A poker table.

His father's to be exact.

Shawn realized that the table in the interrogation room, the smell of it, the coolness of its breath against his forehead, reminded him of his father's poker table that used to live in the basement.

That's where Shawn first learned to play poker, contrary to his father's belief that he had learned it at the police station. Sometimes Shawn would creep through the doorway left ajar by one of the officers who carelessly kept the door open after heading to the kitchen for another beer. Finding his way down the stairs as quietly as he could (luckily the stairway was at the other side of the basement), he would steal to his hiding place behind the boxes of Christmas ornaments and lights and watch for about fifteen minutes, thirty if he dared, and even longer if the party looked drunk enough to conveniently ignore blurry visions out of their peripheral.

The day after the game, Shawn would come to the basement in the daytime and sit where his father sat, recounting the memory of the previous evening. As he played the game in his mind like a movie, he would lay his head on the table, breathing in the scent of the cheap poker table, tainted with whiskey and cigarettes and stale popcorn.

Yes, the table in the interrogation room reminded Shawn precisely of his father's poker table. How did his father get an interrogation room table from the station, Shawn absently wondered.

Or, even more creepy...did his father donate the old poker table to the station?

Shawn realized that he would not put the generous act past his duty ridden father.

Closing his eyes, Shawn wished that he were back in the basement instead of where he was now. Instead of having to watch Juliet drive away from him while Lassiter roughly slapped a pair of handcuffs on his hands and dragged him back to the station. Instead of having to be lead through the precinct, dozens of judging eyes following his every step to the interrogation room. Instead of having Lassiter push him into the room, throw him into the chair, and slap him on the backside of the head so hard Shawn tipped forward far enough to bang his forehead on the table. That's when Lassiter growled to him that he would return momentarily to ask a few questions.

Shawn remained, forehead still resting on the table, only the sound of Buzz's light breathing and the tick of his watch keeping him company.

There weren't many times in Shawn's life where he had been scared. Sure, that one time at the Mexican border, although he would never admit it to Gus. A couple of times when he had been held at gunpoint, but he figured he would be smart enough to talk his way out of it, and he did. And a couple of times when his parents would fight long after they thought he was already asleep.

Now, Shawn was scared, although he would never show it. This wasn't the first time in his life that he didn't know what was going to happen next. But this was definitely the first time that he didn't know...and didn't want to know.

He was scared about what was going to happen to him. And he was scared that they might go after Gus...and after his father...and then maybe even Juliet...

No...Jules...please...I'm so sorry...I'll do an--

"SPENCER!"

A loud bang followed the call and Shawn's head shot up, causing him a slight case of vertigo in the process. Lassiter was leaning over the table, right hand where he had slapped it against the table only a moment before. He pushed away from the table and walked towards the window, still in front of Shawn's view. "Wake up Spencer. This isn't a dream."

"Seriously, Lassie, is that how you are going to start this line of questioning? Wake up? On the contrary I'm falling asleep from your verbal lullaby."

"Shut up." Lassiter walked towards Shawn and pointed an index finger towards him. It hovered only inches from the fake psychic's eyes. A smile played on the officer's lips. "You fucked up last night." A slight pause from Lassiter, which Shawn assumed was for dramatic effect. "It's over."

Shawn remained silent.

"Oh, cat got your tongue now? Shawn Spencer is actually speechless?" Lassiter smiled broadly now, sitting on the table and folding his hands in his lap.

Shawn signed. "What am I doing here Lassie," he said, sounding apathetic. "I thought you were arresting me and throwing me in jail."

"Oh, I am," Lassiter assured him. "I just wanted to take a little detour."

He smiled venomously and said, "I really wanted to tell you how...well, how much I'm going to enjoy putting you away." He shrugged his shoulders happily.

Shawn's jaw twitched.

"I mean, just imagine it. You. In jail. At the mercy of any and every prisoner on your cell block." The Irishman chuckled lightly and sighed pleasantly. "Not sure if makeup is your forte, Spencer, but you've been a pretty good actor so far. Can't hurt to give it a go. Maybe they'll make a mockery of you, like you did with us."

Leaning into the younger man, Lassiter continued in a quieter tone, "And maybe you'll feel the same way that Juliet does now."

At that comment, Shawn violently thrashed in his seat, but could hardly move against the tight restraints on this wrists and ankles. Only his shoulders and head had freedom to lash about. He grimaced as he struggled to free himself, lifting his chair as much as an inch off of the ground at one point, causing Buzz to rush over and grip the back of the chair, halting Shawn's progress.

"You asshole!"

"All is fair in love and war, right? Isn't that way they say, Spencer? Well, two can play at that game."

Lassiter stood up from the table and motioned to Buzz. "Get him out of that chair ."