It was Spencer's shoe.

Lassiter stared at it, gaze hard as it twisted slowly, dangling by the shoe lace pinched between two of his fingers. It was dirty and heavily scuffed, but most concerning was the blood splashed liberally on the tongue, streaked down one side, and spreading slowly, as he held it, along the sole.

"O’Hara," he snapped, dropping his arm, though the shoe remained grasped tightly in his hand. "How many have we managed to flush out?"

"Three in custody," she said, breathing hard as she wiped at her brow, managing to spread the dirt smudge further across her forehead. "Two dead. One holed up on the third floor, west wing--Turston and Charlie are taking care of it--and another, one floor above us."

He nodded. "Unaccounted for?"

"I don’t--"

"Two, sir," said an officer, jogging up. He had blood on his cheek. "Not mine," he said, when he saw where they were looking. "We don’t think they’ve managed to slip out. We’ve got a couple of guys on each door and there’s been no activity since Gomez--we IDed his body and it’s definitely Gomez--was shot trying to rambo his way past Dougie and Shell. Clean shot too. The rookies are really proving their mettle out there."

Lassiter nodded absently, but he was thinking about the shoe. "Our guys?"

"A couple of injuries but no fatalities. We were able to get pretty well set up before all hell broke loose, if you’ll pardon my French," he said with a gentlemanly sort of tip of his head to Juliet. She simply nodded wearily. She had spent most of the time running back and forth between units, visually confirming their positions.

"And Spencer?" Lassiter finally asked.

The officer shook his head wordlessly, a pinched sort of worry to the set of his mouth.

One of the officers who had been accompanying the detectives suddenly looked up from the radio he was talking into. "Sir. Detective," he said, catching his attention. "Is that Shawn’s shoe?"

Lassiter looked almost surprised when he saw that he was still holding the object in question, but he quickly masked it with a hard look. "Yes."

The officer glanced imperceptably at the radio, then straightened, frankly meeting Lassiter’s eyes. "Then I think we found him, sir."

***&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&***

"It’s the warehouse," Shawn had said, and no one had believed him. There just hadn’t been any proof. He’d been disappointed by their unimpressed reactions to his sudden vision. "Do you have evidence?" the Chief had asked, and he’d glanced at Gus before shaking his head. The two had disappeared (Gus to get some actual work done) and Lassiter had thought that was the end of it.

Three hours later they were at the warehouse because someone had called in a tip about gun shots fired at the location. They’d been met by Gomez and most of his gang.

"We’ve got your psychic," Gomez had said, "and if you..." but the rest had ended when Shawn, perched on a catwalk twenty feet above them, had shouted "LIAR LIAR PANTS ON FIRE!" and made it exceptionally clear that this was not a hostage situation after all.

It was anyone’s guess as to who looked more surprised--Gomez or Lassiter. A second later it didn’t matter, because everything was being, literally, shot to hell. The last anyone saw of Shawn was his wildly laughing form sprinting down the length of a catwalk. One rookie caught a glimpse of Shawn leaping down on the head of an exceptionally astonished gang member foolish enough to think scrambling up the steel ladder to catch him was a good idea, but that glimpse was the last.

Until now.

"There, Detective," said a brunette, no-nonsense officer as she pointed across the warehouse. They were standing in a lowered-section of the warehouse, the loading area next to the doors that allowed the large supply trucks entrance but were currently closed. The rest of the warehouse floor was approximately eye-level with Lassiter and littered with crates haphazardly stacked next to and on top of each other.

"I don’t--" Lassiter started peevishly, then finally caught sight of what she was pointing at. It was a shoeless foot, peeking out from behind a large crate, nearly thirty feet away. The sock was bloody.

Lassiter’s mouth went dry. "Can anyone tell me his status?"

"He’s not dead," said the brunette, and Lassiter wasn’t the only officer standing next to her that breathed a sigh of relief, though he was the only one who hid it well. "His foot moves occasionally, but that’s all we’ve been able to ascertain from this position."

Juliet suddenly kicked a box over to the wall and they all jumped, startled, but she was already hopping up onto it so she could peer into the room.

"I couldn’t see," she explained, shrugging as if to ask "what would you have done?" and the tension was broken. Lassiter rolled his eyes, but the rest looked amused.

She turned away, eyes perusing the warehouse floor. "Oh, Shawn," she murmered as she caught sight of his bloody foot. "What’ve you gotten into this time?"

Just like that, the amusement was gone, replaced with a tense feeling of anxiety as to the psychic’s situation. Lassiter frowned, but it was hard to muster the usual annoyance.

"SPENCER!" and again: "SPENCER!"

There was the sound of muffled yelling from behind the crates, and the atmosphere immediately seemed to exhale, an almost collective release of breath from the officers, though it was impossible to tell what he was saying. The boxes littering the warehouse were making it impossible to understand the shouted words.

"SPENCER!" Lassiter shouted again. "WE CAN’T UNDERSTAND YOU!"

There was no reply, but a second later the foot had shifted, first to one side, then to the other, then back again. The movements were jerky and awkward looking, but he was undeniably waving.

Lassiter snorted in disbelief. "Come on, Spencer! THE WAREHOUSE IS CLEAR!"

The sound of the psychic’s muffled voice was distinct, but still impossible to decipher. Again the foot repeated the uncoordinated movements from before, and it was obvious he was saying no. Either can’t, or won’t. Lassiter was irritated.

"Great," he snapped. "Alright, O’Hara, Kim, you’re with me. We’ll go around the other side and pull him out if we have to. Don’t get reckless," he commanded, eyes very, very hard as he caught each of their gazes. "Two of Gomez’s gang are unaccounted for. Get sloppy and you could still die. That goes for the rest of you," he said, looking around at the other officers. They nodded curtly in understanding.

"Good," he said. "Let’s go."

***&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&***

Shawn breathed shallowly, trying to get enough air while propped as he was against the crate at his back, but his breath kept hitching oddly in his chest and he knew he had lost more blood than was honestly good for him. He had taken off the polo and he was left with a blue undershirt that reeked of gunshot and sweat. He had tried to tear the half-button down he had taken off, but it proved tougher than his shaky strength and was now knotted around the bullet wound in his thigh. It was doing what it could, but there was no denying that the blood he was sitting in was creeping farther along his leg.

His sighed loudly. And he’d really liked these pants too.

"Spencer!" a voice shouted and Shawn jerked, eyes flying open (when had he closed them?) and hands tightening around the glock he’d brought to his chest.

"HOLY--! How the hell did you get a weapon?"

Shawn’s eyes darted frantically until they landed on Lassiter, standing between two crates across the open space separating the two. He was striding purposefully towards him, a hard look in his eyes.

"Back off," Shawn hissed, and Lassiter faltered in surprise. "Stay back."

The detective frowned suddenly and picked up speed. "Why the hell would I--"

The glock came up swiftly--deadly, unwavering, and pointed directly at Lassiter’s chest. "Back. OFF."

Lassiter stumbled back in his shock and hurry to get out of the line of fire. Shawn tracked him unswervingly, but Lassiter missed the desperate look in his eyes. "The hell--"

Juliet came into view then, nearly running into her floundering senior partner. "What is going--?"

Shawn changed targets immediately, and Juliet’s eyes widened, her hands going up as she found herself staring down a glock.

"Please," he pleaded with her, but his aim didn’t falter. "Stay back."

"Stay back," Lassiter repeated sharply at someone behind him as Juliet soothingly said, "Okay, Shawn. Okay, you don’t have to do that. We’ll listen."

The firearm stayed where it was, but he was suddenly grinning. "I haven’t gone nuts, you know."

"Evidence to the contrary," Lassiter snapped. Juliet shot him a hard look (something along the lines of "stop antagonizing the loony"), but he was more interested to note that Spencer’s arms were starting to tremble.

Shawn didn’t say anything, but his expression turned innocently nonchalant. His wounded leg was stretched out in front him, his good leg bent to his knee, and he uncurled it. One arm dropped but he kept the glock up, perfectly aware of exactly how fast Lassiter would take advantage of the situation if he dropped the gun. His knee unbent almost to its full extent, then he stopped dramatically, an inch inside of the protective boundary of the crate to his right. He glanced at the detectives and a third officer he recognized from the station, and his grin quirked up. His eyes remained serious.

"Ready for this?" he asked, but his foot was already shooting out into the open for a split-second.

With a ridiculously loud "CRACK" it was nearly shot off.

Shawn inspected his foot lazily, seemingly oblivious to the comical tumble Lassiter had teaken into Juliet, who had in turn fallen into Kim, their faces white with shock. "Well, crap," he said, sounding unconcerned. "Nearly got me that time." He grinned suddenly at the three, and not even the distance could cover his amusement.

"He knows I’m taunting him," he said. "He’s been taking pot-shots at my foot for the past half hour. I got a bit of a break when he overhead you, Lassie, saying that the warehouse was clear." The arm holding the glock dropped to his lap. "I don’t think I need this to convince you to stay back anymore, huh, Jules?"

Juliet shook her head, mouth open as Lassiter barked furious orders at officer Kim, who was speaking rapidly into his radio as the senior detective yelled. "I expect the head of whoever the hell told me the warehouse was clear on a platter. A silver platter, you hear? We’ve got a man pinned down--" at this Shawn looked surprised at the terms in which he had just been described and Lassiter happily pretended he didn’t notice, "--and I need a couple of ballistic shields and someone in those catwalks, we have no idea where this guy is."

Kim nodded furiously, but he seemed more concerned with shouting, "The warehouse is not clear. Repeat, all units, the warehouse is not clear, shooter in unspecified location along east wall, EAST wall," over and over. Lassiter appeared to trust that he would get to his other requests in due time, turning back to the opening between them and the trapped psychic.

"How’s the leg?"

Shawn grinned. "Shot."

Lassiter looked irritated, but it was Juliet who snapped, "Shawn."

He laughed but closed his eyes momentarily, breath hitching as he shifted. It was impossible to miss the pallor of his skin. "Straight through," he said as he opened his eyes. "Not a big deal. But the blood puddle I’m sitting in seems to be growing."

"Tighten it," Lassiter directed sharply.

Shawn’s expression went poutily-mocking. "Yes, Dad."

"Don’t even," Lassiter said as Shawn grappled with the shirt on his leg, "compare me to your father. The parallel isn’t funny." He paused, then frowned, watching Shawn try to re-bandage his leg with the sopping mess of his shirt, hissing in pain. "Can you rip a bit of your other shirt? It would probably work better to tighten a new piece."

Shawn nodded in weary agreement, pulling at his undershirt, but Juliet cut him off. "Don’t. I’ve got some bandaging here." She pulled out a long roll of ACE wrap. "This should work." He put up his hands, indicating his agreement, and she threw it, aim true.

It was blasted out of the air. All four jumped as bits of bandage flew, blown backwards and out of sight by the determined shooter pinning down Shawn.

Juliet, of all people, regained the use of her mouth first (though her brain was too slow to stop her).

"That bastard!"

All three men looked at her, eyebrows raised incredulously, and she blushed but remained self-righteously glaring in the shooter’s general direction.

"Give the poor guy a break," Shawn said, fighting off a smirk and already ripping off the bottom of his shirt, tearing at the seams alone the sides. "I did sort of ruin their entire operation. This guy was actually the one who originally caught me."

"So Gomez..." Lassiter started, not bothering to ask how he knew it was the same guy if he couldn’t even see him (he’d get insulted, at least, and a run-around about BS psychic abilites).

"Gomez wasn’t lying," Shawn supplied, hands resting momentarily. "I was a hostage." He paused. "Yeah...that didn’t last long."

His smirk was enormous.

Lassiter suddenly turned an incredibly irritated look on the psychic, who was grimacing as he resumed tightening the shirt strip above the wound. "By all rights you should be dead. Why didn’t they kill you?"

"My reputation preceded me," Shawn said loftily. He caught the look Lassiter was giving him and grinned. "I mean that in a less ‘other-plane’ way than usual. They assumed I was with you guys."

The detective looked confused, but a second later he’d gotten it. "They figured we were right behind you."

Shawn nodded. "And that made me very attractive leverage."

Lassiter shook his head wordlessly. An assumption on Gomez’s part had saved the psychic’s life. Unbelievable. His eyebrows curved downwards fiercely.

"What were you thinking?"

Shawn raised an eyebrow. "That it was the warehouse?" he said helpfully, grin cheeky.

"Spencer--"

"What?" he asked, like he was surprised he was getting the third degree. "You wanted proof, I got you proof." He paused, then grinned again, looking mock-guilty. "I may have inadvertently burned down half of their merchandise in the process."

Juliet’s cry of "Shawn Spencer!" was drowned out by Lassiter’s "How the hell do you ‘inadvertently burn down half of their merchandise’? I mean--" he cut off. "No. You know what? I’m not going to ask. I don’t want to know. I would really rather not understand your idiocy this time around."

Shawn looked smug, but his grin faltered. "That’s why I need Gus around. Though I’m glad he missed this one." He glanced around the warehouse.

"Mr. Guster didn’t actually--" Lassiter started. Shawn cut him off.

"Gus thought he talked me out of going. I keep wondering what I ever did to convince him that that would actually work."

"Er..." Juliet broke in. "Actually, we may have gotten the tip-off from a familiar source."

They both looked at her, astonishment written across their faces. Lassiter lost the expression first. "Why the hell didn’t you tell me--"

"He never identified himself," Juliet cut in hastily. "But I took the call and he sounded sort of familiar and then I saw his car a street or so down from the warehouse..."

"He’s not here, is he?" Shawn demanded. "IS HE?" He sounded agitated, lines tight around his mouth.

"No!" she said as Lassiter blinked at the sudden change in his demeanor. It was something he couldn’t remember ever actually having seen on the man’s face. "He was in his car."

Shawn sighed, eyes closing as he leaned back against the crate. They popped open a second later, and the anxiety was already gone. "He looked totally pissed, didn’t he?"

She fought a grin. "Maybe a little."

"’Maybe a little,’" he repeated. "Like how Lassie is maybe a little bit of a hardass?"

Juliet bit the inside of her cheek, but Officer Kim failed to hide his snort of amusement. Lassiter whirled on him, eyes seething, and Kim’s face was suddenly professionally serious. "The ballistic shields are on their way and they figured out where he’s holed up, but he’s got position. Anyone willing to go for him can look forward to having their face shot off." Apprehension flitted across his face. "They’ve got a negotiator on the way down."

Lassiter and Juliet both looked at Shawn, sitting five feet away from them. He was a hostage, in all the ways that counted. The shooter was essentially holding the gun to his head.

Shawn closed his eyes, and for a second they thought the anxiety of his current sitation was getting to him. The thought died as soon as he opened his mouth, shouting as loudly as he could. "I HEAR YOU’RE TRAPPED TOO, CARSON! FUN TIME, ISN’T IT?" A shot knicked off the corner of the crate and another whistled by his foot before embedding itself in the floor. Shawn laughed. "He makes it way too easy to push his buttons."

"ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?" Lassiter snarled. "What the hell do you think you’re trying to prove?"

There could’ve been no good answer to that, and Juliet and Kim were equally relieved when two new officers made their timely arrival, ballistic shields in tow. "We’ve got them, Detective."

Lassiter’s sour frown toward Shawn promised a good chewing out later, but there were more urgent concerns to be dealt with.

"Good," he said shortly. "Where is the shooter?"

The more experienced cop stepped forward, forcing the group pressed in between the two crates to shuffle awkwardly out of the way. He held the shield out and together he and Lassiter peered up and around the corner.

"There," he said. "He’s shoved himself into the hole in the wall just there. Rat in a trap."

Lassiter couldn’t see Carson (the shooter, he corrected himself. There was no reason to believe the shooter’s name was actually Carson), hidden as he was by the dark shadows, but he could see the deadly-looking outline of his weapon, a high-powered rifle.

"With teeth," the detective added grimly, pulling back.

"Alright," he said. "Here’s how we’re going to do this. You and you--" he pointed at the two shield cops, "will hold up the shields. We should be able to make it relatively easy. I’ll pull out Spencer, and I want you two--" here he looked at Juliet and Kim, "--to help pull him to the protection of these crates. Is that clear?" There was a round of nodding, then Lassiter turned back to Shawn. "Get all that, Spencer?"

Shawn nodded without any of his usual jokes, and Lassiter knew they had to get this done now. "Let’s do it," he snapped.

The officers shuffled out into the open, ballistic shields held out as bullets began reigning down on them, jerking the guards. Shawn rolled his eyes. What a stupid waste of ammunition. Lassiter followed along in an awkward crouch.

It was then, as Shawn was taking in Lassier’s peeved expression, the two matching serious looks on the officers, and the entire procession, that he caught the reflection in the hard plastic of the shields. The reflection from the inside of the shields, and the warehouse to their exposed backs. He got it then, why Carson was wasting so many bullets, why he’d been making such stupid decisions. He wanted all eyes to be on him.

Because then no one would see the second shooter, the one on the opposite side of the warehouse, until it was too later and several officers were dead.

Shawn didn’t stop to think. He lunged forward, leg screaming at him as he shouted, "DUCK! COVER!" He caught a glimpse of Lassiter and the other officers half-turning to him, startled, out of the corner of his eye, but he was already sliding along the floor, leaving one long, bloody smear as the weapon trained expertly. He squeezed the trigger, and with one shot, then two, the second shooter was down, but then there was a third shot and he knew he had just exposed his back to Carson, and he closed his eyes.

The shot failed to rip through him. He opened his eyes, breathing heavily, and turned his head from where he was laying on his side to see Lassiter on one knee, his own gun still trained on a quiet, motionless hole in the wall.

Lassiter caught sight of Shawn staring at him and he turned, his own breathing hard at the fading adrenalin. "You exposed your back," he snapped.

"You exposed yours," said Shawn with a weary grin. "Thanks for having mine."

Lassiter looked surprised, but Shawn was already laying his head back on the floor as Juliet ran up, body stance betraying anxiety, fluster, and relief, her own gun still half drawn. He was oblivious to her hand on his shoulder as he inspected, with worrying disinterest, the thick streak of blood that ran from his blood-soaked pants to the dangerously large puddle on the floor between the two crates.

The gun fell from his loose grip, clattering to the floor.

"Spencer!" Lassiter shouted as Juliet vigorously shook his shoulder, but he was oblivious, his face very, very white.

"Has anyone seen my shoe?" he mumbled, and he didn’t hear Juliet calling his name before he passed out.

***&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&***

"AACK!" he cried, and woke up.

"Welcome back, Spencer," Lassiter said, calmly and viciously tightening a long strip of bandage around his leg. Shawn realized he was lying on his back, feet propped on a small box as he stared at the floor next to his head. He swiveled his head, gaze swinging past the ceiling thirty feet away, and saw that he was several feet to the left of the bloody streak. The red, sopping mess that used to be a very nice yellow polo lay to the side, next to an open first aid kit. More disturbing was the fact that his jeans were on the other side of the kit and not on his butt like they had been the last time he checked, though he was still (fortunately) wearing the Superman boxers he had put on this morning. Though the sodden feeling at the bottom of his underwear seemed to have creeped up nearly to the top of the cottony material covering his left cheek. He glanced down and realized, belatedly, that Lassiter’s nice suit coat had been draped over his torso.

"If your father taught you first aid as well as he taught you to shoot--and I’m not guessing, there’s no one else who could’ve taught you to shoot like that," Lassiter continued, kneeling next to Shawn as he wrapped his leg several times, "he may actually kill you for the shoddy job you did the first time around."

Shawn grimaced, eyes squeezing shut, the lines on his forehead strained as Lassiter gave the bandage a particularly hard tug. He opened his eyes a second later, taking in the bandaging process.

"You wouldn’t," wince, "give me away, right Lassie?" he asked, tone somewhere between joking and pleading.

"In a heartbeat," the detective assured him. His expression softened just the slightest bit when Shawn grunted, closing his eyes again as something that sounded almost like a deep whine struggled in the back of his throat, as he finished tightening the bandage and clipped it.

"Ow," the fake psychic muttered, opening his eyes. He flinched as a penlight was flashed in his eyes. "Augh, enough." When his vision finally cleared, the sight that greeted him was a wholly unsymphathetic detective. He pressed the back of his hand to the psychic’s forehead and Shawn tried to jerk back, failed, and Lassiter ignored the pathetic attempt, moving his hand to his wrist.

"This is romantic and all, Lassie," Shawn said glibly, effectively hiding is discomfort, "but what’re you doing?"

"The paramedics should be here soon," Lassiter said, ignoring his question as he dropped the psychic’s hand. He turned a hard look on the still too pale man. "Stay put." He got to his feet.

"Aaw, come on," he wheedled, and before the detective could even protest, he had swiftly pushed himself to a half-sitting position. "You know...whoa," he muttered, the world suddenly spinning around him. He didn’t realize he’d fallen back until the warehouse stopped pitching and it registered that he was looking into the face of a very peeved Lassiter, one hand around his back and the other on his chest as he pushed him gently back to the floor.

"Idiot," he snapped. "You lost quite a bit of blood. Don’t--" he huffed suddenly, pushing Shawn’s head to the side as the psychic nearly gagged, face nauseated. "If you’re going to ralph, do it on the floor. I would really rather you not drown in your own vomit, as amusing as that sounds."

Shawn’s face was still pale when he got himself back under control, but he managed to look amused regardless. "No vomit-drowning? You’re simply adorable when you’re worried, Lassie," but the insult was ruined when he had to turn suddenly to the side and gulp hard several times.

"This may surprise you," he finally said, head turning back to the detective still kneeling next to him, arms crossed as he regarded him critically, "but bile is disgusting."

Lassiter looked irritated as his eyes briefly flitted upwards, annoyed. "Very--"

"What’s wrong with him?"

Lassiter glanced up to see Gus jogging towards them, a fearful expression on his face. He opened his mouth to answer, but Gus beat him to it.

"You’re treating him for shock?" The fear deepened, if that we’re possible, though Lassiter was surprised that the young man recognized the implications of the propped legs and prone position of his friend.

"How did you--"

"Because he’s my friend," Shawn broke in with a smirk. "Don’t tell me you’re surprised."

The range of emotions that crossed his face as Gus realized that his friend was fine (or okay, at least) flitted from surprise to relief to worry, until finally settling on annoyed. He kneeled immediately on the other side of Shawn, but his eyes were on Lassiter.

"Prevention more than anything," the detective explained. "Possible minor shock, but probably not. He passed out for a minute when he moved too fast."

"Yeah," cut in Shawn, grin smug. "I did this totally hot action-movie move where--"

"Shut up, Shawn," Gus said without looking at him. "Skin clammy? How’s his heart rate? He looks really pale."

"Did I mention that it was totally hot? Like action-movie hero hot? Like the babes-will-be-all-over-me hot?"

Lassiter nodded. He shouldn’t be surprised Gus was an amateur expert in first aid. "Skin’s alright, pulse is a little fast."

"Did I mention that I’m laying right here and I can hear everything you say?"

"Didn’t have to," Gus said, finally looking down at his friend. He peered at the bandage on his leg, lightly touching it, and Shawn jerked. He suddenly whipped his head back up, astonishment clear on his features.

"You got SHOT?" His eyes narrowed, glare ferocious. "You got shot."

"Awesome, I know, how’d you get here so fast?"

Gus was used to Shawn barreling his way through talks he didn’t want to have, and he was hardly thrown off the topic. "Juliet came to get me. I was parked down the street a ways. Your dad is going to kill you."

"You did call it in," Lassiter accused before Shawn could throw in the proper biting remark to his friend’s last declaration.

Gus folded his arms. "Can you blame me?" He turned suddenly on Shawn. "Did you actually think I was going to believe that you let it go?" he demanded.

Shawn looked somewhat sheepish. "I was sort of hoping."

Gus snorted. "Stupid. How dumb do you think I am? And don’t answer that."

Lassiter got to his feet, intent on finding his junior partner and overseeing the clean-up sweeps now that Spencer had someone else to make sure he didn’t pass out and die. Not that he’d mind, but it was the principle of the thing. And it meant less paperwork.

"See, this is why I’m friends with you. You’re so helpful! Really, Gus, you’re the best."

Gus looked irritated when Lassiter glanced behind him. "Cute, Shawn. Real cute. Just wait till I tell--"

"Lassie!" Shawn called, cutting off his best friend. Despite himself, the detective felt himself turning, an annoyed look on his face.

"What? I’m busy. Bother--" Bother Guster, he was going to say, but the serious look on the psychic’s face brought him up short. It was unusual, the psychic’s eyes dark and sincere. "What?" he asked, softer.

Shawn paused, gaze sweeping downwards as he looked doubtful, almost childishly uncertain, then seemed to come to a decision. He nodded to himself, then brought his eyes back up to meet the detective’s, the set to Lassiter’s face almost encouraging.

"It was the warehouse."

"Go to hell, Spencer," Lassiter snapped, swiveling on his foot and stalking away.

The psychic’s laughter, mocking, loud, and echoed closely by Gus’s peeved "Shawn!" followed him out of the the large double doors and into the sunlight.