began to lurch again, but she somehow managed to suppress it.

Lassiter paused thoughtfully, watching her from the corner of his eye before continuing.

“You hit a rough one for your first time. Kid splattered on the streets…that’s the worst. The damn bad luck you can’t do anything to change. That’s all it is, O’Hara…just damn bad luck.”

“Does it get easier?” She asked hopefully.

He almost… just almost…smiled.

“No…well, not until you discover scotch. Single malt. Then it gets easier…”

He stood up again and marched to the door, turning back before he stepped out into the station.

His voice was suddenly gruff again.

“If you’re going to be my partner, you have one and only one time you’re allowed to cry. You just used it up. Are we clear?”

She nodded, but didn’t stand up yet.

“Good.”

He hesitated again, always on the verge of leaving…but somehow, just not able to bring himself to do it.

“You can’t cry again,” he reiterated.

“I won’t.” She promised.

“You won’t need to.”

“How do you know?”

He just shrugged.

“You didn’t puke your first time out.”

"So?"

"So...you're one up on me."

The kid’s defective… Henry thought to himself, staring down at Shawn, who stared unblinkingly back up at him from his stroller.

Almost like he was asking, “Who the heck are you and where’s my mommy?”

But that’s how he always looked at Henry.

Three whole months, and he had yet to even smile at his father.

And it wasn’t that the kid couldn’t smile.

Oh, no.

He smiled at his mom all the time.

Heck, he even smiled at strangers walking down the street.

Just not at Henry.

Not that this fact bothered him at all…

Especially not when he was stuck with the kid by himself for the whole afternoon…

Suddenly, Shawn began to sniffle and his little nose started to scrunch up.

Henry knew that sniffle.

It was the prelude to an ear-piercing, earth-shattering scream.

He had ten, maybe fifteen, seconds to find the Nuk before the kid blew.

He looked over at the kitchen counter where he had left it, but it wasn’t there.

Crap.

Shawn’s little fists were balled up now and his eyes were squeezing shut…

He was running out of time…

Henry began to throw open cabinets and drawers, searching frantically for that damn Nuk…

4…3...2…

But it was too late.

The first scream cut through the otherwise silent house, piercing Henry’s eardrum like a knife.

“Shawn! I’m looking! I’m looking! Okay? Give me a break, here.”

But, of course, Shawn didn’t give him a break.

He just screamed louder.

Maybe it fell on the floor…

Henry spun around back to the counter, completely forgetting about the cabinet door he had left hanging open. He walked right into it, catching the corner in the middle of his forehead.

Before he could even blink, he was sprawled flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling in a painful daze.

He groaned and sat up slowly, rubbing the already golf-ball sized lump jutting out of his head.

Oh…there it is…

As he finally managed to stand up, he grabbed the Nuk from where it had fallen on the floor and rinsed it off.

He went to give it to Shawn…but he wasn’t crying anymore.

In fact, as he stared up at Henry again, his eyes fixed on the black and blue egg in the center of his forehead, he began to laugh.

And not just a little chuckle.

An all-out, full-blown baby-sized belly laugh.

Henry scowled down at him, his head still pounding.

“That’s all it took, Kid? A concussion?” He grumbled.

Shawn just cooed and gurgled, continuing to laugh.

His tiny hand reached out, wrapping around Henry’s index finger.

Henry couldn’t help it.

He smiled back.

“Well, I hope you enjoyed it,” he muttered gently. “Because you’re not going to see that again. Ever.”

Shawn’s grip just tightened around his finger.

He had stopped laughing, but his wide, innocent eyes were still shining.

Henry shook his head in helpless amusement.

Who am I kidding?

I’d do it again.

“Shawn, didn’t it ever occur to you to ask why?” Henry demanded, looking across the kitchen table at his five-year old son, whose head was barely poking up over the top.

“What do you mean?” Shawn asked, shifting in his chair and propping himself up on his knees so he could see his father better.

Henry gestured down at the game board in front of him.

“Look. I could have jumped three of your checkers right there. See? But I didn’t. Didn’t it occur to you to ask why I didn’t?”

“No,” Shawn shook his head slowly, shifting one of his pieces over a space.

Henry lifted one of his checkers off the board and moved it diagonally, into the last row of squares on Shawn’s side of the board.

“See,” he explained, “I gave up those three quick jumps because it would have left this piece vulnerable to being jumped over there on your next turn. Then I wouldn’t have him as a King right now, and I wouldn’t be able to do this.”

Henry moved again, jumping the last four of Shawn’s pieces in one fell swoop.

Shawn’s eyes grew wide as he fought back the tears.

His dad had beaten him.

Again.

“And that’s the game,” Henry concluded, dumping the vanquished pieces back into the box. “And you could have stopped it, Shawn. You could have mounted a defense if you just took a second to ask yourself why. You always have to ask yourself why.”

“I do?” Shawn blinked, clearing the rest of the pieces off the table.

“Yes.”

“But why?”

Henry cocked an eyebrow at his son.

Was he being a wise-ass?

He could never tell…

“Because that’s what intelligent thinkers do, Kid. That’s what good cops do. They ask why.”

“But why?” Shawn asked again, his eyes sparkling just a little too brightly at his father.

Now Henry was sure.

He was being a wise-ass.

“Knock it off, Shawn.”

“Why?”

Henry leaned over the table.

“Because if you don’t stop asking me ‘why’, you’re not getting that bike you want so badly for your birthday.”

“I’m not?”

“No.”

Shawn hesitated for a moment.

“Why not?” He asked finally, smiling widely at the loophole he had just discovered. “I’m just doing what you told me to.”

Henry leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms sternly.

“Shawn…”

“What?” Shawn grinned, fully enjoying this new game.

He liked asking questions!

Henry rolled his eyes and pushed his chair back from the table, walking away before Shawn could say anything else.

“Where are you going?” Shawn shouted after him, bursting out into a hysterical fit of laughter at his own wit.

“I think you broke my nose,” Gus groaned, stumbling into the Psych office, holding his sleeve over his steadily bleeding nose.

Shawn entered a few seconds later, casually bouncing a basketball off the floor with each step he took.

“It’s not broken, Gus,” he rolled his eyes, dropping the ball on the couch and going over to his friend.

“See,” he insisted, touching it delicately. “It’s just a little nosebleed. If it was broken, that would’ve really hur--”

“OW!” Gus yelled, knocking Shawn’s hand away from his bloodied face. “Stop it, Shawn!”

“Maybe it is broken…” Shawn murmured, sitting on the couch.

“I can’t believe you broke my nose,” Gus growled, wrapping ice from the freezer in a paper towel and glaring at Shawn.

“It’s called a bounce-pass, Gus. It shouldn’t come as a shock when they bounce…”

“They’re not supposed to bounce off my face!”

“Your face isn’t supposed to get in the way!”

“My face was not in the way! You’re just a lousy player!”

Shawn just scoffed, waving off Gus’ rancor breezily.

“Oh, you’re just mad because you thought you were impressing those girls who were watching us, and now they’re laughing at you.”

“I wasn’t trying to impress--” Gus started, then stopped, suddenly looking somewhat wounded. “They were laughing?”

Shawn hesitated.

“Well…it wasn’t like Will Ferrell movie laughter…more like…lame CBS sitcom laughter…a gentle chuckle, really…”

“Great,” Gus moaned, taking a seat next to Shawn on the couch. “You broke my nose and girls are laughing at me. Some days it just doesn’t pay to be your friend.”

“Gus! I’m hurt,” Shawn pouted. “It always pays to be my friend! Besides…once the swelling goes down and you stop looking like a parrot…you’ll have a surefire babe-magnet!”

“I will?” Gus asked doubtfully.

“Sure!” Shawn grinned. “Girls love sports injuries!”

“I thought you said they were laughing.”

“Well…not those girls…but other girls! It makes them feel all maternal or something. I don’t know. But trust me! That broken nose is the best thing I’ve ever done for you.”

“Actually, that’s probably true…” Gus muttered.

Shawn let that one pass.

“Honestly. I’m jealous,” he continued, pressing his luck. “I wish I had a broken nose…I just wouldn’t mention how you got it…oh! I know! Tell them you’re a boxer!”

“A boxer?” Gus considered for a moment, liking the idea more and more. “Yeah, I could be a boxer.”

“You could totally be a boxer!”

“…And you should see the other guy!” Gus added, breaking into a wide grin, suddenly feeling better.

“There you go!”

Shawn patted him on the shoulder and stood up, walking to the door.

“So,” he asked, turning around before he left. “Do you want to try to play HORSE again tomorrow? I’ll even let you start back at H.”

“Wow…” Juliet murmured dreamily, gazing skyward out the car window.

“What?” Lassiter asked, not taking his eyes off the road as he turned down a back alley.

“Nothing,” she answered quietly, still transfixed by something above her. “That rainbow is just beautiful…”

“What rainbow?”

“The one right in front of us.”

He glanced up, noticing the colorful arch stretching across the entire sky for the first time.

“Oh. That one,” he shrugged blandly.

“Yeah. That one.”

“It’s just a rainbow, O’Hara,” he groused, sounding bitter even for him. “They happen after it rains. Just like mud puddles, dead worms on the sidewalk, wet dog smell and pneumonia. It’s all the same.”

She shook her head in amused awe.

“It’s not the same at all.”

“Sure it is,” he insisted. “And why the hell are you looking at rainbows when we’re on our way to a murder scene, anyway? Keep your head in the game, O’Hara. This isn’t Girl Scouts.”

“Murder scenes don’t make rainbows less beautiful.”

“Beautiful rainbows don’t make murder scenes less…murderous.” He shot back, bringing the car to a screeching halt as they reached the yellow police tape that marked the crime scene.

He got out and slammed the door behind him, leaving Juliet to stare up at the fading band of color in silence for a few minutes.

Finally, she got out of the car and joined her partner.

As they ducked under the tape and approached the scene, they saw Shawn was already there.

He was standing off by himself, gazing silently up at the sky; apparently lost in his own thoughts.

Lassiter stomped up to him.

“What the hell are you doing, Spencer?” He demanded.

“Huh?” Shawn asked, blinking as if awaking from a dream.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Oh,” Shawn shrugged, his eyes languorously returning skyward. “Nothing…”

“It’s not gray…” Shawn told himself staunchly, looking in the mirror and running the tips of his fingers through his hair almost violently, mussing it just the way he liked it. “It’s not gray…it’s not gray…”

Gus walked up behind him, grinning from ear to ear like the Cheshire Cat.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he disagreed cruelly. “It looks gray to me.”

“Shut up, Gus.” Shawn snapped. “It’s not gray. It’s…blonde. Really…blonde.”

Gus squinted at the long, single strand of hair resting at the apex of Shawn’s forehead, appraising it with an expert’s eye.

“Nope,” he determined finally. “It’s definitely gray.”

“It is not!”

“Don’t worry, though,” Gus added hastily, twisting the knife like only a best friend can. “It makes you look…distinguished.”

“I do not look distinguished!” Shawn insisted, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

But Gus was having way too much fun to stop now.

He gasped dramatically, clasping his hand over his mouth.

“And I think you’re thinning in back!”

He rapped his knuckles playfully on the crown of Shawn’s head.

“See…right there. Doesn’t it seem thinner to you…? I think you’re going gray and bald, Shawn. Tough break.”

Shawn batted Gus’ hand away furiously, whirling around and glaring at his friend with a burning hatred.

“Knock it off! I am not going bald!”

“’Fraid so, Buddy. And it’s all downhill from here. If I was you, I’d marry the next girl you see. In a year, you won’t even be able to get a date.”

“I’ll always be able to get dates,” Shawn sniffed haughtily.

“You’ll be a gray, bald, old—”

“I am not old!”

“But you are gray and bald?”

“No!”
Shawn looked back at the mirror, desperately examining the wretched hair that had ruined his life.

“I’m telling you, Gus. It’s blonde.”

Gus just laughed.

“This is the first stage of grief, Shawn.” He said, wrapping a sympathetic arm around his friend’s shoulder. “Denial.”

“I am not in denial.”

“You’re mourning your squandered youth.”

“I AM NOT!”

“Oh! Stage 2! Anger!”

Shawn glared again, socking Gus in the arm and stomping away.

“I barely felt that!” Gus called after him, still laughing. “You even punch like an old man! And you should be careful! People your age have an increased risk of Osteoporosis, you know!”

Henry sat at the bar alone, quietly nursing his third beer and growing more irritated with each passing moment.

He didn’t even want the damn thing.

He didn’t want to be there at all.

And he certainly didn’t want to be waiting for Shawn…again…

He glanced at his watch, not even knowing why he bothered.

He’s an hour late…

Only that kid could be late to his own damn birthday…

It was a tradition they’d started a few years back. On Shawn’s birthday, they always met for beers, mostly so Henry could prove that he did, in fact, remember when his birthday was.

Henry rolled his eyes, silently cursing out his persistently tardy son as he drained the last few drops from the bottom of the glass bottle.

He didn’t even look over as Shawn casually slid onto the barstool next to him.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Shawn.”

“Sorry I’m late.”

Henry looked up, just starting to feel the first pangs of a beer-induced light-headedness kick in.

An apology?

Since when did Shawn apologize for anything?

“You’re here now,” he shrugged, the annoyance still boiling somewhere just beneath the surface...

“Yeah. I’m here.”

Shawn popped the top off the beer the bartender handed him, taking a long sip before either of them spoke again.

“You having one?” He asked.

“No,” Henry shook his head slowly. “I’m done.”

“You started without me?”

He sounded almost hurt.

“I couldn’t wait forever, Shawn.”

“You could’ve waited longer.”

“I’ve been here an hour,” Henry snapped, surprising even himself with the virulence of his response. “I think that’s long enough!”

Shawn raised a single eyebrow at his father, spinning around in his stool and resting his elbows against the bar.

“Okay…what’s the deal?” He asked with a tired sigh. “Why the angry, hateful vibes? What the hell did I do now?”

“What did you do?” Henry repeated gruffly, suddenly changing his mind and taking a fourth beer. “What did you do? You know exactly what you did, Shawn.”

“I don’t. I swear!”

“Yeah, right.”

“Tell me!”

“No.”

“Dad.”

Henry slammed the bottle onto the counter, turning his stool so he was looking directly into Shawn’s eyes.

Somehow, seeing those eyes only made him angrier…

Or maybe that was just the fourth beer…

“You’re late,” he growled.

“I’m always late.”

“And it always irritates the hell out of me.”

“Not like this.”

“I don’t like waiting, Shawn.”

“This isn’t about me making you wait. What is it really about?”
And that’s when it happened.

Everything…every ounce of anger and spite Henry had been storing up all evening while his son had kept him waiting suddenly came pouring out in a single, noxious spew of venom.  

“You didn’t listen to me, you stupid goddamn fool!” He shouted fiercely, expecting Shawn to flinch, or at least blink.

This time, even Henry had flinched at his own petulance.

But Shawn didn’t.

He just met Henry’s gaze evenly.

Completely unruffled.

“What didn’t I listen to you about?” He asked quietly.

“You know damn well what.”

“Pretend I’m stupid.”

“I don’t have to pretend, Shawn.”

“Then this should be easy.”

Henry just snorted, shaking his head contemptuously and suddenly wishing he had stopped three beers ago...

“No, Shawn. You’re not going to make me say it. Not this time.”

“Say it.”

“That damn bike!” He exploded again, his fist clanging loudly against the collection of bottles in front of him.

“I told you to get rid of that goddamn bike a thousand times, but you never listened!”

“No,” Shawn admitted gently. “I never did.”

“But I was right! I told you that damn bike was going to get you killed someday! I told you! But, no! You had to keep it! And--”

He stopped himself from finishing the sentence. He could feel Shawn’s eyes on him, watching his every move.

“What, Dad?”

“You know what.”

“Pretend I’m stupid.”

“I don’t have to pretend, Shawn.”

“Then this should be easy.”

It sounded so familiar to Henry…

Had they had this conversation before…?

“You were right about my bike,” Shawn was saying now. “Feel better?”

“No.”

“But you were right,” Shawn insisted breezily. “Isn’t that what you want me to say? I was wrong, you were right. I should’ve gotten rid of the bike before it got me killed.”

“Damn it, Shawn. I didn’t want to be right. Not about that…”

Henry’s painful, throbbing head fell into his hands as he tried to drown out the noise of the bar around him…tried to suppress the memories that were slowly beginning to creep into his alcohol-muddled mind…

For a long moment, he and Shawn sat in silence.

“Is that really what you want to say, Dad?” Shawn asked quietly. “That I should have listened to you about my bike?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“It doesn’t matter what I want to say, does it, Kid?” Henry murmured. “It’s too late to say anything.”

“It’s not too late. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“You were late.”

“I’m always late.”

“And it always irritates the hell out of me.”

Shawn laughed, placing his bottle next to Henry’s.

“I know it does.”

“Then why do you do it? Why do you always make me wait?”

Shawn just shrugged, a pale smile creeping across his face.

“Because I know you’ll always wait.”

“Yeah. I will, Shawn.”

“I know.”

“I guess that’s it,” Henry realized with a heavy sigh. “I guess that’s all I wanted to say. I’ll always wait.”

Shawn nodded, slowly standing up and walking to the door without another word.

“Hey!” Henry called after him.

Shawn paused, turning around one last time.

Henry knew it was the last time…

“What, Dad?”

“Happy Birthday, Kid.”

Before Henry even got back to the station that afternoon, it was all over the precinct.

The second he walked in, he could tell that everyone already knew.

He could see them all…snickering behind his back…pointing…laughing…

At him.

He pretended not to notice.

But he couldn’t ignore Captain Connors, who was grinning widely as he motioned Henry into his office.

“Take a seat, Rookie,” he chuckled gently.

Henry perched nervously on the edge of the chair, removing his hat and running his fingers through his hair.

“Yes, Sir?”

“I hear you had an…interesting traffic stop today.”

“Sir?”

“Don’t play innocent with me, Rookie,” the Captain chided good-naturedly, his eyes gleaming. “The whole station knows.”

“Yes, Sir,” Henry mumbled, looking down at the carpet. “My partner has a big mouth.”

“True. But that doesn’t change the fact that you have a date with a woman you ticketed for doing 65 in a 35 zone….At least, I assume you ticketed her?”

“Oh, yes, Sir.” Henry nodded. “A date doesn’t negate a ticket. The law’s the law.”

“Good. That’s all, then,” Captain Connors waved Henry away, taking a seat at his desk and getting back to his paper work.

When he looked up a few seconds later, however, Henry was still there; balanced on the edge of the chair.

“Did you need something else, Rookie?”

“Ummm….” Henry cleared his throat, “isn’t it a conflict of interest, Sir?”

Captain Connors sighed, putting his pen down and drawing his fingers beneath his chin in a thoughtful steeple.

“Did you ticket her?” He asked, leaning back in his chair.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Did you ask her out?”
“No, Sir.” Henry shook his head emphatically. “She asked me. Actually…I’m not sure she asked…it all happened so fast, Sir. She kind of talks fast. And she’s really persuasive. I don’t think she ever really gave me a chance to say no…”

“There you go,” The Captain shrugged. “No conflict. Have fun.”

Henry nodded, looking disappointed, as he stood up to leave.

He walked slowly to the door, looking back right before he turned the knob.

“Do I have to go, Sir?”

“Don’t you want to?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t understand.”

Henry hesitated.

“I’m not good at dating, Sir. I don’t…really like it all that much…Actually, girls don’t like me dating them all that much, either, as it turns out…”

“Then why’d you say yes?”

“She’s…really persuasive. And really cute.”

“Then go.”

“Is that an order, Sir?” Henry asked.

The Captain peered at him over the top of his glasses.

“Is that what it’ll take to get you the hell out of my office?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Then, yes, Rookie. I am ordering you to go on a date with…what’s her name?”

“Melanie, Sir.”

Henry bit back a small smile as he walked out.

Part of him…some part he didn’t like to acknowledge…had been hoping the Captain would say that…

But that was before he remembered why he hated dating so much.

He never knew what to do…

He never knew what to say…

And it started the moment he picked Mel up.

She was sitting in the seat next to him as they drove to the movies…

She looked so beautiful, with her long hair pulled back in a loose ponytail and her sparking brown eyes glancing at him discreetly.

What do I do…? He thought frantically, sweat beginning to break out across his forehead.

What the hell am I supposed to say?

Do I tell her she looks nice?

Will that make me sound like an ass?

If there was one thing Henry Spencer couldn’t stand, it was sounding like an ass…

So, instead, he didn’t say anything.

At all.

The entire car ride was completely silent.

They also didn’t talk while they stood in the ticket line.

Or the popcorn line…

In fact, the movie was half over before either of them spoke a single word.

And it wasn’t Henry who broke the silence.

It was Mel.

She leaned over the seat, her lips inches from Henry’s ear.

“Are you okay?” She asked.

He nodded stiffly.

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure?”

“Uh-huh.”

She looked at him discerningly, and then finally shook her head in amusement.

“Are you nervous?”

He nodded again.

“I’m not good at this…” he whispered. “I never know what to do…”

She smiled understandingly as she leaned back in her seat, shifting subtly closer to Henry.

God, she was gorgeous…

“Don’t worry...you don’t have to do anything. Just hold my hand,” she murmured gently, reaching over the seat, her long, slender fingers weaving through his. “Just hold my hand…”

He looked down, terror filling his suddenly wide eyes, at the tangle of appendages sitting on the armrest between them…

Her arm brushed against his shoulder…

He could feel his heart beginning to beat just a little harder…

His throat began to close up…

He knew the signs…

Oh, God…

I think I’m in love…

Carlton knew she was gone the moment he pulled into the driveway that night.

Her car wasn’t where it should have been, parked in his spot like usual.

All the lights in the house were off. He never turned them off when he left…who the hell wanted to come home to a completely dark house?

He sat in the driveway for a long time, staring vacantly at the front door, not even hearing the music playing softly over the car radio.

She finally did it…

Not that he was surprised.

How could he be?

It had been brewing for weeks.

Months, even.

And after their fight that morning…

She finally did it…

He punched the steering wheel and got out of the car, slamming his door behind him and marching purposefully up the front walk.

He had to go in sometime…

He hesitated at the door, but just for a brief second before he finally opened it and stepped inside, immediately flicking on the hallway light and surveying the downstairs.

Everything seemed normal…

Quiet, but normal.

He glanced down at the small table by the door where she usually left notes telling him where she was.

It was empty.

She couldn’t even leave a note…

His grip tightened around the handle of his bag.

Out of habit, he went to put in the hall closet, but suddenly stopped himself after three steps.

What the hell did he care where he put his bag?

He dropped it on the floor where he was standing, almost smiling as he could hear her chiding him.

“Is it that hard to put your bag in the closet?”

The beginnings of an angry, bitter grin began to creep in around the edges of his mouth.

He gently kicked the bag, toppling it over and sending several files spilling out onto the tile floor.

That felt good…

He strolled into the kitchen, perhaps just a little too calmly, flinging his jacket over one of the chairs…

…“Hang it up, Carlton!”…

He stood motionless in the center of the kitchen for several minutes, resting his hands on the island counter, gazing around maniacally…

What else can I do to piss her off…?

Finally, he poured himself a scotch and drained the glass in one shot.

He poured another before he even put the glass down.

…“Two? We haven’t even had dinner yet!”…

He sipped at the second drink as he continued the dour, methodical tour of the house.

Nothing seemed to be missing…

Nothing seemed to be out of place…

At least, nothing he cared about.

He slowly began to climb the stairs, not at all eager to see his bedroom.

Everything in there is hers…

It’s probably all gone…

At least, it’d better be…

He pushed the door open and almost, just almost, closed his eyes before he could see it.

Apart from the bed and the dresser, everything was gone.

It was completely empty.

He sighed and flopped down on his side of the bed, purposefully not kicking off his shoes first.

He stretched out, spitefully letting his muddy soles wipe against the white and blue comforter.

He lay there for a long time, staring silently up at his ceiling, occasionally sipping the scotch.

She couldn’t even leave a note…

Finally, he kicked off his shoes and dropped the glass on the night stand. He didn’t even bother to pull of his shirt or pants before turning off the light and kicking all the covers to the bottom of the bed.

It’s always hot as Hell in here…why do we need so many damn blankets, anyway?

He rolled over on his stomach, his arm instinctively flopping across to her side…almost expecting to feel her there…

But, of course, she wasn’t.

She had to have the left side…

She always had to have the left side…

I wanted the left side…

I hate the right side…

I guess I can have it now…

He almost laughed as the idea occurred to him.

That’d really piss her off…

That’d really piss her off…

He hesitated, caught between dueling sides of his brain.

It’s her side…

But she’s not here…

His jaw clenched.

He knew which side of his brain had won.

She’s not here.

He rolled over again, crossing to the other side of the bed.

It felt strange, somehow…

Almost wrong…

He stared at the ceiling again, knowing he wasn’t going to sleep.

But that didn’t matter.

It was the principle of the thing…

It’s my damn bed now…

“Isn’t this awesome, Gus?” Shawn asked, sighing contentedly as he stood at the water’s edge with outstretched arms, his face turned towards the infinite blue sky above.

“Yeah,” Gus admitted, coming alongside him. “It’s awesome…but tell me again how you can afford this…you’re a broke college student. Well, a broke would-be college student who finds driving the Wiener-Mobile more engrossing than going to class.”

“Gus,” Shawn clucked reprovingly. “You’re starting to sound like my dad. And I told you…the resort had a contest for a free vacation. And I won.”

“What kind of contest?” Gus demanded, knowing Shawn too well to just accept such a simple explanation.

“Essay,” Shawn answered just a little too quickly, turning on his heel and beginning to walk back up the beach towards the open-air restaurant outside their hotel.

“Essay?” Gus repeated dubiously, jogging to catch up. “You wrote an essay?”

“What? I didn’t?”

“You never wrote one for school.”

“School didn’t promise me sand, surf and girls in bikinis. If it did, I might have gone more often…”

Shawn slid into a chair at the restaurant bar. Gus sat next to him, eying his friend with suspicion. Something wasn’t right…

“Hey, Marco,” Shawn greeted the bartender with a hearty wave.

“’Bout time,” Marco returned irritably, placing two drinks in front of them before stalking away again.

“He seems friendly,” Gus muttered sarcastically.

“Oh, he’s just grumpy today,” Shawn shrugged, handing both glasses to Gus. “Why don’t you go find us a table?”

“What’s wrong with the bar?”

“I prefer tables.”

Gus surveyed the crowded restaurant, a look of utter bewilderment settling across his face.

There wasn’t a single empty table.

“They’re all taken, Shawn.”

“How about that one over there?”

Shawn gestured at a table in the corner, where a couple was clearly engaged in a private, hushed conversation.

“It’s taken.” Gus reiterated.

“So? It’s a resort. We’re all family here. They won’t mind if we sit with them. Go have a seat…drop our drinks off…introduce yourself. I’ll be over in a minute.”

“Okay…”

Gus shrugged and headed over to the table. There were two extra chairs around it…and things did work differently on vacation…maybe Shawn was right…maybe they wouldn’t mind…

“Hi.” He greeted the couple nervously, placing the drinks on the table and sitting down.

They stopped talking and looked up at him.

It wasn’t a friendly, inviting look.

“I’m Gus,” he continued, clearing his throat awkwardly.

They just continued to stare at him in a befuddled silence.

He glanced back at the bar, hoping desperately that Shawn was on his way over to rescue him.

But Shawn wasn’t at the bar.

He was standing by a table of four girls, carrying a tray of drinks.

What the heck is he doing…?

Gus looked at him for a moment, and then looked back at the couple sitting across from him.

They had taken the drinks he had brought to the table…

Suddenly, it dawned on him.

I’m going to kill him!

He stood up and marched angrily across the restaurant. Shawn was still talking to the girls when Gus reached him.

“…if I can get you anything…” he was saying. Gus didn’t even let him finish the sentence. He grabbed the collar of his shirt and dragged him back to the bar.

“What’s going on?” He demanded in a harsh whisper.

“What do you mean?” Shawn asked innocently.

But Gus wasn’t biting.

Not this time.

“We’re working aren’t we?” Gus hissed. “You just had me bring that table their drinks! You made me a waiter!”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Shawn!”

“Okay, okay…” Shawn sighed. “There was no contest. But this is so much better! I got us jobs for the whole summer! The whole summer, Gus! Think about it! We can live in the hotel for real cheap since we work here…the beach is right there…”

“I don’t want to work here for the whole summer!” Gus shouted. “First of all, you told me it was only for the weekend. I only brought two changes of clothes. Secondly…and I may have already mentioned this…I DON’T WANT TO WORK HERE ALL SUMMER!”

“Not even with me?” Shawn asked, sounding wounded.

“Especially not with you!” Gus snapped. “And when did you plan on telling me about my new job, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” Shawn shrugged. “Two or three days…I figured it would take you that long to catch on…”

“Oh, thanks.”

“What? Can you think of a more perfect way to spend one of our last summers together? Once you get out of school, you’ll move on…”

“Yeah. That’ll be sad.”

“Now you’re being sarcastic.”

“You think?”

“Didn’t you see the sand, Gus?”

 “Yeah. I saw it, Shawn.”

“Didn’t you see the bikinis?”

“Yes, Shawn.”

“…And?”

Gus smacked the back of Shawn’s head.

Hard.

“Ouch.”

“That’s for not telling me you made me a waiter.”

“Fair enough.”

Gus glared as Shawn rubbed his head gingerly.

“I just thought it’d be fun,” he mumbled.

Gus sighed and looked out over the beach, then back at his friend, who seemed suddenly very earnest and even a little sad..

He was right, Gus realized.

He would be graduating soon...

And it could be kind of fun…

And it wasn’t like he had anything else to do all summer…

“Table two still needs their drinks,” Gus sighed, grabbing a tray off the bar. “And for God’s sake, stop flirting with the girls. We have work to do.”

“Dad…” Shawn groaned, loudly slurping the last of his Big Gulp through a straw and discarding the empty cup on the car floor.

“What?” Henry snapped shortly, his grip tightening on the steering wheel as he tried to merge onto the highway.

“I think I have to go.”

Now it was Henry’s turn to groan.

“We just stopped ten minutes ago!”

“I know...”

"I told you not to get that huge soda!”

“I know…but I really have to go!”

Henry glanced at his watch irritably.

Why didn’t these trips with Shawn ever stay on schedule? Was it really that difficult to time bathroom stops?

“You’ll have to hold it a while, Kid. Our next stop isn’t for an hour. We have to make up for the time we lost on your little lunch detour.”

“I was hungry! You didn’t let me eat breakfast!” Shawn protested.

“Hey, you’re the one who got up an hour late.”

“I can’t wait that long!”

“Just…think about something else.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know…” Henry mumbled, concentrating more on finding the exit than on his son, who was squirming uneasily in the seat next to him. “How many hats in the car?”

“What?”

“Hats, Shawn. How many hats?”

“Just the one on your head.”

“Okay…too easy…damn it! Was that the exit?” Henry looked over his shoulder, squinting as if he thought he could read through the back of the rapidly-disappearing road sign if he just tried hard enough...

“Dad! I have to go!” Shawn pleaded, tugging his father’s sleeve.

“Not now, Shawn! I have to find our exit.”

“Fine.”

Shawn sat back in his seat, trying to think about something else…anything else…

“Dad,” he said finally, an idea crossing his mind.

An evil, sinister idea.
“What?”

“Have you ever been to Niagara Falls?”

“What?” Henry glanced over, cocking an eyebrow.

“You know…” Shawn continued, choosing each word carefully. “Niagara Falls. Have you ever been there?”

“No. Of course not. Why?”

“Oh, no reason…” Shawn shrugged nonchalantly. “I just hear it’s beautiful…hundreds of thousands of gallons of water…rushing, falling, gushing…”

Henry glared at him out of the corner of his eye.

“I know what you’re doing, Shawn. It won’t work.”

“What about Old Faithful?”

“Shawn…”

“All that water…shooting up into the sky…then falling back down again…down, down…like rain…pouring, gurgling rain…”

Shawn could see his father start to squirm.

He smiled to himself.

It was working.

“Then there’s the ocean…”

“Okay!” Henry snapped, pulling into a rest stop. “Okay! Here! We’re stopping! Are you happy? We’re not going to get there on time now, thanks to you!”

Shawn was already out of the car, running to the bathroom.

“I don’t think the fish will be offended if we’re late!” He called over his shoulder.

Reading My Father: A Henry Spencer Mood Conversion Chart

By Shawn Spencer (Age 15)

Generally speaking, my father’s emotions run solely in degrees of disappointment and disapproval, with occasional bursts of irritability thrown in just to keep things interesting.

If you’re ever in the woods or something and you encounter Henry Spencer in his natural habitat, please use the chart below to help you read his mood, then act accordingly. Remember that he is more afraid of you than you are of him (at least, I hope that’s true…) but he WILL ATTACK IF CORNERED! If you see him, DO NOT PROVOKE, TAUNT, ATTEMPT TO FEED OR CRITICIZE HIM! For God’s sake, don’t poke the bear!

The key to the Henry Spencer Mood Conversion Chart is his eyes. If you rely on other body language clues to read his mood, you’re dead.

Almost literally.

It’s all in the eyes…

A one-eyed squint, for example, when the left eye is closed more than the right eye means he’s thinking deeply.

DON’T BOTHER HIM!

He’s probably grumpy.

He’s always grumpy when he thinks.

A one-eyed squint when the right eye is closed more, however, means he is starting to get pissed about something…usually something I just did, or am about to do, or didn’t do, or thought about doing.

DEFINITELY don’t bother him. He’s on the verge of exploding. This is when I like to hide in my room until the storm blows over…in, like, a year or two.

A prolonged Henry Spencer glare, if particularly intense and vaguely unsettling, can be the most difficult mood to read. It can mean anything from “I’m hungry” to “I forgot your name” to “You’re toast”, depending on the context of the glare.

Play it safe. Assume it means you’re toast and GET THE HECK OUT OF THERE!

A brief stare with raised eyebrows, accompanied by complete silence, is one of the rarest and most sought-after Henry Spencer moods. This look is reserved for those few, those proud who have somehow managed to impress him.

I’ve gotten this look four times myself. Total. In my entire life.

I like to think I hold the record…

A prolonged stare with raised eyebrows, however, means he is baffled. Not impressed. Trust me, there’s a difference. This look is never accompanied by silence and is generally recognizable as the forerunner to a long lecture, most likely about what an idiot you are. As in, “How can a son of mine have so little common sense as to…”

Fill in the blank.

Trust me. You don’t want this look.

Finally, a furrowed brow with wide eyes is absolutely the rarest of all Henry Spencer moods. I’ve only ever seen this look a few times in my entire life.

But this is the one you want.

This is the one you spend your entire life trying to earn.

This is the one that says everything you know he never will…everything that he would kill me for even implying he feels.

But this looks tells you that he does feel it…at least sometimes. When he’s not looking at you like you have three heads but no brain…

Before Shawn even stepped foot into the coffee shop that morning, he had already made up his mind.

I can’t do it anymore…

I’m out.

It had only been two months; a whole month less than his father had predicted, but he could already feel the first waves of that familiar sensation crashing over him.

Restlessness.

Boredom.

Ennui.

It was time to move on.

He didn’t have a choice. He had to move on.

As he stood at his bathroom sink, staring at his disheveled, disheartened reflection in the mirror, he knew it was true.

I don’t have time for this anymore…he told himself, feeling guilty for even thinking it.

There’s so much more out there.

I have to live my life.

My real life.

Not this lie.

He tried to shake the feeling off, tried to tell himself that this time it was different.

This time, he was going to stick it out…

He sighed, aching to depths of his soul.

I have to get out of here.

He got dressed, slower than usual, and walked outside.

He planned on going right to the Psych office, like he’d promised Gus.

He planned on being a good friend…a good fake psychic detective…

But then he saw his bike.

It was just sitting there…unused…unloved…

He hadn’t even been out of Santa Barbara in two months.

He may as well be in prison.

What could one little ride hurt…?

So, he’d be late to the office…Gus wouldn’t care.

He hopped on and took off, for the first time in two months feeling the wind rushing past him and not thinking about anything but the road…

For the first time in two months, feeling free.

He didn’t plan on stopping at the coffee shop for breakfast…but then again, Shawn never planned anything that happened to him.

He liked it that way.

He sat at the counter, silently sipping his orange juice and staring off into space, already knowing that he was never going to go back to Psych.

He was never going back to Santa Barbara.

He couldn’t go back.

But how on earth was he going to tell Gus it was over?

Maybe I don’t have to…he thought dully.

Maybe I should just leave town…don’t look back…send a post card…

Of course, Gus would hate him if he did that.

But just for a while.

He’d forgive him…

Eventually.

Once he got his security deposit on the Psych office back.

And it wasn’t like he didn’t still have his pharmaceutical job to go back to…

He’ll be fine without me…

He doesn’t need me.

Shawn absently started to make a straw wrapper snake, dripping his juice on it one drop at a time, watching it slowly unfold and writhe on the counter.

It was something he’d done since he was a kid.

It always drove his dad nuts.

“You’re wasting juice and making a mess, Shawn. Some waitress has to clean up after that. Knock it off!”

At least once he split town, he wouldn’t have to listen to that anymore.

And he wouldn’t be around to hear the inevitable lecture about quitting yet another job…another job he swore he’d keep…just like all the others…

He sighed, leaving his orange juice and partially-finished straw wrapper snake where they were as he stepped outside the coffee shop to buy a paper, hoping the travel section had some good ideas on where he should go next.

I don’t care where I end up…I just have to get out of here.

I can’t waste any more time in Santa Barbara…

I don’t have anymore time to waste…

He re-entered only a minute later.

But, somehow, that minute was enough.

There was a girl sitting in his seat now.

His seat.

He stared at her for a moment, dumbfounded.

How could she not know that was his seat?

He sidled up beside her, trying to keep the aggravation out of his voice.

“Excuse me. You're in my seat.”

She glanced up for the first time, her bright eyes instantly sizing him up, and just as quickly disregarding him.

“Am I?” She asked, obviously not about to jump up and relinquish her chair. Not when there were dozens of other perfectly good chairs around.

“Actually, yes. You are.”

She seemed to suppress a small laugh at his persistence.

“Are you one of those weirdo compulsives who come to the same restaurant, sit in the same chair, and eat the same food every day?” She wanted to know.

He grinned broadly, despite the semi-harsh slap in the face to his sanity.

God, she’s quick!

Cute, too…

“Uh, no... no, no. I was sitting right there three minutes ago, and then I went outside to get myself a paper. I ordered a juice… And, look. I made a crawling snake with the straw wrapper. You can finish it if you think you're up to the job.”

She glanced at the juice, for a moment looking slightly apologetic.

“I’m sorry. Do you want me to move?”

“Not anymore,” he smiled coyly, sliding into the chair next to her.

“So, what’s up?”

What’s up? He kicked himself mentally.

What the hell kind of pick-up line is that?

Usually, he was better at flirting…

But, usually, he wasn’t flirting with girls as sharp as this one clearly was.

The line fell flat.

Obviously.

She just rolled her eyes and continued to ignore him, going back to reading her paper.

“I don’t have time to talk,” she mumbled, brushing him off like a housefly.

“But you haven’t heard what I’m going to say,” he insisted lightly, doing the best he could to recover.

He could already tell his typical pick-up routine wasn’t going to work.

Not with her.

This girl was going to require some major impressing if he wanted even a second glance from her.

And, God, did he ever want a second glance from her.

“See, now we’ve already talked more than I wanted to,” she returned, almost…nearly… flirtatiously.

That did it.

Shawn’s heart was in his throat.

God, she’s incredible!

She’s so quick!

Impress her, you idiot!

Impress her!

“Well, I did give you my seat you know. I think that gets me one question.”

She exhaled sharply, putting her paper down and turning back to him

Ah-ha! My second glance! He thought victoriously. Something’s working…

“Listen. Diner guy…”

“Shawn,” he corrected gently.

“Shawn. Look. Flattered. Really. Normally, I am very happy to meet new people. But right here, right now. I can’t talk.”

He just nodded in agreement, still grinning like an idiot.

“I understand. I do. What if I do the talking for both of us?” He asked.

She just shrugged, back to being completely indifferent to his very existence.

Somehow, he found that…irresistible.

“Have at it,” she told him. “Do you mind if I read the paper and stare aimlessly out the window while you two talk?”

“No. Can I get a name to work with?”

“Juliet.”

“Well, it's very nice to meet you, Juliet.”

Juliet…

Kind of obvious…but it works for her…somehow.

Now impress her, you stupid moron!

Shawn couldn’t remember ever working this hard to impress a girl, ever caring this much that, for all intents and purposes, he seemed to be failing miserably.

It was like high school all over again…

Even his hilarious and, if he did say so himself, brilliant two-way conversation between himself and him-playing-her didn’t seem to make an impression.

She still looked bored.

She still didn’t have the time.

Not for him.

Not for this.

Not for…

Suddenly, he saw the gun.

She’s a cop!

She’s undercover …

That’s why she’s ignoring me!

She DOES have the time…just not right now…

It all happened so quickly after that.

The door burst open, and the coffee shop was suddenly flooded with cops.

But Shawn wasn’t watching them.

He was still watching Juliet.

She had drawn her gun and was aiming it at the man being dragged out the front door, but her hands were trembling and her face was full of terror.

It was the cutest damn thing Shawn had ever seen.

“First time pulling your gun?” He asked with a mocking grin as she dumped the weapon back into her purse and headed for the door.

“Maybe.” She snapped churlishly.

He watched her leave, smiling to himself.

She so has the time for me…

At least, she will…

He stood up and slowly walked to the door.

I guess I should get over to Psych…

You never know when the Chief is gonna call us in on a case…

“Dad, I don’t want to do this!” Shawn groaned, collapsing into a kitchen chair.

“Tough break, Kid.” Henry growled, dropping a stack of papers on the table and sitting across from his son.

“My friend, who’s a damn good lawyer, said it’s a good idea. I have to get my estate in order. For years down the road, of course.”

“What estate?” Shawn scoffed. “You don’t have anything! Including friends who are lawyers! Since when do you hang out with the enemy?”

“She’s not that kind of lawyer, Shawn.”

“She?”

Henry just glared, clicking his pen open and handing it to Shawn unceremoniously.

“Look, do you want to talk about my love life or do you want to get these papers signed?”

“Love life?!”

This was too much for Shawn. He pushed back from the table and paced around the kitchen, his hands clasped at the back of his neck as he tried to process everything.

“You’re not going to die, Dad.” He said finally, leaning against the refrigerator.

“Well, not soon. But someday…”

“I don’t think anything can kill pure grumpy.”

“Shut up, Shawn. Just sign the damn forms. Okay?”

“Fine.”

Shawn rolled his eyes and walked back over to the table. He scanned the papers quickly.

“Hey!” He exclaimed, his eyes suddenly narrowing.

“What?” Henry asked.

“I don’t get anything?!”

“I thought I didn’t have anything.”

Shawn was reading the papers again, his jaw dropping closer to the floor with each passing paragraph.

“I don’t even get the house?!”

He was fuming. He grabbed the papers off the table, flipping through them angrily, as if the words might change on the third time through.

“Actually,” Henry shrugged. “I kind of promised that to your mom…well, technically, I said she could have the house over my dead body…which in a divorce proceeding, I’m pretty sure, is legally binding.”

“Mom gets the house?!”

“Only if I die first.”

“You’re not going to die!”

“Shawn!” Henry snapped. “Sign the papers!”

Shawn threw the pen down defiantly.

“I can’t believe you cut me out of your will! I’m your only son!”

“What do I have that you even want?”

“Nothing!”

“Then what the hell are you complaining about?”

Shawn threw his arms up in defeated exasperation.

“Nothing, Dad. Like always. I’m complaining about absolutely nothing.”

“Then shut up. And sign the papers! Now! Come on!”

Shawn sat down again, crossing his arms like a five year old.

“No.”

Henry raised his eyebrows disbelievingly.

“Are you kidding me, Shawn? You’re pulling your stubborn little brat act now? Over this?”

“I’m your son!”

“And you don’t need anything!”

Henry brought his fist down on the table.

Shawn blinked in surprise, his arms falling by his side as he looked up at his father.

“What?” He asked quietly.

“Kid, you don’t need anything. Not from me. If I thought you did, don’t you think I would’ve given it to you?”

“No.”

“Well…I would. You’ll be fine, Shawn. You don’t need anything.”

Shawn sat in silence for a long moment, caught somewhere between an angry sulk and nausea.

“You’re not going to die.” He said finally.

“Well, not soon.”

Shawn stared down at the forms one more time.

Silently, he picked up the pen and signed them.

“You can’t kill pure grumpy,” he muttered.

Gus lingered outside his office, his breath coming through his nose in short, gasping bursts as he tried to steel his nerves.

Okay, Gus…you can do this…he told himself with a final, deep exhale out his mouth.

You can do this…

You don’t have a choice…

It’s the only way to end this…

He closed his eyes with a preemptive wince, reaching up to his nose with slightly trembling fingers.

He grabbed hold of a single hair and yanked.

Hard.

“OW! Son of a--”

He hopped around for a minute, trying to shake off the sting, kicking the floor a few times for good measure.

It had hurt even worse than he had imagined...

But it had worked.

His eyes were watering now.

He was genuinely crying small, discrete tears.

Perfect.

He quickly stepped into the office before they dried up, making sure he looked suitably depressed as he passed the secretary’s station.

“Morning, Ladies,” he greeted with a faux-brave smile, sniffing just loudly enough to arouse their notice, but not so loud as to be obvious.

It was a brilliantly-nuanced performance, he had to admit.

“Mr. Guster?” Pam looked up at him, her brows raised in concern. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he insisted with a single raised hand, covering his mouth with the other.

“What is it?” Judy gasped.

“Nothing!” He sobbed, staying just this side of melodramatic.

Pam stood up, appraising him maternally over the rims of the glasses that always sat perched on the end of her nose.

“Sit down. Something’s bothering you,” she said kindly, pulling up a chair for him.

Gus accepted it, fighting back the smile he felt building.

I’ve got them…hook, line and sinker!

“Tell us.” Judy agreed, leaning forward.

“Okay…you caught me,” Gus conceded begrudgingly, somehow managing not to break his forlorn expression. “It’s…Mrs. Pickles.”

Both women gasped, their hands clutching at their hearts.

“Your wonderful cat?”

“What happened to her?”

Gus inhaled slowly, as if trying to gather his composure before he pressed on.

“She…got hit by a car last night.”

“Oh, my!” Judy exclaimed.

“Is she—“ Pam started, but Gus beat her to the punch.

“Dead.” He confirmed with a swipe of his hand. “Flat.”

The two women shook their heads sadly, patting Gus’ knees with reassuring sympathy.

“I’m so sorry.” Pam cooed sorrowfully.

“She was so good for you…” Judy added with a despondent sob, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. “You pretended you couldn’t stand her…but you were always there when she needed you. When she got lost…when she had her kittens…the time she broke her paw on her mini kitty trampoline…”

“Yeah,” Gus muttered, somewhat resentfully. “I still don’t know how she managed that one…”

“You really loved that cat,” Pam sighed.

“She was a pip.” Gus mumbled, standing back up. “But life goes on. And so does work…so, I guess I’ll talk to you ladies later.”

“Let us know if there’s anything we can do, Mr. Guster. You know…for her funeral.”

“Yeah…I’ll get right on that.”

Gus waved and walked into his office, barely getting the door shut behind him before breaking out into laughter.

Oh, man!

I so got him!

Let’s see “Mrs. Pickles” drag me away from the office on another stupid case now!

He sat down triumphantly at his computer and immediately got to work, a dopey smile plastered across his face.

He had finally beaten Shawn at something.

An hour later, the dopey smile was still there.

At least, until Pam burst in, beaming and panting in excitement.

“Mr. Guster! It’s a miracle!” She almost screamed, nearly knocking Gus out of his chair.

“What?” He asked, rising to his feet.

“It’s Mrs. Pickles! She alive!”

Gus fell back into his chair, stunned.

“She’s what?” He asked flatly.

“Alive!” Pam laughed. “I just got a call from your neighbor…Mr. Applepine. He said he has Mrs. Pickles at his apartment, alive and well! He said the cat that got hit last night must have been her identical twin!”
“Identical twin?...And you bought that?” Gus almost snorted, then caught himself. “I mean…ummm…can it really be true?”

“There’s only one way to know for sure!” Pam insisted, dragging Gus to the door, handing him his jacket and giving him a hard shove. “Go find out! If it is Mrs. Pickles, you can’t wait until 5 o’clock to know! You won’t be able to think about anything else!”

“No, I’ll be okay.”

“Stop trying to be brave, Mr. Guster. I saw your face this morning when you thought she was dead. Go on. Get your wonderful cat back.”

Gus started to protest, but finally gave up.

With a defeated sigh, he put on his jacket and headed to the door, knowing Shawn would be waiting for him, and laughing at him, in the parking lot.

How did he know?

“Mr. Guster!” Judy called after him, just as he reached the door.

“What?” He snapped irritably, turning back around.

“Make sure you call us and let us know if it’s her!”

“Yeah, yeah.” He muttered, slamming the door behind him. “I hate that damn cat.”

For months now, Lassiter had been suspicious.

He knew something was up.

He knew something bad was coming…he just couldn’t pinpoint the exact extent of the damage yet. He couldn’t tell if it was already beyond all hope, or if there was still time to stop it before it blew up in all of their faces.

Somewhere…somewhere deep, deep inside…somewhere so deep that he could deny under torture the place even existed…somewhere, some part of him hoped that it wasn’t too late.

But, somehow, he knew it was.

On some level, whether he admitted it to himself or not, he had known it was too late from the moment he had casually mentioned Spencer’s name in a conversation with his partner, in a not entirely flattering context, and she had suppressed a small smile.

It had been a subtle clue, to be sure. She just momentarily pursed her lips together, then relaxed them…

But it was enough.

He immediately knew something was very, very wrong.

Oh, God…he remembered thinking to himself, vaguely sickened by the thought. Did she just smile? Does she…dear God! Does she like him?

He refused at first to grant that it was even a possibility. O’Hara was too smart for that.

Sure, she was a bit naive…and sure she smiled too much and needed to lose the rose-tinted shades she insisted on viewing life through…but liking Spencer?

It just didn’t make sense.

Still, he began to watch her all the same…just to make sure.

He even started dropping Spencer’s name occasionally, just to gauge her reaction.

Sure enough, almost every time he saw that same tiny, suppressed smile cross her lips.

And every time Spencer showed up around the station, her voice got just a little higher…her manner just slightly less professional…

Finally, he couldn’t deny it any longer.

It’s too late…

I can’t stop it now…

He could see it all unfolding before his eyes, as if he was having one of Spencer’s alleged psychic visions…

Stupid kids…they don’t even see it coming…

How can they not see it coming…?

But he knew exactly what would happen.

He’d seen it all before…

They’d flirt for a while, dancing around each other…neither one wanting to make the first move.

Finally, after waiting way too long, Spencer would make some sweeping gesture….probably pissing Lassiter off in the process, just for the fun of it…

Of course, she’d be swept off her feet.

She’d think it was charming…God only knows why…

They’d date a bit, get married.

And then the real fun would start.

They don’t see it coming…

They don’t see it coming…

How can they not see it coming…?

It’d be all fun and games for the first year, of course.

The first year was always fun and games.

But then, he’d start working too hard and drinking too hard.

She’d stop smiling at him as if he was the only other person in the room.

He’d stop finding her rose-tinted shades endearing.

She’d start worrying and nagging just a little too much…

He’d stop coming home for dinner.

She wouldn’t call to ask to where he was anymore.

And before he knew it…he’d come home one night and she’d be gone.

Forever.

Without a note.

Without so much as a voice mail.

Just…gone.

No Happily Ever After.

No ‘Till Death You Part.

Just an empty house and single malt scotch.

How can they not see it coming…?

Lassiter’s stomach tightened as he sat at his desk, watching O’Hara put on her jacket, getting ready to go home for the night.

“Clocking out?” He demanded sullenly.

She glanced over at him, looking slightly confused.

“It’s 5 o’clock.”

“You still have paperwork.”

“I know,” she shrugged. “It can wait until tomorrow.”

“Can it?”

“It’ll still be there. Shawn’s waiting for me.”

“Spencer?” He scowled bitterly.

“Yeah. I’ve never ridden a motorcycle before…he’s going to give me a ride home on his.”

“And that’s more important than solving crimes?”

“At the moment, yes.”

Lassiter’s scowl only deepened.

It’s too late.

Stupid kids…

They don’t see it coming…

Should I tell them?

“O’Hara…” he began, searching for the words.

But none came.

“What?” She turned back to him from the door, ready to leave.

Eager to leave.

I should tell them…

They don’t see it coming…

He hesitated.

Why bother?

They wouldn’t believe me anyway…

They're too...happy...

Damn rose-tinted shades…

“What?” Juliet asked again, tapping her foot impatiently.

They don’t want to see it…

She was glaring at him now.

He had to say something…

“Just…wear a helmet.” He mumbled.

“Shawn, stop crying.” Henry ordered.

“I’m not crying,” Shawn insisted, clenching his teeth and gripping the clean, white sheets that covered the hospital gurney he was lying on.

“Yes, you are. Stop it.”

“I’m trying!”

Shawn sniffed loudly, trying to sit up so he could see his father, who was standing at the bottom of the gurney, but the doctor stopped him with a firm but gentle hand on the shoulder.

“Stay still,” he murmured from behind his surgical mask, preparing the needle.

Shawn laid back down, staring up at the ceiling with wide, terrified eyes as the doctor loomed over him.

“Dad…”

“Stay still, Shawn.”

“I’m trying…”

He winced as the needle come closer…

“Close your eyes,” Henry told him.

Shawn did, trying not to yelp in pain as the needle went in, but he couldn’t help it.

The searing pain in his head quickly subsided, but he could still feel the doctor working, starting to put the stitches in just above his eyebrow.

He flinched instinctively, clenching his eyes tighter as he fought against the tears he knew he couldn’t cry.

Not with his father standing right there…

Suddenly, he felt something gently squeeze his foot.

A hand…?

“Tell me what happened, Shawn.” He heard Henry’s voice say.

“What?”

Shawn didn’t dare open his eyes.

The hand squeezed his foot again.

“Tell me what happened,” Henry repeated, more gently than before.

“You were there.”

“Just tell me.”

Shawn took a deep breath, thinking back over that morning, trying to see everything…

“I was riding my bike…” he began, feeling his grip on the sheets slowly easing.

“Your bike has ten gears. Which gear were you in?”

Shawn hesitated for a moment.

“Third.”

“Where was your helmet? Besides not on your head, where it was supposed to be.”

“I…”

Shawn could still feel the stitches going in…but it didn’t hurt.

He could feel the doctor’s hands pressing against his forehead, cleaning up the blood...

He tried not to think about it…tried to picture the backyard instead…

Where had his helmet been?

“I…think it was by the back stairs.”

“You think?”

“No, it was.” Shawn said more firmly. “It was next to the bottom stair, on the left. Upside down, like a bowl.”

“And not on your head.” Henry added pointedly.

“I forgot.”

Suddenly, there was sharp pain in Shawn’s forehead, as if he was being stabbed.

“Ow!”

“You’re crying again…” Henry warned, his voice quiet as he held Shawn’s sneaker just a little tighter.

“I’m trying…”

“What happened next?”

“I don’t know…I hit a rock.”

“Shawn.”

“A…gray rock…it was half-buried in the grass…I didn’t see it.”

“Maybe next time, you’ll look.”

“I didn’t see it!”

“Okay,” the doctor said, patting Shawn’s head. “All done.”

Shawn slowly opened his eyes.

Henry had moved from the bottom of the gurney and was standing over him now, looking at his head.

“It’s over, Shawn,” he murmured, mussing his son’s hair. “Stop crying.”

“I’m not crying.”

“And next time, wear your damn helmet.”

“I will.”

Shawn sat up, swinging his feet over the edge of the gurney and jumping lightly to the floor, the pain of the last few hours already completely forgotten.

As they walked out of the hospital back to the car, Henry was quiet.

“You don’t still plan on getting a motorcycle, do you? Not after this.” He asked finally.

“Oh, I don’t know…” Shawn answered, gingerly touching the stitches in his head. “Scars are pretty cool…”

“Since when do you drink coffee?” Gus asked as he and Shawn stepped into a Starbucks, at Shawn’s insistence.

“What are you talking about?” Shawn returned, looking around as if he knew exactly what he was searching for. “I drink coffee all the time.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Well…sometimes.”

“You hate coffee.”

“I don’t hate it…ah!”

Shawn grinned, apparently finding what he had been seeking.

“What?” Gus followed his eyes.

Then he saw her…sitting at a table by herself, her legs crossed…absently twirling her long, blonde hair around her fingers, completely absorbed in the book she was reading.

She was gorgeous.

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Shawn agreed, draping his arm over Gus’ shoulder. “She’s been here everyday this week.”

“Definitely worth developing a caffeine addiction for,” Gus nodded in agreement, his eyebrows raised.

“I’m glad you think so,” Shawn clapped Gus on the back. “’Cause she’s all yours, Buddy.”

“What?”

“After an entire week of surveillance, recon, and pains-taking analysis of all the qualities I know you look for in a girl…I’ve decided she’s perfect for you!” Shawn told him happily. “Isn’t that fantastic?”

“Oh, have you?” Gus groused, shaking his friend’s hand off his shoulder.

“Absolutely. You’re so lucky! So…go talk to her!”

Shawn gave him a little push towards the table, but Gus had dug his heels in this time.

“No!” He hissed, refusing to budge an inch.

“Why not?” Shawn blinked, completely baffled.

Who wouldn’t go talk to her?

“Because I don’t know her, Shawn. I’ve never even met her. I don’t even know her name.”

“Well, neither do I! I’d still talk to her!”

Gus shot him a suspicious look.

“I thought you’d been stalking her all week.”

“Not ‘stalking’, Gus…keenly observing. For you!”

“Then how can you not know her name?” Gus demanded.

Shawn just shrugged, as if something so trivial had never even occurred to him.

“I didn’t know you had a No Name, No Date policy. And why are you still talking to me? She’s almost done with the book! Go!”

He shoved Gus again, harder this time, then quickly got into the coffee line, grinning maniacally as he watched his friend stumble up to the table.

It was too late for him to turn back now.

She had already seen him.

Gus could feel his palms beginning to sweat as he stood there dumbly, unable to even form a syllable.

She stared up at him, her eyebrows raised questioningly.

Gus quickly glanced at her book.

Slaughter-House Five.

Perfect! He remembered it from high school.

“Billy Pilgrim…” he started, and then realized from her vaguely perplexed expression that it was a somewhat misleading opening line.

“That’s not my name,” he continued, sliding uninvited into the chair across from her. “That’s the character in the book…you know…Billy Pilgrim. I’m Gus. Hi.”

He waited for her to return the greeting, but she didn’t. She just closed the book, an amused smile crossing her lips as she leaned forward, resting her chin delicately on her hand.

Gus cleared his throat, then pressed on.

“Actually, I have a theory about Billy Pilgrim…it’s interesting…I think he’s supposed to be a version of Vonnegut. It’s a very post-modern literary technique, inserting yourself into your novel, you know…of course, the only hole in that theory are those three times Vonnegut actually tells you he’s there…you know what I’m talking about…I like to call those literary cameos.”

Her eyes continued to laugh as he continued to ramble, but she didn’t say anything.

What the heck am I doing? He thought frantically.

I don’t even know what I’m talking about!

Shut up!

Just shut up!

But he couldn’t shut up.

He was on a roll.

“Actually, I wrote a paper about it in high school…The Use of Narration and Literary Cameos in Slaughter-House Five…it was good. I still have it. You can read it sometime if you want…”

She didn’t respond.

She didn’t even acknowledge he had said anything, apart from staring at him with a look of bewilderment.

He cleared his throat again, now completely out of things to say.

He glanced down at the book.

That’s when he noticed the second title on the cover.

In French.

She’s not…

He looked back up at her.

Her soft, brown eyes were still looking into his, still laughing at him.

Shawn wouldn’t…

Oh. Yes. He. Would.

“You don’t speak English, do you?” He asked. “Parlez-vous anglais?”

She shook her head.

“Parlez-vous français?” She asked, speaking for the first time.

“Non.”

He stood up, glaring at Shawn, who was still waiting across the room for his coffee.

Shawn saw him and waved, grinning.

Gus stormed up to him.

“She doesn’t speak English?” He snapped.

“Of course not!” Shawn snorted. “That was her best quality! She wouldn’t be able to understand your pointless babbling. She might even find it charming…for some strange reason. What was it today, anyway? Pluto again? The history of silkworms? The thrilling adventures of the traveling pharmaceutical representative?”

“No,” Gus muttered bitterly.

“Then what? Come on. Tell me.”

 “The use of narration and literary cameos in Slaughter-House Five,” he sighed.

Shawn groaned.

“Dude! I did you a favor. Trust me. Stick with the girls who don’t speak English.”

“No.” Detective Lassiter said sternly, crossing his arms. “Absolutely not!”

Juliet leaned forward, resting her hands on his desk, using every bit of her five feet three inches.

“Carlton,” she intoned dangerously.

Lassiter glanced up at her.

This was something new…her calling him Carlton.

At first, she had always called him Detective Lassiter.

“No,” he snapped again.

“But he’s been so depressed lately!”

“How do you know?”

“How do you not know? Haven’t you noticed he’s been moping around here all week, ever since Gus left for that convention?”

“Not really, no.”

“Well…he has.”

Lassiter sighed irritably, leaning back in his chair.

“See, O’Hara…even if that’s true, how is it my problem?”

“Shawn’s lonely.”

“So?”

“So…when he’s lonely, he hangs out here more often.”

“…And…?”

Juliet exhaled exasperatedly.

“And when he hangs out here, he finds ways to tick you off. Which means you don’t get your work done, which means you stay late, which means you don’t get enough sleep, which means you’re even grumpier than usual, which means you’ll start ticking me off. And you really don’t want to start ticking me off, Carlton. So, you’re doing it.”

She emphasized her last point with a sharp jab at his chest.

Lassiter blinked. It was hard to argue with the internal logic of it.

“Why don’t you do it?” He grumped.

She just laughed.

“Me? No, no. I can’t do it…it’d be too weird. Like…a date or something. No. He needs a guy friend!”

“I am not his friend,” Lassiter insisted stubbornly.

“It’s one drink! You can pretend for one drink.”

“I prefer to drink alone.”

“But statistics show when you drink alone, you drink too much.”

“Exactly.”

Juliet rolled her eyes, but before she could rebut, Shawn approached them, looking miserable, his hands jammed into his pockets.

“Hey,” he sighed forlornly.

“Hi, Shawn.” Juliet greeted brightly.

Lassiter just pretended not to notice him.

How could he not see Shawn was depressed without Gus, Juliet wondered. It was so obvious to her.

“How are you doing?” She asked with a sympathetic head-tilt.

Shawn shrugged.

“Fine.”

“When does Gus get back?”

He shrugged again.

“I dunno.”

“Am I the only one who works around here?” Lassiter grumbled, glaring at them.

Juliet ignored him.

“What are you doing tonight?” She continued.

“Nothing.”

“Oh…because we were going to go over to Ryan’s Pub after work—”

“We were?” Lassiter interjected sullenly. Juliet shot him a warning glare.

“Yes,” she snapped, turning back to Shawn. “Did you want to come?”

“Sure.”

“Okay!” She smiled, sitting back at her desk.

A moment later, she smacked her forehead.

“What am I thinking? I can’t go! I have to work on the Benson case! I’ll be here all night on that one. I guess you two will have to go without me…make it a guy’s night.”

“The Benson case?” Shawn repeated. “Didn’t the Chief tell you? I just closed it an hour ago.”

“You did?”

Her face fell as she saw her brilliant scheme beginning to collapse.

“Yeah…it was the dog groomer. Anyway, that means you’re free now, right?” He grinned. “You can come too!”

“Uh…” She stammered.

From his chair, Lassiter smiled evilly, seeing his opportunity.

“Oh, drat.” He snapped his fingers, badly feigning disappointment. “I just remembered. I have to…be…somewhere…else.”

“Aww…too bad,” Shawn clucked, equally sarcastic.

“I guess it’ll just be you two,” Lassiter smirked at Juliet. “Shame. Damn shame. Oh, well…”

“You’re still in. Right, Jules?” Shawn asked.

“Uh…sure.” She mumbled, trapped by her own plan.

“Great! See you then!” He smiled and waved, walking towards the door.

Two seconds later, Lassiter stood up.

“I’ll…be right back…” he muttered.

He caught up with Shawn right outside the precinct.

“Spencer!”

Shawn paused, turning around.

“What?”

“Where did you say Guster was?” Lassiter demanded, his eyes narrowing.

“Convention,” Shawn replied simply.

“Huh.”

“What?”

“Nothing…” He scratched his head, apparently confused. “It’s just funny…”

“What?”

“I’m trying to figure out how Guster could be at convention all week when I just saw him last night.”

For once, Shawn was completely speechless.

A slow, victorious smile spread across Lassiter’s face.

“You owe me, Spencer. You owe me big.”

“Aww, man.” Shawn groaned, looking down at the math test Mr. Hutchins had just handed back.

“What’d you get?” Gus asked, leaning over from his desk.

“Nothing,” Shawn mumbled, trying to flip it over before Gus saw his score.

But it was too late. Gus had already seen the number, written in bold red print across the top of the page.

“Ouch,” he winced sympathetically. “A 60? Didn’t you even study?”

“Of course I studied,” Shawn snapped. “It’s not my fault he changed the test key! I memorized the wrong answers!”

“Your dad is going to kill you, you know.”

“It’s worse than death-by-lecture this time, Gus.” Shawn sighed. “He said if I didn’t pass the test, I couldn’t go to Six Flags next weekend with you.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t have a choice,” Shawn shrugged. “I have to pass this test.”

“But you already failed,” Gus pointed out.

“Gus…” Shawn almost sounded insulted. “That’s just my pre-negotiation score. Passing is, what? 65 percent?”

“Yeah.”

“Then I’d better bring home at least a 67. Even Dad can’t argue with a solid 67 percent.”

“Yeah. Right. Good luck with that,” Gus rolled his eyes. “I have to get to science. See you around…but not at Six Flags next weekend,” he added under his breath.

“Have some faith, Gus.”

Gus just shook his head, waving as he headed out the door.

Shawn remained seated for another minute, looking over his test and planning his strategy.

Finally, he nodded resolutely and stood up, quietly approaching Mr. Hutchins’ desk.

Mr. Hutchins was busy grading homework, so he didn’t notice Shawn was there until he cleared his throat.

“Oh. Shawn,” he blinked, looking up. “What can I do for you?”

“Hi, Mr. Hutchins…” Shawn grinned, laying the charm on thickly. “Great class today. You really made fractions come alive…”

“I’m not changing your test grade, Shawn.”

Shawn pretended to be shocked at the very idea.

“I would never--”

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

“Okay,” Shawn sighed. “You caught me. I did want to talk to you about the test. But it’s not what you think! Really! It’s just this one problem.”

He plopped the paper on the desk and pointed to a problem that had been circled in red.

“See…this one right here. I thought that 6 was an 8. I guess I need glasses or something…but if you look at my work, I did the process right. I just had the wrong number.”

Mr. Hutchins examined the problem carefully, still wary of this fast-talking pupil he knew all too well.

“Well…” he mumbled, “you did do the procedure correctly…and the answer is right if you thought that was an 8…”

“And that’s totally my fault,” Shawn added quickly…almost contritely “I should have read it more carefully. Stupid, huh? I don’t deserve full credit for it…it was worth 2 points, right? Can I just have one of those points? One measly, little point…it would only make my score a 61. I’d still be failing…”

“Fine,” Mr. Hutchins sighed in resignation, handing the paper back to Shawn. “One point. You can have the 61 percent.”

“Great!”

Shawn paused for a moment, then carefully put the paper back on the desk.

“If you’re going to give me that point,” he pressed on, talking faster now, “you should give me a point for question 4, too. It’s only fair. See? I thought the 7 was a 2.”

“How could you--”

“I’m just not that smart, Mr. Hutchins. Really. But, if you look, I did the process right again…”

Mr. Hutchins looked at the problem. He couldn’t deny that the procedure was correct…

“Fine,” he sighed. “62 percent. You still failed, Shawn.”

Shawn nodded slowly.

“True…”

He cleared his throat, then quickly talked on.

“…But if you’ll look at problems 7, 9 and 12…”

Mr. Hutchins groaned.

“Don’t tell me…more digit confusion?”

“What can I say?” Shawn shrugged with an innocent smile. “I’m an idiot. Just ask my dad. Do you want to check them yourself?”

He slid the test across the desk. Mr. Hutchins slid it back without so much as a look, his jaw setting.

“No. That’s okay.”

“Are you sure?”

“Three problems, three points. If I give you the 65 percent, will you leave me alone?”

“Absolutely.”

“Fine. 65 percent. Passing. Barely.”

Mr. Hutchins crossed out the 60 on top of the test and replaced it with a 65. He handed it back to Shawn, who was grinning widely, and went back to grading his papers.

“Perfect. Thank you, Mr. Hutchins!” Shawn waved as he turned to leave.

He took a step towards the door and then turned back around.

“…Except for problem 27.”

Mr. Hutchins dropped his head on the desk.

“Shawn, I swear if you tell me you thought the 9 was a 1…”

“No, no.” Shawn laughed, once again passing the test across the desk. “I didn’t even answer it. See, that’s the problem. I guess I was distracted that day or something…I don’t know…maybe I was thinking about my parent’s divorce…but, see, I did the problem. At least, I did it in my head. I knew the answer was 7.34…I thought I wrote it down…I guess I didn’t…like I said…I’m an idiot.”

“You did the problem in your head?” Mr. Hutchins repeated skeptically.

“Sure! 7.34. How would I know the answer if I didn’t do it? That was a 4 point problem…if I only take half credit for being forgetful…”

“That brings you up to a 67 percent?” Mr. Hutchins finished the thought.

“Does it?” Shawn asked innocently.

Mr. Hutchins sighed heavily, then crossed out the 65.

In its place he wrote 67.

“Now please go away.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Hutchins! Thanks!”

Shawn quickly left, running straight to Gus’ locker. He shoved the test into Gus’ hand, his eyes flashing victory.

“I told you I was going to Six Flags.”

“You were wrong, Dad.” Shawn insisted. “Just admit it! You. Were. Wrong!”

Henry remained sitting, his arms crossed stubbornly across his chest and his jaw firmly set. He didn’t even look down at the newspaper Shawn had thrust under his nose.

He wasn’t going to admit anything.

“I wasn’t wrong, Shawn.”

“Ha!” Shawn laughed in bitter exasperation. “You said I wouldn’t last three months!”

“Yes, I did.”

“Well…Look!” Shawn waved the paper ardently. “Look at the article! Three months! Three months and six cases!”

Henry rolled his eyes and took the paper, glancing at the article disinterestedly. Next to the headline, which read SANTA BARBARA’S PARANORMAL SLEUTH SOLVES ANOTHER CASE! was a picture of Shawn standing in front of the SBPD and grinning, Henry thought, like a self-satisfied idiot.

“You didn’t get that dopey smile from me,” was all he said as he folded the paper and handed it back to Shawn.

“Of course I didn’t,” Shawn snorted. “You don’t smile. Know what else you don’t do? Admit when you’re wrong. But guess what, Dad…You. Were. Wrong!”

“I wasn’t wrong, Shawn.”

“How were you not wrong?” Shawn almost shouted, throwing the paper on the kitchen table and clutching his head in both hands as if he were trying to stop it from exploding.

He took a long, deep breath, slowly removing his hands from the sides of his head and wiping them on his jeans.

“Okay…” he said slowly. “Let’s try this again. When I started Psych, you said I wouldn’t last three months.”

“Yes, I did,” Henry conceded unblinkingly.

“It’s now been three months…”

Again, there was no argument from Henry.

“I know. I saw the paper. And I got your voicemails. All six of them.”

“…So…” Shawn prompted, waiting patiently to hear those three little words…

Those three little words that every son wants to hear…

Those three little words that would make him happy…

I was wrong.

But Henry just stared at him as if he had no idea what Shawn was after.

“….So what?”

“So you were wrong!”

“Shawn,” Henry growled, standing up and facing his son. “I wasn’t wrong.”

“You were so wrong! There aren’t enough words to describe how wrong you were!”

“Really?” Henry’s eyebrows arched. “You’ve been there three months, right?”

“Right.”

“And I said you wouldn’t make it three months.”

“Right…” Shawn agreed cautiously, trying to figure out where his father was going with this.

“So, you wanted to prove me wrong. The only reason you didn’t quit after two days was spite, Shawn. If I hadn’t said anything, you would’ve walked away without a second thought.”

Shawn blinked.

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything.

“That…” he began finally, “is the STUPIDEST thing I have ever heard! You just can’t admit you were wrong!”

“What do you want? A pat on the back for not quitting something for three whole months? I had the same job for twenty years, Shawn. When you get your gold retirement watch, we’ll talk.”

“It’s a date!” Shawn snapped angrily, his ears red as he stormed out the door, slamming it behind him. “When I get that watch, you’re going to HAVE to admit you were wrong!”

Henry rolled his eyes and walked back to the kitchen table, a small smile slowly breaking out across his face as he picked the paper up again.

Though he would never admit it, that smile resembled Shawn’s own goofy, self-satisfied grin that looked up at him from the front page in more ways than one.

Three whole months…he thought to himself, shaking his head as he opened a cabinet, placing the newspaper on a stack of already fading newsprint, all of which stared up at him with that same stupid grin.

His smile only grew as he looked down at them.

Even if I was wrong, I must’ve done something right…

“Oh, great,” Shawn groaned, rolling his eyes. “Here comes the superstar detective.”

“Oh, give him a break,” Juliet smiled gently. “It’s a big deal for him.”

“It’s just one newspaper profile, and it was a week ago. It’s gone to his head.”

“It did refer to him as the best detective in all of Santa Barbara,” Juliet pointed out.

“One of,” Shawn corrected her. “It said one of.”

“Just let him have his star moment.”

“Jules,” he intoned lowly, “he autographed my copy of the Starsky file. And I don’t mean he just initialed it, either. The man autographed it. He may as well have signed it ‘To My Biggest Fan’ with his badge number.”

Juliet just laughed, shaking her head as Detective Lassiter sauntered up, absolutely beaming.

“Hey,” hey greeted, uncharacteristically chipper as he removed his new shades and dropped them in his breast pocket.

“Hi, David Caruso,” Shawn mumbled under his breath.

Juliet elbowed him in the ribs.

“Hi.” She returned cheerfully.

“Oh, O’Hara…glad you’re here,” Lassiter continued, playing it superstar cool. “Could you grab me a coffee?”

“A what?” She asked, gawking at him, certain she couldn’t have heard right.

“A coffee…four creams, three sugars…you know what I like.” He winked and clicked his finger like a gun, sliding into his desk like the King of England…if there was a King of England…and if the King of England had a desk…

“Yeah,” Shawn stifled a laugh, nudging her playfully. “You know what he likes, Jules. Hop-to! It’s his star moment, after all.”

“Yes, it is.” Juliet agreed doggedly through clenched teeth, shooting Shawn a dirty look as she walked away to fetch the coffee.

“You’re still here, Spencer?” Lassiter asked a moment later, glancing up at Shawn. “What? Do you need my help on a case or something?”

“Yeah, right.” Shawn laughed, then remembered Juliet’s admonition not to ruin his star moment.

“I mean…no, not today. Thanks.”

“Then go away.”

“No problem.”

I would hate to impede one of Santa Barbara’s best detectives…he laughed to himself as he turned away.

He had to bite his tongue to keep from saying it out loud.

It was just one stupid newspaper…

One stupid article…

What was the big deal?

He shook his head and glanced over Lassiter’s shoulder at the desk. The article had been cut out and was resting on the corner, wrinkled and well-read.

Juliet reappeared a moment later, clenching a coffee mug in her white knuckles.

She’s trying so hard…

“Here.” She mumbled, handing it to Lassiter, who accepted it without even looking up from the file he was reading.

“Not enough cream,” he said after a single sip, handing it back to her.

“Excuse me?”

“Cream.” He repeated, still not looking up from his work.

“Star moment…” Shawn whispered to Juliet.

“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered, stalking off to try again.

Lassiter dropped the file on the desk and looked around the station, clearly irritated with someone.

“McNab!” He bellowed.

Buzz appeared, looking confused and more than a little nervous.

“Yes, Sir?”

“Is this your report?” Lassiter demanded, flinging the file at him.

Buzz caught it and looked it over.

“Yes, Sir.”

“It’s completely inadequate!”

Here is comes…Shawn thought, watching the scene in amusement from a safe distance.

A lecture from one of Santa Barbara’s best detectives…

One of…

“Sir? I don’t understand.”

Lassiter sighed loudly and took the papers back.

“Look at this!” He snapped. “Do you have any idea what a good lawyer could do with this kind of lazy police work? You have to make sure every I is dotted and every T is crossed, McNab. If you miss anything…anything…this scumbag is going to walk. It took me six months to put this case together, and I am not going to let him get off on a technicality. Go back and do it right.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Buzz took the file and quickly scuttled away. Lassiter went back to his own paperwork.

A moment later, a young Rookie Shawn had never met approached the desk.

“Umm…Detective Lassiter, Sir…” He began meekly.

“What is it?” Lassiter barked, looking up. “I’m busy.”

“I can’t catch a break on this robbery, Sir. It’s my first one…”

He handed a file to the detective, who sighed and flipped through the pages quickly.

“Did you run the prints from the scene yet?” Lassiter asked him.

“No, Sir. There were only partials….it didn’t seem important…”

“Everything is important!” Lassiter snapped, handing the file back. “You can’t cut corners, Rookie. Not in an investigation. Run the prints. Now. And don’t ever ask for my help again until you’ve done the basic legwork.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The Rookie took the file back and quickly walked away, passing Juliet, who was returning with the coffee.

“Here.”

She handed it to Lassiter, who once again didn’t look up as he took it.

“Too cold,” he said after a sip, passing it back.

This was the last straw.

Juliet slammed the mug on his desk, her face flushed in fury.

“Look!” She started, but Shawn quietly stepped up next to her.

“I got it, Jules.” He said with a small smile, picking up the mug and heading towards the coffee machine.

Lassiter didn’t seem to notice the switch, but Juliet stared at him in bewilderment as he walked away.

A few seconds later, she followed him.

“What are you doing?” She demanded. “You’re the one who said that profile went to his head.”

Shawn just shrugged.

“Well, it did refer to him as Santa Barbara’s best detective.”

“One of.” Juliet corrected him. “It said one of.”

“Yeah…” Shawn grinned. “But what do they know, anyway?”

Juliet sat, silently watching as Shawn walked through the crime scene, his eyes taking in everything.

Usually when she watched him work, it was with a breathless anticipation, waiting for one of his psychic flashes to shed light on an otherwise opaque case. But today, for some reason, the case was the last thing on her mind.

“You know…” She murmured, only half-realizing she was speaking out loud. “You’re really short.”

Shawn stopped, his concentration completely broken.

“What?” He asked, turning to her with a look of semi-hurt bewilderment.

“Nothing.” She said quickly, trying to backpedal her way out of this.

But Shawn wasn’t about to give up that easily.

“Did you just call me short?” He demanded, his laughing eyes belying his offended façade.

“No.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Well…not in a bad way…”

“Is there a good way to take that?”

“Just forget it,” she pleaded with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Forget I said anything.”

“Okay.”

Shawn shook his head slowly and went back to looking around the crime scene, but Juliet could see he was still distracted.

“I slouch,” he said a minute later.

“What?”
“I’m actually a lot taller than I look…I slouch.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Do you want me to wear lifts or something?”

“No!”

“Then why would you call me short?”

“I don’t know…”

“Jules.”’

She sighed, knowing Shawn wouldn’t let it drop until he got an answer.

Even then, there was a 50/50 chance he still wouldn’t let it drop…

“I was just watching you…” she shrugged. “And it occurred to me that you’re short.”

“I have great hair.” Shawn retorted after a beat, sounding only slightly bitter.

“So?”

“So, I’m just saying…that thought could have occurred to you, instead. Next time, go with that instead of telling me I’m short.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it, Shawn. Really.”

“Then why did you say it?”

“Can we please drop it?” She begged.

“No! I want to know! Why did you call me short?”

“Because!” She snapped irritably. “You’re just a lot shorter than I imagined!”

There was a long silence.

Juliet looked away, feeling her cheeks beginning to flush.

“I am?” Shawn asked finally, grinning slyly.

“If you must know, yes.”

“How tall did you imagine…I... was?” He wanted to know, enjoying this moment way too much.

“I don’t know,” she insisted, trying to walk away. “Don’t we have a murder to solve?”

“It can wait,” Shawn shrugged, still grinning as he blocked her exit. “And you so know! How tall am I supposed to be?”

“You’re not going to let it go, are you?” She groaned.

“Not on your life,” he shook his head and crossed his arms. “How tall?”

“I don’t know…just…tall.”

“Just tall?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

She smiled, looking into his eyes.

“I didn’t say I was disappointed. And we really do have a murder to solve. Any psychic flashes yet?”

“Not yet,” Shawn replied, stepping aside to let her pass. “But I do have a secret.”

“What?”

He smiled, stepping close and whispering in her ear.

"You weren't supposed to be a cop."

Shawn lay in his bed, pretending to be asleep.

Every few minutes, his mom would come by and crack the door open. When he heard the squeak of the old hinge, he would stir quietly and let out a tiny snore…just enough to convince her he was sleeping.

But he knew he wasn’t really going to sleep.

Not tonight.

Tonight, he was going to catch Santa.

His heart began to race just thinking about it.

He’d hatched the plan three days ago, when he and Gus had gotten into a philosophical discussion about the existence of the munificent elf.

“Shawn, there is no Santa.” Gus had told him matter-of-factly. “Think about it. How could he deliver all those presents in one night?”

“Easy,” Shawn answered, his faith unshaken. “Magic.”

“Magic?”

“Sure.”

“Then how about this,” Gus continued, crossing his arms. “My mom told me that she buys all my presents.”

“Maybe that’s because you’re on Santa’s bad list,” Shawn shot back. “So she has to or you wouldn’t get any at all.”

“Me?” Gus sounded horrified. “Why would I be on Santa’s bad list?”

“Because you don’t believe, Gus! That’s an Automatic Bad List Offense.”

“What’s an Automatic Bad List Offense?” Gus asked, his eyes wide with concern.

Shawn stood up a little taller, suddenly the knowledgeable one.

“My dad told me about them. It’s when you do something so bad, Santa automatically puts you on his bad list.”

“Like what?”

“Like…keeping frogs in the toilet. Or hiding comic books and dart guns under your bed. Or telling people there’s an oxygen tax.”

“But, that’s all stuff you did.” Gus pointed out. “So you should be on Santa’s bad list, too.”

“No,” Shawn shook his head. “My mom has his phone number. She talked to him and got me off the hook.”

Gus rolled his eyes.

“Shawn! There is no Santa!”

“Yes there is!” Shawn stamped his foot stubbornly. “And I’ll prove it! I’ll catch him on Christmas Eve when he drops off all my presents!”

“How?” Gus demanded.

“Umm…I’ll set a trap.”

“What kind of trap?”

“I don’t know…but I’ll think of something! And I’ll get a picture of him!”

“Yeah, right.”

“You’ll see!” Shawn insisted, storming away.

It had taken him three days, but Shawn finally came up with the trap, even though it wasn’t much of a trap…just your basic trip wire system (one at the chimney, one by the tree, and one hidden by the kitchen table, where Shawn made sure to leave out a corned beef sandwich and a beer….which, his father had assured him, Santa preferred to chocolate chip cookies and milk)…but Shawn was sure that if he stayed awake and listened, he’d eventually hear Santa fall. And then he’d have him!

His automatic Polaroid camera was under his pillow, ready to take the picture as soon as he heard the crash.

That would show Gus.

He glanced at his clock. It was already past midnight.

He swallowed, starting to get just a little worried.

When’s he coming?

Maybe Gus was right…

Maybe I am on his bad list…

I didn’t know the oxygen tax was an Automatic Bad List Offense!

The minutes ticked by slowly.

Still no Santa.

Finally, at 1:27, Shawn heard something…

He held his breath.

There was definitely movement coming from downstairs…shuffling feet…voices…

Santa!

He crept to his door, straining to hear what was being said.

Suddenly, there was a loud crash and an angry shout. Shawn quickly grabbed his camera and jumped down the stairs.

It worked!

He ran into the living room, where the tripwire by the tree had apparently done its job, as the tree had been knocked over and someone (Shawn couldn’t see who through the branches and ornaments) was struggling to get up.

He snapped the picture.

“Santa!” He squealed happily.

“SHAWN!”

“Uh-oh.”

That’s not Santa…

Henry finally managed to free himself from the tree’s grasp and stand up, his face as red as the Santa cap on top of his head.

“What the hell is this?!” He demanded, ripping the tripwire up out of the floor.

“Umm…”

“Shawn!”

“I was trying to catch Santa!” Shawn explained quickly. “Gus doesn’t believe me he’s real…did I miss him?”

“Yeah…” Henry groaned, rubbing his sore back. “You missed him, Kid. And I'm pretty sure attempted Santa-cide is an Automatic Bad List Offense.”

When Henry had first stepped out of his truck onto the sidewalk, it hadn’t been raining.

Or dark.

But that was three hours ago.

Three hours…?

Henry glanced down at his watch again, sure that couldn’t be right.

But it was.

Three hours standing here…he thought ruefully.

Two hours staring at that damn phone book at home…

Five hours total…

Five hours…

He sighed, looking up into the driving, stinging rain.

What the hell am I even doing…?

It had seemed so easy when the idea had first occurred to him five hours ago.

I should call Shawn and tell him I’m back…

It had all seemed so simple then…

That is, until he actually pulled out the phone book.

That was when it struck him.

I have to look up my own son’s number in the damn phone book...

I shouldn’t have to look up my own son’s number in the phone book.

But a lot changed when you moved away for three years.

Practically everything.

Even your own son’s address and phone number.

Henry had flipped through the book deliberately, finally finding the entry, which seemed to stare back up at him in its own defiant, bold-print way.

Spencer, Shawn.

For a long time, he just looked at the type…trying to forget…

Trying to forget the last fight they’d had, the day before he went to Florida.

Trying to forget how they had both vowed angrily that they would never speak to each other again.

Trying to forget that they had really meant it.

Trying to forget the dozens of times over the last few years that he had almost called his son…almost come back…almost…

But mostly, trying to forget the times that Shawn didn’t call…the times that Shawn didn’t apologize or admit he was wrong…

Finally, after realizing he wouldn’t forget, Henry had reached for the phone.

He had even dialed the first few numbers…but then the other thought had occurred to him.

What the hell am I going to say to him?

“Hey, Shawn…I’m back at the house…I’ve been back for six months now…I know you still hate me, and I still think you’re an idiot…”

He dropped the phone back on the hook.

Why bother telling him I’m back?

He won’t care…

Why should he care?

He slammed the phone book shut so he wouldn’t have to keep looking at that bold, defiant name and walked away.

Then, he had made his big mistake…

The mistake he was still regretting as the rain soaked through his jacket and ran down his neck three hours later…

He had decided to go for a drive to clear his head.

Somehow, during that drive…he never knew how…he had ended up on Shawn’s street, in front of Shawn’s apartment building.

The sun had been shining then….three hours ago…

He had pulled over and stepped out onto the sidewalk, already hearing the conversation in his mind.

“Shawn, I’m back…”

“So?”

It was the thought of that “So?” that had stopped him from calling five hours ago.

It was the thought of that “So?” that was stopping him from going up to his son’s apartment now.

It was the thought of that “So?” that finally, after three and a half hours of standing on the street and staring up at Shawn’s building like an idiot, made him get back in his truck and drive home.

He won’t care I’m back…

Why should he care?

“Dad!” Shawn whispered loudly, tapping his father’s shoulder.

Henry just grunted, still asleep as he rolled over and pulled his pillow up over his head.

“Dad!” Shawn tried again, a little bit louder this time.

Now Mel was awake, too.

“Henry,” she growled, elbowing him. “Your son wants you.”

“Why is he always my son at two AM?” Henry groaned from under the pillow.

“I don’t know,” she yawned, giving him a push out of the bed. “Go ask him. Somewhere else.”

“Okay…okay…”

Henry slowly sat up and groggily ran his fingers over his hair, still not fully awake.

He didn’t have time to ease into reality, however, as Shawn was already tugging on his hand.

“Come on, Dad!”

“Okay….okay…”

He stood up and let his six-year old son lead him out of the room by his arm.

“What?” He asked finally, sounding only mildly irritated as they walked down the stairs into the kitchen. “What’s the matter, Shawn?”

For a moment, Shawn didn’t answer.

Finally, he cleared his throat and looked back at his father.

“Wanna play Go Fish?” He asked.

“What?”

“Go Fish.”

Henry blinked angrily as he flipped on the kitchen lights and sat down at the table.

“No, I don’t want to play Go Fish!” He almost shouted. “Shawn, it’s 2 o’clock in the morning! I have to work tomorrow…today…why on earth would I want to play Go Fish now?”

“I’ll let you win.” Shawn promised, waving the deck of cards tantalizingly.

Henry wasn’t even close to biting.

“That’s not the point!” He snapped, then added, “and I don’t think my Go Fish game requires a handicap, Kid. I beat you the last four times.”

“Only because you cheated,” Shawn groused.

“I didn’t cheat. I told you. It’s called a tell. It’s not my fault you have one.”

“Then I want a re-match!”

Henry’s patience had completely worn out now.

“Not at 2 o’clock in the morning!” He hollered. “What’s the matter with you?!”

“Nothing…” Shawn mumbled, putting the cards on the table and looking down at his feet. “I just couldn’t sleep.”

“How does waking me up help with that?” Henry demanded.

“I dunno…”

“Yes, you do!”

Shawn didn’t answer.

He just stood at the table, brushing his feet back and forth across the floor and refusing to look at his father.

Henry watched him silently for a few minutes.

Finally, he sighed.

“You saw the news tonight, didn’t you?” He asked.

Shawn just nodded, still not looking up.

“Damn it,” Henry murmured. “I told her not to let you see it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Shawn...”

“Did you know him?”

Henry sighed again, leaning back in his chair and clasping his hands at the back of his neck.

He looked down at his son, who was finally meeting his gaze with wide eyes.

“Yeah, Kid. I knew him.”

“Oh.”

“Shawn…”

“Do people shoot at you, too?”

Henry hesitated.

“They have.”

He knew it wasn’t the answer Shawn wanted.

It wasn’t the answer that would help him sleep tonight.

But what was he supposed to say?

Shawn sniffed quietly, running his hand under his nose.

“Oh.”

“Look, Kid…” Henry leaned forward, gently touching the back of Shawn’s head. “I can’t tell you I don’t get shot at. I do. Sometimes.”

“I know.”

“But it’s what I have to do, Shawn. Helping people is what I do. Sometimes, doing the right thing is dangerous. Sometimes, it’s hard. Sometimes people even want to hurt you for it. But you still have to do it.”

“I know.”

“I’m always careful, Shawn.”

“I know.”

“I have a bullet-proof vest.”

“I know.”

“You know…” Henry repeated, more to himself than out loud. “But none of that’s going to help you sleep. Is it?”

Shawn shook his head.

Henry picked up the deck of cards and started to shuffle.

“Would one game of Go Fish help?”

Shawn sniffed again, but managed a little smile.

“Maybe.”

“Okay. One game.”

Shawn plopped down into the chair across the table.

“And no cheating!” He ordered, waving a warning finger at his father.

“It’s not cheating. I told you. It’s called a tell.”

“What the hell have you been telling my son?!” Shawn demanded hotly, slamming the hood of Henry’s truck shut, narrowly missing his father’s fingers.

Henry just dropped his wrench back in the toolbox, not even looking up.

“Watch it, Shawn. That was almost my hand.”

“He’s four years old, Dad!”

“So?”

“So, he told me he wants to be a cop!”

Henry finally looked up, blinking uncomprehendingly.

“God, that’d be terrible.” He intoned sarcastically. “Should we just kill him now?”
Shawn was not amused.

He jabbed a finger at his father’s chest.

“Stop telling him he has to be a cop!”

“I didn’t tell him anything. Maybe he’s just smart.”

Shawn snorted derisively.

“You gave him a toy police badge and handcuffs for his birthday.”

“That’s what he asked for.”

“It is not! He wanted that video game thing.”

“You let him play video games?” Henry clucked, shaking his head disapprovingly.

Shawn rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, Dad. I’m a horrible father. Sometimes after his nap, he gets to play Elmo.”

“You’re going to rot the kid’s brains.”

“This isn’t about the damn video game!”

Henry started to head back into the house, Shawn following angrily on his heels.

“Then what is it about, Shawn?” He asked with a tired sigh, opening the refrigerator and handing his son a soda.

Shawn took it, popping the top begrudgingly.

“He’s already counting hats, Dad.” He grumbled.

Henry couldn’t help smiling.

“Actually…he calls them haths. You might want to fix that lisp before you pack him off to Kindergarten…you know how rough Kindergarten can be with a lisp.”

“I didn’t have a lisp!”

“Well, you got over it after that kid punched you out for the third or fourth time. I’m just saying…you might want to save my grandson the same experience.”

“This isn’t about his lisp!” Shawn shouted.

“It’s not about the lisp…or the video game…what the hell is this about, Shawn?”

“I’m not going to let you mess him up, Dad. Not like you did to me.”
Now it was Henry’s turn to snort.

“How did I mess you up, Kid?”

“You know damn well what you did!” Shawn insisted.

“No…really.” Henry took a seat at the table. “Tell me which part of my lousy parenting I’m supposed to apologize for. Was it the part where I gave you a roof over your head? Or the part where I taught you how to use your brain? Or maybe the part where I didn’t let you half-ass your way through life?”

“That’s not—”

“Oh!” Henry cut him off. “I know what it is. It must be the sense of justice I instilled in you. Damn my terrible parenting!”

Shawn just scowled, collapsing into a chair opposite his father.

“I’m not going to make him be a cop, Dad.”

“You’d rather he be a fake psychic detective?”

“No! I’m not going to make him be anything! I just want him to be himself!”

“Shouldn’t you be wearing tie-dye and peace symbols when you say that?”
“Shut up. You know what I mean.”

Henry laughed, shaking his head.

“You’re not mad because you think I’m forcing him to do anything, Kid.”

“I’m not?” Shawn cocked an eyebrow.

“No. You’re mad because I don’t have to. You’re mad because he wants to be a cop. You’re mad that he wants to be like me.”

Shawn blinked.

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything.

Finally, he crossed his arms.

“Well…would it kill him to at least pretend he thought being a psychic was cool?”

“Mom?”

Gus looked up, his eyes suddenly growing wide.

He dropped the Transformer toy he was looking at on the store floor.

Where was she?

She had been right there a second ago…

Right there!

“Mom?”

His voice came out as a tiny squeak this time and tears began to fill his terrified, five year-old eyes.

She’s gone!

My mommy left without me!

He sat down on the floor, burying his head in his hands as he sobbed uncontrollably.

My mommy left without me!

She forgot me!

I’m never going to see my mommy again!

He only stopped crying when he heard a tiny voice above him.

“What’s wrong?” It asked.

Gus looked up.

A boy was standing in front of him, gazing at him with a look of concern mixed with apprehension.

“My mommy’s gone,” Gus sniffed loudly, wiping his nose on his sleeve, just like she had always told him not to.

“Really?” The boy suddenly broke into a wide grin. “That’s awesome!”

“Awesome!” Gus repeated indignantly, standing up and stomping his foot. “My mommy’s gone!”

“She’s not gone,” the boy rolled his eyes in quiet amusement. “Mommies don’t leave. It’s like the law. You’re just lost.”

“I’m lost?”

Gus was horrified.

He had never been lost before.

“Sure,” the boy shrugged, still grinning.

“Being lost isn’t awesome!” Gus shouted, on the verge of crying again.

“Yes, it is.”

“Why?”

“Because you get candy!”

Gus’ ears perked.

“Candy?” He asked doubtfully.

The boy nodded eagerly, gesturing to the front of the store, where an elderly woman was standing behind the check-out counter.

“That’s Mrs. Henderson,” he explained. “When she thinks you’re lost, she gives you candy while you wait for your parents to find you. I get lost all the time when she’s working. Last time, I got two bags of Skittles.”

“Really?”

“Uh-huh…but it only works if you cry.”

Gus nodded slowly.

“I can cry.”

“Are you sure?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Then let’s go!”

“You?” Gus cocked an eyebrow at him. “You’re not lost.”

“No,” the boy admitted, shaking his head. “My dad’s right over there…but this is candy! I want in. It was my idea.”

“Okay,” Gus shrugged. “We’ll do it together.”

The boy extended his hand as if in solemn agreement.

“I’m Shawn.”

“I’m Burton. Burton Guster.”

“Hmm…” Shawn mumbled thoughtfully. “You should tell her your name is Gus.”

Gus wrinkled his nose in distaste.

“Gus? Why?”

Shawn just grinned, wrapping his arm around Gus’ shoulder as he slowly led him to the front of the store to claim their candy.

“Trust me on this.”

“Think, Shawn.” Henry urged, an impatient edge creeping into his voice.

“Dad! I can’t do it!” Shawn insisted, his hands clasped tightly over his eyes and his brow knit in deep thought.

“Yes, you can.”

Henry leaned intently across the table, edging the plate of chocolate chip cookies closer to his five year-old son, to seemingly little purpose as Shawn couldn’t see them with his eyes closed.

But Henry was sure he could smell them…

“It’s a simple question.” He said firmly. “Think, Shawn.”

Shawn shook his head again, tortured by the smell wafting across the table, but he didn’t remove his hands from his eyes.

“I don’t know!”

“Then I guess I’m eating all the cookies by myself.”

“That’s not fair!”

“Answer the question, Shawn. What color is the carpet?”

Shawn was on the verge of tears now. He could almost taste the cookies…hot and gooey…dripping with the milk he was going to dunk them in…

…But only if he could tell his father what color the living room carpet was.

“I don’t know!” He sobbed, tears beginning to run down his cheeks as his hands balled up into frustrated little fists and pounded the table.

But his eyes were still closed.

Henry silently moved the cookies back to his side of the table.

“Shawn.”

“I can’t!”

“Shawn…” he said again, quieter this time. “Listen to me. I don’t ever want to hear you say the word can’t. You can. Do you understand me?”

“But--”

“No buts, Shawn. You can. Now think carefully. What room are you in right now?”

“The kitchen,” Shawn sighed irritably. “That’s easy.”

“Good.” Henry nodded. “The kitchen. Tell me something that’s in the kitchen. Anything.”

“I don’t know…” Shawn mumbled, his mouth starting to water again. “The cookies.”

“Something else, Kid.”

“The…table?”

“Okay. The table. What’s on the table?”

“Cookies!”

“Forget the cookies!” Henry snapped. “What else is on the table?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, is there a tiger on the table?” Henry demanded.

Shawn laughed.

“No!”

“How do you know?”

“I would have seen a tiger!”

“Exactly. You didn’t see a tiger. What did you see before you closed your eyes? Think.”

Shawn’s head began to hurt from the effort. He started to gently massage his scalp with the tips of his fingers to relieve the pain.

“Salt.” He said finally, sounding hesitant. “There’s salt on the table.”

“What else?”

“Umm…pepper?”

“And?”

Shawn’s fingers dug deeper into his scalp.

“I can’t!” He groaned.

“What did I say about that word?”

“I…is there…milk!” He exclaimed suddenly, as if a light had come on in his mind. “Milk for the cook—”

He cleared his throat, stopping himself from finishing the forbidden word.

“There’s milk.” He said again, calmer this time.

“Good. What color is the milk?”

“White.” Shawn laughed again. “Milk is always white.”

“Not chocolate milk.” Henry pointed out. “Are you sure it’s not chocolate milk?”

He had Shawn there…

What if the milk was chocolate?

Shawn thought carefully for a long moment, wanting desperately to open his eyes and look.

“No,” He said finally. “It’s not chocolate. It’s white milk.”

“How do you know?”

“I…can see it. In my head. It’s white.”

“Good. Now pretend like you’re in the living room. Pretend like you’re sitting on the couch.”

“Okay…”

Shawn’s eyes squeezed tighter. He tired to imagine himself falling into the soft, plush cushions, watching cartoons…not sitting at the kitchen table with his eyes closed playing his father’s game…

“Can you see it?” Henry asked quietly. “In your head. Like the milk?”

“Kind of…”

“Look down at the carpet. In your head. Look down and tell me what color you see.”

“Blue!”

Shawn’s eyes snapped open.

“It’s blue, Dad!”

Henry smiled, sliding the plate of cookies across the table.

“Well, dark blue.” He mumbled, mussing Shawn’s hair gently. “But that’s not bad for your first time, Kid.”

“Hey, Shawn.” Gus greeted, waving at his friend through the screen door.

Shawn returned the wave, grinning widely as he grabbed his jacket off the coat rack.

“Hey, Gus. Wanna go to the arcade?”

“Yeah, sure.” Gus shrugged. “But I’m supposed to give this back to your mom first.”

He held up the plastic grocery bag he was carrying, inside which was a casserole dish.

“My mom borrowed it, I guess.”

“Oh.”

Shawn took the bag, letting it swing limply in his grasp as his smile subtly lessened.

 “She’s not home,” he said quietly. “She’s running errands or something. I don’t know. I’ll just leave it in the kitchen. Then wanna go to the arcade?”

“Sure.”

Gus followed Shawn into the house, as he’d done a thousand times before.

It didn’t immediately occur to him that it seemed quieter than usual.

It didn’t immediately occur to him, even as he watched Shawn carelessly toss the dish on the kitchen counter and practically sprint for the door, that something was just a little bit off with his best friend.

“Come on! Let’s go!” Shawn urged impatiently from the kitchen threshold.

“Wait!” Gus called after him. “I forgot. Your mom borrowed something, too…a cookie sheet, I think. My mom needs it back.”

Shawn sighed loudly.

His blithe smile had completely vanished as he reluctantly came back into the room.

“I don’t know where it is,” he muttered testily.

“But my mom’s baking something tonight. She needs it.”

“Gus, I don’t know where it is!”

Gus could suddenly hear the strain in Shawn’s voice.

Had it been there all along…?

He was obviously working hard to control it…to not yell…to not let it give him away…

But it wasn’t working.

At least, it wasn’t working anymore.

Gus could see it now.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “I’ll just ask your mom where it is when we get back from the arcade. No big deal.”

Shawn stiffened.

“She might not be home yet.”

“But it’ll be dinner time by then,” Gus pointed out, completely baffled now.

Since when wasn’t Shawn’s mom home by dinner time?

She was always home by dinner time…

“I know.” Shawn snapped, turning towards the door again. “Let’s just go to the arcade.”

But Gus wasn’t going to let it drop that easily.

“Won’t she--” He started to ask, but Shawn cut him off sharply before he could finish.

“I don’t know.”

“But she’s always back—”

“Gus!”

Shawn didn’t even bother trying to disguise his emotions this time. His ears were red as he whirled back around and shouted at his best friend.

“I don’t know when she’ll back! Okay? I don’t know when she’ll be back!”

Gus didn’t know what to say.

For a long moment, he just stared at Shawn, who was looking down at the floor now, his ears still burning.

“She left three days ago, Gus.” Shawn mumbled finally. “I don’t know when she’ll be back.”

“Oh.”

“Let’s just go to the arcade,” Shawn said again.

This time, Gus heard the pleading in his voice.

“Okay.”

They walked out the back door and crossed the lawn to their bikes.

They rode in silence to the arcade, and for an hour lost themselves in the mindless video games, never once uttering a word to each other.

Gus didn’t have anything to say, and he knew that Shawn wouldn’t want to hear it if he did.

Finally, the sky outside the arcade began to grow dark

“I should go home,” Gus said as his last life expired, checking his watch.

“Yeah,” Shawn nodded, fastening his bike helmet on. “Me, too.”

Gus hesitated, wanting to say something…

Needing to say something…

But there wasn’t anything to say.

Finally, he just sighed and hopped on his bike.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Shawn.”

He was surprised when Shawn almost smiled.

“Yeah, Gus. I know.”

Detective Lassiter rang the tiny bell that sat on the service counter.

When nothing immediately happened, he rang it again.

Then again.

Finally, a sales clerk appeared.

“Can I help you?” She asked, just a little too chipper as she took the bell away from him and placed it under the counter.

Lassiter scowled.

It was bad enough he was shopping…for flowers, nonetheless…the last thing he wanted to deal with right now was a perky sales clerk.

“I don’t know,” he grumbled.

“Well, were you looking for anything particular?” The clerk pressed, her smile continuing to radiate sunshine.

It was starting to make him slightly nauseous, actually…

“I don’t know.” He said again, his eyes narrowing irritably.

The clerk sighed, but remained cheerful.

Clearly, it was just going to be one of those days…

“Well, let’s start at the beginning.” She decided, resting her elbows on the counter. “Who are the flowers for?”

Finally, a question Lassiter could answer!

“My partner.” He said firmly.

The clerk nodded encouragingly.

“Okay...that’s a start. What’s his name?”

“O’Hara.” Lassiter answered unthinkingly, then finally realized the pronoun confusion a moment later.

“No! Wait!” He backpedaled quickly, his ears turning scarlet. “Not that kind of…my partner on the force! I’m a cop! Her name’s O’Hara…I’m a cop.”

“Oh.” The clerk smiled. “I see. And why are you buying your partner-on-the-force-named-O’Hara flowers? What’s the occasion?”

Lassiter thought for a long moment, his head cocked to one side in deep contemplation.

“I’m not sure what you call it…”

“Well, is it an anniversary of some kind?”

“No…”

“Is it her birthday?”

“That was two months ago…”

“Ah.”

The clerk nodded knowingly.

“What?” Lassiter demanded, insulted.

“Are these belated birthday flowers?”

“No!” He insisted, incensed at the very suggestion.

“Are you sure?”

“They’re…” Lassiter hesitated. “I guess they’re…‘I-Didn’t-Know-I-Was-Supposed-To-Remember-Your-Birthday-Just-Because-You-

Remembered-Mine-Even-Though-I-Never-Asked-You-To- But-Since-We’re-Partners-And-You’re-My-Backup-When-People-Are-

Shooting-At-Me-I-Don’t-Want-You-To-Be-Pissed-Off-So-Here’s-

Some-Flowers-Stop-Glaring-At-Me-Like-I-Killed-Someone…flowers.”

The clerk blinked, bemused.

“That’s a lot for flowers to say…” She said.

“Tell me about it.” He muttered under his breath. “Try looking for a greeting card…”

The clerk laughed.

“I think I have just the thing for you.”

“Gus! Gus! Look what I found!” Shawn burst into Gus’ bedroom, panting and frantically waving an old piece of paper through the air.

“What is it?” Gus asked, leaving his book and jumping off the bed.

“A pirate treasure map!”

“A what?”

Gus grabbed the paper and examined it skeptically.

It was definitely a map of some kind, with crudely drawn pictographs labeled with scrawling, almost illegible print and a blue line that seemed to indicate a path, which ended at a large, red X in bottom left corner.

“Where’d you find it?” Gus asked, still not completely convinced.

“At the tree house.”

“The tree house? Why would there be a pirate map at the tree house?”
“I dunno.” Shawn shrugged, his eyes dancing with the possibilities. “Do you think it used to be a pirate hideout?”

“No!” Gus scoffed, folding the map and handing it back to his friend.

“But why else would there be a pirate treasure map in our tree house?” Shawn demanded.

“How do you know it’s a pirate treasure map?”

“Look at the signature!”

Shawn unfurled the map once again and pointed to large, looping signature just below the red X.

“It says Blackbeard.” Shawn told him. “Blackbeard the pirate buried a treasure around here!”
“Shawn,” Gus rolled his eyes. “Blackbeard sailed in the Atlantic and the Caribbean. He never got anywhere near Santa Barbara. And he died in 1718. He did not leave a treasure map in our tree house today.”

“Dude…” Shawn laughed, shaking his head mockingly at his best friend. “You are such a dork!”

“What?” Gus crossed his arms defensively. “I read. Okay?”

“I wouldn’t go around bragging about it.”

“It’s not a treasure map, Shawn.”

“Yes, it is! Come on, Gus. We have to find it! We’ll be rich!”

“Even if it is a treasure map, and even if we find the treasure, we can’t keep it. We’d have to give it to a museum or something. It’d be an important historical discovery.”

“Hey,” Shawn snorted. “You do whatever you want with your half. I think I’ll blow mine on candy and movies…maybe buy a motorcycle…oh! Two motorcycles! Yeah…”

Gus could almost see the dollar signs flashing across Shawn’s suddenly dreamy, faraway eyes.

“You’re nine, Shawn. You can’t even drive.”

“Then I’ll buy a license.”

“You can’t buy a license.”

“When you’re rich,” Shawn insisted knowledgably, “you can buy anything. That’s what being rich is! Come on! Let’s find the treasure.”

“Okay…” Gus agreed reluctantly, following Shawn to the door.

He knew he wouldn’t get any peace and quiet until he just went along with it.

Outside the house, Shawn studied the map carefully.

“It looks like it starts at a tree…” he said finally. “See this symbol? That looks like a tree, right?”

“Actually, it looks like a poodle.” Gus muttered under his breath.

“It’s not a poodle, Gus. It’s a tree.”

“Fine. It’s a tree. But what tree, Shawn?”

“Hmm…” Shawn scratched his head, then snapped his fingers as inspiration struck. “The tree house tree! We start at the tree house!”

“Of course.”

Shawn missed the sarcastic twinge in Gus’ voice, as he was already running full-speed to the tree house.

Gus sighed and slowly jogged after him.

By the time he caught up, Shawn was already trying to decipher the next location.

“It looks like we go left from here…then right here…”

He was looking down at the map as he continued to walk quickly up the street, turning and twisting without even considering actually watching where he was going.

Finally, he stopped.

“Well, this is it…” He declared. “This is where the treasure is buried.”

“Uh…Shawn.”

“What?”

“This is your front yard.”

Shawn looked up from the map for the first time, blinking.

“Oh. That’s weird…”

“Yeah.”

“I wonder why a pirate would bury a treasure in my front yard.”

“Shawn! It’s not a pirate treasure map!” Gus shouted.

“Sure it is. And it’s buried right here. We just have to dig it up. I think my dad has some shovels in the garage…”

“I’m not digging, Shawn.” Gus insisted stubbornly.

“Then you don’t get any.”

“That’s not fair!”

“Then help me dig!”

“Fine.”

It took longer than they expected to dig the hole. The soil was hard and resistant, so they had to break it up with the edge of the shovels before they could pile it to the side. After an hour, the hole was only about three feet square and a few inches deep.

Gus leaned against his shovel, wiping the sweat off his forehead.

“I don’t think there’s a treasure, Shawn.”

“Keep digging,” Shawn panted, running his hand over his brow, which left a streak of mud just above his eye.

Before Gus could tell him no, Henry’s truck pulled into the driveway.

“Uh-oh,” Gus mumbled nervously. “Your dad is going to kill us! Look what we did to his yard!”

Henry was already walking over to them…but, oddly enough, he wasn’t scowling or screaming.

He seemed calm.

In fact, he was even kind of smiling…

“Hey, guys. Find a treasure yet?” He asked with a small smirk.

“How’d you know--” Shawn gasped.

Henry just shook his head pityingly.

“Come on, Kid. A pirate treasure map? Really?”

Shawn’s eyes narrowed as the realization dawned on him.

“You mean you--”

“Hey,” Henry’s eyebrows arched. “You promised me a week ago that you were going to help me get those flower bulbs in the ground. I couldn’t wait any longer, Kid. I had to get them planted today.”

“This is your garden?” Shawn shouted, throwing his shovel down.

"Actually, I wanted it a couple of feet to your right...but that's close enough, I guess."

“You tricked me!”

Henry shrugged.

“You fell for it. That’s not my fault.”

“But--”

“Shawn, there aren’t any pirate treasure maps in life. Just hard work.”

“I told you it wasn’t real.” Gus groused.

“There’s no treasure?”

 Shawn’s eyes were wide, his voice on the verge of cracking.

“Well, are you ever going to fall for another get-rich-quick scam?” Henry asked.

“No.” Shawn muttered bitterly.

“Then, there you go.”

“Come on, Jules! Tell me!” Shawn pleaded.

“No!” Juliet snapped for at least the thousandth time, trying to walk away from him.

But Shawn was not to be so easily deterred. He followed her around the precinct, pouting like an ignored child.

“Come on!” He whined. “Tell me! Tell me tell me tell me tell me tell me!”

“No!” She shouted, whirling around and glaring at him.

But Shawn seemed to be immune to her ire. He just folded his arms across his chest obstinately.

“Come on, Jules! Gus told me you had a dream about me.”

“I didn’t have a dream about you.” She corrected shortly. “You happened to be in a dream I had…and that’s the last time I tell Gus anything!”

“Fine. You had a dream that I happened to be the star of…”

“In, Shawn. You were in a dream. And I don’t want to talk about it!”

“Okay, okay…I get it. Really.” He relented.

“Thank you.”

“Just tell me one thing…” he needled a moment later, grinning slyly. “Was I dashing?”

“Shawn…” Juliet groaned, rapidly reaching the end of her already frayed rope.

Shawn didn’t seem to notice.

“Was I your knight in shining armor? I’ve been told chain mail suits me…”

“Who the heck told you that?” Juliet snorted.

“…people…”

Juliet just rolled her eyes.

“No, Shawn. You were not a knight in shining armor.”

Shawn’s dancing eyes flashed wickedly, his grin broadening.

“Ah. Are you more the swashbuckling pirate type? I’ve also been told I buckle a mean swash.”

“No one told you that,” Juliet scoffed.

“Sure they did. What? I don’t?”

“There were no buckles, Shawn. There were no swashes. And I don’t want to talk about it!”

Juliet’s ears were burning, which only made tormenting her more fun for Shawn.

“Oh, come on,” he gushed playfully. “You know I was dashing. I rode in on my white horse…rescued the damsel in distress…”

Juliet suddenly laughed loudly, clapping her hand over her mouth and shaking her head in some private joke.

“What?” Shawn demanded, looking wounded.

She raised her eyebrows, still smiling.

“Do you really want to know?” She asked through her fingers.

“Yes! What’s so funny?”

“You were the damsel, Shawn.”

“What?”

Juliet was still laughing, but Shawn was horrified.

“I was a what?” He demanded again.

Now his ears were burning.

Juliet liked the switch.

“You were the one who needed rescuing, Shawn. You. Not me. You.”

“Me?”

“You.”

“That’s ridiculous! I do not need rescuing!” Shawn insisted resentfully.

Juliet smiled again, her eyes meeting his.

“Hey. My dream, my rules.”

"Your dad’s back at the house?” Gus asked quietly as the officer strolled away from the car.

That was probably the worst possible thing he could say at that moment, Shawn thought grimly.

“Apparently.”

“Oh.”

They sat in silence for a minute, Shawn’s nails digging into the steering wheel until he was sure he was about to bend it in half.

“He didn’t tell you?” Gus asked finally.

Another stupid question.

“No.” Shawn snapped.

“Oh.”

“I don’t care.”

Gus glanced down at his friend’s chalk-white knuckles skeptically.

“Clearly,” he mumbled.

Shawn glared at him.

“I don’t, Gus. You weren’t there the last time…before he left. Trust me, I don’t care. Neither does he.”

“What happened? You never told me. You didn’t even tell me he was leaving until he was already in Florida.”

For a long moment, Shawn didn’t answer. He stared blankly out the windshield, his eyes glazed and somber.

“He told me not to bother calling him until I, his words, ‘get rid of that damn bike and get a real job’. I told him not to bother calling me until he was six feet under.”

“You didn’t say that.”

“Yeah, Gus.” Shawn sighed. “Yeah, I did.”

“What’d he say?”

“That it’d take a hell of a lot more than that to make him call.”

“Oh.”

Shawn just shrugged, trying to appear unaffected.

“I don’t care.”

“Clearly.”

“Shut up, Gus.”

But Gus didn’t shut up.

He never shut up when Shawn told him to.

“Are you going to--”

“No.” Shawn cut him off sharply, pulling back out onto the road.

“Really?”

“Hell no.”

“He’s your dad, Shawn.”

“I don’t care.”

That was the third time he had said that…I don’t care…but he still didn’t believe it.

Not really.

He could tell from Gus’ reproaching glare that he didn’t believe it, either.

But, this time, Gus didn’t say anything.

He didn’t have to.

Shawn was already thinking it.

“I’m not going, Gus.” He insisted.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“But I’m not!”

“Okay.”

“He’s the one who's been back for a year! A year, Gus!” Shawn shouted, punching the dashboard.

“I know.”

“He’s the one—”

“Shawn.” Gus interjected.

“What?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

Shawn sighed again, his death grip on the wheel relaxing.

“I know.”

They didn’t speak for the rest of the car ride.

Shawn fought against it for the rest of the day.

He couldn’t even think about anything else.

He fought against all the next morning.

I’m not doing it!

I’m not going to make the first move!

I’m not!

And he meant it…

If it wasn’t for that damn case…

He’d hit a dead end.

He didn’t have a choice. After a full twenty-four hours of fighting it, he knew he didn’t have a choice.

Not if he was going to pull off his fake psychic act.

He needed help.

He needed his father.

He pulled up to the house on his bike, the memories suddenly flooding back…

“It’ll take hell of a lot more than that to make me call, Kid.”

For a moment, he considered getting back on and just riding away.

He’ll never know I was here…

He’ll never know…

I can still leave…

But something wouldn’t let him walk away.

Something…something compelled him forward.

He told himself it was just because he needed help on the case…he told himself he had just hit a dead end…

But deep down, he knew it wasn’t a desire to solve a crime that made him knock on the door.

Suddenly, sooner than he was expecting, his father was in front of him.

If Henry Spencer was surprised…if he felt anything at all at seeing the son he hadn’t spoken to in three years…he certainly didn’t let it show.

Their eyes locked.

“You didn’t tell me you were back.” Shawn mumbled.

Henry just shrugged, remaining completely impassive.

“You didn’t tell me you were leaving.”

The accusation was like a knife sliding through Shawn’s ribs.

This is why…he thought bitterly.

This is why it’s been three years…nothing’s changed…

“That was different.” Shawn returned.

“Was it?”

“Yeah. I was helping my mom through her divorce.”

Even as he said it, Shawn knew what he was doing.

The same thing he always did when they fought…the same thing they both did…

Hitting below the belt.

Henry’s eyes narrowed momentarily.

Shawn quickly changed the subject.

“Can I come in?”

“No.”

Henry pushed past his son and strolled calmly to his truck, kicking Shawn’s bike lightly as he passed by.

“I was going to lunch. You can come if you don’t take that thing.”

He didn’t have to say anything else.

They both knew what he was saying.

Their last fight, three years ago, had been about the bike. They always fought about the bike, even when they weren’t really fighting about the bike.

Shawn didn’t move.

If I leave it here…he wins…

It I take it, he won’t speak to me…

He’ll never speak to me again…

It was a Henry Spencer ultimatum, pure and simple.

Shawn’s fingers curled around his helmet. He wanted to put it back on, ride off in a cloud of dust…and never look back.

I could…

I could…

If I walk away now, I’m not coming back…

If I walk away now, this is it…

I never have to speak to him again…

Henry was in the truck now, staring at Shawn.

Almost eagerly, Shawn thought.

He wants me to come...

He won't say it...but he does...

He sighed and dropped the helmet on his seat, jumping into the passenger seat of his father’s truck.

“You’re coming?” Henry asked, almost sounding surprised.

“Yeah,” Shawn shrugged. “I’m coming, Dad.”

“Hand it over, Shawn.”

“Hand what over?” Shawn asked innocently, dropping his backpack on the floor and preparing to raid the fridge.

Henry pushed the refrigerator door closed and glared at his son.

“Shawn,” he intoned. “I know you have it. Hand it over.”

“Fine.”

 Shawn sighed in defeat and grabbed his bag again. It took a few minutes of rooting through the swamp of crumpled papers, candy wrappers and unopened books inside, but he finally managed to find it.

“Here,” he mumbled, pressing the small, wrinkled envelope into his father’s outstretched hand.

“Sit down.” Henry ordered, taking a seat at the table himself as he ripped the envelope open.

“Dad,” Shawn groaned. “Do we have to go through this every time I get a report card?”

“Yes. Sit!”

“You know, some parents just look at their kid’s grades. Some parents actually trust teachers.”

“Some parents are morons, Shawn.”

“Just some?” Shawn muttered under his breath, collapsing into a chair in a sullen pout.

Henry didn’t hear the slight, however, as he was already pouring over his son’s report card, analyzing every pen stroke critically.

After several minutes, he finally put it down with a dissatisfied sigh.

“See what I mean, Kid? I’d be a moron to accept that report card as-is.”

“What are you talking about? I got three A’s!”

“Two,” Henry snorted contemptuously. “Gym doesn’t count.”

Shawn rolled his eyes.

“Fine. Two A’s. They’re still A’s.”

Henry picked up the report card again, glancing it over one more time before thoughtfully taking out a pen.

“Gym doesn’t count,” he said again, crossing the subject out. “And you didn’t really earn that A in English.”

“I did, too!” Shawn insisted, trying to grab the report card out of his father’s hand.

But Henry wasn’t letting go.

“Shawn. I saw the essay you handed in on The Canterbury Tales. No way in hell was that an A paper. I told you to do it again.”

“It was a solid C paper!” Shawn argued. “And I did extra credit!”

“Extra credit.” Henry snorted, shaking his head. “Extra credit is for slackers who spent all semester goofing off.”

“Exactly!”

“It doesn’t count, Shawn.” Henry said with finality, crossing out the A on the report card and replacing it with a grade of his own. “You didn’t earn an A. You earned a C.”

“That’s not fair! My teacher gave me an A!”

“Your teacher clearly doesn’t know what she’s doing.”

Shawn crossed his arms, his burning eyes locking with his father’s.

“It’s at least a C+.”

“Fine,” Henry conceded. “A C+. That’s still not an A.”

“It’s not an F!”

“Is that all we’re going by now?” Henry demanded sarcastically. “‘I did better than the lowest possible standard, so it must be okay’. God, Shawn. Do have any idea what would happen if I did my job that way?”

“Yeah. Some jaywalker might get away scot-free.”

Henry’s eyes narrowed.

Shawn knew that look. He was starting to tread on thin ice.

“Watch it, Kid. I gave you the C+. Now, about this A in math…”

“I aced every test!” Shawn shouted. “I earned that A!”

Henry raised his eyebrows.

“Really? Shawn, what’s a quadratic equation?”

Shawn hesitated.

“Umm…”

Henry shook his head, crossing out the A with a single, dark line.

“Memorizing test keys does not constitute an education, Kid. No dice. F.”

“D.” Shawn shot back.

Henry glanced up, his pen poised to write.

“D-.” He offered.

Shawn knew it was the best he was going to do.

“Deal,” he muttered.

Henry wrote in the new grade and handed the report card back to Shawn.

“There you go, Shawn. That’s your real report card. I told you. Teachers have no idea what they’re doing.”

Gus tried to stop his legs from twitching and his toes from tapping. He tried to stop drumming inanely on the arms of the chair, but it was no use.

He just couldn’t stop.

And it didn’t help that Shawn was sitting in the chair next to him, looking as cool as a cucumber…and even slightly bored.

As if nothing in the world was wrong.

As if they didn’t just get suspended.

“It’s your fault!” Gus hissed venomously, hoping to agitate his best friend.

Why shouldn’t Shawn be as miserable as he was?

But it would take more than Gus’ rage to rattle Shawn Spencer.

“It’s a stupid rule,” Shawn muttered with a careless shrug. “They suspend you for skipping class?”

“No!” Gus snapped shortly. “They suspend you for skipping class to make a sandwich in the school kitchen! I told you we weren’t supposed to be in there!”

“Hey, it was an hour until lunch…what was I supposed to do? Starve?”

“You didn’t have to turn the stove on! You set off the smoke detectors!”

“My sandwich needed soup.” Shawn replied simply, as if that explained everything.

“My parents are going to kill me!” Gus almost shouted, his fingers unconsciously beginning to drum on the chair again. “You got me suspended from school! I’m dead!”

Shawn just rolled his eyes and rested his head against the wall behind him, serenely awaiting their fate.

Before Gus could continue his tirade, Henry appeared from the principal’s office, scowling at his son.

He spoke, quite pointedly, to Gus first.

“Gus, I’m taking you home.”

“Okay.” Gus said quietly, starting to stand up until Henry stopped him with a sharp look.

“Sit.”

“Okay.”

Henry turned back to Shawn now, his eyes seeming to look right through his son.

“Shawn, get in the car.”

“It was a sandwich, Dad. Not a bomb.”

“Shawn. Now.”

“Fine.” Shawn mumbled, stalking to the door. “It’s not like I actually burned the school down…”

Once he was out of the office, Henry and Gus were completely alone.

Gus stared up at Shawn’s dad, his stomach leaping into his throat as he noticed the gun strapped to his hip.

He had always been slightly afraid of Shawn’s dad, anyway, and he looked particularly intimidating in his uniform, looming over Gus with his arms crossed and his jaw firmly set...and that gun…

Henry noticed Gus staring at the gun. He rolled his eyes and sat down next to him.

“For God’s sake, Gus. I’m not going to shoot you.”

“I know.” Gus said, trying to sound convincing.

“What the hell were you doing starting a fire in the kitchen?”

“There wasn’t a fire…” Gus protested. “Mostly just smoke.”

“But why were you there in the first place?”

“Shawn--”

“I know why Shawn was there.” Henry snapped.” Shawn’s an idiot. I’m asking why you were there.”

“I don’t know…Shawn--”

Henry sighed.

“Gus, listening to Shawn…ever… is a good way to get yourself killed. Or suspended. You know that.”

Gus looked down at the floor, kicking his feet absently.

“I know…”

“You’re smarter than that.”

“I am?” Gus looked up, surprised at the near-compliment.

Henry just laughed, shaking his head slowly.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

“I’ll make you a deal, Gus.” Henry said finally.

“What?”

“I’ll get you off the hook with your parents…this time. But you have to stop listening to Shawn when he comes up with these stupid ideas.”

“Okay.”

“And for God’s sake,” Henry added, standing up and walking to the door. “Keep him away from anything flammable!!”

Lucinda stood silently in her doorway, watching him sleep.

She loved watching him sleep.

It was one of the only times when she could see the real Carlton.

It was one of the only times when his face wasn’t twisted into a perpetual scowl.

When he slept, all those hard, cynical lines around the edges of his eyes and mouth faded into an almost soft, peaceful expression.

Sometimes, he even looked quietly happy.

Once, she swore she even saw him smile…

She sipped at her glass of water, fighting the urge to wake him up and tell him now.

It can wait until tomorrow…she told herself.

It has to wait until tomorrow…

Tonight, let him sleep…

He grunted softly as he kicked the covers off and rolled over on his side so he was facing her.

She smiled to herself, once again awed by his ability to keep his immaculate white t-shirt completely unwrinkled, even while rolling over.

How the heck does he do it…?

His eyes were still closed, the lines around them still serene, but for a moment she stood completely still and held her breath, silently praying he would stay asleep…

Praying he wouldn’t notice her standing there…

Just praying…

She glanced over at her bag in the corner of the room.

She couldn’t actually see the paper inside of it, but she knew it was there.

When she closed her eyes, she could still remember every word…

Every word she would have to tell Carlton tomorrow…

Tomorrow…

Tonight, let him sleep…

She had suspected for months that the transfer was coming.

Ever since they got together, she knew it was a risk.

It was the inevitable conclusion, really.

He wasn’t even divorced yet.

It wasn’t going anywhere…not really…

In a way, it was almost a relief.

The other shoe had finally dropped…

She didn’t have to wonder anymore how much longer they had.

She didn’t have to wait breathlessly for the bubble to burst.

It was a relief, really….

A relief…

She sighed and put the glass down on the nightstand, trying not to wake up Carlton.

But, of course, he was a cop…

His eyes shot open at the almost imperceptible sound of the glass touching the Formica.

Before she could say anything, he was sitting up.

“What the hell—”

“Sorry.”

“What are you doing?” He demanded the lines around his face and eyes back to scowling.

“Nothing,” she shrugged, trying to smile. “Just standing here…”

“Shawn, you said you’d help!” Gus chided, glaring at his best friend’s reflection in the mirror as he rummaged through his bureau drawers for socks.

“I did not!” Shawn grumbled.

“Yes, you did!”

“No!” Shawn shook his head emphatically, bouncing sprightly as he collapsed onto Gus’ bed. “I said I’d help you pick a cool place to go on your first date…or give you a sure-fire pick-up line…or siphon all the gas out of her car so you could show up and be a hero. I would do any of those things for you, Gus. What I won’t do is help you pick out your first-date outfit!”

“It’s not an ‘outfit’!” Gus shouted, chucking the socks he’d finally decided on at Shawn’s head. “I told you! It’s just a shirt…and a tie…and a jacket…and pants.”

“Matching pants?” Shawn demanded, dodging the projectile and folding his arms in solemn judgment.

“Of course.”

Shawn shook his head, clucking reprovingly.

“Sounds like an outfit to me, Dude.”

“Well, it’s not.” Gus insisted doggedly. “It’s just…clothes.”

“Then why do you need my help if it’s ‘just clothes’?”

“Because, Shawn!” Gus spun on his heel, marching to his closet. “It’s my first date! I don’t know what to wear! You’re cool…kind of…what would you wear?”

Shawn rolled his eyes as Gus threw open the closet door, revealing a perfect row of neatly pressed jackets, immaculate shirts, and spotless ties all hanging on pristine wire hangers.

“First of all, I am totally cool.” Shawn began pointedly, standing up and joining his friend by the door. “And, secondly, I wouldn’t wear anything that came out of this closet. This is where cool comes to die, Gus.”

“Very funny. Are you going to help me or not?”

“Fine,” Shawn sighed heavily, peering into the closet again.

He studied the assortment of jackets critically for a long moment.

“I dunno…” he mumbled finally. “The blue one?”

“What blue one?” Gus asked, sifting through the hangers with the confident air of someone who had done this before. “The navy? The royal?”

This was too much for Shawn.

“Oh, God, Gus.” He groaned. “I don’t know…the one with the stripes.”

“Okay…”

Gus quickly pulled out the jacket and tossed it on his bed.

“Now what shirt?” He pressed on.

“Gus…”

“Shawn! You said you’d help. What shirt?”

“I don’t know…this one.”

Shawn grabbed a shirt off a hanger at random and unenthusiastically tossed it to Gus, just hoping this would all end soon.

“Shawn!” Gus snapped irritably, gently putting it back on the hanger. “I can’t wear this one!”

“Why not?” Shawn demanded.

“Because it has stripes!”
“So?”

“So…” Gus huffed. “The jacket has stripes, too.”

Shawn just blinked, still not understanding the problem.

“So?”

“So it’s too many stripes! Everyone knows that! If the jacket has stripes, you have to go with a solid color shirt!”

Shawn stared at his best friend in a sustained, horrified silence.

“Please tell me you’re joking.” He pleaded.

But Gus was far from joking.

“Forget it.” He growled, hanging the rejected shirt back up. “I’ll figure it out myself.”

“Thank God!”

Shawn sprinted for the door, grateful to finally be free of stripes and solids.

“Shawn!” Gus called, stopping him just before he left.

“What?”

Gus cleared his throat delicately, hesitating before continuing.

“…You’re still doing the gas-siphoning thing, right?” He asked.

Shawn grinned.

“That I can do.”

“Shawn! Come on!” Henry pleaded, trying one more time to maneuver the rubber-tipped spoon into his son’s mouth.

But Shawn just turned up his nose and clamped his mouth shut, absolutely refusing to budge.

“Look, Kid.” Henry growled, putting the spoon back in the small bowl of mashed peas. “You’re going to eat, okay? I’m the grown-up, you’re the kid. I’m bigger than you. And I say you’re going to eat!”

Henry’s eyes locked with his twelve month-old son’s, and for a moment he swore he saw a defiant glint in them.

No… he told himself, refusing to believe it.

It’s a baby…

Babies aren’t defiant.

“Shawn, come on!” He tried again.

Shawn shook his head and reached out to the counter behind Henry, grunting as he tried to grab something off it.

Henry turned around.

“Oh!” He smiled to himself, finally seeing the jar Shawn was looking at. “You want the pineapple baby food. Sorry, Kid. Your mom said it had to be peas. Don’t ask me why…”

As he turned back around to the high chair again, he swore Shawn was glaring at him.

But babies don’t glare…

“Look, Kid.” He reasoned, picking the spoon up again. “It’s not my fault. I’m just following orders, here. Your mom said peas, so you’re eating the damn peas.”

But Shawn’s lips were closed even tighter than before.

Henry sighed and gently pinched his son’s nose closed.

“You have to breathe sometime, Shawn.” He intoned, the spoon poised to shovel the peas in as soon as he did.

But Shawn didn’t breathe.

He started to exhale strongly through his nose, his face turning red with the exertion. Almost like he was blowing his nose…

No…

Sure enough, tiny bubbles began to appear around the edges of Henry’s fingers, quickly bursting and leaving his hand slimy.

“God, Shawn!” He groaned, wiping his fingers off on his pants. “That’s disgusting! What’s the matter with you?”

Shawn was laughing now.

Not out loud, of course…but Henry could see it in his eyes.

The kid was laughing!

Suddenly, this was personal.

“Alright, Shawn,” he growled. “Playtime’s over! You’re eating the damn peas!”

Shawn just shook his head again and reached for the pineapple baby food.

“No!” Henry snapped. “No pineapples!”

Shawn’s lower lip began to quiver.

“Don’t you dare.” Henry warned, but it was too late.

Shawn was already screaming.

Henry folded his arms and leaned back in his chair.

“You can scream all day, Kid.” He said. “You’re still not getting the pineapples. I’m bigger than you, remember?”

Shawn seemed to take him up on his offer, as he continued to scream.

For a solid ten minutes, the two Spencer men sat at an impasse, Shawn screaming until he was red in the face and Henry sitting with his arms folded, refusing to budge.

Finally, Mel came in, carrying several large grocery bags. She set them on the counter and took in the scene.

“Henry! What the heck are you doing?” She demanded. “I told you to feed Shawn, not torture him!”

“He won’t eat!” Henry argued. “He wants the damn pineapples!”

"Then why didn’t you just give him the pineapple?”

“You said--”

“Oh, forget it!” Mel sighed irritably, rolling her eyes as she pushed Henry off the chair. “Put the groceries away. I’ll feed him.”

She grabbed the pineapple off the counter and opened the jar, cooing gently to calm her still-screaming son.

As Henry stood up and walked away, he swore Shawn winked at him.

No…

Babies don’t wink…

Carlton cleared his throat and inhaled deeply, steeling himself before he opened the door.

Finally, he was ready.

His fingers slowly reached for the knob, but quickly retreated before he could turn it.

“You can do this, Carlton…” he mumbled under his breath as he began to pace nervously. “How hard can it be?... Just walk in there…tell her how it’s going to be…”

He stopped again, facing the door with a resolute sigh.

“Mom, I’m going to be a cop’…” He said firmly, practicing. “…‘Mom, I’m going to be a cop’…”

He nodded again, resigning himself to the task at hand, and turned the knob.

This time, he actually got the door all the way open before he hesitated.

He almost slammed it shut again and ran away, but it was too late. From the kitchen, he heard her voice.

“Carlton? Is that you?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Mom…I’m going to be a cop…He chanted in his mind, certain he’d forget the words the moment he saw her.

Mom…I’m going to be a cop…

Mom…I’m going to be a cop…

“Carlton?”

She sounded nervous now.

“Yeah, Mom.” He answered, finally managing to make his feet and mouth work simultaneously as he walked into the kitchen.

“What are you doing lurking in the doorway?” She scolded. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

“No, Mom.” He sighed, rolling his eyes. “I wasn’t trying to give you a heart attack.”

“Well, sit down!” She ordered, already bustling to get their customary tea ready.

He sat.

“Mom…” he started, clearing his throat deliberately.

But she wasn’t listening.

“How’s your girlfriend?” She asked, putting the kettle on.

“Fine. Mom, listen--”

“So you didn’t dump her yet?” She asked with a reproaching glare, placing a tea cup on the table in front of him.

“No.” He snapped. “I didn’t dump her. I told you--”

“I’m just saying, Carlton…” she continued, still purposefully unaware he was trying to speak. “You could do better.”

Carlton picked up the cup absently, turning it over in his hands as he tried to get the words out while her back was still to him.

“Mom! Listen!”

She was back at the table now, pouring the boiling water into their cups before she finally took a seat across from her son.

“She’s too skinny, that one.” She commented as she slowly dipped her tea bag into the water. “And she has shifty eyes.”

“She doesn’t have shifty eyes.”

“I think she stole one of my tea cups.”

“She didn’t steal anything!”

Carlton was almost shouting now. He pushed the cup away and stood up again.

“Mom, listen to me!” He ordered. “I have to tell you something!”

“What?”

“Mom…I’m going to be a cop.” He recited, impressed with himself for remembering every word.

She stared up at him, blinking slowly.

Finally, she stood up and silently crossed to the counter.

When she turned around again, she was holding a knife.

“Carlton, if you’re trying to kill me, just use this.”

Carlton rolled his eyes, taking the knife away from her and tossing it on the table.

“Stop it! It’s not going to kill you if you I become a cop.”

“Yes, it will.” She insisted firmly. “You know I have a weak heart.”

“Your heart is fine. You just had a physical.”

“You’re supposed to be a musician…” she sobbed dramatically, dabbing her eyes. “You had such talent!”

“I don’t want to be musician!” He argued, knowing it was pointless. “Or a lawyer or a doctor or anything. Mom, look…this is what I want to do. This is what I have to do. Okay? I’m going to be a cop.”

She crossed her arms stubbornly.

“No.” She said matter-of-factly.

“What?”

“I said no,” she repeated herself with a sharp shake of her head. “You’re not becoming a cop. I forbid it!”

“You can’t--”

“Oh, yes I can! I’m your mother!”

“I’m twenty-two years old!”

“I can still ground you!”
“No, you can’t!”

He marched to the door, more resolute than ever.

She was right on his heels.

“You can’t ground me!” He yelled, swinging the door open and stepping outside. “And I’m doing it, Mom! I’m going to be a cop!”

She followed him onto the front porch, yelling after him as he stormed to his car.

“Carlton Lassiter! You get back in here! I told you you’re grounded!”

He slammed his car door and started the engine, sighing in relief as he pulled away.

She was still standing on the porch, shaking her fist at him as he drove off.

“Well, that went better than I expected,” he mumbled to no one in particular. “…Now I just have to tell her I’m getting married…”

It was a quiet day at the SBPD.

Too quiet…

Almost as if crime had decided to take the day off.

Juliet sighed as she finished up the last of her paper work and filed it.

What am I supposed to do now…? She wondered, glancing up at the clock.

It was only 10 AM.

Seven hours left…She groaned inwardly.

Two hours until lunch…

And I already have all my work done!

She sighed again and pulled out her notebook, figuring she could always go through and re-copy some of her more illegible scrawlings.

After about two minutes of diligent scribing, however, she found herself staring off into space and doodling absently.

She glanced down at her picture after a bit, laughing to herself when she saw she’d drawn what looked like the crude stick figure of a girl waving at her.

That kind of looks like me… She smiled.

Maybe it is me…

She wrote her name under the figure, dotting the I in Juliet with a small heart, just like she used to when she was a kid.

After a moment, her brow wrinkled in concern.

If that’s me, I need a place to live…

She quickly sketched the outline of a quaint little house against the horizon, with smoke billowing out of a rectangular chimney.

There…she smiled in satisfaction.

Perfect!

Almost…

Something still wasn’t quite right with the picture, but Juliet couldn’t put her finger on what it was.

She studied it critically for a few minutes before it finally dawned on her.

I look awfully lonely…just standing there by myself…

She carefully added three more stick figures to the picture; two boys and a girl.

That’s better…she grinned, lifting her pencil off the page and taking in the new, admittedly somewhat cliché, domestic scene.

For once, being cliché didn’t bother her.

At least I have a family now…

…But what are their names?

She rested her chin on her hand sighed, her nose scrunching thoughtfully as her mind poured over the possibilities.

She drew a question mark under the first boy figure, the one holding her hand.

We’ll figure him out later…she decided.

…There’s plenty of time to figure him out later…

…But what about the kids?

The little girl’s name was easy, of course.

She already knew it was Millicent.

Millie.

Ever since Juliet had been a little girl, Millie had always been her favorite name. She couldn’t even remember why anymore…

She wrote the word under the little girl figure in a small, neat block print.

Millie

...But what about the boy?

The boy was much more difficult.

She’d never thought about boy’s names before…

What names do I even like…?

Finally, she thought of one.

She wrote it under the figure in the same neat, block print.

No sooner had she finished with the last letter then Detective Lassiter appeared by her desk.

“O’Hara!” He barked, grabbing his jacket and taking off again. “Get the lead out! We have a 10-13 in progress!”

“On my way!” She called after him, shoving the picture into her center desk drawer and running out the door…but not before adding one final touch.

A question mark after the little boy’s name.

Shawn, Jr….?

Karen sat silently, staring vacantly out the passenger window of the squad car as the world slowly crawled by.

Occasionally, she would glance over at Henry, whose eyes were always firmly fixed on the road in front of them, but she never spoke to him.

She hadn’t made that mistake since their first patrol together, three weeks ago.

“It’s a nice day,” she had mumbled lamely, only to be met by a frosty silence.

She hadn’t tried again since.

It had become an unwritten, unspoken rule between them.

Patrol Commandment 1: Thou Shalt Be Silent

Usually, not talking for eight hours at a time didn’t bother her too much.

She had even grown somewhat accustomed to the stony silences.

She just used the time to think…or make lists…

But today, for some reason, she just couldn’t take it anymore.

Today, for some reason, she wanted to talk.

If she could just find the right opening line…

“I haven’t seen your son around the station lately,” she tried hopefully, gauging Henry’s reaction out of the corner of her eye.

His fingers tensed around the steering wheel.

Shoot…wrong topic…

“He’s at his mom’s for a while,” he answered, somewhat shortly.

“Oh…”

She cleared her throat and went back to staring out the window, sensing she had somehow hit upon a sore subject.

“He seems like a good kid…” she murmured a moment later, only vaguely aware she was actually speaking out loud.

Henry just shrugged, his grip on the wheel loosening ever so slightly.

“When he’s not pissing me off.”

Karen laughed, but Henry’s face remained serious, his eyes locked on the road.

“What’s his name?”

“Shawn.”

“Oh.”

She tried to think of a follow-up question…something else, anything else, to keep the conversation alive…

But she was completely out of ideas now, and yet another awkward silence quickly engulfed the vehicle.

Well, that’s the end of that …she thought with a plaintive sigh.

I guess I’ll just have to get used to not talking…

It’s my own fault, really…

I shouldn’t have even tried to break Patrol Commandment 1…

She was surprised when Henry spoke again a few minutes later.

“Actually, I don’t let him hang around the station too much anymore.” He said quietly, almost hesitantly.

“Why’s that?” She asked.

“He’s a bad influence on the rookies.”

Karen laughed again.

“He’s a bad influence on them? He can’t be more than thirteen years old!”

“Don’t laugh!” Henry chided, his eyes meeting hers in the rearview mirror for the first time. “You have no idea what that kid can pull! I can’t tell you how many times he's come home with entire paychecks in his pocket! It doesn’t matter how many times I tell the boys not to play poker with him…there’s always some moron who thinks they can beat him.”

She shook her head in amusement, trying to reconcile the cute, innocent kid she remembered seeing a few times with the devious little conman his father was describing.

“He’s good, huh?” She asked, chuckling.

For a brief moment, she thought she saw a grin flash across Henry’s face.

Maybe…just maybe…she even saw the ice beginning to thaw.

“Yeah,” he nodded, actually turning his head to look at her. “He’s good.”

“Shawn! What the heck are you doing?!”

Shawn sat up, startled by the sudden, angry voice above him.

“What?” He asked innocently, swinging his legs over the side of the couch and rubbing his eyes.

Gus was glaring at him, his arms crossed over his chest.

“You said you were working on the case!” He snapped. “You said I had to leave the office so your ‘creative process wouldn’t be impeded by unnecessary distractions’! I’ve been driving around for two hours, Shawn!”

“I am working on the case!” Shawn insisted, quickly kicking the blanket he had been wrapped up in underneath the couch. “Really!”

Gus wasn’t buying it.

“You were taking a nap!”

Shawn gasped, pretending to be shocked by the very suggestion.

“I was not!”

“Yes, you were!”

“Gus, Gus, Gus…” Shawn sighed, shaking his head in disappointment. “If you can’t tell the difference between napping and an advanced state of thoughtful meditation…”

“You were snoring!” Gus shouted.

 “…Sometimes meditation involves snoring…”

Gus snorted, yanking the blanket out from underneath the couch and waving it angrily under Shawn’s nose.

“Does meditation involve blankies, too?” He demanded.

Shawn shrugged.

“Blankies help…”

Gus threw the blanket at his best friend.

“I’ve been driving around for two hours so you could take a nap! I thought you were going to crack the case!”

“I did!”

“Oh, yeah? Then who did it?”

Shawn considered for a moment.

“…in my advanced state of meditation, it was this green monster with purple eyes and these kind of horn things coming out of his head…actually, it kind of looked like my dad…”

“You were dreaming!” Gus hollered.

“Meditating.” Shawn corrected, raising a single finger.

Gus was not amused.

“If you were going to take a nap, why didn’t you just go back to your apartment?” He fumed. “Why did I have to waste my entire afternoon? I had work I needed to get done!”

“My apartment doesn’t have a comfy couch…” Shawn explained breezily. “And a hard mattress is not conducive to meditation.”

“Is a black eye ‘conducive to meditation’?” Gus muttered bitterly.

“No…” Shawn shook his head thoughtfully. “But pineapple is…if you really want to be helpful…”

Gus glared.

“I am not getting you a pineapple.”

“But I always get pineapple after my nap!” Shawn pouted. “And sometimes milk, too!”

Gus snatched the blanket out of Shawn’s grasp and marched angrily to the door.

“Next time you want to take nap, go home!” He shouted, storming out and slamming the door behind him.

Shawn sat on the couch silently for a moment.

“Dude…” He called finally. “I can’t meditate without my blankie!”

“Shawn! What the heck is that?” Henry demanded of his six year-old son.

Shawn looked up nervously from the floor.

He knew that tone.

He was doing something wrong.

“A block tower.” He answered carefully.

“That,” Henry snorted, “is not a block tower.”

“What’s wrong with it?” Shawn asked, sighing as his father sat on the floor next to him.

“It’s about to fall over!” Henry scolded. “You have the whole thing teetering on one block! A tower needs a foundation, Shawn. A tower needs support or it’ll collapse.”

He grabbed some flat, rectangular blocks and laid them out on the floor, carefully shifting his son’s tower onto them so the structure was no longer balanced precariously on a single block.

“Isn’t that better?”

“Yeah…” Shawn mumbled unenthusiastically, knowing his father wasn’t done yet.

Henry Spencer was never done…

“And look at these blocks at the top!” He continued.

“What’s wrong with them?” Shawn demanded crossly, quickly losing interest in this game.

“Look at them, Shawn! There’s no rhyme or reason to how they’re laid out! You didn’t even line up the corners! The whole tower is about to collapse!”

“I’m just going to knock it over, anyway, Dad.”

“With this design, you won’t have to. It’ll fall on its own.”

Henry quickly began to re-stack the blocks.

First, he eliminated all the triangles.

“They’re pointy, Shawn. You can’t stack flat things on top of pointy things. It doesn’t work.”

Then, he eliminated all the long cylinders.

“Your tower doesn’t need columns, Kid. They might look cool, but they’re not assisting your structural integrity at all.”

When he was finally done rebuilding the tower, all that remained were the blue square blocks, which Henry had stacked on their sides. All of the corners were perfectly aligned.

“See, Kid.” He smiled as he finished. “Now, that’s a block tower.”

He stood up and gently mussed Shawn’s hair as he walked away.

Shawn sat and stared at the new tower for a long time.

He had to admit, it did look stronger now.

The blue squares stood straight and rigid, stoically reaching towards the sky as they defied the world to try and knock them down.

They look like my Dad…Shawn thought, not sure exactly where the comparison came from.

Nothing can knock them over…

For years, every time Henry put on his blue uniform and left the house, the image of that block tower; cold and strong and perfect, defiantly stretching to the ceiling, popped into Shawn’s head.

He’s a tower…

Standing all by himself…

Nothing can knock him down…

How could he know?

How could he have guessed that someday, something would knock his father down?

He was fourteen years old when it finally happened.

His parents had been separated for a year already.

They all knew the divorce was coming. They didn’t talk about it much, but they also knew that pretty soon, Shawn was going to have to choose.

Choose who he was going to live with.

Choose who was going to side with.

Choose who he loved more…

What neither of his parents knew was that Shawn had already chosen.

It wasn’t much of a choice. Only one of his parents needed him.

Dad doesn’t need me…

He’s a tower…

Nothing can knock him down…

Finally, the day came.

They were sitting at the breakfast table; Henry reading the paper and Shawn pretending to read the back of the cereal box.

“Dad,” he said finally, pushing the box aside so he could look in his father’s eyes.

“Huh?” Henry mumbled, not even looking up from the newspaper.

“I’m moving in with Mom.”

Henry put the paper down, clearly trying to suppress his surprise.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything.

When he did speak again, his voice suddenly sounded hoarse.

“What?”

“I’m moving in with Mom.” Shawn said again, quieter this time, his eyes wide as the full reality of what he had just said hit him.

“Did you talk to her about it?”

“Yeah.”

“Fine.”

Henry picked up the paper again and stared at the page, almost like he was reading it, but the performance didn’t fool Shawn.

He had seen it in his father’s eyes.

I knocked him down…

“Dad--”

“Shawn.” His father cut him off, a strained edge creeping into his voice as he threw the paper down and stood up. “I don’t have time to talk about it now. I have to go to work.”

Shawn was too stunned to respond at first.

“Okay…” he finally managed to mumble, but Henry had already marched out the door, not even looking back at his son.

Shawn sat at the table, staring blankly at the multi-colored milk in his cereal bowl.

…but he’s a tower…

He doesn’t need me...

How could I knock him down?

He stood up and quietly put his bowl in the sink, his stomach lurching.

He doesn’t need me…

I didn’t think he needed me…

He grabbed his backpack and headed out the door, his father’s voice echoing through his mind.

“…A tower needs a foundation, Shawn. A tower needs support or it’ll collapse…”

“Carlton,” his mother intoned. “Sit down.”

Carlton rolled his eyes and groaned painfully.

“Mom! I told you! I don’t want to play the stupid piano anymore!”

She spun around on the piano bench, glaring up at him like he’d just threatened to set a puppy on fire.

“Yes, you do.” She said firmly.

“No, I don’t!” He argued, sitting on the bench next to her anyway.

She just waved off his protests carelessly.

“Carlton, you don’t know what you want. I’m you mother. I know what you want.”

“No, you don’t!”

“You want to be a musician,” she continued, not even listening to him anymore.

“No, I don’t!”

“Yes, you do. And if you want to be a musician, you have to practice.”

“Mom--”

“Carlton. Don’t argue. You know arguing raises my blood pressure.”

Carlton rolled his eyes again and huffed, muttering under his breath bitterly as she pulled out the blue practice book and propped it up in front of them.

“Now, find middle C.” She ordered, flipping through the pages until she found the right song.

“Okay…” he sighed, surveying the keyboard lazily, knowing he was defeated.

Middle C…

Middle C…

…Is that one of the white ones or the black ones?

He hesitated, his fingers poised over the keys.

Middle C…

Middle C…

His mother was staring at him in horror; her piercing, judgmental eyes borrowing a hole into his skull.

Oh, crap…

She knows I don’t know…

“Carlton…”

He could hear the disapproval, the near-disdain, dripping from that single word.

Black or white? He thought frantically, knowing he only had a few seconds to figure it out.

Middle C…

It’s in the middle…

He closed his eyes and plunked one of the black keys near the center of the keyboard, praying it was somewhere close to Middle C.

His mother moaned agonizingly, wincing as if he had just run her through with a sword.

Guess that wasn’t it…

“Carlton, where’s Middle C?” She asked again, on the verge of tears now. “If you don’t want me to drop dead of shame right now, tell me where Middle C is!”

He cleared his throat haltingly.

It was a lot of pressure…

“…in the middle?”

She sighed dramatically and struck one of the white keys near the center of the keyboard.

The accusing note resounded discordantly off the walls.

“That is Middle C.”

“Right.”

“Haven’t you been paying attention to our lessons at all?” She demanded, glaring at him over the rims of her glasses.

“Umm…”

But his mother didn’t wait for an answer. She yanked the book off the piano and thrust it under Carlton’s nose, pointing ardently at the page.

“The notes between the lines, Carlton! How do we remember them?” She asked, almost pleadingly.

This one Carlton knew.

“F-A-C-E.” He recited. “Fear Accelerates Confession Every time.”

She nodded slowly in approval.

“And the lines? How do we remember the notes on the lines?”

Once again, Carlton didn’t hesitate before answering.

“E-G-B-D-F…Every Guilty Bastard Deserves Frying.”

This time, his mother was not amused.

“That’s not how a real musician remembers it!” She scolded.

He sighed and turned back to the piano, his fingers poised over the keys once again.

“I know…I know…” he sighed, punching Middle C unenthusiastically.

“But it’s how a cop remembers it...” he added under his breath when he was sure she couldn’t hear him.

“Spencer!” Lassiter barked, slamming his coffee mug down on his desk.

“What?” Shawn asked innocently, looking up from Lassiter’s chair.

“Get out of my chair!”

“Okay.”

Shawn shrugged and took the newspaper he was reading with him, relinquishing the seat without any of his usual quips or thinly-veiled insults.

Lassiter sat down and spun the chair back around, expecting Shawn to just saunter off and find some other innocent victim to torment relentlessly. But Shawn didn’t leave. He continued to stand directly behind Lassiter’s chair, reading the newspaper and breathing loudly.

Lassiter looked back at him, glaring.

“Spencer, what are you doing?”

“Crossword puzzle,” Shawn answered simply, taking a pencil out of his ear and making a few notes on the page.

“Crossword puzzle?” Lassiter snorted. “You?”

“Yes, me.” Shawn responded defensively. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“I’m just surprised you can read without pictures.”

“Funny…” Shawn mumbled, not really listening as he was concentrating on the crossword puzzle, his brow furrowed in deep thought.

“Stuck?” Lassiter asked with a small smirk.

“Yeah,” Shawn admitted. “Six letters. ‘I’m a little…blank.’”

Lassiter’s eyebrows shot up.

“Six letters? I only need four to finish that thought.”

“Well, I need six.” Shawn huffed.

“I don’t know,” Lassiter shrugged, turning back to his desk. “But go do that somewhere else. I have actual work to do.”

“Come on, Lassie!” Shawn pleaded, pulling up a chair. “You know!”

Lassiter glanced up, perplexed.

“I know what?”

“The answer! Six letters…I’m a little…”

“I don’t know! Go bother O’Hara!”

Shawn sighed, leaning back in his chair, the wheels in his head spinning furiously.

“It’s a nursery rhyme…” he prompted.

Lassiter glowered.

“I do not know any nursery rhymes!” He insisted haughtily.

“Yes, you do!”

“Spencer! Go away!”

“No!”

“What the hell’s the matter with you?” Lassiter demanded, staring at Shawn like he had completely lost his mind.

“Nothing.” Shawn muttered, clearly sulking about something.

Lassiter just rolled his eyes and turned back to his desk, determined to just ignore him.

A minute later, Shawn tapped his shoulder.

“What?” Lassiter growled, whirling around, ready to bite the psychic detective’s head off.

“Did you know that in Spanish, the name Jamie is pronounced Hi-me?”

“What?”

“Spanish.” Shawn repeated. “They don’t say the J. So, Jamie is Hi-me.”

“What the hell does that have to do with anything?” Lassiter bellowed, rapidly losing patience.

“Nothing,” Shawn shrugged. “I just find linguistics a fascinating study.”

“Since when?”

“Since now.”

“Go away!”

“No!”

Their eyes locked. For whatever reason, Lassiter could tell that Shawn was determined to annoy him today.

“I was just thinking about this kid I knew in high school…” Shawn continued stubbornly.

“Spencer…” Lassiter groaned. “Leave me alone!”

But Shawn just ignored his plea.

“His name was Jamie, but we never pronounced it Hi-me. We just called him Jamie.”

“Spencer!”

“Know what his last name was? Teapot. Hi-me Teapot.”

“Teapot?” Lassiter repeated, suddenly more interested than he cared to admit. “His last name was Teapot?”

“Yup,” Shawn nodded. “Of course, his mom’s last name was Little, so it was hyphenated.”

“Hyphenated?”

“Yep. Little-Teapot.”

“Well,” Lassiter muttered, rolling his eyes and trying one last time to get back to his job. “Thanks for that trip down Stupid and Pointless Boulevard, Spencer. Now go harass O’Hara. Or Guster….or a hungry bear…”

But Shawn wasn’t done yet.

“Yep,” he pressed on. “If you looked him up in the phone book, he’d be under Little-Teapot-Comma-Hi-me…spelled J-A-M-I-E, of course…”

“I don’t plan on looking him up in the phonebook, Spencer.” Lassiter growled, not looking up from his work.

“Looking who up?” Shawn asked after a beat.

Lassiter threw his pen down and spun around, his eyes spitting fire.

“Your stupid friend!”

“What stupid friend?”

“The one you were just talking about!” Lassiter shouted, his face turning red.

Shawn stared at him quizzically.

“I wasn’t talking about a friend.” He insisted.

“Yes, you were!”

“What friend?”

“Spencer!”

“What?”

Lassiter stood up angrily.

“God, you’re annoying!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Lassiter stomped away.

A moment later, Gus appeared by Shawn's side.

“You lose,” he grinned.

“I do not!” Shawn argued.

“The bet was you could get Lassie to say ‘I’m a Little Teapot’ in under five minutes. I even gave you an extra three minutes. You lose, Shawn!”

“Fine.” Shawn muttered, pulling out his wallet and forking over the money.

“Wanna go again?” Gus asked.

Shawn grinned.

“What’s it this time?”

“I bet you can’t get him to say ‘Purple Elephant.’”

“You’re on!”

What the hell did that kid do now? Henry groaned, looking out the back window as his son limped up the driveway, dragging a battered-looking bike behind him.

“Shawn!” He yelled, stepping out onto the porch.

Shawn froze, then slowly turned around with a big, innocent smile.

“Hi, Dad!” He waved casually.

“What the hell happened?” Henry demanded, ignoring the greeting as he marched angrily up the driveway.

As he got closer, he saw that Shawn’s jeans were ripped and there was a deep gash in his forearm that was probably going to need stitches. He also saw that the front wheel of the bike was bent nearly in half and the chain had come completely off.

And yet, despite the injuries and property damage, Shawn was still grinning from ear-to-ear.

“Nothing,” he shrugged, dropping the bike on the ground.

“Nothing?” Henry snorted, kicking the useless and battered heap. “You destroyed your bike! Do you have any idea how hard it is to bend a metal frame?!”

“Actually, I do.” Shawn grinned.

Henry was not amused. He crossed his arms, glaring down at his son.

“What the hell happened?” He asked again.

Shawn considered carefully before answering.

“I fell…”

“Fell where?”

“…off my bike.”

“Shawn!”

“What?”

“You didn’t fall!” Henry shouted. “You don’t get a gash like that from falling!”

“Well, I didn’t say how high I fell from…” Shawn mumbled, looking down at the ground.

“How high?” Henry repeated, his arms dropping by his sides as he stared at his son in disbelief.

“It’s not my fault!” Shawn explained quickly, sensing the impending lecture. “See, there were these girls…”

Henry groaned, closing his eyes painfully.

He didn’t need to be told the rest.

“Oh, God, Shawn…don’t tell me you almost killed yourself pulling a stupid stunt to impress a girl!”

“Not a girl, Dad. Girls!” Shawn corrected.

“Oh, girls!” Henry snapped sarcastically. “That’s different, then!”

 “I know!”

“Shawn!”

“What?” Shawn looked up at his father, his eyes wide in innocence. “The jump wasn’t that high! And I almost had it…stupid gravity.”

“Kid,” Henry sighed. “You can’t impress girls by breaking your neck. Or your bike. Trust me.”

“You can’t?” Shawn asked, clearly disappointed by this new insight.

“Well, did your little stunt get you a date?”

“No,” Shawn admitted. “But it would’ve if I stuck the landing…”

“Shawn, any girl who isn’t impressed when you fall flat on your face trying won’t be impressed when you stick the landing.”

Shawn sighed heavily.

“Then what impresses them?”  

 Henry laughed, shaking his head.

“Who the hell knows? It’s one of life’s mysteries, Kid.”

“Well,” Shawn shrugged, picking the bike up again. “I guess I’ll just have to keep trying. Something’s gotta work...”

Henry watched silently as his son dragged the bike into the backyard, that stupid, goofy grin still plastered across his face.

He shook his head slowly, groaning inwardly.

Oh, God…

He’s only thirteen…

It’s going to be a long six years…

“Alright, Shawn. Bedtime.” Henry announced, sticking his head into Shawn’s room.

Shawn looked up from his toy cars, pouting.

“Awww, Dad!”

Henry crossed his arms, shooting his son an unmistakably threatening look.

“Move it, Kid.” He intoned.

“Okay.”

Shawn sighed and climbed into bed, leaving his toys scattered across the room.

“Will you read me a story?” He asked, pulling the covers up to his chin.

Henry groaned.

“Shawn, it’s been a long day…”

“Pleeeaaase?” Shawn pleaded, looking as pitiful as possible.

Henry rolled his eyes, knowing when he was beaten.

“Fine. What book?” He muttered, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“This one!” Shawn grinned, handing him one off the nightstand by his head.

“Sleeping Beauty?” Henry read the title, cocking a skeptical, slightly disappointed, eyebrow at his son.

“Uh-huh.” Shawn nodded eagerly, settling down into his pillow.

“Where the heck did you get this crap?”

“Mom.”

“Figures.”

“I like the part where the guy slices up the dragon!” Shawn grinned, his eyes dancing excitedly.

“Great…” Henry mumbled to himself, opening reluctantly to the first page. “Encourage the kid to play with sharp objects…”

He sighed again and began to read, his voice as flat and unenthusiastic as the people who make announcements over the airport PA system.

“Once upon a time…” he began, then stopped and moaned. “…well, that’s original.”

“No commentary!” Shawn ordered sharply, wagging a reproaching finger at his father.

But Henry didn’t hear him, as he was flipping through the rest of the pages, his face growing more horrified and disgusted with each passing word. Finally, he slammed the book closed.

“I’m not reading that!” He said firmly, throwing it back on the nightstand.

“Why not?” Shawn demanded.

“Because it’s crap!”

“It’s a story!”

“Shawn,” Henry sighed. “I am not going to read you a story glorifying some guy who goes around kissing random, unconscious women. Usually, I lock those creeps up.”

“But he’s a prince!”

“No, Kid. He’s a felon.”

“He rescued the princess!” Shawn pointed out. “He killed the dragon!”

“And did he have a permit to carry a sword, Shawn?” Henry asked, crossing his arms sternly.

Shawn rolled his eyes.

“You don’t need a sword permit.”

“You do if it’s a concealed weapon.”

“Dad!”

Henry stood up and marched to the door, flicking the light off on his way out.

“Forget it, Kid. Find a story that doesn’t involve drugged women, negligent parents, stalkers, and unlicensed weapons and I’ll read it to you.”

Shawn blinked into the darkness.

“Who’d want to read a story like that?” He muttered.

“He did what?” Chief Vick groaned into her phone, rolling her eyes up at the ceiling.

“No, Sir…” she continued with a weary sigh. “I’m sure he didn’t mean to bring a snack to a crime scene…yes, Sir. I am aware it is inappropriate to drink a smoothie where someone was just murdered…I don’t know…probably pineapple…”

Detective Lassiter stuck his head into her office.

“Chief, the forensics just came back on the Smith case.” He said, dropping the file on her desk.

Vick covered the mouthpiece and scowled at him.

“Get Mr. Spencer in here!” She mouthed angrily. “Now!”

Lassiter nodded, grinning manically at the prospect of getting the psychic into trouble, and eagerly went off to find him.

The Chief uncovered the mouthpiece again once he was gone.

“I’m sure he didn’t mean to ask your daughter out on a date…” she assured the voice on the other end. “…no, Sir. I don’t know how he could do something like that accidentally…”

She rested her chin in her hands and sighed again as the angry voice continued to yell at her.

Some days, it just wasn’t worth keeping Spencer around.

“No, Sir…he always dresses like that…yes, I agree…not professional at all…Well, I don’t think…”

Shawn appeared in the doorway, grinning stupidly, like always.

“What’s up, Chief?”

She glared at him, pointing emphatically at the chair in the corner of the office.

“Sit!” She mouthed fiercely.

He sat, knowing he was in hot water for something.

“No, Sir…” Vick continued on the phone, still glaring at Shawn, who was watching her intently now. “…he said what about your dog?...I’m sure he was joking…”

“I wasn’t joking!” Shawn piped up, leaning forward. “You didn’t see it, Chief! I’m telling you that little rat terrier tried to kill me! It’s possessed!”

Vick raised a warning finger at him, and Shawn immediately shut up.

“Well, that seems a bit rash…No, Sir. I don’t think I can fire him for stepping on your gardenias…”

“That wasn’t me!” Shawn whispered. “That was Gus! I pushed him into the gardenias!”

The Chief was clearly unimpressed by this new insight, however. She took the phone away from her mouth for a moment.

“You’d better get a psychic flash on this one!” She ordered. “Fast!”

Shawn nodded in resounding agreement.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

She rolled her eyes and once again brought the receiver up to her ear.

“Yes, Sir…No, there’s nothing psychologically wrong with him…he’s been evaluated…yes, recently…”

Shawn laughed.

“Is that my dad?” He asked. “Did he say something about me not returning his rake?”

She glanced back up at him, gesturing vigorously at the door with a threatening glower.

“Why are you still here?” She hissed. “Go get a vision! Now!”

He stood up quickly and bolted for the door.

“Yes, Ma’am!”

She groaned and dropped her head on the desk, still hearing the droning voice on the other end.

Some days, it just wasn’t worth keeping Spencer around…

“You’re from Miami?” Chief Vick asked, raising her eyebrows as she put the resume down and looked at the applicant sitting across from her.

“Yes,” the young woman answered with a self-assured nod. “I’ve been there a few years now.”

“That’s a tough town.”

The applicant just laughed, brushing her blonde hair behind her ear with a single gesture.

“It’s not so tough.”

“Still,” Vick murmured, leaning back in her chair as well as her very-pregnant belly would allow. “It’s a big move. What brings you to Santa Barbara?”

Normally, transfer applicants didn’t take that question too seriously.

Normally, they would just BS some answer about the climate or the crime rate or wanting to make a difference…whatever they thought she wanted to hear.

Usually, it wasn’t even close to what she wanted to hear.

But this applicant was different.

She didn’t answer the question right away. She didn’t seem to even have an answer on-hand.

She thought about it for a long, borderline awkward minute, her brow furrowing in deep contemplation.

“Because it’s my last hope.” She said finally.

This was one answer Vick had never heard.

She leaned forward, suddenly intrigued by this non-conformist.

“Your last hope?”

The young woman nodded slowly, her eyes brimming with determination.

“I went to the Academy like everyone else. I studied my butt off and aced the Detective’s Exam on my first try, which is something most of the guys at the Academy didn’t even do. But I did.”

She paused, not in hesitation but in quiet reflection, as if she was trying to get the words assembled just right in her mind before she spouted them off.

“And I didn’t go through all of that so I could sit behind a desk by myself and push papers from 9-to-5.” She said firmly. “I didn’t go through all of that so I could never get closer to an actual case than the crime scene photos I sometimes got to look at, if I was lucky. I didn’t go through of all that so I could fill some quota and make the Department look good.”

Vick did her best to contain her smile.

She liked this young woman already, but it was too early in the interview to let her know that.

“Then why did you go through it?” She asked, resting her hand on her chin as her eyes looked directly into the applicant’s eyes, carefully gauging her reaction to the question.

But the young woman didn’t even blink

“Because I’m a cop,” she answered, this time not having to pause for a second to think. “And I’m a darn good one, too.”  

“Well,” the Chief grinned, leaning back once more. “If you do transfer here, I think I should warn you. We don’t tolerate Junior Detectives who sit  behind desks and push papers all day. I don’t know what kind of shenanigans you got away with in Miami, but in Santa Barbara, you will pull your weight. You will be expected to work with our Head Detective and play an integral role in closing cases. Is that something you think you can manage?”

The applicant grinned back.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

The Chief leaned across the desk, extending her hand as she glanced down at the resume one more time.

“Then welcome to Santa Barbara, Detective O’Hara.”

“Dad,” Shawn grinned, looking across the diner table at his father.

“Hmmm?” Henry mumbled, engrossed in his lunch.

“How many hats?”

Henry stopped chewing.

Slowly, he put down his burger and swallowed, cocking an eyebrow at his son.

“What?”

Shawn leaned across the table, his evil smile spreading from ear to ear.

“You heard me. How many hats?”

“Shawn, I taught you that game.”

“I know!” Shawn groused. “And you never play it! It’s your turn! How many hats?”

“Shawn--”

“You’re cheating!” Shawn accused. “You’re just trying to stall so you have more time!”

“I am not!”
“Then how many hats?”

Shawn’s eyes had narrowed into determined, obstinate slits. Henry knew he didn’t have a choice.

Shawn wasn’t going to let this drop.

“Fine,” he sighed as he closed his eyes and tried to get a picture of the restaurant formed in his mind.

“Go.” Shawn prompted when he was certain Henry wasn’t peeking.

“Are you counting the hat the chef is wearing?” Henry asked after thinking for a moment. “Because, technically, he’s in the kitchen.”

“You’d count it.” Shawn snorted, mimicking his father. “‘If you can see it, it counts, Shawn. Even if they’re walking by on the street.’”

“Don’t get smart. And I will count it, so that’s one.”

“Oh, you’re on a roll now, Dad.”

“Shut up, Kid.” Henry murmured, his eyes squeezing tighter with the effort of thinking. “Give me a minute here.”

“You never give me a minute!”

“Yeah, well…I’m not you.”

“No kidding.”

“Are you going to let me do this, or are you going to keep yapping?” Henry demanded, somehow managing to glare at Shawn through his eyelids.

“Fine, fine.” Shawn muttered. “I’ll shut up.”

He sat back in his booth, trying not to laugh as he watched his father’s brain working overtime.

“That’s a minute, Dad.” He announced a moment later. “I’d have them all named by now.”

“If you’d let me talk,” Henry snapped. “I was just about to do that.”

“Then go already! I’m getting old over here! Like you!”

“Watch it.”

Henry took a deep breath, his index finger extending in front of him.

“There’s the kid in the Chicago Cubs hat by the window,” he said, gesturing in the general direction. “Then there’s the two waitresses with those little paper hat things you think are flame-retardant but I keep telling you aren’t, so you’d better not be planning on lighting our waitress on fire while my eyes are closed…and then there’s the two women by the front door in what I can only assume are Easter bonnet rejects from some sort of circus.”

Shawn laughed.

“And?” He prodded.

Henry’s eyebrows shot up, but his eyes remained closed.

“And what? That’s it.”

“Are you sure?”

Henry could almost hear the mocking smile in Shawn’s voice.

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

“Last chance, Dad.”

“Shawn! That’s all the damn hats!”

“Okay…” Shawn clucked. “Open your eyes, then.”

Henry slowly opened his eyes, and Shawn burst out into another fit of laughter as he pulled the worn baseball cap off his father’s head and plopped it on the table in front of them.

Henry scowled down at it, his ears burning.

“That,” Shawn grinned. “Is also generally considered a hat, Dad.”

Shawn Spencer was six years old the first time he fell in love.

Of course, he had no idea at the time that’s what it was. He didn’t know what to call it. He just knew that one day in first grade, he suddenly had the irresistible urge pull Sarah Bryant’s braid during math.

She whirled around, shooting him a nasty look.

“Stop it, Shawn!” She hissed. “Or I’m telling!”

She spun back around, her braid flopping back into place at the center of her neck.

Shawn grinned to himself, for some reason he couldn’t fathom suddenly filled with an overpowering sense of satisfaction.

He stared at that braid for the rest of math…gently swaying back and forth with every motion of her head…

He didn’t know why, but it called to him.

He didn’t have a choice, really.

He had to pull it again.

He reached up, about to give it a good yank, when Sarah turned around one more time.

“Shawn Spencer!” She threatened, brandishing her fist at him. “I’m going to punch you in the nose!”

He quickly pulled his hand away, feigning innocence.

“What?” He blinked. “I didn’t do anything!”

But they both knew he was lying.

And from that moment on, that was it for Shawn.

He couldn’t help himself.

It was a compulsion; one he didn’t understand and didn’t want to analyze.

He had to do anything he could to irritate Sarah Bryant.

The next day, he put a rubber spider in her lunchbox.

She screamed and chased him around the playground.

The following week, he scribbled all over her picture in art class.

She screamed and chased him all around the playground.

Pretty soon, Shawn didn’t even have to do anything annoying or obnoxious. As soon as recess started, Sarah would automoatically start chasing him around the playground.

Sometimes, he’d chase her, too.

It was awesome.

Until one terrible day a few weeks later…

The recess bell rang and, like always, Shawn ran out the door right to the jungle gym, where he and Sarah generally met up. Only this time, she wasn’t there.

He was slightly confused by her absence, but figured she had to be around somewhere. It wasn’t until he checked the swings, the slide, and kickball field, all to no avail, that he started to grow concerned.

Where the heck is she…?

He was just about to give up and go play with Gus instead when he spied her across the playground, over on the basketball court.

He grinned and took a running step towards, but suddenly froze as he realized the awful truth.

She wasn’t alone.

She was chasing Brian Everett.

But he’s a second grader!

His heart plummeted into his stomach as he watched them…running…having fun…without him!

“Sarah!” He shouted angrily, storming over to the basketball court without the faintest idea why he was upset.

The game immediately stopped. Sarah looked over at him, her smile quickly fading.

“What?” She asked, carelessly brushing her wind-blown hair behind her ears.

“What are you doing?”

“Playin’ tag.” She answered breezily, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

“But you’re supposed to play tag with me!”

“I wanted to play with someone else today,” she shrugged. “It’s not like you’re the only person on the playground, Shawn.”

Stupid Brian Everett tagged her again, and their game resumed, as if Shawn wasn’t even there.

He couldn’t do anything but watch in stunned, horrified silence.

What’s the big deal? He asked himself, trying to suppress the desire to throw up.

It’s just tag…

I could play with Gus if I wanted…

But it’s not the same…

He gulped as he slowly turned and walked away, still utterly befuddled by this brand-new sensation.

What’s the big deal?

Why does it feel like I just got kicked in the head?

Gus ran up his driveway eagerly, glad the interminable school day was finally over.

Shawn was already sitting on the porch steps waiting for him.

“Hey, Shawn.” Gus greeted, trying to step around his best friend. “What are you doing here?”

“Nothing,” Shawn shrugged, standing up.

He stepped between Gus and the front door, apparently trying to stop him from going inside.

Gus tried to step around him again, but Shawn moved so he was still blocking his way.

“Shawn! Knock it off!” Gus snapped, giving up and finally just shoving him out of the way.

“Gus! Wait!”

Shawn grabbed his sleeve just before he stepped into the house.

“What?” Gus closed the door and came back out onto the porch. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

Gus regarded him skeptically, knowing he was hiding something.

Shawn was always hiding something…

“Shawn…” he growled threateningly, his eyes narrowing into preemptively pissed-off slits. “What did you do?”

“Nothing!” Shawn insisted.

“Then why can’t I go inside? I have to check the mail.”

"No reason..." 

Gus reached for the door again, shaking his head in bewilderment.

Sometimes, Shawn could be so weird…

“Gus!” Shawn called out suddenly. “Did you know that the murder rate in New Jersey has been steadily increasing over the last five years?”

“What?”
Gus spun back around again, now certain his friend had come completely unhinged.

“It’s true!” Shawn continued earnestly, quickly shutting the front door before Gus could disappear through it. “Over the last five years, the murder rate has gone up 5%!”

“Okay…”

“And it’s not just murder, either! Violent crimes are up 6% overall.”

“What are you talking about?” Gus demanded, completely at a loss.

Shawn just shrugged, looking down at his torn Converse sneakers.

“I’m just saying…New Jersey sucks.” He mumbled. “And it gets really cold in the winter, too.”

“I’ll keep that in mind when I’m looking for a vacation spot,” Gus rolled his eyes. “Any other states you have a personal vendetta against? Any objections to Montana or North Dakota?”

“No.” Shawn replied thoughtfully. “Just New Jersey.”

“Can I go inside and check the mail, then?”

Shawn sighed, releasing the door and stepping aside.

“If you have to…”

“Thank you.”

Gus finally stepped inside.

Shawn was right behind.

“I’m waiting for my letter from Princeton,” Gus explained, walking through the foyer into the kitchen, where his mom always left his mail on the counter. “It should be here any day now.”

Suddenly, he stopped.

“Princeton’s in New Jersey, isn’t it?” He asked quietly, turning around to face Shawn.

Shawn looked down at the floor.

“Yeah.”

“Shawn…”

“What?”

“Did I get my letter from Princeton today?” Gus demanded.

Shawn nodded, still not looking up.

“Did you read it?” Gus pressed, his voice dangerously quiet.

“Yeah.”

“Shawn!”

“Well, I wanted to know what it said!”

“It was my letter!” Gus shouted. “That’s a Federal offense!”

“Sorry.”

“Never mind.” Gus sighed, knowing full well there was absolutely no point in lecturing Shawn. “Just give it to me.”

“Uh--” Shawn hesitated.

“What?” Gus groaned. “Don’t tell me you lost it!”

“I didn’t lose it.”

“Then where is it?”

Shawn silently reached into his pocket and handed Gus a wrinkled piece of paper with an official-looking letter head. He clung to it for a moment, making Gus yank harder than he should have to pull it out of his hand. But Gus didn’t give up until he had it.

He read it over quickly, his face falling more with each passing word.

Finally, he crumpled it up and tossed it in the trash can.

“Whatever,” he shrugged, trying to sound unaffected. “I couldn’t afford it, anyway.”

He dropped his backpack on the floor and opened the fridge, staring blankly at the contents in front of him.

Shawn silently came up beside him.

“I told you, Gus.” He said quietly, grabbing a soda and popping the top. “New Jersey sucks.”

"Burton!” His mom called up to him from the bottom of the stairs.

“What?” Gus shouted back, not even bothering to get off his bed and go to the door.

He already knew what she wanted. He just didn’t care.

“Shawn’s here!” The reply came a moment later.

“Tell him I’m sick!” Gus yelled angrily, kicking the door closed from his bed.

“You know, I can hear you!” He heard Shawn shout from the landing. “You’re not communicating telepathically, here!”

But Gus didn’t answer. He lay back on his bed, crossing his arms and glaring up at the ceiling.

I’m not going to do it…He told himself firmly.

I’m not going to get sucked in again…

Not again…

He could hear the front door closing as Shawn left. He sat up and looked out his window, watching as his best friend rode his bike away.

Former best friend…Gus corrected himself.

Former…

He sighed and grabbed a book off the shelf, staring blankly at the pages even though he had absolutely no idea what he was reading.

A few moments later, there was a scraping sound at his window. He glanced up.

Shawn was perched on the very narrow ledge outside, pawing pathetically at the glass.

Gus dropped the book and ran to the window, throwing it open and dragging Shawn inside.

“Shawn! What the heck are you doing?” He demanded. “You’re going to break your neck!”

“Gus, please.” Shawn snorted. “If you don’t want people coming in your window, you shouldn’t live next to a giant tree.”

“I don’t want people coming in my window!” Gus snapped. “Especially not you! We’re not friends anymore, Shawn! I told you that! Just go home!”

“Oh, come on, Gus!” Shawn laughed. “You don’t mean that.”

“Yes, I do!”

“You do not!”

“Shawn! Go home!”

Gus marched purposefully across the room and flung his door open, gesturing adamantly into the hallway.

“Go home!” He ordered again.

Shawn blinked in surprise, looking wounded by the outburst.

“Are you still mad at me?” He asked quietly, still not moving towards the door.

“Yes, I’m still mad at you!” Gus shouted. “You got me grounded, Shawn! I’ve never been grounded before!”

“Hey!” Shawn argued. “No one said Lawn Mower Chicken wouldn’t have repercussions!”

“It was your idea!”
“And it was a good one!” Shawn insisted. “It sure made mowing the lawn more fun! It’s not my fault my dad got off early!”

“Of course it’s not your fault!” Gus yelled, stomping his foot. “It’s never your fault! It’s not my fault, either, but I’m always the one getting in trouble!”

“I got grounded, too.” Shawn pointed out defensively.

“But you always get grounded! I’ve never been grounded before!”

“It had to happen sooner or later, Gus.” Shawn shrugged with a playful grin. “What can I say? We’re rebels.”

“No, Shawn.” Gus shook his head. “You’re a rebel. I’m not a rebel. I don’t want to be a rebel. I just want to study and be left alone. And not get grounded!” He added with a scowl.

“Okay,” Shawn shrugged again, finally making his way to the door. “I’ll leave you alone, Gus.”

“Thank you.”

Gus stepped aside and let Shawn walk past him into the hallway.

Shawn paused when he got to the top of the stairs, slowly turning back around.

“Oh, by the way.” He said quietly. “I told your mom Lawn Mower Chicken was my idea. I got your sentence commuted. That’s what I was coming up here to tell you. But I guess I can just tell you at school tomorrow. See ya, Gus.”

He smiled sadly and waved, and then was gone.

Gus quietly closed his door behind him.

He said it was his idea?

He took the blame?

Quickly, before it was too late, Gus ran to his window and stuck his head out.

Down below, Shawn was grabbing his bike and preparing to ride away again.

“Shawn!” Gus yelled down to him, grinning broadly at his best friend.

Shawn looked up from the ground, perplexed.

“What?” He shouted back up.

“Next time, we play it in my yard! My parents don’t get home until six o’clock most nights!”

Shawn returned the smile.

“You got it, Buddy!”

“Shawn,” his grandfather grinned, reaching behind his ear. “Did you lose something?”

He pulled his hand back again, revealing a shiny new quarter in between his fingers. He tossed it to his grandson, who caught it deftly, seeming somewhat less than impressed with the trick.

“Grandpa,” Shawn rolled his eyes. “It was in your hand the whole time. I saw it.”

“You saw it?”

“Of course. I’m five years old, Grandpa.” Shawn told him, standing up to his full height and looking very important.

Grandpa chuckled, shaking his head.

“Your dad showed you that one, eh?”

“Yeah.” Shawn nodded.

“So, I guess you’ve seen this one, too, then…”

Grandpa picked up a deck of cards that way lying on nearby table, shuffling them a few times.

“Pick a card.” He ordered, extending them out to Shawn.

“Okay…” Shawn agreed suspiciously, not taking his eyes off his grandfather as he carefully selected a card.

“Now memorize it…” Grandpa told him, but Shawn was already a step ahead.

“I did.” He shrugged, placing it back in the deck.

Grandpa made a show of meticulously straightening the deck, and then slowly began to flip the cards over, one-by-one, on the table.

When he came to the eight of hearts, he stopped.

“Was this your card?” He asked with a twinkle in his eye.

Shawn sighed in boredom.

“Grandpa, you just lifted the deck when I put my card back and memorized the card next to mine. That’s an old con.”

“Con?” Grandpa snorted. “It’s not a con, Shawn. It’s magic.”

“My dad said magic is a con.” Shawn insisted.  “It’s all just tricks.”

“Tricks?” Grandpa sounded almost offended. “Magic isn’t tricks. It’s real!”

“It is not!” Shawn laughed. “There’s no such thing as real magic!”

“Really?” Grandpa’s eyebrows shot up. “Want to bet on that?”

“Sure!”

“Okay,” Grandpa smiled, leaning forward and wrapping his arm around his grandson’s shoulder. “Do you see that red ball on the floor over there?”

Shawn’s eyes followed where his finger was pointing.

“Uh-huh,” he nodded.

“I want you to stare at it as hard as you can for fifteen seconds, okay? Don’t blink, don’t look at anything else. Just that red ball.”

“Okay…”

Shawn stared intently at the ball until his eyeballs felt like they were going to fall out.

“Now,” Grandpa said finally. “Look at the wall. Just move your eyes, though. Not your whole head.”

Shawn slowly shifted his gaze to the wall, doing his best to keep his head steady.

“What am I-” he started to ask, but stopped mid-sentence when the image of the ball slowly appeared on the wall, fluttering into focus as if being projected by his mind.

It looked blue instead of red, sure, but it was still a perfect picture of the ball!

“Wow!” Shawn gasped, blinking slowly in amazement. “Did I do that?”

“You sure did, Kid.” Grandpa grinned. “You made magic.”

“I made magic…” Shawn repeated slowly, still not fully believing it.

He stared at the ball again, even harder this time, then quickly glanced over at the wall.

Once again, a perfect image of the ball appeared.

“I told you, Shawn,” Grandpa told him quietly, mussing his hair. “Magic is real. Don’t ever forget that.”

“This isn’t bothering you?” Shawn demanded, staring at Gus in disbelief.

Gus glanced up from his seat on the police station bench and put down the file he had been looking over.

“What isn’t bothering me?” He asked, clearly oblivious to whatever was irking his best friend.

“The sign!”

“What sign?”

“On the conference room door!” Shawn almost shouted, gesturing fervently at the closed and locked door on the other side of the precinct, hanging from which was a hand-printed sign that read:

DO NOT DISTURB!

THAT MEANS YOU, SPENCER!

“Why would it bother me?” Gus mumbled, shrugging and returning to work on the file. “I don’t want to disturb Lassiter.”

“You don’t?” Shawn was truly flabbergasted by this revelation. He watched the conference room window intently, trying to see any signs of movement through the drawn curtains. “But he’s in there, Gus! Doing…secret things! Things he doesn’t want us to know about!”

“Not us, Shawn.” Gus pointed out. “You. The sign doesn’t say anything about me.”

“But what could he be doing that he doesn’t want me to know about?” Shawn wondered aloud, his eyes dancing with intrigue and mischief.

“Probably working on a case,” Gus answered shortly, waving the file through the air. “Which is what we’re supposed to be doing. Did you plan on looking this case over at all today?”

But Shawn just ignored the question, his mind preoccupied with the far more important issue at hand.

“Maybe he’s planning my birthday party!” He decided finally, after giving it careful consideration.

“Yeah, right.” Gus snorted, rolling his eyes. “I’m sure that’s what it is.”

“It could be!”

“No, Shawn. It couldn’t.”

Shawn huffed irritably, slumping onto the bench alongside his friend.

“Then what’s your idea?” He muttered.

“I don’t have an idea, Shawn.” Gus snapped. “I don’t care what Lassiter is doing in there!”

“But what if he is planning my birthday party?” Shawn pressed on stubbornly. “He might get a clown! You know how I feel about clowns!”

“You mean how you run away from them like a scared little girl?” Gus grinned, jabbing his friend in the ribs.

“I don’t run, Gus.” Shawn scowled back. “I just…walk away. Quickly.”

“Yeah. Walk away screaming.”

“I don’t scream!”

“He’s not getting a clown, Shawn.”

“We don’t know that!”

“Yes, we do.”

Shawn stood up, his eyes flashing determinedly.

“We won’t know for sure until we investigate!” He insisted intrepidly.

“And by investigate, you mean…spy?” Gus clarified.

“Exactly!”

Shawn quickly took off in the general direction of the nearest air duct.

Gus remained sitting on the bench, shaking his head and grinning to himself.

A moment later, Lassiter walked by. Gus looked up at him in surprise, then over at the conference room door, which still hadn’t been opened.

“What--?” He stammered.

Lassiter just grinned evilly.

“The five minutes it’s going to take him to realize that I’m not in there and the voices he’s hearing are coming from the radio are going to be the quietest, most pain-in-the-ass free five minutes of my entire day, Guster.”

“Dad,” Shawn asked, hesitantly opening the box of Christmas ornaments. “Shouldn’t we wait for Mom? Mom always does this.”

At first, Henry pretended like he didn’t hear the question. He dropped the box he was carrying on the floor and began to rummage through it, pulling out string after string of gnarled, twisted lights.

“Damn lights,” he muttered to himself, starting the long, arduous process of untangling them. “Every damn year…”

“Dad.”

“Huh?” Henry mumbled, not looking up from his work.

“Shouldn’t we wait for Mom? She always puts up the Christmas decorations.”

Henry sighed, dropping the lights on the floor in a mangled heap.

“Shawn, Christmas is in a week. If we wait any longer, it’s going to be an Easter tree.”

“But Mom--”

“Shawn!” Henry barked, more sharply than he actually intended to. “You’re the one who wanted the damn tree!”

“I know…”

“I am not going to have a bare Christmas tree in my living room! It looks ridiculous!”

“Yeah…” Shawn sighed in agreement. “It does.”

“Then either decorate it or drag the damn thing out back. I don’t care either way.”

“Fine. I’ll decorate it.”

“Fine. I just have to get these damn lights untangled first…”

Henry went back to work on the lights while Shawn began to root through the box of tree ornaments. He pulled them out one-by-one, his stomach tightening more with each new memory.

There was the Baby’s First Christmas ornament from the year he was born…

The glass ball he had painted in Kindergarten and given to his mom…

All the paper, cheap clay, and popsicle stick ornaments he’d made over the years…

And then there was the Our First Christmas ornament, from the year his parents got married.

I wonder if they make an Our Last Christmas ornament…he mused dully.

Maybe Our First Divorce…

He picked up The Our First Christmas ornament and turned it over in his fingers, reading the words etched into the sides over and over again.

Our First Christmas

Our First Christmas

Finally, he rolled it to the edge of his fingertips. It sat there for a moment, perched on the verge of falling, until he released it and let it drop.

It fell through the air silently, smashing into the hardwood floor with a surprisingly loud bang and immediately shattering into a thousand pieces. He didn’t move, didn’t flinch, at the sound. He just stood there, staring down at the mess of broken glass at his feet.

Henry dropped the lights again in surprise.

“Shawn! What the hell--?”

“Sorry.” Shawn mumbled, kicking the shards. “It slipped.”

“Well, clean it up!” Henry growled. “And for God’s sake, be more careful.”

He didn’t even notice…Shawn sighed to himself as he went to get the broom to sweep up the mess.

He didn’t even notice which ornament it was…

When he came back, Henry had the lights untangled and was starting to wrap them around the tree. Shawn watched him for a minute, then realized he couldn’t do it.

He couldn’t pretend Christmas was the same anymore.

Christmas would never be the same again.

“Dad…” he started, sweeping the broken ornament into the dust bin.

“What?”

“I don’t want a tree.”

Henry stopped draping the lights and turned to his son.

“What?” He demanded, clearly annoyed.

“I don’t want a tree. I don’t want to do Christmas this year…it’s stupid. I’m too old, anyway.”

“Damn it, Shawn! You couldn’t have decided this before I spent 40 bucks on the damn thing?”

“I’m sorry…”

He dumped the broken pieces into the trash can, trying to avoid his father’s gaze. Henry sighed and started to take the lights down again.

“If you don’t want it, you’re getting it out of here.” He growled.

“I will.”

“Fine.”

Henry threw the lights back in the box and stalked angrily up the stairs to his room, slamming the door behind him.

Shawn started to clean up the ornaments, dumping them carelessly back into their box. Usually, they took great care to make sure the fragile ones were wrapped and safe, but this year he didn’t care.

Let them all break…

What difference does it make?

He didn’t hear his father come back down until Henry cleared his throat behind him.

Shawn turned around.

“If you’re not going to keep the damn tree,” Henry snapped, tossing a small box at his son, “there’s no point in holding onto to this thing anymore.”

Shawn caught it, looking up at his father curiously.

“What is it?”

“Well, it was your Christmas present…but if you’re too old for Christmas this year, I don’t have to waste closet space hiding the damn thing.”

Shawn shook it gingerly, grinning at the rattling sound it made.

“I bet I know what it is!”

“You do not.” Henry scoffed.

“Sure I do!” Shawn insisted.

“Shawn, one shake of a box isn’t enough data to figure out the contents. It’ll take more analysis than that.”

“Wanna bet?”

Henry’s eyebrows shot up.

“Do you have my present?” He asked.

Shawn nodded.

“Sure.”

“Go get it.”

“Okay.”

Shawn ran up to his room, returning a moment later with a box of his own. He gave it to Henry.

“Christmas is in a week, right?” Henry asked, gently shaking his gift.

“Right.” Shawn nodded.

“Then you have one week to figure out what your present is. Shake it. Poke it. Smell it. Whatever.”

“A week?” Shawn snorted. “I don’t need a week! I told you! I already know!”

“You’d better be sure…” Henry warned him. “Because I’m going to figure out what mine is. And I bet I’ll figure it out before you do.”

“Really?” Shawn grinned, raising his box to his ears again as he shook it slower this time. "You think you can beat me?"

“Yeah, Kid.” Henry grinned back. “I think I can beat you.”

“Mr. Spencer!” The Chief bellowed, bringing her fist down on the desk. “What is wrong with you?”

“Well…” Shawn sighed, sliding casually into the plush chair across from her and crossing his legs. “I think it all started when my parents got divorced…”

Her eyes narrowed dangerously as she pointed an unamused finger at his chest.

“This is not a joke, Mr. Spencer!” She warned. “You interfered with an investigation and an armed fugitive got away because of it!”

Detective Lassiter and Juliet silently stepped into the office, closing the door behind them.

“Can I book him, Chief?” Lassiter growled, his eyes spitting even more venomous darts than usual at the psychic detective. “Or at least cuff him?”

“No!” Vick snapped, indicating two vacant chairs. “Sit! Now!”

Lassiter and Juliet quickly took their seats, neither of their eyes leaving Shawn for a moment.

Vick sat behind her desk, her hands clasped in white-knuckled fury in front of her.

“What the hell happened out there?” She demanded, glaring at all three of them simultaneously.

Lassiter spoke first.

“O’Hara and I were making a collar…routine stuff…” he started, but was cut off by Shawn.

“You were only making the collar in the first place because I told you who held up the jewelry store!” He spat.

Lassiter stood up angrily, ready to pummel him.

“Sit!” Vick ordered sharply in a tone she’d been affecting lately with her toddler.

Lassiter quickly sat down again, still glaring at Shawn, who returned the glower unflinchingly.

Juliet was still uncharacteristically quiet, her eyes darting back and forth between Shawn and her partner.

“We were making a collar…” Lassiter started again, his eyes daring Shawn to interrupt him one more time. “We had it under control, when this moron plows into me and knocks me over!”

“I barely touched you!” Shawn argued. “It’s not my fault you’re easier to knock over than a Jenga tower!”

“Mr. Spencer!” Vick snapped. “Let him finish!”

“That’s it, Chief.” Lassiter shrugged, thrusting an angry thumb in Shawn’s general direction. “This moron knocked me over, and the scumbag got away. O’Hara tried to chase him down, but by the time I was back on my feet again, he was gone.”

Vick’s eyes turned back to Shawn, who was slumped in his chair, his arms crossed angrily over his chest.

“He had a gun.” He muttered.

“I know he had a gun!” Lassiter barked, nearly knocking his chair over as he stood up again. “I know he had a damn gun! I’m the one who took it from him!”

“Not that gun!” Shawn shouted, standing up and going nose-to-nose with the pissed-off detective. “He had one strapped to his ankle! He was going for it! You didn’t see it!”

“He did not!” Lassiter shouted back.

“Yes, he did.” Juliet said quietly from her seat.

All eyes were suddenly on her.

“What?” The Chief asked.

Juliet leaned forward.

“He had a gun strapped to his ankle, Chief. I saw it. He was going for it. Shawn was trying to take him out.”

“Even if he did,” Lassiter snapped, not ready to concede anything. “That doesn’t change the fact that Spencer helped him get away! It’s aiding and abetting, Chief. And assaulting an officer! Charge him!”

“Go ahead!” Shawn growled, falling back into his chair. “Charge me!”

Lassiter’s cuffs were in his hands in a flash, ready to finally take down Shawn Spencer.

But the Chief stopped him before he could take a single step.

“Detective,” she intoned. “Right now, you have too much work to do tracking down an armed fugitive to worry about charging Mr. Spencer with anything.”

“But, Chief--”

“Detective.” Her eyes were unyielding. “Out.”

Lassiter scowled. He spun on his heel, making sure he rammed Shawn’s shoulder on his way out the door.

Vick sat down again, leaning back in her chair and regarding Shawn thoughtfully.

“You’d better get a psychic lead on where he is, Mr. Spencer.” She said firmly. “And you’d better pray he doesn’t rob or hurt anyone before we catch him. Because if he does…”

Shawn nodded stiffly.

“Yes, ma’am.” He mumbled, staring at the carpet in front of him.

Vick stood up again and walked to the door.

“Detective O’Hara.” She barked, glancing over her shoulder. “You’re on this case, too. Let’s go.”

“Coming, Chief.” Juliet answered, slowly getting out of her chair to follow Vick back out into the precinct.

She paused just before she left the room.

“I saw the gun, Shawn.” She said quietly, turning back around.

“Yeah. I know.” Shawn mumbled, not looking up at her.

“He was going for it. You were right.”

“I know.”

She hesitated, wanting so badly to say something else…

“If he got to it…” she continued, her voice soft. “He wasn’t going after Carlton. I was in front of him. I was in the line of fire….if he got to his gun, Shawn…he was going after me.”

“Yeah,” Shawn shrugged, standing up, his eyes finally meeting hers. “I know.”

The moment Detective Lassiter walked into the precinct that morning, something felt…different.

Wrong.

He distinctly heard at least four officers suppress a laugh as he passed by on the way to his desk, and Buzz grinned at him with an even bigger, dopier smile than usual.

“Good morning, Detective Lassiter.” He waved, clearly struggling against the urge to laugh.

“McNab.” Lassiter nodded gruffly, slightly perplexed by the light, almost flippant, atmosphere around the station.

Ultimately, however, he just didn’t give a damn.

Who cared what made those morons laugh? They probably just saw something shiny…

He dropped his jacket on the back of his chair and slid into his desk without giving it a second thought.

A few moments later, Juliet appeared.

“’Morning, Carlton.” She murmured, not making eye contact with him as she sat down and started to work.

Lassiter mumbled something back that could possibly be construed as a greeting, also not making eye contact as he finished up on some of the reports he had been putting off.

It didn’t immediately occur to him that Juliet wasn’t talking his ear off this morning, like she usually did. Not that the silence bothered him, of course. Who wanted to deal with a perky morning person?

…That is, it didn’t bother him until he happened to glance over in her direction and noticed that she, too, was suppressing a small smile.

Damn it! He groaned to himself. They’ve infected O’Hara!

He threw down his pen and spun around in his chair to face her.

“All right, O’Hara.” He barked. “What’s going on around here?”

Juliet looked up at him, blinking in surprise.

“What do you mean?” She asked.

“Don’t give me that!” He scowled. “Why is everyone around here so damn…cheerful… today?”

“I don’t know what--”

“Yes, you do! Why is everyone giggling like someone spiked the coffee?”

He suddenly raised a disapproving, but somehow not surprised, eyebrow.

“...did someone spike the coffee?”

“No, no.” She laughed, waving him off with a careless shrug. “It’s nothing. Really.”

“Yes, it is! Tell me what the hell is going on around here!”

She sighed, looking left and right to make sure no one was listening, then leaned across his desk.

“Well,” she whispered, her eyes sparkling with internal laughter. “What did you expect?”

Lassiter’s scowl only deepened.

“What?” He whispered back, more confused than ever.

“We saw the paper this morning.”

“What paper?”

Juliet’s voice got even lower and more confidential.

“You know…”

“No, I don’t!” Lassiter snapped, his ears beginning to burn in bewildered rage. “What the hell are you talking about?”

She exhaled sharply, clearly getting frustrated herself, and reached into her center desk drawer. She pulled out a folded newspaper and tossed it on his desk.

It was open to the personal ads.

“There!” She said, pointing at one of the small advertisements.

Lassiter glanced at it briefly.

Irish Cop Looking For Love

He shrugged, still not understanding the big deal.

“So wha--?” He stopped mid-word, his face suddenly growing horrified as he realized what was going on.

He grabbed the paper and read the whole personal ad, looking like he was going to be sick the entire time.

Irish Cop Looking for Love

SWM seeks AWO (anything with ovaries)

Don’t be fooled by my excessive drinking and gruff, grumpy exterior.

Deep down, I’m just a scared teddy bear who needs to be loved.

No convicts.

He read it through twice, certain there had to be some mistake.

“That’s not me!” He growled, crumpling it into a ball and tossing it into his garbage can.

“It’s not?” Juliet replied doubtfully.

“No! Of course not!”

“But…” she hesitated. “You’re Irish.”

“So?”

“And you drink a lot…” she continued.

“So?”

“And you do kind of have a gruff and grumpy exterior…”

“So? O’Hara! It’s not me!”

“Not even the part about the scared--”

He cut her off with a sharp glare.

“God, no!” He shouted angrily, standing up. “It isn’t me! I don’t know who--”

His eyes suddenly narrowed.

“Spencer.” He growled.

“You called?” A cheeky voice from behind him spoke up.

He whirled around, wishing in that moment he had his gun in his hand.

“Spencer!” He shouted accusingly. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

“What was me?” Shawn blinked in supposed surprise. He was carrying a paper shopping bag, which he dropped lightly on the floor.

“The ad!” Lassiter barked. “The personal ad!”

“You saw a personal ad written by a single, hot psychic detective with great hair?” Shawn asked with a gasp, then gently pat Lassiter on the shoulder.

“Sorry, Lassie. It must be a different psychic detective…I know you’re disappointed.”

He looked over at Juliet, grinning.

“You’re disappointed, too. Right, Jules?”

She rolled her eyes, but Lassiter was not amused. He shook Shawn’s hand off his shoulder, his eyes burning furiously.

“Knock it off, Spencer! I know it was you!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Shawn insisted, reaching into the shopping bag. “I just stopped by to give you something.”

“What?” Lassiter muttered.

“This.” Shawn grinned broadly, tossing Lassiter a small teddy bear. “It’s scared and needs love, too.”

“All right, Shawn.” Henry intoned gravely, crossing his arms as he loomed over his two year old son. “It’s time to give it up.”

Shawn looked up from the floor, the corner of his blue blankie hanging out of his mouth as he chewed on it contentedly.

Henry reached down and grabbed the other end and gently tried to extricate it from his son’s teeth, but Shawn wasn’t letting go. His tiny fingers wrapped around the satin fringe, his eyes flashing defiantly as he yanked back.

“Blankie!” He insisted, though his voice was muffled by the mouthful of blue cloth.

“Shawn!” Henry growled, pulling harder. “Let go!”

Shawn’s innocent eyes welled up, the tears beginning to flow as Henry finally managed to pull it free of his grasp.

“Blankie!” He cried, reaching up for it.

“No!” Henry snapped. “You’re two now, Kid. It’s time to give it up.”

“Blankie!” Shawn sobbed for the third time, struggling to stand up on his chubby, unstable legs. He tugged on his father’s pants, straining to reach his precious blankie.

But Henry was unmoved. He gently tousled his son’s hair, but did not give him the blankie back.

“No, Shawn. No more blankie. Don’t you notice the looks you get at the store, dragging that thing around with you? Honestly, Kid. It’s starting to get embarrassing. I mean, that kind of thing is okay when you’re a baby…but you’re a big boy now, right?”

Shawn just shook his head emphatically.

“Blankie!” He demanded stubbornly.

“No blankie!” Henry shot back, equally stubborn.

Shawn stared up at him, blinking angrily. Even though he was only two, Henry swore he saw the wheels already beginning to turn.

Finally, Henry actually saw a plan click in his mind, and Shawn suddenly pulled out the big guns.

“Mommy!” He screamed at the top of his lungs. “MOMMY!”
“Mom’s not here, Kid.” Henry told him when he finally stopped yelling and took a breath. “Do you think I’m an idiot?”

Shawn’s lower lip began to quiver again as he realized his plan had failed.

“Blankie?” He asked quietly, squeezing his hands together pleadingly.

“No blankie, Kid.”

“Mommy?”

“No mommy. Not right now.”

Henry crossed the room and put the blankie in a cupboard, far out of Shawn’s reach.

“We’re going to keep this up here.” He said. “And we won’t tell Mom where it is, either. Okay?”

Shawn watched him as he shut the door and left the room.

“Blankie…” he muttered to himself, his eyes narrowing.

Mel returned a few hours later.

“Henry,” she asked as she came into the living room. ”Where’s my book?”

“Your what?” Henry mumbled, glancing up from his crossword puzzle.

“My book. “ She repeated, her brow wrinkling. “I left it here on the coffee table…I wanted to finish it today. Have you seen it?”

“No.” He shrugged. “You must’ve moved it.”

“I didn’t move it…” she insisted, beginning to tear the living room apart as she searched for it. Henry watched her from the couch. He glanced over at Shawn, who was also watching her intently from his playpen.

Henry could swear the kid was grinning at him…an almost evil, victorious grin.

Finally, after about five minutes of fruitlessly scouring the entire living room, Mel opened the cabinet where Henry had hidden Shawn’s blanket.

“Here’s my book!” She sighed, grabbing it from the shelf. “But how did it get up here?”

“I don’t know….” Henry mumbled, looking over at Shawn, who was the very picture of innocence.

No…he told himself.

It’s not possible…

Is it?

Suddenly, as Mel began to close the cabinet again, Shawn started to scream and reach for it.

“Blankie! Blankie! Blankie!”

Mel looked back at him, then opened the cabinet again.

Slowly, she reached up and pulled the blankie down.

“Henry…” she growled threateningly. “Why is Shawn’s blankie up here?”

“Uh--” he stammered, still not believing this was actually happening.

As it turned out, he didn’t need to say anything. Mel had already figured it out.

“I told you to let him have it!” She scolded. “He’s only two!”

“No, Mel. He’s already two!” He argued, finally recovering the initial shock of being discovered so quickly.

“Oh, just because you never had a blankie doesn’t mean he can’t.” She brushed him off with a careless wave as she gave the blankie back to Shawn, who was most definitively grinning up at his father now.

“And don’t take it away from him again!” She ordered on her way out of the room. “It’s his blankie. Not yours.”

Henry was frozen in place, staring down at his son in wonder.

How the hell did that book get up there? He asked himself, refusing to believe Shawn could have anything to do with it.

It’s not possible…

…Is it?

He’s two…

He can’t get up there…

He couldn’t plant evidence…

Mel must’ve put it up there…

Shawn was curled up with the blankie now, the corner dangling from his mouth as he napped peacefully.

…and even if he could get up there, why didn’t he just get the damn blanket himself?

Why plant the book?

Shawn cooed happily, his fingers running over the satin edge.

That’s when it dawned on Henry.

That little rat set me up!   

He wanted to get me in trouble!

He almost laughed at the idea….almost…

…No…

He’s two…

That’s not possible…

…is it?

For a brief moment, Henry swore he saw Shawn smile in his sleep.

“Gus!” Shawn groaned, collapsing on his best friend’s bed. “Let’s do something!”

“No!” Gus snapped, not even glancing up from his books. “I have to study! The spelling bee is in a month!”

“You do realize that the spelling bee is optional, right?” Shawn snorted. “No one is making you study for it.”

Gus slammed the book down and looked up, his eyes burning with a fierce determination Shawn generally only saw when he was trying to talk him into doing something incredibly stupid.

“Of course it’s optional! But if I win, I could go to Nationals! I could get a full scholarship to any college I want! I could--”

“…be the biggest dork in school and not get a date until you’re fifty…” Shawn finished the thought for him. “Seriously, Gus. I’m begging you. Don’t make me be best friends with the school loser. I’m too cool for that!”

Gus scowled and returned to his studies, waving his friend off.

“Shawn, I’m studying. Either help me or go away.”

“I’m not going to help you sabotage your social life! Or worse…my social life!”

“Then go away.”

“Fine!”

Shawn stood up and walked to the door, listening as Gus continued muttering under his breath.

“Eloquent…e-l-o-q-u-a-n-t…”

“It’s an e, Gus.” Shawn told him, rolling his eyes as he turned back around.

Gus almost dropped his book in surprise.

“What?”

“Eloquent. It’s an e, not an a. Just so you know.”

“How do you know that?” Gus demanded, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.

Shawn just shrugged.

“I dunno…”

“No!” Gus stood up, crossing his arms bitterly. “I want to know! How do you know eloquent has an e? I know every rule of spelling there is! I’ve memorized all the Latin and Greek roots! I can spell every word that’s won a spelling bee since the beginning of time--”

“Dude.” Shawn moaned. “You seriously need a hobby. Or a girlfriend.”

“Shawn, you couldn’t even spell cat in the school spelling bee! How the heck did you know eloquent has an e?”

“Okay,” Shawn sighed. “First of all, anyone could confuse a k with a c. They both make the same sound. Secondly, it’s not a big mystery, Gus. I looked at your spelling list when I first came in. That’s all.”

“This list?” Gus asked, picking up a neatly-folded half-sheet of paper and waving it ardently.

“Yeah,” Shawn shrugged.

“I had it covered, Shawn! You couldn’t have seen it for more than ten seconds!”

“Why would I need to see it for more than ten seconds?”

Shawn seemed genuinely perplexed, which only made Gus’ scowl deepen as he glared at his best friend, his hands almost trembling in rage.

“Are you kidding me?” He growled. “You memorized the entire Santa Barbara Regional Spelling Bee word list in ten seconds?”

“Well…not all of it. I couldn’t see the last few words. You were covering them with your arm.”

“Shawn! I’ve been working on this list for a month!”

“And that’s just sad,” Shawn clucked, shaking his head disapprovingly. “We haven’t had any fun in a month!”

“I can’t believe you can spell better than me!” Gus fumed.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Gus. I can only spell words I’ve seen…and it’s not something I’m proud of. I try to forget them once I see them…I just can’t…It’s a curse, really.”

“A curse?” Gus shouted indignantly. “It’s not a curse! You could have been helping me study!”

“And let you go through high school as an outcast? Never!” Shawn insisted, waving an intrepid finger through the air.

“Shawn…” Gus jabbed him in the ribs. “I want to win this spelling bee. And you’re going to help me study!”

“I am not!”

Gus’ jaw was set now. He folded his arms across his chest, his eyes meeting Shawn’s squarely.

“You will if you don’t want your dad to find out who broke the window.”

“You wouldn’t!”

Gus handed Shawn the list.

“Eloquent.” He said defiantly. “E-l-o-q-u-e-n-t.”

Shawn sighed and sat back down on the bed.

“Yeah.”

“What’s next?”
Shawn glanced down at the list.

“Aggiornamento. What the heck is an aggiornamento? Some kind of tasty after-dinner mint?”

“It means the act of bringing something up to date to meet current needs.” Gus informed him, suddenly sounding very important and knowledgeable.

“Oh, God.” Shawn closed his eyes painfully, seeing his best friend’s dating life going up in smoke. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t know that.”

“Shut up, Shawn. Aggiornamento. A-g-g-i-o-r-n-a—”

“No…” Shawn cut him off, a smile slowly creeping across his face as he realized there was only one way to save Gus from himself. “It’s not an a…it’s an o.”

“Whatcha working on?” Shawn asked as he entered the Psych office.

Gus quickly crammed the stack of notebook pages he had been writing on into the center desk drawer and slammed it shut, very narrowly missing his fingers.

“Nothing!” He said way too casually, resting his chin on his hand, as if that would actually convince Shawn he wasn’t up to anything.

As if Shawn would actually just drop it.

After twenty-something years of friendship, he should have known better than to even try…

“Oh, really?” Shawn grinned evilly, his eyebrows arching as he gazed intently at the well-guarded desk drawer.

Suddenly, he had to know what was in there.

Of course, Gus could read his mind. His hand instinctively pushed the drawer shut just a little tighter.

“Shawn…” he warned. “Don’t make me kill you.”

Shawn took a step towards the desk, his eyes brimming with glee.

How could he turn down a challenge like that?

“Gus, you know I’m going to find out what’s in there. Just back away from the drawer and no one gets hurt.”

Gus quickly grabbed a pencil off the desk and brandished it like a sword, ready to defend his secret to the death.

Shawn grabbed a pen in retaliation, and the duel was on.

They crossed “swords”, glaring at each other as they each refused to back down.

“Shawn,” Gus growled. “I’m not joking!”

“Sure you are,” Shawn returned. “Your weapon of choice is a number 2 pencil. Are you telling me that’s seriously supposed to intimidate me? I’m not a fill-in-the-bubble test, Gus.”

Gus quickly launched an attack of three sharp pencil-thrusts, which Shawn neatly pen-parried without even blinking.

“Gus, please.” He snorted. “If we’re going to do the whole fake-duel thing, you at least have to try.”

He gently kicked the Gus’ chair back from the desk and reached for the drawer, managing to grab the papers before Gus could wheel the chair back over and stop him.

“Aha!” He grinned triumphantly, waving the pages through the air.

“Shawn!”

Gus practically dove across the desk in his desperation to stop Shawn from looking at them.

But it was too late.

“What are these?” Shawn asked, his forehead crinkling in bewilderment as he flipped through the pages. “They look like floor plans to a bank.”

“They are floor plans to a bank!”

Gus lunged at Shawn, but he was too quick. He easily dodged his best friend and danced around the room, still clinging to the papers like buried treasure.

“Why would you need floor plans to a bank?” Shawn demanded lightly. “…And detailed instructions on how to crack a safe?” He added with a gasp as he skimmed the next few pages of handwritten notes.

He lowered them briefly and regarded his best friend with a look of disappointed apprehension.

“Gus,” he intoned seriously. “Are you planning on robbing a bank?”

“No!”

“Yes, you are!” Shawn crowed happily, once again evading Gus awkward charge. “You’re going to rob a bank!”

“I am not!”

“Then what is all of this?”

“Nothing!”

Shawn flopped down into the chair and propped his feet up on the desk, grinning from ear to ear.

“Dude,” he beamed. “If you’re going to rob a bank, you totally have to let me in! Can we have code names? Can I be Mr. Orange? You can be Mr. Pink!”

“I am not Mr. Pink!”

“Why not?” Shawn blinked in surprise. “I thought you liked Steve Buscemi.”

“Because I’m not robbing a bank!” Gus shouted, finally managing to wrench the papers out of Shawn’s grasp and cram them into his pocket.

“Oh.”

Shawn almost sounded disappointed.

“Then what are they?” He asked, dropping his feet back to the floor and leaning across the desk eagerly.

“Nothing!”

“Gus…” Shawn sighed, shaking his head. “You know I’m going to find out.”

Their eyes locked stubbornly, though Gus already knew he was defeated.

Shawn would find out, somehow…

He always found out.

“Fine,” Gus groaned, sitting on the couch. “They’re just notes I’ve been taking.”

“For…”

“For…” Gus hesitated, but eventually decided just to rip the band-aid off with one motion. “For a screenplay I’m writing.”

This was an answer Shawn had not been expecting. He laughed just loudly enough to be considered mocking.

“A screenplay? You’re writing a screenplay? About a bank robbery?”

“Why not?” Gus demanded shortly. “Heist movies are huge right now! Those Ocean movies made, like, $100 million! Each!”

“Really?”

Shawn’s eyebrows shot up.

Suddenly, he was interested.

“So, what’s our screenplay about?” He asked, leaning back in his chair.

“Our screenplay?” Gus snorted.

“Sure! I can help! I’m an awesome writer!”

“What have you ever written?”

"I wrote that essay in fifth grade about Johnny Tremain. Remember? Mrs. Becker said it was the best essay she ever read!”

“I wrote that essay!” Gus reminded him, his eyes narrowing bitterly. “You just put your name on it.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Forget it, Shawn. It’s my screenplay.”

“Like you know anything about robbing a bank!”

“I know more than you!” Gus snapped, crossing his arms stubbornly.

“You do not!”

“Oh yeah?”

Gus cocked an eyebrow at Shawn and leaned forward, the challenge issued and accepted.

“How would you do it, Shawn?” He demanded. “How would you rob a bank? How would you crack a safe?”

Shawn considered for a moment, rubbing his chin thoughtfully as his mind mulled over the possibilities.

“Well…” he decided finally. “I guess you could always use a blow torch to get into the safe…”

“No good.” Gus shook his head. “It takes too long, and you don’t know what you’re doing. You need to know how to use water to keep the metal cool so you don’t burn up everything inside. By the time you got into the safe, everything in it would be ash. It can happen even to pros. Not to mention the cops would be there by that time, anyway.”

“Oh…” Shawn mumbled, still thinking. “Oh! I know! You could use one of those things with a computer in it that figures out the combination to the safe!”

“Yeah, right.” Gus snorted. “They’re called autodialers, Shawn. And do you have any idea how long they take, assuming you could find one? They have to go through thousands of combinations before they finally find the right one. And it would only work on a safe that doesn’t have a dial combination lock.”

“Oh.”

Shawn sighed, quickly running out of ideas.

“Drilling?” He asked limply.

“Nope.” Gus informed him, his victorious grin growing by the moment. “High security safes have relockers, which are--”

“Never mind, Gus.” Shawn snapped shortly. “I don’t care.”

“You couldn’t crack a safe to save your life!” Gus snorted, leaning back on the couch with a broad smile. “And you still haven’t even figured out how to get in the bank in the first place!”

“Fine!” Shawn grumbled, finally just admitting defeat. “I couldn’t rob a bank. But neither could you!”

“Of course I could!” Gus sounded offended by the very idea.

He pulled one of the crumpled-up papers out of his pocket and tossed it to Shawn.

“What’s this?” Shawn asked, smoothing it out on the desk in front of him.

“This is how I’m going to rob the bank,” Gus grinned, then quickly added. “You know, in the screenplay. This is how the characters are going to rob the bank.”

Shawn read the plan over and slowly raised his head so his eyes were meeting Gus’.

“This,” he said quietly. “Is brilliant!”

“I know.” Gus grinned proudly.

“Dude! This would totally work!”

Gus clasped his hands behind his head and crossed his feet in front of him, looking quite satisfied with himself.

“I know.”

“Where the hell’s the coffee?” Detective Lassiter growled irritably, slamming his mug down on the small table. He looked around the station for someone to answer him, to jump into action and get him some damn coffee, but no one was listening.

No one, that is, except Juliet, who looked up from her desk to answer his question but certainly was not about to jump into action and get him any coffee.

“Buzz has the flu,” she told him simply.

Lassiter scowled, completely uninterested in any sort of general health and well-being update before he had his morning caffeine fix.

“What the hell does that have to do with—”

“He always makes the coffee,” she shrugged.

As if that that explained everything.

As if it was all that simple.

She turned back to her paperwork, apparently willing to just accept the fact that there wasn’t going to be any coffee this morning.

Lassiter, on the other hand, was not about to admit defeat that easily.

“No one else around here knows how to make coffee?” He demanded.

Juliet sighed and looked back up at her partner, suddenly realizing she wasn’t going to hear the end of this.

“No one else around here ever thinks to,” she said. “We don’t have to. Buzz always does it. It’s his thing.”

“His thing?” Lassiter repeated scornfully, already starting to feel the effects of caffeine deprivation setting in. “I didn’t know McNab had a thing! Except being the most irritating cop on the force!”

“Carlton!” Juliet scolded him. “How can you say that about Buzz?”

“Because I haven’t had any damn coffee!” He barked back, grabbing his mug off the table and stomping across the precinct back to his desk.

He tossed the mug bitterly on his desk and stared at it longingly for a few minutes before finally forcing himself to get to work.

“O’Hara!” He snapped, surveying his desk with disgust.

“What?”

“I don’t have a pencil.”

“What?”

She turned her chair around and stared at him in dumbfounded amusement.

“I don’t have a pencil.” He said again, not nearly as amused by this situation as his partner was. “What the hell happened to my pencils?”

“I don’t know. Didn’t Buzz leave one on your desk yesterday?”

“McNab?” Lassiter’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “He didn’t give me one.”

“Sure he did,” Juliet insisted lightly. “He always leaves you a pencil in the morning if you don’t have one. He leaves me one, too. See?”

She held up the brand-new yellow pencil she was writing with as proof. Lassiter looked at it almost enviously.

“McNab leaves those?”

“Of course!” Juliet laughed. “Who’d you think it was? The pencil fairy?”

“No!” Lassiter snorted derisively, though it was clear he’d never given the magically-appearing pencils much thought at all.

“He just gets them from the supply closet,” Juliet told him. “There’s probably some in there.”

“Fine.” Lassiter grunted, pushing back from the desk wearily. “I’ll get my own damn pencil.”

He marched purposefully across the station, coming back a moment later with an entire box of yellow number 2 pencils.

“There.” He muttered in satisfaction, dropping them on his desk.

He pulled one out and sharpened it, finally ready to get on with his work.

But something was still missing…

“O’Hara!” He barked again once he realized what it was.

“What?”

“Where are the 10-84 report forms? I always have a stack right here.”

“Buzz--”

“McNab?” Lassiter groaned. “Again? Don’t tell me…”

“Afraid so,” Juliet smiled gently. “He runs them off for us when we’re running low.”

Lassiter slammed his pencil down.

“See, O’Hara!” He fumed. “I told you! McNab is the most irritating cop on the force! Where the hell does he get the nerve to be home with the flu today?”

Henry stopped dead in his tracks as he turned the corner of the house, his cop instincts suddenly buzzing.

Something was wrong…

He surveyed the muddy grass with a sharp eye, already suspecting he knew what was going on.

“Shawn.” He spoke loudly, though he couldn’t actually see his son. “Come out. I know you’re there.”

Suddenly, there was the distant, muffled sound of feet scurrying through mud, but Shawn didn’t come out and face his father.

“Shawn!” He growled again. “Now!”

This time, Shawn appeared. He stepped out from behind a tree on the edge of the yard, looking more than a little nervous.

“Hey, Dad,” he grinned innocently.

Always a bad sign.

Henry crossed his arms and sighed. He could already tell this was going to be a long afternoon.

“Where are the water balloons, Shawn?” He demanded, his fingers drumming impatiently on his arm.

“Water balloons…?” Shawn repeated, blinking as if the very words held no meaning for him.

“Yes, water balloons!” Henry snapped, pointing to the ground by his feet. “There’s balloon shrapnel all over the yard, and you left the spigot on the side of the house dripping. So, where are they?”

“Up in the tree house,” Shawn sighed, knowing there was no point in lying.

His dad always found out the truth in the end, anyway.

“Shawn, you know I hate water balloons.” Henry lectured.

Shawn rolled his eyes.

He could quote this one by heart now.

“Technically, it’s littering.” Henry continued. “Not to mention the fact that you’re just asking for a lawsuit throwing things at people from that height.”  

“I’m not throwing them at people!” Shawn argued. “Just Gus!”

“Great.” Henry muttered. “That’s all I need. Another call from Gus’ mom about some injury you inflicted…”

“He started it!” Shawn insisted. “He had a squirt gun!”

“A squirt gun?” Henry snorted, gesturing at a tiny, damp patch on the hem of Shawn’s shirt. “He did that?”

“Yeah! I had to get him back!”

“With water balloons?”

“Well, I couldn’t find any buckets…”

“Shawn!”

“What?”

“It was a squirt gun!” Henry stared at his son in disbelief. “You don’t think an entire arsenal of water balloons might be just a little excessive?”

The thought had never occurred to Shawn.

He considered for a moment, but before he could respond there was a blood-curdling scream.

Almost like a battle cry…

From out of nowhere, Gus suddenly came barreling around the corner of the house, armed with a water balloon of his own.

“Eat balloon, Shawn!” He shouted gleefully, realizing a moment too late that his quarry wasn’t alone.

He tried to stop the throw…tried to pull back his arm before he released the balloon…but he couldn’t.

He watched in wide-eyed terror as the balloon floated through the air, seemingly in slow-motion…and heading directly for Henry.

It struck Henry in the center of forehead, exploding in a burst of water and red latex.

“Oh, God!” Gus groaned, looking like he might throw up as he realized for only the third time in his life that his best friend’s father, who was now dripping wet thanks to him and his water balloon, owned a gun.

And probably a taser…

He spun around and took off again before either Shawn or the still stunned Henry could react.

“Still think it’s excessive, Dad?” Shawn grinned, trying not to laugh at his soaked father, who was currently still trying to squeeze the water out of his uniform.

“Give him a two minute head start, Kid.” Henry muttered, mussing Shawn’s hair.

“Okay,” Shawn agreed, heading back to the tree house.

“Shawn!” Henry called after him.

“What?”

“Pick up the shrapnel when you’re done. Then it’s not littering.”

It was the single most traumatic moment of Carlton Lassiter’s life.

It was the reason he not-so-secretly hated Christmas.

It was the worst thing he had ever done…and he didn’t even remember doing it.

And yet, he could never forget it.

His mother wouldn’t let him.

Every year on Christmas Eve, she told the story.

It always started the same way. She would sit in her rocking chair and stare at the mantle, sighing loudly to herself until he couldn’t take it anymore.

"What’s wrong, Mom?” He’d ask through gritted teeth, already knowing what was coming.

“I was just thinking about that snow globe…” she would begin, the guilt trip already starting to build. “You know. The one you smashed when you were three.”

She could have left it there.

But, no.

She never left it there.

“Do you remember?” She would press on. “It was your grandmother’s. An antique. One-of-a-kind, Carlton. And you smashed it.”

“I remember,” he’d mumbled, hoping this was the end.

But it was never the end.

“It was Christmas Eve…” she would continue, twisting the knife. “I was upstairs wrapping presents. You were supposed to be taking your nap…but when I came downstairs, there you were. On your tiptoes, reaching up on the mantle trying to grab the snow globe…it had a gingerbread house scene in it. Remember?...Anyway, I said, ‘Carlton Lassiter, you drop that snow globe!’…and you did. Right on the fireplace hearth. It smashed into a thousand pieces.”

“I know. I know.”

At this point, she would shake her head miserably.

“I loved that snow globe!” She would sob, as if all the sorrows in the rest of the known universe couldn’t equal the loss of that one object.

Sometimes she’d dab her eyes with a handkerchief, just for good measure.

And that was the end of it. His mother wouldn’t say another word about the snow globe.

But there were still the nightmares to deal with…

For Carlton Lassiter, Christmas morning didn’t start with running downstairs to see what Santa left under the tree. Christmas morning began when he awoke in a cold sweat; images of gingerbread, spilled water, and shattered glass flashing through his mind.

Sometimes, he was screaming.

Why did I have to do it?

Why did I have to break that damn snow globe?

Sometimes, he was even trapped inside the globe as it plummeted to the hearth. He would pound against the glass, trying desperately to escape before it shattered on the brick…but it was always in vain.

He couldn’t escape.

He could never escape that damn snow globe.

That is, until one day…

He was walking by an antique store and he happened to glance in the window.

There, sitting on a fluffy cotton pillow, was an antique snow globe with a gingerbread house scene.

He stared at it in disbelief.

It was the exact same snow globe his mother had been describing for years. At least, it was exactly how it had always looked in his fractured mind.

Is it possible…?

Without even a second thought, he ran inside the store for a closer look. The woman behind the counter assured him that it was, indeed, a genuine antique snow globe.

“It was actually quite a popular design at one time,” she told him as she gently wrapped it and placed it in a brown cardboard box for him. “But there aren’t too many of them left anymore. The glass they used for the dome is extremely fragile. It doesn’t take much to break it.”

He ignored the caution and bought it, finally feeling something he hadn’t felt in years.

Happy.

Free.

Once I give her this, I’ll never have to hear about how I broke that damn snow globe again!

I’m free!

He was so absorbed in his jubilant thoughts as he walked home that he almost didn’t hear the scream.

“Sam!”

A young boy of no more than four or five suddenly ran past him, heading right for the busy intersection at the end of the sidewalk.

“Sam!” the boy’s mother cried again, but she was too far back to reach him.

Instinctively, Carlton reached out and grabbed the boy’s hood as he sped past, stopping him just before his little foot hit the road. However, as the boy came to an immediate, screeching halt, Carlton was thrown off-balance. He stumbled forward, tripping over the boy’s shoe and falling flat on his face.

As he hit the pavement, he heard a dull, sickening sound.

Oh, God…

I know that sound…

It was the shattering of all his hopes and dreams.

He groaned and slowly forced himself to his feet, staring down in horror at the now flattened cardboard box that lay on the sidewalk where he had fallen.

He didn’t even dare look inside.

He knew exactly what he’d find.

The things nightmares are made of…

Oh, God…

The nightmares are going to start again…

“Dad!” Shawn groaned, wandering into the kitchen clutching his stomach. “I’m starving! Where’s Mom?”

Henry was standing behind the counter, deftly tying an apron around his waist.

“She had a meeting.” He told his son.

“A meeting?” Shawn gasped, horrified. “Who’s going to make us dinner?”

“Who do you think?” Henry snorted, finished with the apron. He started to rummage around in the cupboards with the authority of a man who had done this before.

“You?” Shawn sounded skeptical. “You know how to cook, Dad?”

Henry dropped a stack of metal mixing bowls on the counter and sighed.

“Of course I know how to cook, Shawn.” He snapped. “It’s just basic math and science. What did you think? I survived on cold cereal before I met your mom?”

“Yeah…kinda…” Shawn admitted, pulling a chair up to the counter so he could watch the show. “Maybe some toast…”

“I can cook more than toast, Kid.”

“But you burn toast!”

“It’s called a dark setting, Shawn.”

“It’s not dark when Mom makes it.”

“That’s because she doesn’t do it right.” Henry muttered, grabbing another apron off the hook on the wall and tossing it to Shawn.

“Put that on.” He ordered. “You’re going to learn how to cook.”

Shawn groaned, but reluctantly pulled it over his head and tied the strings in a neat bow behind his back.

“Do I have to?” He begged.

“Yes.” Henry nodded firmly. “It’s an important skill, Shawn. It’s multitasking. It’s thinking two and three steps ahead. It’s problem solving and improvising. It’s--”

“For girls.” Shawn concluded for him, crossing his arms bitterly.

Henry glowered and handed him a whisk and one of the metal mixing bowls.

“It’s for cops, Kid.” He said. “Now crack some eggs in there and start whisking.”

“What are we making?” Shawn sighed as he reached for an egg.

“Scrambled eggs.”

Henry dropped a skillet onto the stove and turned the burner on.

“Scrambled eggs?” Shawn snorted. “That’s not cooking!”

“The eggs are raw now.” Henry snapped, turning the burner on even higher. “When we’re done, they won’t be. That’s cooking. Stop arguing and just crack the damn eggs!”

“Fine. Fine. Cooking doesn’t make mom all grumpy.” Shawn added under his breath.

“That’s because she doesn’t do it right.”

Shawn rolled his eyes and started to crack the eggs almost violently into the bowl, tossing the shells on the counter carelessly when he was through.

“Uh, Dad—” he said a few minutes later, but by this time Henry was at the end of his rope. He threw two pieces of bread into the toaster and slammed the lever down.

“Shawn!” He growled. “Stop arguing! You’re going to do this, okay?”

“No! Dad, listen—”

“I don’t give a damn if you think cooking is for girls!” Henry shouted.

“No! Dad—”

“Just crack the damn eggs!”

“But the pan’s on fire.”

Henry spun back around to the stove, where the pan was, indeed, on fire. Flames curled up from the burner, licking the bottom of the skillet as smoke poured out from the inside, where the butter had long since evaporated.

“Crap!”

He quickly grabbed the handle with an oven mitt and tossed the whole pan into the sink, turning the water on full blast until the flames died down and the kitchen was instead filled with the nauseating, acrid smell of smoke and burnt metal.

“The pan doesn’t catch on fire when Mom cooks,” Shawn grinned in between coughs.

Henry sighed in defeat, looking around at the decimated kitchen.

The counter was covered with eggshells and egg drippings.

The stove was black from the flames.

The pan was burnt beyond repair.

“I’ll make you a deal, Kid.” He said finally, grabbing a dish rag.

“What?”

“We clean this up and get a pizza…and your mom never finds out.”

“Shawnd, hab you seen by shirp?” Henry asked as he strapped on his holster, just before his entire body was rocked by an earth-shattering sneeze.

“Your shirp?” Shawn repeated when his father was finally finished sneezing, his brow wrinkling mockingly as he glanced up from his Corn Flakes. “What’s a shirp?”

“By shirp!” Henry snapped, pulling emphatically on his white t-shirt in demonstration. “You know wad a shirp is! I neeb by shirp for work!”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” Shawn asked casually. “The Department called a few minutes ago. All the bad guys turned themselves in voluntarily. You can take the day off.”

“Berry fuddy,” Henry muttered, cramming a fistful of tissues into his pocket. “Just tell be where by shirp is!”

“No.”

Henry glared down at his son, who stared unblinkingly back up at him.

“Wad?” He sniffed.

“Dad, you’re sick.”

“I am nod!”

“Really?” Shawn rolled his eyes. “You’re nod?”

“No!”

Henry’s protest would have been more convincing had it not been immediately followed by an uncontrollable coughing fit.

When he finally managed to stop hacking up his lungs and breathe again, Shawn crossed his arms defiantly.

“Take the day off, Dad. The world’s not going to end if you call in sick.”

“Id’s by job, Shawnd. I can’t judst take a day off whenever I wand!”

“Sure you can.” Shawn shrugged. “I do it all the time with school.”

“Wad?”

“Never mind…”

Shawn cleared his throat, quickly deciding he had to change the subject before his father pried deeper and found out about his nineteen sick days…all of which had a forged excuse note from Henry Spencer.

“Mom never let you go to work sick,” he said quietly.

“Yeah, well…your bom’s nod here.” Henry returned with a scowl.

“Well, I’m not telling you where your shirt is.” Shawn insisted stubbornly.

“Shawnd! Judst tell be!”

“No. But I will tell you that you’ll never find it.”

Their eyes locked, though for once Shawn had the upper-hand in the stare down, as Henry’s bloodshot eyes were simply too weary and watery to be very intimidating.    

“I’m nod sick, Shawnd.” He grumbled, knowing it was pointless.

Shawn wasn’t going to give in, and Henry just didn’t have the energy to fight with him today.

“Fine. Then stay home and mow the lawn or something. I don’t care. At least I won’t have to do it on Saturday, then. But you’re not going to work.”

Henry collapsed into a kitchen chair, wiping his arm across his faucet-like nose and sighing in defeat. Every ounce of strength he had left suddenly seemed to flee his body.

“I’m nod sick.” He muttered again, though he secretly already planned on taking a nap the second Shawn left for school.

“Yeah. Sure.”

Shawn dropped his cereal bowl into the sink and headed for the front door.

“If it helps,” he added with a grin on his way out. “I think you’re going to find out whether or not Blake’s evil twin is back from the dead today on that Soap Opera you don’t think I know you secretly watch. You sure wouldn’t want to miss that.”

Shawn reached across Juliet’s desk and deftly plucked the fortune cookie out of the take-out bag.

“Dibs.” He grinned, about to tear into the cellophane wrapper.

“Dibs?” She repeated, grabbing for the cookie herself. “You can’t call dibs on the last fortune cookie!”

“Why not?”

“Because I want it!”

Shawn stood up, dangling the disputed cookie in his fingers over her head with a maniacal laugh.

“This cookie?” He asked innocently, always keeping it just an inch out of her reach.

“Yes!” She snapped, crossing her arms and refusing to play keep away.
She’d had quite enough of that game in elementary school…

“Okay, fine.” He sighed once he saw she wasn’t going to keep grabbing for it.

He slid back into his seat and propped his elbow up on the desk.

“Arm wrestle for it?” He asked.

Juliet rolled her eyes.

“No.”

“Mud wrestle?”

“Shawn!”

“What?”

“No!”

He sat back in his chair, crossing his arms in resignation.

“Well, if you’re not even going to try to resolve this like mature adults…”

“Mature adults resolve cookie disputes with mud wrestling?”

“What?” Shawn shrugged. “They don’t?”

He seemed truly surprised, and even slightly disheartened, by this revelation.

“No.” Juliet informed him sharply.

“Then what do they wrestle in? Jell-o?”

His eyebrows suddenly shot up.

“...We could do that…”

Juliet smacked his arm.

“Adults don’t wrestle at all, Shawn! They talk. They compromise. They negotiate.”

Shawn blinked slowly, trying to wrap his head around the concept.

“So…at which point in this negotiation process do we get to throw stuff at each other?” He asked.

“After I get the cookie, you can throw whatever you want.” Juliet smiled, stealthily inching her hand across the table towards the cookie. Shawn saw her, however, and quickly pulled it away again.

Their eyes locked.

Clearly, this was going to remain a stalemate.

“I’ll tell you what,” Shawn suggested, placing one of his hands behind his back. “If you can guess how many fingers I’m holding up, you can have the cookie.”

“I’m not the psychic, Shawn.” Juliet pointed out. “Shouldn’t you have to guess how many fingers I’m holding up?”

“Maybe…” Shawn admitted. “But I’m the one with the cookie. My game, my rules. How many fingers?”

“Fine.” She huffed, her eyes narrowing into thoughtful slits.

She looked into his eyes for a long moment, as if trying to read his mind.

Shawn tried not to notice how blue they were…or how the light was reflecting off them, revealing just a few specks of gold and green…

“Four.” She said finally.

Behind his back, Shawn slowly lowered his thumb against his palm.

“You got it.” He muttered, pulling his hand out and showing her the four fingers he had remaining up.

He tried to sound disappointed, but he couldn’t stop the corner of his mouth from curling up into a small smile.

He tossed the last cookie to her and watched as she ripped into it.

“What’s it say?” He asked as she pulled out the tiny slip of paper.

“Nothing much,” she shrugged, tossing it on her desk as she bit into the cookie. “Something about friends and sharing…”

She bit into the cookie, then smiled and tossed the other half to Shawn.

He caught it and returned the grin, propping his feet up on her desk as they silently munched their half-cookies.

Just then, Gus got back from the bathroom.

“Hey!” He snapped, peering into the take-out bag. “What happened to my fortune cookie?! I was only gone for five minutes!”

“Shawn, no!”

Henry glanced in the rearview mirror at his two year-old son, who was currently trying to figure out how to unbuckle his car seat.

Shawn quickly dropped the buckle like a hot plate and looked up at his father, his wide eyes demanding to know why he was being shouted at.

“You can’t unbuckle, Kid.” Henry explained firmly, not taking his eyes off him. “If we crash, you’ll go right through the windshield.”

Shawn blinked.

“Not that we’re going to crash….” Henry went on quickly, suddenly realizing he wasn’t presenting a very convincing case in favor of his driving ability. “We’re not going to crash…but if we did…”

He sighed. There was just no good way to end that conversation with a two year-old.

“Just don’t unbuckle.”

Henry turned his eyes back to the road, and Shawn’s hand slowly went back to the bright red release button on his seat belt. He grunted with the effort as his tiny fingers pressed it almost frantically, but to no avail.

He just couldn’t get it to work.

“Shawn!” Henry snapped again. “I told you to knock it off! You can’t be unbuckled in the car! I’m a cop, Kid. How’s it going to look if I get a ticket because my own son isn’t buckled?”

Shawn didn’t seem to have an answer.

Of course,  he was only two at the time…

As the years passed, however, the seatbelt issue became a hotly-debated topic in the Spencer car.

Like with everything else in his young life, Shawn seemed to thrive on figuring out what his father wanted him to do, and then doing the exact opposite.

“Shawn,” Henry would growl practically every time they got in the car. “We’re not going anywhere until you put on your seatbelt.”

They both knew the script perfectly by now. However, the threat didn’t seem to provide much motivation for Shawn to obey, since it was usually Henry who was in a hurry to get where they were going.

What did Shawn care if they were late for school or if the bank closed?

He always ended up putting it on in the end, of course, but not without a fight.

Or an argument.

Or a debate.

Or some smart remark muttered under his breath.

Does he even hear me…? Henry had to wonder as he watched his son sulk in the backseat, his arms crossed.

Does he get it…?

Or do the words just bounce off that cement head?

Despite his best efforts, despite the endless lectures and the logical arguments for wearing a seatbelt, Henry was sure the latter was true.

His words just bounced off his idiot son’s cement head and fell uselessly to the ground.

Finally, the day all parents dread came.

Shawn was in junior high, and he suddenly had older friends.

High school friends.

High school friends with cars.

He watched bitterly from the window as the punks pulled into his driveway and honked their horn for Shawn.

“See ya, Dad!” Shawn called over his shoulder as he grabbed his jacket and bolted out the door.

Mel came up alongside Henry as he pulled the curtain aside and watched their son leap into the car without so much as a look back.

“Relax, Henry.” She smiled, reading his mind. “He’ll be fine.”

“Did you see those punks?” Henry muttered. “They probably all have records.”

“You’re not running a background check on Shawn’s friends.” Mel rolled her eyes, starting to walk away. “Not again…”

But Henry didn’t hear her.

He was too busy watching as the car pulled away.

In the backseat, seemingly without even thinking, Shawn had fastened his seatbelt.

Henry fought a small grin as he dropped the curtain back into place and spun on his heel, suddenly deciding he had work to do in the garage.

Maybe something got through…

“Dad!” Shawn demanded hotly as he stormed into the kitchen. “What is this?”

Henry glanced up from his newspaper, quickly giving the object his son was waving through the air a once-over.

“It looks like a glass, Shawn.” He answered flatly, gently folding the paper and putting it down.

“Not the glass!” Shawn snapped, slamming it onto the table. “The evidence bag the glass is in!”

“Oh…” Henry peered closer, then shrugged. “It looks like an evidence bag, Shawn.”

Shawn’s eyes narrowed.

Did his father just not realize how unfunny he was?

“I know it’s an evidence bag! Why does it say Ben Smith on it?” Shawn pressed on, not about to let his father off the hook that easily.

He expected Henry to be somewhat cagey on this point, but his father just sat back and crossed his arms, meeting Shawn’s eyes squarely.

“Because I didn’t want to forget the little punk’s name,” he answered unblinkingly, not about to apologize for anything. “And because I need a name to go with the fingerprints if I want to check for aliases.”

“He’s not a punk, Dad!” Shawn insisted. “And he doesn’t have any aliases! He’s my friend!”

“He has blue hair.” Henry muttered with disdain, as if that fact alone qualified Ben as the lowest form of life on earth.

“So what?”

“So, I see a hundred high school kids like him everyday, Shawn.” Henry sighed. “And I end up arresting 97 of them.”

“You can’t fingerprint my friends just because you don’t like teenagers!”

“Sure I can,” Henry snorted.

“That’s not fair!”

“Hey, Kid. Newsflash. Life’s not fair.”

“Don’t you at least have to read him his rights or something first?” Shawn demanded. “Doesn’t he get a lawyer or anything?”

Henry shrugged.

“Not if his fingerprints happen to be all over my glass…by the way, I didn’t even have to lift them. They were imprinted in an inch of dirt. Doesn’t that kid ever wash his hands?”

“Maybe he was just helping you out!” Shawn snapped bitterly.

Henry rolled his eyes and stood up, finished with being lectured by his pre-teen son.

“Shawn,” he growled. “If he doesn’t have anything to hide, he has nothing to worry about.”

“He doesn’t have anything to hide!”

“Then he doesn’t have anything to worry about. But I’m not going to apologize for taking an interest in my son’s life.”

“Running a criminal background check on my friends isn’t taking an interest!” Shawn shouted. “It’s just…creepy! If you want to take an interest, how about buying me that motorcycle I asked for?”

“You’re twelve. You don’t need a motorcycle.”

“Everyone needs a motorcycle!” Shawn insisted.

“Why?” Henry snorted. “So you can ride around with your blue-haired little punk friend?”

“He’s not a punk! And it’s a free country! I can hang out with whoever I want!”

Henry scowled, crossing his arms.

He must have gotten that idea from his mother.

“Shawn, when you use my name, what you do reflects on me. When you do something stupid, people don’t just think you’re an idiot. They think I’m an idiot. And if I let my son run around with punk kids I know nothing about, I would be an idiot.”

“He’s not a punk! And he doesn’t have a criminal record.”

“Well, I’ll know that in two to three weeks,” Henry mumbled. “Once the fingerprints come back from the lab. Until then, he’s a punk.”

“You know, some parents actually trust their kids,” Shawn muttered.

“No, Shawn.” Henry shook his head. “No, they don’t. Some parents just don’t have the Santa Barbara Police Department at their disposal.”

“You brought the baby?” Gus groaned as Shawn walked into the Psych office, carrying a car seat covered with a blanket.

Gus peered down at the tiny, content bundle, who blinked back up at him, her eyes clearly demanding to know who he was to tell her she couldn’t be with her daddy.

“I didn’t have a choice, Gus.” Shawn argued, gently placing the seat down on the floor. “Jules is sick, okay?”

“But we have a client coming in!”

“She’ll be fine.” Shawn assured him. “She’s just going to take her nap in the other room. The client will never know she’s here.”

“Well…” Gus hesitated, but Shawn was a step ahead. He reached down and scooped his daughter up, dangling her in front of his face.

“Oh, please, Uncle Gus…” he said in a high-pitched voice that sounded vaguely British. “Please let me stay!”

Gus rolled his eyes.

Even at just six-months old, she had already mastered Shawn’s pleading, innocent look.

“Why does she have a British accent?” He muttered bitterly, though he was grinning, completely at the mercy of her wide, playful eyes.

Shawn lowered his secret weapon back into her car seat, cocking his head to the side curiously as he tucked her in.

“I don’t know…” he murmured, smiling down at her. “I must secretly be part British…either that, or I need a paternity test…”

He gently rocked the seat until she fell asleep, then quietly moved her into the next room.

By the time he was back, the client had arrived and was introducing himself to Gus.

“I’m Peter Black.” He was saying as Shawn entered the room again.

“I’m Gus,” Gus replied, shaking Peter’s hand and motioning to Shawn. “This is Shawn. He’s the psychic.”

Peter turned to Shawn, his dull gray eyes flashing.

“Then you’re the one who can help me.”

“I can try,” Shawn shrugged, collapsing into the office chair.

He quickly shoved a newspaper that had been lying out into the center desk drawer before bringing his fingers up to his temple.

“Wait!” He said mystically, his eyes clenching painfully as he was overtaken by a ‘vision’. “I’m getting something already…”

“What?” Peter asked in quiet amazement, taking the chair across from him.

Shawn hesitated, trying to get a clearer picture.

“I see….diamonds…” he whispered. “Lots of diamonds…and they’re…missing…”

“That’s right.” Peter nodded in agreement.

“I’m seeing…”

Shawn was about to go on and recite everything from the newspaper article he had read earlier that morning, but at that moment there was an ear-splitting howl from the next room.

“What was that?” Peter exclaimed, jumping up.

Shawn opened his eyes calmly.

“Don’t be alarmed.” He answered breezily. “Sometimes the Spirits grow restless…”

Peter didn’t look convinced, especially when the screams didn’t stop.

“Gus.” Shawn snapped, shooting his friend a pointed look. “Go check on the Spirits.”

“Me?” Gus sounded horrified.

“Yes!” Shawn hissed. “They might want their stuffed ducky toy…”

“Fine.” Gus sighed, quickly stepping out of the room.

“‘Stuffed ducky toy’?” Peter repeated skeptically, taking his seat again.

“It’s a technical term,” Shawn shrugged. “I can’t really explain it to you unless you have at least an intermediate knowledge of ancient Celtic sacrificial rituals…”

“Oh.”

Peter still looked somewhat doubtful, so Shawn quickly got back to his vision before he was forced to improvise something about ancient Celtic sacrificial rituals.

“The diamonds…” he whispered dramatically, clutching at the sides of his head. “…the missing diamonds…”

“Do you see them?” Peter asked, leaning forward eagerly.

“Yes…”

Gus suddenly came running back into the room, his face covered in some kind of milky white liquid.

“Uh, Shawn…” he coughed as discreetly as he could, but Shawn tried to ignore him.

“I see them…”

“Shawn!” Gus snapped louder.

Shawn huffed and broke his trance, spinning his chair around so he was facing Gus.

“What?”

“I don’t think the spirits wanted their ducky…”

“Did they tell you that?” Peter asked, his eyes wide in dumbfounded wonder.

“Yeah.” Gus muttered, wiping the liquid off his face. “They did.”

Shawn grinned.

“Sometimes the spirits get an upset tummy after lunch.” He said simply.

“Yeah, well…it smells like more than upset tummy…” Gus mumbled.

Shawn rolled his eyes and stood up as yet another howl was unleashed.

“If you’ll excuse me for one moment…” he said coolly. “I think the spirit world is in need of…pacifying… ‘passy’, if you will….”

He turned to head into the adjoining room, then paused.

“Gus, did you see passy by any chance?”

“No.”

Shawn groaned.

“Oh, the spirits aren’t going to like that…”

He quickly darted into the adjoining room, silently praying he had left the pacifier in the diaper bag.

 Peter watched him leave, quietly shaking his head.

“I didn’t realize being a psychic was so demanding…” he mumbled to himself.

“You think that’s bad,” Gus returned, his face still dripping. “Try babysitting.”

“Henry!” His father called up to his still sleeping son.

“What?” Henry grumbled, appearing at the top of the stairs, still dressed in his cowboy sheriff pajamas and rubbing his head languidly.

“The Easter Bunny came.”

Henry rolled his eyes, slowly beginning his decent down the steps.

“Dad. I’m seven. Not an idiot. There’s no Easter Bunny.”

“Really? Then who brought the candy and hid all the eggs?” His father demanded, pointing at the dining room table, where Henry’s Easter basket had “mysteriously” been filled with candy.

“You.” Henry returned flatly, grabbing a handful of the M&M’s.

His father sighed and shook his head, seeing yet another nostalgic childhood moment going up in smoke.

“Look,” he muttered, the slightest hints of strain creeping into his voice. “It’s Easter. I hide the eggs, you look for them. That’s how this works. It’s a game, Henry. It’s fun.”

“It is?”

“Yes! Now, get a move on! We have to get ready for church in a few minutes.”

“Fine.”

Henry munched the candy, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he looked around the dining room.

Finally, he marched purposefully over to the credenza and grabbed the first egg out of the potted plant that sat on top.

“There,” he mumbled unenthusiastically, dropping the red egg on top of the candy in his basket. “That’s one.”

His father blinked in surprise.

“How’d you find it so fast?” He asked.

Henry was already walking over to the coat rack, his jaw set determinedly now.

If this was a game, he was going to win, damnit!

“You always hide one in the plant,” he explained as he began to rummage through the coats. “Just like you always hide one in my jacket pocket because you think it’s funny.”

He reached into his jacket and plucked out another red egg.

“See?” He showed it to his father before dropping it in the basket alongside the other one.

“You know, you don’t have to dye all the eggs red every year…” his father mumbled, rolling his eyes. “They do make other colors…”

“But red is the easiest one to see.” Henry informed him, clearly having put a lot of thought into this. “Green blends in with the grass, and the carpet is blue.”

“What about yellow?”

“Yellow’s just stupid,” Henry snorted.

His father laughed, but Henry had already moved on to finding the next egg. He was on a mission now. His brow furrowed in deep concentration as he stared intently at his father.

“Your sleeve’s wet…” he murmured, more to himself than out loud.

His father glanced down at his sleeve, which did have a small damp patch on the cuff.

“So?” He shrugged.

“So, that means you were doing something at the sink…”

Henry quickly crossed into the kitchen, returning a moment later with a moist red egg clutched victoriously in his hand.

“You got that from a wet sleeve?” His father gawked.

“Sure,” Henry shrugged.

“It’s an egg hunt, Kid! Not a Sherlock Holmes novel! You’re just supposed to walk around with your little basket and look for eggs! You don’t have to analyze everything!”

“Then how are you supposed to actually find the eggs?” Henry demanded. “Luck?”

“Yes!”

“Luck is for morons, Dad.”

He looked down at his father’s slippers, which had just the slightest traces of mud splattered across the toe.

“Mud…” he murmured, the wheels in his head turning. “You hid at least one in the garden…”

“Stop doing that!”

But Henry had already run out the front door. He returned a few moments later, dropping three more red eggs into his basket.

“That’s six,” he said.

“You know what, Kid?” His father sighed, walking away. “Why don’t we just forget about the rest of the eggs for now? It’s time to get ready for church, anyway.”

“But I didn’t find all of them!”

“Yeah…I know. But it’s supposed to be fun, Henry.”

“I’m having fun!” Henry called after him. “This is how I have fun!”

Juliet sighed and stretched as she slowly stood up from her desk and put on her jacket.

“I’m going to lunch,” she announced to no one in particular. “I’m starving!”

Her partner didn’t even glance up from his work.

“Aren’t you going?” She asked, already on her way out the door.

Lassiter finally looked up, blinking as if noticing for the first time that she was there.

“Going where?” He asked, running his hand over his eyes like he was trying to wake up.

“Lunch,” Juliet laughed. “Weren’t you listening?”

“No. I was working.”

“Can’t you do both?”

“…I can…”

She rolled her eyes.

“Are you going to lunch or not?”

“No,” he grunted, turning back to his desk. “I told you. I have work.”

“Work can wait.”

He grunted and dropped his pen on the desk, leaning back in his chair irritably.

“I don’t want it to wait, O’Hara. What the hell do you care, anyway?”

“I don’t care.” Juliet shrugged. “I was just wondering…”

“I didn’t even bring a lunch today.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have work!” He snapped, his eyes shooting fire as he shuffled his papers importantly. “Good God, O’Hara. I thought you were a detective.”

“Okay, okay…I was just asking.” She sighed, finally taking the hint and just walking away. “I’ll see you later.”

She didn’t bother to wait for a response.

When he was in one of these moods, there wasn’t any point in waiting for a response.

 She took her lunch to the park across the street and sat alone on one of the benches, just grateful to be out in the sun instead of under the harsh fluorescent lights of the precinct.

As she quietly ate her sandwich, she watched the people around her out of habit.

There were the joggers, focused and unblinking, their iPods blaring in their ears as they sped by.

There were the little kids with their frazzled parents who would cry as they passed the ice cream truck and hot dogs stands.

There were the business people in the suits and ties, enjoying their few minutes of freedom before going back to the grind of office life.

And then there was Sal…

Juliet had seen him before. She had even talked to him before. He came to the park everyday, always pushing an old, broken down shopping cart filled with bottles and cans to bring to the recycling center.

“Hi, Sal.” She smiled as he stopped at the trash can by her bench to look for cans.

He didn’t look up at her as he quickly determined there weren’t any cans around and doggedly pushed on, but not before throwing something away.

Juliet shrugged and reluctantly checked her watch.

It was time to get back to work…and Lassiter’s bad mood…

She groaned and rolled her eyes at the thought, but finally forced herself to stand up.

She couldn’t avoid it forever...

As she went to toss her plastic sandwich baggie in the trash before heading back to the station, something in the can caught her eye.

Right on top was a crumpled brown paper lunch sack.

That must be what Sal threw away…Juliet realized, her brow furrowing in confusion.

But that doesn’t make any sense…

Even though it had been folded and crumpled into a ball, she could still make out two bold, black letters that had been scrawled across the front in marker.

CL

She recognized the letters immediately.

She saw them everyday when she opened the station’s small refrigerator to put her lunch inside.

She blinked slowly, tossing her plastic bag into the can and turning back to the precinct.

It’s Carlton’s bag…

I know it is…

He always labels his bag…

But he said he didn’t bring a lunch today…

I guess he brought one after all.

She smiled quietly to herself as she jogged across the street, already knowing she could never say anything about it to anyone.

Especially not Carlton.

She knew he would just glare at her and growl, “What the hell do you care, anyway?”

“Dad, I think you need stitches.” Shawn said quietly, perching on the bathroom counter as he watched his father in the mirror.

“I don’t need stitches, Shawn.” Henry growled, wincing as he gently pressed a peroxide-soaked cloth to his bleeding forehead. “It’s just a scratch.”

“Yeah, but--”

“Shawn! I don’t need stitches.”

“Okay…”

Shawn looked down at the floor, absently swinging his legs back and forth.

“The board slipped.” He mumbled finally.

“Yeah,” Henry grimaced, taking the cloth away and examining his wound. “I know, Kid.”

“It was an accident.”

“You weren’t paying attention, Shawn.”

“I was, too!” Shawn argued. “You said to drop it on three!”

“I didn’t even get to count to two!”

“Well, there was a spider!”

Henry glared at his son’s reflection.

“A spider?”

“Crawling on the board!” Shawn insisted, shuddering at the horrific memory. “It almost got on my hand!”

“Well, thank God you dropped the board on my head instead!” Henry snapped sarcastically, holding the cloth to his wound again, which had finally stopped bleeding.

“I said I was sorry.” Shawn muttered bitterly.

“And you wonder why I wouldn’t let you use my nail gun!” Henry continued, far from finished with his lecture. “Good God, Shawn! Do you have any idea what kind of damage you could do with my nail gun?”

“Oh, yeah…” Shawn grinned, his eyes flashing mischievously. “I know. That spider wouldn’t mess with me again!”

Henry was not amused. He angrily tossed the cloth into the sink and turned the water on full blast.

“That’s it, Shawn. You’re never touching my nail gun. Ever.”

“Oh, come on!” Shawn pouted. “What’s the point of building a tree house if I don’t even get to use a nail gun?”

“Forget it, Kid.”

Henry washed his hands, wincing as the cold water hit his black and purple thumbnail.

“You’re not touching my regular hammer, either,” he added as an afterthought.

“That wasn’t my fault!” Shawn protested, also looking at his father’s thumb now. “You flinched!”

“I flinched after you bashed my thumb with a hammer!” Henry shouted. “Anyone would’ve flinched, Shawn!”

Shawn crossed his arms and exhaled sharply.

“Well, I mostly hit the nail.” He groused. “It was, like, 90% real nail…15% thumbnail.”

Henry closed his eyes wearily.

“That’s 105%, Shawn.” He groaned.

“So?”

“Never mind, Kid. It doesn’t matter. You’re still not touching my hammer again. I only have nine nails left.”

“But you said I had to help you build the tree house!” Shawn pointed out. “You said I had to learn about….wood….and stuff.”

“I didn’t say ‘wood and stuff’, Shawn.”

“I don’t know.” Shawn shrugged. “I wasn’t really listening…but I know you said if I didn’t help you build it, I didn’t get a tree house!”

Henry groaned.

Of course, he would have heard that part.

He couldn’t have listened to the part about basic tool safety…

“All right, Kid. You can use the hammer.” He conceded finally. “But there’s no way in hell I am ever giving you my circular saw.”

Henry sat at the kitchen table, Shawn’s See ‘N Say spread out in pieces in front of him.

He had been meaning to fix it for a month, but somehow had just never gotten around to it.

Well, now he had time to get around to it.

He looked up when Mel suddenly appeared in the doorway. For a long moment, they regarded each other in silence, neither one of them moving or even breathing.

Finally, Mel spoke first.

Someone had to.

“What’s wrong with it?” She asked quietly, crossing the room and taking a seat at the table across from him.

“Hell if I know,” he shrugged, going back to work without a second glance at his wife. “It just keeps saying ‘Q’. Damn thing won’t shut up.”

“Oh.”

“It’s annoying enough when it’s working right.”

“Yeah,” she laughed. “I remember. You didn’t want to buy it in the first place.”

“No,” he agreed almost bittery. “I didn’t.”

“Henry--”

But Henry could sense what was coming next. He stood up brusquely before she could get her thought out, walking to the kitchen sink and rinsing his hands off for no apparent reason.

“Shawn’s taking his nap.” He snapped as he turned the faucet off again, finally meeting her gaze. “Are you going to stick around long enough to see him when he wakes up?”

For a moment, she was slightly taken aback by the barb. Her lips parted in a silent protest, but no actual words came out.

There weren’t any.

Not this time.

“That’s not fair.” She whispered at last, but Henry could tell even she didn’t really believe it.

“Fair?” He snorted, unable to hide his contempt for the word. “I had to take three days off work to stay home with the kid, Mel. How the hell is that fair?”

“Henry--”

“You didn’t even call. I didn’t know where you were. How the hell is that fair?”

Once again, Mel was speechless.

She sighed and stood up, slowly making her away across the kitchen and slipping her arm around Henry’s waist.

“I was tired, Henry.” She said, perching on the counter when he pulled away from her grasp and went back to the table.

“Who isn’t?” He growled, grabbing his screwdriver and diving back into the See ‘N Say, which continued to spout off relentless Q’s as he hacked away at it.

“I mean it, Henry.” She continued, her eyes following every move of his hand. “I was just so tired of fighting…I needed a break.”

Henry slammed the screwdriver down, his voice suddenly hollow and distant.

“Damn it, Mel. It’s been three days.”

“I know.”

“For God’s sake, you didn’t even call.”

“I know.”

“What the hell was I supposed to tell Shawn?”

Mel blinked slowly as she stared at the tiled floor.

“I don’t know.”

“I’m sick of the damn fighting, too.” He mumbled, his eyes piercing through her skin like only Henry’s eyes could, giving her the vaguely unsettling yet comforting sensation of having her every thought known. “But I’m not the one who left.”

She quietly jumped down from the counter and came up behind Henry’s chair, gently resting her chin on top of his head and running her finger lightly over his arm, tracing the outline of his sleeve. She could feel his tense muscles starting to relax ever so slightly under her touch.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her lips a few inches from his ear. “I needed a break, Henry. But that doesn’t mean I wanted to leave. You know I’m not going anywhere.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, his hand finding hers on the back of the chair. “I know.”

“I’m not, Henry. I promise.”

Henry peeked into Shawn’s room as he walked by on his way to bed.

“Lights out in a half-hour, guys.” He said, glancing at his watch.

Shawn and Gus looked up from where they were laying on the floor playing a game of Battleship; the perfect picture of youthful innocence.

Henry didn’t trust them for a moment.

“Right, Dad.” Shawn agreed. “Just as soon as I beat Gus.”

“Shawn, you only have one ship left.” Gus pointed out. “And it’s your submarine. And I already hit it once.”

“So?” Shawn blinked. “I’m making a comeback!”

“Yeah, right.” Gus snorted.

“Watch me!” Shawn insisted, drawing himself up on his knees importantly. “B-7!”

“Miss.”

“Darn it.”

Henry rolled his eyes as Shawn sank back down on his stomach, resting his chin in his hand.

“Just go to bed when you’re done,” he told them. “And, Gus. Try not to make him cry this time.”

“I won’t.” Gus grinned.

“I didn’t cry!” Shawn protested, but Henry had already left.

“My turn,” Gus intoned once they were alone again, clearing his throat deliberately as he raised his red peg in readiness. “E-16.”

Shawn sighed and slammed his game board shut sullenly.

“Stupid submarine.” He muttered. “Why couldn’t it have more stupid holes?”

“I don’t know,” Gus shrugged, putting his game pieces away before hopping into his sleeping bag like they had been told to.

Shawn turned the light off and climbed into his bed, staring up at the dark ceiling thoughtfully.

“Gus…” He said finally, his eyes flashing mischievously even in the dark.

“Hmm…?” Gus murmured back, already drifting off to sleep.

“I’m hungry.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it!”

Gus opened one eye warily.

He knew that tone…

Something very bad was about to happen.

“Shawn. Your dad said to go to bed.”

“I know.”

“So, go to sleep.”

“But I’m not sleepy! I’m hungry.”

“You’re not hungry. You’re dopey.”

Gus giggled at his own wit, but Shawn sat up, staring down at his friend with a horrified grimace.

“Dude. Please tell me that wasn’t a Snow White reference.” He groaned.

“What?”

“You’re nine!”

“So?”

“So, they’re called comic books, Gus. Read one.”

“Shut up, Shawn.” Gus huffed, rolling over to go back to sleep.

“But I’m still hungry!” Shawn moaned piteously.

Gus sighed and kicked his sleeping bag off, knowing he wasn’t going to get any peace and quiet until he listened to Shawn.

“Okay, fine. We’ll sneak downstairs to get something to eat, but if your dad catches us--”

“Downstairs?” Shawn snorted, already slipping into his sneakers. “We don’t have anything good to eat downstairs.”

“Then where--”

“The Burger Barn’s open until midnight.”

Gus’ eyes grew wide in horror as he suddenly realized what Shawn was thinking.

“No way, Shawn!” He gasped, shaking his head adamantly. “We are not sneaking out to walk to the Burger Barn at ten o’clock at night!”

“Of course we’re not, Gus.”

“Good!”

“We’re going to ride our bikes. It’s, like, two miles!”

Shawn was already at his door, peering down the hallway to make sure the coast was clear.

“I think my dad’s asleep…” he whispered. “Come on!”

“No!”

Shawn rolled his eyes and turned back around, tossing Gus his sneakers.

“Come on, Gus.”

“No!”

“Then you don’t get any onion rings.”

“I don’t want any onion rings!”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you do.”

Shawn slipped into the hallway, not even turning back around to make sure his friend was following him.

He didn’t have to.

He knew when he got down the stairs, Gus would be right behind him.

Gus groaned and pulled his sneakers on, the smell of onion rings already seeping into his nose.

“Stupid Shawn…” he muttered, tiptoeing into the hallway, his heart pounding. He kept expecting to hear Henry’s voice piercing through the still night air, but it never came.

They somehow managed to make it all the way to the Burger Barn on their bikes in the dark without getting hit by a car or flipping over a rock.

They even somehow managed to make it back to Shawn’s house alive.

“See, Gus?” Shawn grinned as they reached his doorstep; safe, sound and slightly bloated. “I told you it would be worth it.”

He reached up and turned the doorknob, but nothing happened.

He tried it again.

Still nothing.

“Come on, Shawn.” Gus urged, shivering. “Stop playing around. I’m cold!”

“I’m not playing around!” Shawn hissed, a hint of desperation creeping into his voice. “My dad must have locked the door! He always locks it before he goes to bed.”

“Well, where’s your key?”

“I didn’t bring it.”

“You didn’t bring it?!” Gus shouted.

“Shhh!” Shawn snapped, eyeing his father’s bedroom window. “Do you want to get us killed? He must think we’re up in my room. We have to get back in before he figures out we left.”

“How are we going to get in without a key?” Gus demanded, his voice lowered to a furious whisper.

Shawn quickly knelt down by the door and examined the lock.

“Gus, give me your library card.” He ordered, snapping his fingers.

“My library card?”

“Come on! Hurry! I think I can pick this lock…”

Gus rolled his eyes and pulled out his wallet, reluctantly handing over the thin paper card.

“Shawn, you don’t know how to pick a lock.”

“We won’t know that until I try. Maybe it’s a secret talent I didn’t know I had.”

He inserted the card into the door and jiggled it around purposefully, trying to appear like he knew what he was doing.

A few seconds later, there was a loud rip.

“Oooops.” He mumbled, pulling half of a library card out of the door and sheepishly handing it back to Gus.

“Shawn!” Gus had to strain to keep from yelling. “You destroyed my library card!”

“I guess lock picking isn’t my secret talent…”

“I guess not.” Gus muttered, cramming it back into his pocket. “How are we going to get in now?”

“Ummm….” Shawn stood up and looked around the yard for something else to use.

“Oh!” He realized suddenly. “My dad keeps a spare key on top of the doorframe!”

“Good!” Gus sighed. “Get it!”

Shawn jumped up, trying to reach the top of the doorframe, but fell short by at least eight inches.

He tried again, but with the same result.

“I can’t reach it.” He whispered. “You try.”

Gus squatted down as low as he could, then jumped up, straining to reach the top of the doorframe.

He got closer than Shawn, but still fell short.

“I can’t get it, either.” He whispered back, out of breath after his fifth try.

“We don’t have a choice, then.” Shawn declared, nodding resolutely. “I’ll have to stand on your shoulders.”

“No, way!”

“Gus! You’re bigger than me. You have to be the bottom. Do you want to be stuck out here all night?”

“No…”

“Then let me get on your shoulders!”

Gus groaned, but knelt down and let Shawn climb on top of his shoulders.

“Ready?” He asked once the kicking and wiggling had stopped.

“Yeah.”

“Okay…”

Gus started to stand up, but lost his balance before he made it past his knees. He toppled over backwards, sending both him and Shawn tumbling into a pile of dirty, wet leaves.

Suddenly, the porch light came on and the back door flew open.

“Uh-oh…” Shawn whispered, poking the top of his leaf-covered head out of the pile. “It’s my dad.”   

“Shawn?” Henry growled, spotting the boys. “What the hell are you doing out here?”

“Uh…” Shawn stammered, struggling to his feet. “We were…playing…in the leaves…”

“In the leaves?” Henry repeated, glaring at his son.

Shawn knew he was busted, but he couldn’t admit defeat that easily.

 “Sure,” he replied breezily, brushing some leaves off his shirt. “It’s like night swimming…but with leaves.”

Gus rolled his eyes as he pulled himself out of the leaf pile and joined his friend on the porch.

“Good one, Shawn.” He muttered.

Henry crossed his arms, not for one second believing Shawn.

“Shawn, you’re supposed to be in bed.”

“Uh….”

“And why do you smell like onion rings?”

“That’s the leaves…”

Henry rolled his eyes.

“Get back to bed!” He snapped.

 “Fine…”

Shawn walked past his father into the house, followed shortly by Gus, who didn’t even dare to look up at Henry.

“And next time you boys want to play Night Leaves, at least bring a damn rake!” Henry called up the stairs after them.

Juliet sat across the restaurant table from Ted, wondering vaguely what she was doing there.

Not that Ted wasn’t a nice guy…

He was okay…

In that generic nice-guy, don’t-ruffle-any-feathers kind of way…

He’d been asking her out for a while, and she didn’t really have any reason to say no…so, here she was.

On a date.

With Ted.

Yippee.

She glanced at him covertly as she read over the menu, resisting the impulse to reach over and muss his perfectly tidy hair.

She smiled to herself at the mental image.

Ted noticed.

“What?” He asked, returning the smile curiously.

“Nothing…”

She quickly ducked behind her menu again before she burst out into laughter.

“Can I get you something to drink?” She heard a familiar voice ask.

A voice that must have belonged to the waiter…except, she knew it from somewhere else…

She almost dropped the menu when she looked up and saw it was Shawn.

“Yeah…” Ted was already answering. “I’ll just have a water.”

“Water?” Shawn repeated in a tone that anyone who didn’t know him might believe was sincere.

But Juliet knew better.

His eyes were sparkling just a little too brightly as they stole a sidelong glance at her.

He was definitely laughing at Ted.

“Actually, with lemon. If you have it.” Ted amended, completely oblivious to all of this.

“Water with lemon.” Shawn actually snorted as he turned to Juliet, grinning broadly. “And for you, Miss?”

“Uh--” she stammered, still completely baffled by his presence on her date. “Diet Coke, I guess…”

Juliet searched his eyes, looking for some clue…but all she found was mischievous merriment staring back at her.

“I’ll be right back with those.” Shawn declared, quite professionally, as he spun on his heel and marched away.

She rolled her eyes and went back to the menu, trying to tell herself it didn’t matter what Shawn was doing there…

She didn’t care…

But in the end, her cop curiosity got the better of her.

“I’ll…be right back…” She mumbled, clearing her throat delicately as she stood up and quickly walked away towards the bathroom.

Shawn was waiting for her just outside the kitchen, still grinning like an idiot.

“Shawn!” She hissed. “What are you doing here?”

“What?” He blinked innocently. “I'm not allowed to have two jobs? Gus has two jobs, and you know how lousy the Department pays…”

She glared at him, not for a moment buying his flimsy cover story.

“You don’t have two jobs!” She snapped.

“I don’t,” Shawn admitted, tapping the small nametag that was pinned to his apron. “But Bartleby Hobbit does. He has a wife and four little Hobbits to take care of…by the way, three of the little Hobbits need braces, so if you could tell Mr. Water-with-Lemon to leave a good tip…”

“His name is Ted.” Juliet informed him sharply.

“Ted?” Shawn laughed. “Seriously? Ted?”

She smacked his arm, not finding this anywhere near as amusing as he did.

“Yes! Ted!”

“Well, tell Ted that just because he’s a cheapskate who won’t spring for an actual drink doesn’t mean he gets to short me on the tip.”

“He’s not a cheapskate!” Juliet insisted, for the life of her unable to figure out why, exactly, she felt the need to defend him.

“Oh…right. I forgot. He got lemon in his tap water.” Shawn rolled his eyes. “Big spender, Jules.”

“Shut up, Shawn. He’s nice.”

“He’s an idiot!”

“He is not!”

“Then why is he sitting over there watching us talk, and he doesn’t even look concerned?” Shawn demanded, flicking his head in the general direction of Juliet’s table.

She glanced over.

Ted was, indeed, watching them.

He didn’t even look perplexed, much less concerned.

He actually smiled and waved when he saw Juliet look at him.

“Dude…did he just wave?” Shawn asked, laughing. “Where did you dig this loser up? The E-Harmony reject pile?”

“Shut up, Shawn!” She scolded him, but couldn’t keep herself from laughing. “He’s nice.”

“Why do you keep saying that?”

“Because it’s true!”

“He’s wearing a bowtie!”
“So?”

“So, nice guys don’t wear bowties, Jules.” Shawn insisted. “Psychos and losers wear bowties. And virgins.”

“Shut up!”

“I’m just saying…”

“He’s not a psycho, Shawn. Or a loser.”

“Or a--”

“Shawn!”

“What?”

“He’s nice!” Juliet told him for the fiftieth time.

This time, it didn’t sound convincing even to her.

“Yeah…” Shawn agreed finally, grinning. “But does he have a motorcycle?”

“You got a dog!” Shawn squealed excitedly, running outside as his father opened the back door of his squad car and let a large German Shepherd step out.

“It’s not a dog, Shawn.” Henry corrected him sternly. “He’s a police dog. He’s trained to sniff out drugs, take down suspects…”

But Shawn wasn’t listening. He had already knelt down next to the dog, who had flopped over on his back, his tail wagging like a propeller.

“Awww! He wants a tummy rub!” Shawn gushed, scratching his warm, fuzzy tummy.

“Don’t give him a tummy rub!” Henry growled, whistling sharply. The dog’s ear’s perked at the sound, but he didn’t respond.

Henry whistled again, louder this time.

The dog looked up at him lazily, still reveling in the tummy rub.

Clearly, it was going to take more than a whistle to get him to move.

“Damn stupid dog…” Henry muttered under his breath, reaching down and snapping the leash onto his collar.

 “And don’t get attached, Shawn.” He added, finally getting the reluctant dog on his feet and away from the tummy rub. “He’s only going to be around for the week. He’s at the end of his training, and he has to ride along with a cop for a while to make sure he’s ready. That’s all. After his test-run, he’s gone. Some other poor sap will get stuck with the mangy little…”

“I’m going to name him Killer.” Shawn declared, standing up and rubbing the dog behind the ears, apparently oblivious to every word his father had been saying. “…Or maybe Dwight…”

“You can’t name him, Shawn. He’s not a pet. And he already has a name.”

“What is it?”

“Roscoe.”

“Roscoe?” Shawn scrunched his nose in distaste. “He doesn’t look like a Roscoe to me…”

“Well, that’s his name.”

“No…” Shawn shook his head thoughtfully, regarding the dog with a look of skepticism. “…it’s definitely Dwight.”

“Shawn! I think I know the damn mutt’s name!” Henry snapped, starting to head for the house.

When he reached the end of the leash’s slack, however, he suddenly realized that Roscoe had other ideas.

He looked back at the dog, who was staring up at him defiantly, all four feet firmly planted on the cement driveway.

He wasn’t going to budge an inch, leash or no leash.

“Come on!” Henry growled, tugging the leash again. “Move!”

“He doesn’t want to, Dad.” Shawn informed him. “You called him a mutt. And you didn’t give him a tummy rub.”

“I am not giving the damn dog a tummy rub! He’s a police dog, Shawn! Not a teacup poodle!”

“So?” Shawn shrugged. “Even police dogs need tummy rubs.”

“No, they don’t. And at this rate, he won’t be a police dog for long…damn stupid mutt can’t even come…”

“He can.” Shawn corrected his father, walking ahead of him towards the house. “He just doesn’t want to.”

When he reached the back door, he turned around and whistled softly.

“Come here, Dwight!” He called, grinning and patting his knee.

The words hadn’t even left Shawn’s lips when Roscoe sprang into action, bolting for the door with such enthusiasm that he very nearly wrenched Henry’s arm out of its socket.

“See?” Shawn laughed, patting Roscoe, who seemed to just be waiting for Shawn’s next command so he could immediately obey it.

“Well, he’s going to have to better than that to pass his test-run.” Henry muttered, rubbing his sore shoulder and marching sullenly into the house.

The next morning didn’t start out much better.

Roscoe was supposed to ride in the backseat of the patrol car, but, of course, he refused to get into the backseat.

He wanted to ride up front.

Henry fought with him for a solid fifteen minutes before finally giving in just letting the stupid mutt ride shotgun.

It wouldn’t have been so bad having a dog sitting next to him…except, Roscoe wouldn’t stop glaring at him.

At first, Henry thought he was being paranoid…what kind of dog glares?...but as the hours of patrol slowly ticked by and Roscoe just continued to sit there…his face inches away from Henry’s, his unblinking gaze steadily fixed on him…Henry knew it was true.

The dog was glaring at him.

“Look, you’re not a mutt.” He said finally, feeling like a complete and utter moron for talking to a dog. “…Actually, you’re purebred German Shepherd…”

He cleared his throat, glancing at the still-glaring dog out of the corner of his eye.

Apparently, that wasn’t what Roscoe was looking for.

“I’m not giving you a tummy rub!”

Roscoe let out a small whine, suddenly rolling over on his back.

“No! I don’t care what Shawn said!”

But Roscoe wasn’t about to give up. He stared up at Henry, his sad eyes pleading.

Henry sighed in defeat, slowly reaching down and gently running his fingers over the dog’s tummy.

Roscoe’s tail began to wag happily.

“Damn stupid dog…” Henry muttered, rolling his eyes.

Roscoe sat back up, his tongue flapping out of his mouth now as he panted contentedly.

Henry couldn’t help grinning just a little.

“So…” He asked seriously, turning his head to look the dog right in the eyes. “…Is your name really Dwight?”

“Hey, Shawn!” Gus greeted his best friend, climbing the rope ladder and poking his head into the tree house.

Shawn glanced up from his contraband comic book, grinning evilly.

“Hey, Shawn.” He repeated, perfectly mimicking Gus’ inflection.

Gus froze in horror where he was on the rope ladder, all the blood draining from his face.

He could already tell that Shawn was in one of his moods.

“Oh, God, Shawn…” he groaned. “Don’t do this to me…not today…”

“Oh, God, Shawn…Don’t do this to me…not today…”

Gus closed his eyes wearily.

It was going to be a long afternoon.

“Knock it off!” He snapped, still clinging to the ladder, wondering if it was worth sticking around or if he should save himself the time and aggravation and just go home.

“Knock it off!” came the parroted reply.

“Shawn! I’m serious! It’s been a long day. I got a B on my math test! A B!”

“Shawn! I’m serious! It’s been a long day. I got a B on my math test! A B!”

Shawn was spouting the words off effortlessly now, his evil grin growing broader by the moment.

Gus opened his mouth, ready to unleash the dozen or so Latin words he knew Shawn would never be able to pronounce, but at that moment Henry appeared at the bottom of the tree.

“Shawn!” He shouted up at them, clearly already pissed about something. “Get down here!”

Gus grinned victoriously at his friend.

“I win, Shawn. There’s no way you’ll keep this up with your dad! He’ll kill you!”

Shawn’s eyes flashed mischievously, the challenge clearly accepted.

“I win, Shawn. There’s no way you’ll keep this up with your dad! He’ll kill you!”

He breezed past Gus on the rope ladder, jumping lightly to the ground a few inches away from his father.

“Oh, man….” Gus groaned, quickly following when he realized that this was Shawn he was talking about. “He’s gonna get himself killed!”

By the time he reached the ground, however, it was too late.

Henry had already begun to interrogate his son.

“Shawn, why the hell aren’t you mowing the lawn?” He was growling.

“Shawn, why the hell aren’t you mowing the lawn?” Shawn returned in a deep, gravely voice that sounded eerily like Henry.

For a moment, Gus didn’t breathe as he watched Henry’s face, certain it was about to explode.

“What was that?” Henry demanded, sounding more than just a little threatening.

Shawn didn’t seem to notice, however.

“What was that?”

“He’s…repeating everything you say.” Gus explained quietly, realizing a moment too late it was a stupid thing to say.

Henry’s glare was suddenly turned on him.

“Yeah. I figured that out, Gus.” He snapped, his hands on his hips.

“Yeah, I figured that out, Gus.”

Shawn stepped alongside his father, mimicking his hands-on-the hips pose, nailing every nuance of Henry’s movements with perfect accuracy.

If it wasn’t so frightening, Gus would have laughed.

Henry, however, was not the least bit amused.

“Knock it off, Shawn. Go mow the lawn!” He barked.

“Knock it off, Shawn. Go mow the lawn!”

“Do you want me to ground you?” Henry demanded, folding his arms across his chest. “Because if you do, Shawn, you don’t have to piss me off. Just ask me to ground you.”

Shawn opened his mouth, about to repeat the words, but Henry cut him off before he could utter a syllable.

“And if you even think about repeating that, I’ll make sure your mom uses every single pot and pan in the house the next time it’s your night to wash the dishes.”

Their eyes locked, and for a brief moment Shawn seemed to be considering calling his father’s bluff.

Finally, however, his mouth closed again.

“Good.” Henry nodded sternly, turning on his heel and marching back towards the house. “Now, go mow the damn lawn! I don’t want to tell you again!”

Shawn sighed and rolled his eyes, trailing reluctantly behind his father.

Suddenly, his face brightened.

“You don’t want to tell me what again?” He asked innocently, catching up with Henry.

“To mow the damn lawn!” Henry growled, his patience wearing thin.

“What?”

“Mow the damn--” Henry started to repeat, then stopped himself and glared down at his son, who was grinning back up at him.

“Hey,” Shawn shrugged. “You didn’t say you couldn’t repeat yourself.”

When the call came in, the Bomb Squad immediately jumped into action.

This was it.

The worst-case scenario.

Someone had planted a bomb at the SBPD.

They arrived at the scene in record time, only to find the sidewalk in front of the precinct flooded with Santa Barbara’s finest, who had already been evacuated from the building.  They were all milling around, watching in stupefied silence as Detective Lassiter sealed the station off with a twenty foot perimeter of yellow police tape.

“What the hell took you so long?” He growled at Chief Barnes, ducking under the tape and quickly marching up the front steps.

Barnes and the rest of the Bomb Squad followed him inside.

“That’s it.” Lassiter declared, gesturing at a brightly wrapped package sitting on a desk in the center of the precinct. “That’s the bomb.”

Barnes lifted the visor of his protective helmet and squinted at the box.

It looked too small to be a bomb…

It looked more like…a Christmas present.

He glanced quizzically at Sergeant Hobbes, who had also lifted the visor of his helmet and was regarding the box with more than a little skepticism.

“That doesn’t look like a bomb, Chief…” Hobbes murmured. “…It has a big red bow…”

“Are you….sure it’s a bomb, Detective?” Barnes asked hesitantly, slowly approaching the package.

“Of course I’m sure!” Lassiter snapped. “When I went to lunch, there was nothing on my desk but paperwork! When I got back, that was sitting there!”

“Why would someone put a bomb on your desk?” Hobbes asked.

“Are you kidding me?” Lassiter snorted, pulling a little black book out of his jacket pocket. “I’ve put away at least a dozen arsonists this year!”

He flung the book at Barnes, who caught it and flipped through it quickly. It was a mini phone book, filled with an alphabetized list of names and addresses.

“The arsonists are the ones with an A next to their names,” Lassiter continued. “Any one of them could have planted that bomb!”

Barnes slowly shut the book and thoughtfully placed it on the desk next to the “bomb”.

“Detective…” he cleared his throat, picking the box up and giving it a gently shake. “I think this is…a Christmas present. Not a bomb.”

Lassiter’s eyes narrowed spitefully, as if the thought of receiving a Christmas present was a thousand times worse than the thought of being summarily blown up.

“A present?” He growled. “Who the hell would leave a present on my desk?”

“I don’t know…” Barnes shrugged, reading the gift tag. “It says it’s from your Secret Santa.”

“Secret Santa?”

“That’s what it says.”

He shook the box again, harder this time.

“It’s not ticking…but it sounds pretty solid. I think you should open it.”

He deftly tossed the box to Lassiter, who stepped back and let it hit the floor with a loud thud.

“What the hell’s the matter with you?!” Lassiter bellowed, staring down at the box in wide-eyed rage.

“It’s not a bomb, Detective. Trust me. I’ve been doing this a long time.”

“You don’t know that!”

Barnes rolled his eyes and exhaled sharply.

“Look, Detective. I can either take the box out back and detonate it, or you can just take my word that it’s not a bomb and find out what your Secret Santa got you for Christmas!”

Lassiter hesitated, but finally bent down and carefully picked up the package, holding it away from his body as if he still expected it to explode at any moment.

Slowly, methodically, he took the wrapping paper off and opened the lid.

“What the hell?” He muttered, grimacing as he pulled a small wooden sign out.

It said GOD BLESS THIS HAPPY HOME.

“That’s nice.” Barnes smiled. “You can hang it in your kitchen.”

Lassiter scowled and dropped it back into the box.

“Detonate it.” He growled, tossing the package on his desk and marching away.

Henry sat in his truck, staring blankly at the driveway in front of him. He absently turned the radio up, not even really aware there was music blasting out of it.

Suddenly, a sharp rap on the passenger’s side window startled him out of his daze.

It was Shawn.

“The door’s locked!” He called loudly when his father looked over at him, yelling to be heard over the loud music.

Henry snapped the radio off, glaring at his twelve year old son.

“I know.” He barked, not making a move to unlock the door.

“You’ve been sitting there for an hour!”

“I know. Go away!”

Shawn didn’t go away, however. He just continued pulling at the handle.

“Come on, Dad! Let me in!”

“Shawn…”

“I’ll tell Mom!”

“Fine,” Henry growled, leaning over and unlocking the door. “Get in.”

Shawn quickly climbed in, gently closing the door behind him before Henry could change his mind.

“Hi.” He said quietly after an awkward moment of complete silence.

“Shawn, what do you want?” Henry demanded impatiently, his fingernails digging into the steering wheel. “I’m busy.”

“Busy?” Shawn raised a doubtful eyebrow. “Doing what?”

“Thinking, Shawn!” Henry snapped. “Alone! So just tell me what the hell you want!”

Shawn blinked in surprise at his father’s churlish response, and for a long moment didn’t say anything.

“Wood glue.” He replied finally.

“What?”

“Wood glue.” Shawn cleared his throat slowly. “I’m making a birdfeeder out of popsicle sticks for school, and I can’t find your wood glue. Elmer’s isn’t cutting it.”

“It’s on my workbench.”

“Okay.”

Shawn opened the door again and slowly stepped back out onto the driveway.

Once he was gone, Henry leaned over and locked the door again and turned the radio back up to full blast. He rested his head against the seat and closed his eyes wearily, just trying not to think…trying to stop the thoughts that were already in his head from multiplying…

A few seconds later, there was another rap on the window. Henry groaned and slowly opened his eyes. Shawn grinned and waved at him from outside the passenger’s seat window.

“I think you locked it again by accident!” He yelled, pointing down at the lock.

“It wasn’t an accident, Shawn.” Henry rolled his eyes, not bothering to resist this time. He unlocked the door, and Shawn quickly flopped onto the seat next to him.

“What the hell do you need now, Kid?” Henry demanded. “Popsicle sticks?”

“No…” Shawn laughed. “I have enough of those…but I can’t get the glue to work.”

He held up the container of wood glue for Henry’s inspection. Henry snatched it out of his hands and looked it over.

“For God’s sake, Kid!” He growled, pulling a small pocket knife out of the glove compartment. “The top just got clogged.”

He jabbed the tip of the blade into the glue spout, and instantly it was good as new.

“You couldn’t figure that out?” He muttered, tossing it back at Shawn.

“Guess I’m an idiot…” Shawn shrugged, catching the glue with one hand.

“Yeah, well…go be an idiot somewhere else. Isn’t Gus around today?”

“No.” Shawn shook his head. “He has a stomachache from all the popsicles I made him eat.”

“Great…” Henry sighed, rolling his eyes. “Guess I’ll be getting another call from his mom…”

“Maybe…” Shawn agreed, opening the truck door again. “Well…I guess I should get started on my project…”

“Yeah…” Henry murmured, not even listening anymore. His eyes were suddenly distant as he stared at the driveway in front of him without actually seeing it.

Shawn started to get out, but suddenly stopped and turned back to Henry.

“Dad, do you care I flunk this stupid thing?” He asked out of nowhere.

Henry’s head snapped around, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

“What?”

“Can I flunk it? It’s just a stupid birdfeeder. It’s doesn’t really matter.”

“Of course you can’t flunk it!” Henry shouted. “It’s a school assignment, Shawn! Get your butt back in the house and make the damn birdfeeder!”

“But what if it’s not good enough?” Shawn pressed. “What if I try my hardest, and Mr. Barnes just doesn’t like it?”

Henry blinked, thrown by the question.

“If you try your hardest, Shawn, you won’t flunk.” He said finally.

“But what if I do?”

“You won’t.”

“But what if I do?”

“Shawn!” Henry snapped, fed up with the endless loop. “If you do your best, you won’t fail. And even if you do, it won’t matter because all anyone can ever ask from you is your best. But if you don’t do your best and you fail, you’ll be grounded until graduation.”

“Yes, Sir.” Shawn sighed, heading for the door again.

But, once again, he just couldn’t bring himself to leave.

“Did you do your best, Dad?” He asked quietly, his back still turned to Henry.

“What?”

Shawn slowly turned back around so he was facing his father, his face suddenly serious.

“Did you do your best?” He asked again. “On the case?”

Henry stared at his son, dumbfounded by the question.

“How did you--”

“They announced the verdict on the news. So…did  you do your best?”

“Yeah, Kid.” Henry nodded stiffly, his eyes once again growing distant. “I did the best I could.”

“Then it’s not your fault. Right, Dad? It’s not your fault he had a good lawyer. You did the best you could. And that’s all anyone can ask. Right?”

Shawn looked up at his father, his eyes wide.

“It’s not that simple--” Henry started to argue, but Shawn cut him off.

“Why not?” He demanded. “You did your best. So, it’s not your fault. Right?”

“Kid--”

“But you said no one can ask anything more of you than your best! Right?”

Henry sighed, the beginnings of a small smile forming at the edge of his mouth.

“Yeah, Kid.” He murmured, gently mussing Shawn’s hair. “That’s all anyone can ever ask.”

“Dad…” Shawn asked, tapping his father on the shoulder. “Where do people go when they die?”

Henry looked up from his newspaper, clearly taken aback by the question.

“What?”

“Where do people go when they die?” Shawn repeated, perching on the arm of his father’s chair. “Cleveland?”

“Cleveland?”

“I have a bet with Gus…” Shawn explained. “He says people go to Heaven when they die. I say they go to Cleveland.”

“Why the hell would people go to Cleveland when they die?” Henry demanded, staring at Shawn in complete bewilderment.

“Well, no one goes there when they’re alive!” Shawn snorted.

 Henry rolled his eyes, folding his newspaper and gently placing it on the coffee table.

“Kid, no one goes to Cleveland when they die.” He assured his son confidently.  

“Not even if they’re really bad?” Shawn asked, not sounding completely convinced.

“No, Shawn.”
“Then where do people go when they die?” He pressed, looking up at his father with wide, innocent eyes.

For the briefest moment, Henry hesitated.

“Heaven.” He said finally, clearing his throat with the air of a Theologian.

“Really?” Shawn blinked. “But what about, like, murderers? Do they go to Heaven, too?”

“No.” Henry snorted. “Of course not!”

“Then where do they go?”

“Jail, Shawn.”

“I mean after jail.” Shawn sighed, rolling his eyes. “When they die! Where do murderers go when they die?”

Once again, Henry hesitated before answering.

“Uh…Cleveland?” He stammered finally.

Shawn’s nose scrunched up in confusion.

“Cleveland?”

“Uh…sure.”

“But you said--”

“Look. Shawn.” Henry cut-in, brushing his son off the arm of the chair. “Why don’t you go ask your mom?”

“I did. She said to ask you.”

“Great.” Henry groaned, running his fingers through his hair.

“She said it’s payback for the baby talk.” Shawn informed his father, plopping back down on the chair’s arm. “Then she laughed.”

“I bet she did.” Henry muttered bitterly.

“So…” Shawn folded his arms across his chest, clearly not about to leave until he got a satisfactory answer. “Where do murders go when they die?”

“Okay…” Henry sighed, leaning forward. “Remember last year when we went camping?”

“Yeah…” Shawn said slowly, not seeing where his father was going with this.

“Remember when that son of a…when that guy plowed into my truck with his stupid motorcycle on our last day at the campsite?”

“Yeah…” Shawn laughed at the memory. “That was funny!”

“Yeah, well…do you remember what I told him when he asked me not to get the insurance companies involved?”

“Yeah…” Shawn nodded. “You told him to go to…”

Suddenly, his eyes grew wide in horror. He clapped his hand over his mouth.

“You mean--” he gasped as the realization dawned on him.

“Yeah.” Henry nodded firmly. “That’s where murderers go when they die…and, with any luck, where that jackass with the motorcycle is going, too…”

Her name was Teena.

She spelled it that way, too.

No i, no last name.

Just Teena.

She said it was a stage name, and she really seemed to believe that someday she’d take Broadway by storm.

Carlton didn’t buy it for a minute, of course, but he never said anything about it.

Mostly because of the nose ring…

It was the first thing he had noticed about her.

He’d been watching her from across the quad one morning, on her way to the Theatre Arts building…her tight leather jacket zipped up to her neck against the morning chill…and that nose ring…

God, I hope she got a tetanus shot…

It was the first thought that popped into his head, but it was quickly brushed aside by the second thought.

She’s…kind of hot…

…Even with tetanus…

He didn’t have time to formulate a third thought, however, as she had already disappeared into the Theatre Arts building.

He spotted her in the cafeteria later that afternoon, sitting by herself as she read over a play and picked absently at a salad.

He grabbed his tray and slowly made his way over to her table, determined to talk to her. It wasn’t until he was standing directly over her, however, that he realized he didn’t have a damn thing to say.

She looked up at him, slowly blinking her dramatic, heavily-lined eyes.

His mind instantly went blank.

That nose ring…

There’s something about that nose ring…

“Uh—” he stammered, trying desperately to think of something to say.

“Yeah?” She retorted, already seeming completely bored by him.

“Did you get a tetanus shot?” He suddenly blurted out, mentally kicking himself even as the words rolled off his tongue.

“Did I what?” She stared at him as if was she expecting him to suddenly sprout wings and fly away.

Or maybe she was just hoping he would…

“A tetanus shot…” he repeated, realizing with rapidly-growing horror that it was too late to back out now. “When you got your nose ring.”

“No…” She laughed, her eyes running up and down his body. “Did you get one when you bought that jacket?”

Suddenly, Carlton’s mind wasn’t blank anymore.

His eyes narrowed bitterly at the slight, and he dropped his tray on the table with a loud clatter as he took a seat directly across from her.

“No, smartass.” He snapped, crossing his arms. “I asked you a legitimate question! And there’s nothing wrong with my jacket!”

“No.” She agreed sarcastically, rolling her eyes. “Nothing at all.”

“I’m a Criminal Justice major!” He almost shouted, growing more furious with her attitude by the moment.  

“So?”

“So…” He snorted, as if it should be the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m going to be a cop! I can’t go around dressed like a slob! I have to maintain a level of dignity!”

“Dignity?”

She closed the play and tossed it aside carelessly, leaning across the table so her face was inches from his.

“What’s so dignified about a jacket?” She demanded, her voice barely rising above a whisper.

Carlton blinked, suddenly feeling very self-conscious under her gaze.

“I don’t know…it just is.”

“Is it?”

“Yes!”

“I think you’re confusing dignity with boring.”

He glared at her, suddenly wondering why he was even talking to this idiot.

After only three minutes, he already hated her.

And yet…he didn’t want to stop talking to her…

There was just something about that nose ring…

“At least I don’t look like a punk.” He grumbled, running his fingers over his lapel.

“A punk?” She repeated, her eyebrows shooting up. “Is that your best line? Calling me a punk?”

“Who the hell said that was line?” He shot back.

She smiled and leaned back in her chair, gently folding her arms over her chest as she looked Carlton over discriminatingly.

“Oh. My. God. That really was your best line, wasn’t it?” She asked quietly, sounding more amused now that angry.

“No.”

“Oh, come on!” She laughed. “Was name-calling supposed to make me think you were, like, dangerous and brooding or something?”

“No!”

“Good…because it didn’t work.”

“It didn’t?”

For the briefest of moments, Carlton almost looked disappointed…almost.

“No.” She shook her head, still smiling. “And, for the record, dangerous and brooding people don’t open conversations with interrogations about tetanus.”

“It was a legitimate question!” Carlton snapped, his ears burning.

“Okay…” She agreed. “Then here’s one for you…what’s the most dangerous thing you’ve ever done?”

“What?”

“You heard me.” She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. “What’s the most dangerous thing you’ve ever done?  I’m guessing…checkers.”

“Shut up!” He growled.

“Then what?” She pressed. “Not looking both ways before crossing the street? Taking more than the recommended dose of Children’s Tylenol?”

“I own a gun!” He shouted. “I’m going to be a cop! I’ll get shot at everyday!”

“Only if you keep wearing that jacket.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my damn jacket!”

He grabbed his tray and stood up angrily, completely unable to remember why he had ever sat down in the first place.

He only took two steps, however, before he was stopped dead in his tracks by the sound of her voice.

“Of course…” she was saying casually, almost as if to herself. “If you wearing a leather jacket…”

He slowly turned back around, a single eyebrow cocked as his eyes rested once again on that nose ring...

“Oh, I have a leather jacket.”

“The fish aren’t biting…” Lassiter murmured after an hour of complete silence.

Henry glanced up from his pole, blinking as if he had completely forgotten the detective was even there.

“Nope…” he agreed, then went back to staring blankly into the fishless blue depths.

Lassiter nodded lazily, gently bringing his line back in and casting off again.

Neither one of them felt the compulsion to speak for another hour.

“We caught the guy…” Lassiter offered finally, his tone still an uncharacteristically mellow drawl.

“What guy?”

“The carjacker…”

He grunted as his line once again plunked into the gentle, undulating waves, then continued.

“…Your tip about the body shop connection was dead on.”

Henry just shrugged.

“I’ve seen it before…” he mumbled.

“Yeah.”

Another comfortable silence settled over the small boat, as both men seemed to tacitly agree that they had exhausted all possible conversation.

Finally, Lassiter looked up at Henry, grinning evilly.

“Is Junior still afraid of raccoons?”

“What?” Henry blinked himself out of his trance, surprised by the question.

“Because I have one that keeps getting into my garbage…” Lassiter explained quickly, his eyes flashing. “…and I have a humane trap somewhere...it’s about time the little bastard knocked over someone else’s trash cans.”

Henry laughed.

“What the hell did Shawn do now?” He groaned, knowing the look in Lassiter’s eyes all too well from his own reflection.

“Besides being a constant pain in my ass?” Lassiter snorted bitterly.

“A pain in your ass?” Henry countered, his eyebrows shooting up. “You don’t know what a pain in the ass is! You never had to try to get that kid to do his damn chores!”

“You never had to try to get him to shut up for five minutes!” Lassiter shot back, not about to be outdone in the “Who Has It Worse” game.

“I spent seventeen years trying to get him to shut up!”

“Well, it didn’t work.”

“Yeah, well…that’s not my fault.” Henry muttered, rolling his eyes. “He gets his mouth from his mother.”

“Is that where he gets his compulsion to piss people off, too?”

“He sure as hell didn’t get it from me.”

Lassiter laughed, shaking his head as he rapidly drew in his line and cast it off again.

“At least he’s not a real cop,” he sighed gratefully. “Good God, I’d have to put up with him everyday! No one on the force deserves that hell!”

He laughed again, clearly amused by the very thought of Shawn carrying a badge.

This time, however, Henry wasn’t grinning back at him.

In fact, now he was almost…glaring…

Lassiter cleared his throat, his smile quickly fading as he realized he’d said something wrong…

But what?

“You broke your wrist early.” Henry finally growled at him after a long moment of tense silence.

“What?”

“Your wrist.” Henry snapped, gesturing at the fishing pole that was dangling loosely in Lassiter’s fingers. “You broke it early. No wonder you haven’t caught any damn fish today. You don’t know how to cast!”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Lassiter demanded, completely thrown by this sudden switch. “I’ve been fishing for twenty years!”

“Well, you’ve been doing it wrong for twenty years.”

“I have not!”

Henry turned back to his own pole, slowly beginning to draw his line back in.

“The Kid doesn’t shut up,” he muttered to himself just loudly enough for Lassiter to hear. “But at least he knows how to cast a damn line.”

Juliet groaned as Buzz dropped yet another stack of papers on her desk.

“Sorry,” he apologized with a sheepish shrug. “The Chief said she needs these reports finished today.”

“Okay…” She sighed, glancing down at her watch.

It was already 4:45.

“I guess I’m not going to the movies tonight…” She murmured, pulling the first form off the mountain.

This was the one aspect of police work she had never fully reconciled herself with…

The endless, monotonous piles of paperwork.

Some days, it felt like she was drowning in triplicate.

She looked up again from the slowly diminishing pile a few minutes later, only to discover that Buzz had left.

The station was completely empty now, except for her.

“Great…guess I’m the only one not going to the movies tonight…” She vented at no one in particular.

When no one answered her gripe, she snatched the next form off the mound and resentfully looked it over.

It was a report Shawn had filled out on a case they had closed just the day before. All she had to do was review his version of the case, then initial it.

That is, that was all she should have to do…but, of course, he hadn’t filled the form out right.

Not even close.

Under “Arresting Officer”, he had written Lassie (Not the one with fleas…well, at least not since he got the flea collar…)

She rolled her eyes and quickly corrected it so it read Detective Lassiter, but not before cursing at Shawn under her breath for making her job that much more difficult.

She moved on to the section where all he had to do was write a sentence or two summarizing the case, but on the five lines provided, all he had written was SEE ATTACHED.

“Attached?” She murmured, her brow wrinkling.

Since when did Shawn attach forms?

She flipped to the next page. It was a piece of white lined paper, both sides of which were filled with writing.

The heading read: THE BIG, BAD DETECTIVE AND THE TOTALLY INNOCENT PSYCHIC WITH GREAT HAIR

“Shawn…” She groaned, her initial instinct to laugh outweighed by the knowledge that she now faced at least another hour of correcting his paperwork. “All you had to do was say you had a psychic vision that solved the case! Two sentences! Tops!”

She put it aside, deciding it would be easier just to yell at him tomorrow, and went on to the next form.

But something wouldn’t let her stay away from it for long…

Like the next chapter of the latest John Grisham novel, it was calling to her…

She had to know about the Big, Bad Detective and the Totally Innocent Psychic With Great Hair.

Something told her the psychic would turn out to not be all that innocent…

She grabbed the paper and kicked off her shoes, settling back into her chair as she began to read.

THE BIG, BAD DETECTIVE AND THE TOTALLY INNOCENT PSYCHIC WITH GREAT HAIR

Once upon a time…last week…there was an innocent psychic with great hair.

The Big, Bad Detective (the one with the slightly receding hairline that everyone pretends not to notice) came along and he huffed and he puffed and he stole the psychic’s whoopee cushion. And that was completely unfair! The psychic didn’t know it was in his chair! And he didn’t mean for the Big, Bad Detective to sit on it during an important meeting with the Mayor!

The psychic was framed!

Don’t take it out on the whoopee cushion!

FREE THE WHOOPIE CUSHION!

Juliet laughed and read it over again.

Then again.

Ten minutes later, she was still laughing.

“Shawn…” she scolded, feeling stupid talking out loud to herself. “You’re the one who left the whoopee cushion on his seat! He told you if you did it again, he was going to take it!”

It took her an hour, but she finally got Shawn’s report straightened out. In the final version, there was no mention of whoopee cushions…though that version was now locked securely in her desk.

Finally, all the reports were finished. She checked her watch as he put on her jacket and sprinted for the door. If she hurried, there was still time to make the late movie…

She paused when she got to the door, however. She turned around and went back to Lassiter’s desk. She knew she was risking death touching his things, but she couldn’t help herself.

She had to free the whoopee cushion.

The next day, it mysteriously appeared on the Psych office doorstep with a note attached to it.

I freed the whoopee cushion.

Thanks for saving me from drowning!

-A friend