Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Note:I know, I know, looooooong time from last update till this one.

Reviews, feedback, thoughts, opinions and constructive criticism are welcome and appreciated.

References will be made to my story "Ask For Another Day", as it was suggested that this one be partly "sequel-ish" to that one, but it is NOT REQUIRED to read that one first. The references made will be vague or will be explained in context to what is currently going on. The main reason for these references is because of the use of an OC, Adam Marks, from "Ask For Another Day", and I make the references because I want to show that he has an established history with the Psych characters, which will be important for the direction of this story.

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Chapter Six: I Am Just Over Your Shoulder

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# # #

"How? HOW?" Shawn yelled, turning another rapid circle in place, still inside the room. How was it possible that she could have—she moved so fast, she moved like wind, taking what she wanted, yanking the roofs off of houses, leaving a trail of scattered debris—or bodies—in her wake? Spinning this fast, only once with his eyes closed, Shawn again took in the details of the motel room. And he replayed the details of working side by side with Mary six months ago, not exactly trusting him— "Why couldn't I see it then?"

"See what?" Gus asked, putting his arm out to snag his spinning friend, but changing his mind. Shawn growled to himself in frustration, and shook his head. Gus raised the hand to back of his head. He caught Vick staring at them with a tight, determined look on her face. "Shawn, see what?" Gus asked with more urgency, dropping his voice as he stepped closer to Shawn. This time, he forced himself to grab Shawn, halting him on yet another endless pass of the small space.

Shawn jarred at the stop, blinking to rid his eyes of the dizziness forming behind them. "That he was playing us—he was in cohorts with her the whole time," Shawn seethed. I got a weird vibe from him; it was a gut thing. Shouldn't have let it go.

Gus shook his head. "We don't know that." He earned a sharp look from his friend for his honesty. "Look, I know Lightly was eccentric then, but—"

"Save it, Gus," Shawn hissed.

"Shawn, how were we supposed to know?" Gus had put his mouth to Shawn's ear to hiss this; he knew he couldn't risk saying it too loudly.

Shawn whipped his eyes toward Gus's, his expression frozen between a look saying he should have known because he was Shawn Spencer and a look saying he couldn't have known because he was not really psychic.

"I rest my case," Gus muttered.

"You're a piece of work," Shawn muttered back.

"I am?" Gus raised an eyebrow. "I am?"

"That's what I said, didn't I?"

"Yeah, I heard you but I can't believe you're saying that to me."

"Why not?"

"Because you're the piece of work, Shawn."

Shawn's lips almost betrayed him, the whole situation, with a small grin. "I am?" he retorted playfully. "I am?"

"That's what I said, didn't I?"

"Mr. Spencer!" Vick cut in to their low banter. She'd had her back to them and hadn't caught their whispered exchange, but turned to face him now. "I want you to go to the scene of the abduction," Vick told Shawn. "See if you can get a read on—" She raised an eyebrow, as if daring him to argue with her when he looked back, resistant.

He took the bait. "It's not going to do anything," he challenged.

"And why is that?"

Shawn actually took a physical step backwards—her tone stung his face like a slap.

"Are you withholding valuable evidence from me, Mr. Spencer? The missing pieces that could get my detectives rescued before they're killed?"

Shawn flinched again; the pitch of Vick's voice was rising steadily, dangerously. He didn't want to tell her that going there would be a waste of time, because Yang left clues from scene to scene—and from the first—and even second, if the young doctor could be counted as a clue—then this third scene was the one to tell him where to go. . . . (Plus, the second and third clues were from the same scene, except now the room was vacant, and that was if the doctor wasn't a clue—) But he had no idea what this clue meant. It had was having its desired affect: driving him and the cops up the wall and scaring the hell out of them. They had come so close, only to be so far . . . or had they?

Shawn knew that a perimeter had been set, outside and in; the outlying areas were being searched, the dingy basement; a few groups must be checking the other businesses nearby. Shawn had a niggling feeling that they were both looking in the right place and that they were way off base. She could be right here under their noses, watching them—but Lightly might be acting as guard somewhere else; it ached to be so wrong, to know nothing at such a time.

He stared at the wall again. There was that.

He clenched his fists. Reflexively, he had to look over his shoulder, as if Yang were somewhere behind him, just out of sight yet managing to see everything clearly.

Could it be true? The room was empty, certainly, but could there be a feed from a tiny camera?

Where would his fear grow? Shawn blocked out Vick's threats as he looked carefully through the room's contents for the hundredth time, hoping to see something off, something—anything—he might have missed. He chided himself for taking so long to get his head in the game—and worried how much more the detectives would suffer because of it.

He acknowledged Gus's reassuring shoulder squeeze with a slight nod; without Gus, he thought his resolve might crumble.

Gus leaned in, whispering, "Do you have a lead?"

Shawn frowned tightly.

"Then why not do what Vick says? She's pretty passionate about it." Gus resisted to comment on Shawn's burning glare, the one that asked what said he wasn't?

Shawn had listened to some of it; Vick did sound pretty worked up. But these were her detectives too. It was impossible—unless they were all like Yang and had no heart—not be afraid in some general way of the outcome of this game. One for which the rules continued to change. Shawn figured he couldn't rely completely on what he had learned last time around; maybe her short stint in prison or the mental institution had affected Yang.

He frowned. He really didn't care why she was the way she was. Then, or now. All he cared about was putting her back behind glass—and setting himself up as a wall between her and the ones he cared about. Shawn breathed in through his nose. He could take that, right? She did have the upper hand now but one day soon she'd be back where she belonged.

"No, the beginning!" Yang said excitedly to Shawn's retort about locking her up in a cell with padded walls, about that being the end. "I'm going to write a book! About us. And I want you to write the foreword." She'd grinned, looking just like the shadow she was sitting in, only with eyes.

If Shawn had really had the slightest inkling that she would . . . a chill ran through him. He would have—what? He would have run away from town? Thus, maybe, sparing further injury to anyone close to him? Would it have worked? Or would she just . . . done what she'd done anyway, to lure him back? Was it inevitable, were his friends doomed either way?

Something sharp attacked Shawn from the inside, a pain like a slice from a razor blade dragged against the inside of his arm. He couldn't let himself get caught up; he had to fight. Jules and Lassie were still alive and would be counting on him to come through. Or counting the hours until he failed. Shawn found his voice.

# # #

When she woke, her entire body ached, even her hair down to its roots. Juliet's fingers twitched; a shockwave rang through her, offering the smallest clarity for a few seconds—her fingers were alone, not touching anything.

"Mmm," she mumbled, lowly, pressure at her forehead forcing her to keep her eyes closed. Juliet held her breath, listening for any other sounds of life. She had not quite come all the way back, but was without the complete understanding of this; without meaning to, she began to panic. Where . . . where is he? Her breath huffed in and out quickly through her nose until she felt lightheaded, enough to make her slip away again for a short time.

# # #

Mary was unnerved, though he was doing his damnedest not to let it show. The male detective had awoken, his eyes a bright, aware blue above the silver duct tape across his mouth. He was sitting upright in the chair the pair had handcuffed him to, and was watching Mary's movements like a hawk with its talons sharpened, though instead of talons, the detective's eyes were poised as steel. Mary felt his spirits dampened the slightest by the anger in Lassiter's eyes, how they followed him in his shuffled pacing. Mary gulped; this was the very first time he'd considered losing, the "what ifs" should the pair get caught, any and all consequences. Though he would only ever admit it to Yang, Mary enjoyed the brief power he held over Lassiter, knowing Santa Barbara's Head Detective had not liked him from the beginning, but had needed his aid in the investigation. He'd done what he had to do.

The fury running out of Lassiter's eyes bore an almost liquid fluidity, forcing Mary to fear that if stopped and stared back, he'd surely be swept away in the current of Lassiter's angry planning.

Mary wondered, among several sharp thoughts, if the detective blamed him for his partner's pains; he had taken care not to be the one who hurt Juliet O'Hara, leaving that all up to Yang (as if he'd had a choice in that matter, either). He recalled now, in the flurry of the afternoon attack, that the injured Head Detective had shown a solicitous stance towards his partner—actions Mary had not seen during the day six months ago he'd spent with the two. Though, Mary reflected, O'Hara had not been in any danger then. He gritted his teeth hard to bite back a threatening shudder; perhaps he had underestimated Lassiter in the "caring for others" department. He'd just been a jerk—mean and unnerved. Still, Mary was as used to this kind of defensive behavior, especially coming from men, as he could be; his odd demeanor had developed early. Women usually showed their displeasure immediately or were too polite to do so.

Yang was different. He almost smiled under his discomfort.

Unwittingly, Mary's eyes flicked to Lassiter's—a bad mistake that Mary had to fight to correct; the undertow in Lassiter's eyes was very, very strong. It spoke forebodingly of his long fingers and brute strength of his hands and arms roughly cuffing Mary's hands behind his back after shoving his face in the dirt. Mary could hear the Head Detective's dangerous whisper in his ears, though the event had not yet happened—but it rang loudly of warnings, of pain and payback for not only getting the better of him, but for any harm that had come to his partner.

Mary huffed out a breath, yanking his eyes from Lassiter's. In place of a penance, Mary stalked away towards Detective O'Hara to check on her status. It was no good, he thought as he walked towards her, that he was regaining a conscience. But he wondered if he went out of fear for what Lassiter might do to him more than because he was feeling remorseful. Away from Lassiter's prying eyes, the thrill of this whole affair bubbled back up from Mary's toes to his head, like quick, cheap champagne. It was a nice feeling—perhaps artificial—but he went with it.

Juliet O'Hara was pale, her breathing shallow with her eyes still closed. Mary's second shocking of Lassiter had gone to the detective's shoulder, but Yang had literally gone for the throat, changing her mind in the last second to zap O'Hara in the back of the neck. Mary felt a little sick looking her over now; he knew she had started to wake up once but had nearly immediately fallen back into whatever state she had been.

# # #

Because Henry was no longer with the police in an official capacity, Vick had ordered him to stay at the police station while they ran off to the motel to hopefully find their missing detectives.

Henry knew, like Shawn had known, that they were going to be too late. Yang was way too smart to just . . . Henry frowned, thinking about the supposed ending six months prior. He chewed on the logic of Yang's return, and her choice of victims. He figured that he could easily see Juliet in Yang's line of fire because it was hard to ignore the long distance magnetic attraction between his son and the pretty, smart-as-a-whip blonde detective. However, Henry could also see his son striking out with her; he was fickle when it came to long term.

And some of these women were keepers; he knew. His heart ached a little for Maddie, even now.

There was something about Shawn's body language when he was standing next to Detective O'Hara; hers in return—something natural, despite the pair being utter opposites, something still "fit". Henry sighed. He didn't really understand attraction, not even after all these years. Or why people fell out of love. He pursed his lips.

By the time she'd called him out, Yang had already been too close to Shawn, watching his son, watching the police, making sinister plans—Henry scowled away a shiver.

He couldn't, not for the life of him, reason why Yang had grabbed Detective Lassiter as well. Most of the hostages taken from previous Yang strikes were women—strangers, innocents, anyone who may have crossed paths with the target, even in the most shallow way. Like the waitress who had served Shawn his cereal on that day when this all began. Certainly, Yang had postured this difficult "choice" that Shawn had to make—pick one to live, one to die. He frowned again. He knew, like Shawn knew, what the easy answer was—

But he also knew right along with his son that Shawn would never choose death.

Was this . . . what Yang was counting on? This time, the shiver broke through, and Henry was glad to be alone in the office, for once. That if Shawn did choose Juliet, and Lassiter died because of it, that it would be impossible for the unlikely pair of fake psychic and real detective to ever be together, to ever explore what could be a . . . challenging but life long love?

Again, he was glad to be alone. He admitted that it wasn't fair to fit his son with the dimensions of his and Maddie's relationship—but he couldn't help but see the parallels of one party being forever in love while the other forever ignored those affections, those small gestures . . . all because of a poor outcome. Unrealistic expectations. One of them making a choice that was do or die: the career advancement or your family. A new life or the one already built. One or the other. Henry shook his head hard. He knew he had to get his head back into the game; Shawn was in dire need of extra help.

Instead of going, Vick had "assigned" Henry the small task of waiting here for former SBPD and later LAPD Sergeant Adam Marks' arrival.

The two had never met, despite working in the same department for more than a few years. Then, there wasn't a need to know—or know of—everyone you were working with. What mattered was getting the work done. Sometimes things were swept under the rug—though Henry would have never accused the Chief of purposely letting discrepancies slide. But somethings, things happened.

He remembered the rumor of this certain detective requesting rookies for partners. Henry wanted as little to do with rookie-raising as was possible. He already had a son and that was trouble enough; it had been hard to come to terms then that his young son both hadn't and had had the natural instincts to become a good cop. Henry had groomed him intensively, using the better part of his childhood as training ground for cop life. Still, Henry stood by his decisions—as well as his disappointments.

But what was happening now could easily happen to a cop. Had happened; cops were "easy" targets for rage, stupid pranks, any number of conditions and rituals the bad elements came forward with. Everything was always someone else's fault. Or if no one was at fault for problems, then strategies, theories, wits, wills had to be tested. There always had to be a winner. And someone always had to lose.

He pursed his lips. This determination was "black and white"—it was so perfectly Mr. Yang. There was no line in the middle; things were either, or, but never either/or. Yes. No. Live. Die.

Silently, Henry mockingly thanked Karen for leaving him behind to over think. He figured that the team would be back to the station long before Marks arrived, though they would have to catalog whatever it was they found. Henry hoped it was something useful, no false leads or anything so cryptic, it was beyond his son's natural abilities to work it out.

Henry's mind drifted back to the events of a year prior, a time he often didn't care to think much on. A terror time, that was the best way to remember it. Shawn had been snatched during a dangerous, secretive case and because of it, Henry had found himself becoming closer to the young Head Detective, because, at that time, Lassiter had been running scared. Less like the grumpy "old man" that he often came off as and more like a frightened child—who reminded Henry too much of his son, or even his wayward brother Jack. Henry had developed the oddest need to protect the man who was not family, hardly even a friend, because he was in such dire need—because, Henry amended, he was great distraction from his son's abduction. Henry had known that he needed to keep Lassiter in one piece if he was ever going to see his son again, alive. It might not have been fair to Lassiter, but as it turned out, their minimal friendship had stuck. Even after things started to get back to normal. But Henry knew it was still there, and he figured Lassiter knew it too.

For the first time, he allowed a little worry for the ki—for Lassiter. He shook his head. He had already let himself worry about Juliet; it was almost automatic, as if she was somehow already part of the family. He smirked to himself. He hoped he'd get the chance to embarrass Shawn in public with this information, spinning it the way that Detective O'Hara was like a daughter, or something equal.

Though, even with her being a nice girl and likely the best catch that would ever cross Shawn's waters, it was difficult to picture his son settling down. It was difficult to picture him in a relationship that lasted longer than a couple weeks. He'd gone and blown it with that Abigail Lytar, the former high school crush—but Henry could hardly fault her for choosing life over the potential of becoming a target in one of Shawn's many dangerous cases. And danger did flock to Shawn. Or gallop. Or rush. Even when he wasn't looking for it.

Wasn't his family getting strange new additions? He had a son, an ex-wife, and Gus who was practically Shawn's adoptive brother. He had a younger brother, Jack, and now a sometimes surrogate brother who may or may not occasionally need protecting—much unlike his actual brother, who should just be arrested or driven out of town once and for all. And then there was new daughter business . . . Again, Henry "thanked" Karen.

He wished this Adam Marks would just drive faster.

He thumbed through the Polaroids, each in individual evidence bags, but the similarity to the one he had received last year with Shawn's face on it made it hard to focus. He really needed a distraction, those things seemed to work.

# # #

They'd commandeered an interview room in the station, as well as a whiteboard (a poor substitute for their clear one at the Psych office, but it would have to do) and a plain black marker. Shawn went to work immediately, writing out the last clue they'd been "given" by Yang. Shawn had requested a breather from the police presence; he wanted to be alone with Gus so he could try to clear his head—but he'd given the excuse that he needed to clear the air with the psychic energies he was trying to correspond with. Vick had granted him a minimum of a half an hour, uninterrupted, because he had done as Gus had said and went with her to the scene of Lassiter's and Juliet's abduction.

It had been as eerie and hollow as the room—buzzing with mockery: "Look what you just missed!" Though Shawn could not "feel" otherworldly things, these places where he knew Yang—and Lightly—had been seemed disturbed, evil; her crime scenes were the only ones Shawn felt this way about. Both cars were empty; Shawn glanced forlornly at the pile of the detectives' required objects, squatting down as if to read some "energy" coming off them. Dead weight, Shawn thought. They'd been relieved of all weapons, traces of their identities, as if they were less likely to fight back without them.

Shawn hadn't been able to believe this could be true. He thought the criminal pair would have a formidable match on their hands as soon as his friends could get free.

Unless, that was, there was another threat. If there was a . . . bomb. Or if . . . his life was somehow used against theirs— Shawn closed his eyes, trying to summon humor to relieve the incredible terror that might flatten him against the ground. But he "heard"—imagined—two familiar voices asking for his help—one eagerly, one more reluctant.

Shawn had not wanted to start an argument with Vick, who was watching him like a hawk as he combed through the scene. It must be hard, he thought, remembering her anger at the empty motel room. She was the one who had learned of their abduction first, despite the action being directed at him. Shawn supposed it was a horrible "thumb to nose" at her, at the police, even indirectly—any time one of her own was threatened. And he and Gus were, indirectly, "some" of her own, too. He scoured the scene for anything, even for a clue that was long past: that Yang was planning to take them to that motel room. If he could find that, he might be able to establish a pattern; there would be more than just words—or pictures—in the room that smelled of fear and stale popcorn.

Two slow. To whom did the "two" refer to? Was it obvious—Jules, Lassiter? Or was it another pair—like Mary and Yang? Himself and Gus? Someone else and their counterpart? Shawn tried hard to wrack his brains for answers. He'd tried reading the message as one sentence, but he kept pausing after slow, as if he just had to break. Two slow where your fear will grow. The only way he could get the break out of it was to repeat the sentence until it became singsong—songlike. Every word was monosyllabic. There were five W's, four O's: WOWOWOWOW. Or was it: WOW OW OW OW? Shawn wrinkled his nose at that variation; it made him picture the detectives being hurt, and he didn't want to think about that.

Two

Slow

Where

Your

Fear

Will

Grow

One T, one S, one Y, one A. STAY. Stay?

One G. One U. One F. One H.

Three L's. Three E's.

LELELE. EEL. ELL. Yell?

Four R's.

RORORORO. (H)orror?

One I, he'd missed. There wasn't just two of any letter. Shawn felt a pang.

Who was the "I" in this scenario? Was it him? Or was it Yang? And only twos of letters were missing. It felt cruel, especially if he were the "I"—because it must mean that Jules and Lassie were the missing "letters".

Shawn omitted the word "Two" from the puzzle. Slow where your fear will grow. I know where the slow fear grows. I know where your slow fear grows. Fear will grow where you're too slow. Low here our ear ill row. Row ill ear our here low.

Fear will grow where you're too slow. Two slow. I will grow where you're too slow. Slow where your fear will grow. Grow will fear your where slow. Two. Too. Your two will grow slow fear where.

Was it a question, after all? Was she testing him, asking him a question to which she already knew the answer to? He sighed. It was just like her; this made him worry. Shawn barely knew Yang but yet he felt he knew her better than many . . . except, that was, for Lightly. What a sick bastard, he thought, going to her side just because he wouldn't give racquetball a fair shot. He shook his head, and ignored another one of Gus's many "What?"'s, behind him. Which one of these combinations was that right one?

Was he finding words where there weren't any at all? Finding a message that was not really there?

Was he supposed to be afraid; were they? Was he supposed to slow down somewhere he started to feel fear, was he too slow in getting there to stop Yang? Grow will fear . . . two. Where slow your. Your where slow. Wear? Wear down slow? Your two will grow slow. Fear where.

Shawn thought about this latest combination with trepidation. All this time, he'd been omitting that pause; what if it was truly important? Where could people "grow slow"?

In water? Drowning? In ice? Freezing? In quicksand? Suffocating? Could they be in some airless—or limited oxygenated place? Could they be somewhere they were being drugged, regularly? Like a mental hospital?

Shawn thought about the word "grow". Was it too obvious to think of plants? People grew too. They grew when they aged, when they gained life experiences, when they changed for the better, or even for the worse. Was it considered wilting, then? He bit his lips to refocus. And often, the change was over time—slow. But plants continued to niggle at him. Dirt. Earth. Soil. He felt sick when he considered people "growing slow" because they had been buried alive. Dirt in their mouths, rocks, chunks of roots.

This might be nothing at all. This might be just a clever way of distracting him, of wasting his time while scaring the hell out of him. All while . . . but where would Yang have taken them? What did she want with them anyway?

"Where does fear grow?" Shawn asked aloud.

"In your heart?" Gus replied, seeming to wonder himself. "Or in your head?" He had watched Shawn's progress, listening to Shawn's mutterings, and tried to throw out suggestions whenever he could. But he was just as frustrated; for all they knew, the clue could be meaningless—a waste of time, as Shawn had already pointed out. "What are you thinking, Shawn?"

Shawn turned from the whiteboard and said the words aloud about his speculations about what "two" = 'people' + "growing slow" could mean. He spoke without resorting to a panicky tone, but it was because he felt they were at a dead end. He felt like the worst fake psychic ever.

# # #

Juliet had arrived into her own flesh, spiraling down from some gray cloud formation, landing with a wet 'smack', like a kiss. Her eyes sprang to their open positions; it was another blank room. No windows. From here, it looked half the size as the last one; she flinched as she remembered the pain at the back of her neck.

When she tried to move her head, her whole body groaned; after a minor fit of panic, Juliet realized her body had been immobilized from the outside—not from within. She was seated, numbed, her limbs pulled away from her harshly and held to something. She remembered.

She reached her fingers into the air behind her as far as they would go, not far. Nothing. There was a tilt in her perception to the left as something rattled or broke. Where was her partner?

She couldn't see him and she couldn't feel him . . . or hear him. She blamed herself . . . if he were dead. . . . Juliet's breath hitched, and then an involuntary sob fell out of her nose. Too weak, she thought, not wanting to offer up herself to Yang and the profiler as fresh meat—but she knew that she was stone cold terrified not knowing a thing about her partner's fate.

What was I thinking? she chided herself among her thoughts of fear. She could hear her partner's muffled cry, remembering his body shaking before she, too, was tossed to the inside of darkness. Juliet realized suddenly that, at this moment, she wanted to hear Lassiter snap at her, demand to know 'just what the hell she was thinking pulling a stunt like that?' She remembered them clearly, in the car before the accident, her exaggerated eye roll at her partner's griping; tears sprang to her eyes. Give anything, anything to have that back. As her tears came, as a lump grew in her throat, her worry took over her ears, flooding them with a rush. She was still scared for herself, but her horror that she may have caused her partner's death was making it very hard for her to think about anything else.

Juliet cried silently, trying to stop. She didn't see either Yang or the profiler in the room from where she sat, but that didn't mean they weren't here. Possibly collecting information to use against Shawn. Shawn. She dropped her head. She eventually calmed herself down by insisting that Lassiter was much tougher than that—and she knew it, so it wasn't that difficult to believe—and that at the very worst, he'd been injured further, but not killed.

# # #

Lassiter winced, recognizing the sound of a woman nearby crying. He couldn't see her, but guessed by process of elimination that it was not Yang. At first, he was torn up by anger, wanting to give an order for his partner to stop blubbering—then the sound froze him, because he realized that Juliet was not typically prone to fits of crying. The sound of its attempted silence hurt him anyway; he wanted her to stop because it made him uncomfortable, and because it made him angrier—less at her and more at what could have been done to drive her to it. As soon as he thought it, Lassiter felt a slow, hot flame of anger rise from his navel to his throat. It infuriated him that O'Hara was getting hurt and there was absolutely nothing he could do to stop it or to shield her from its occurring at all. In any situation, he always did, thrusting himself into any line of danger just to spare her the slightest pain, like the time when they'd opened the crate of wild marmosets.

The only other woman he'd wanted to protect so badly had been Victoria.

Lassiter swallowed. He knew he didn't love Juliet, but that the overprotective "instinct" that he'd developed for his junior partner had arisen from their constant togetherness as partners; from the way she'd rubbed off her so-sunny disposition onto him; how, he knew, though he'd never, ever admit it, that he would just about die before losing it. Or her. But still, he didn't love her. He felt in no way romantically inclined towards O'Hara—yet having her as his friend was somehow so much better. It set his resolve—he couldn't—wouldn't—lose that.

Lassiter turned as much as he could in his chair, ignoring any pain that surfaced as he moved his head in the direction of her sounds. He couldn't quite see her, though he could sort of make out an outline of the chair she must be seated in. He didn't like this; strangely, being apart like this was much worse than the uncomfortable, much too intimate way they'd been before. He still couldn't see her, couldn't look in her eyes, couldn't see if there were any cuts or bruises on her face.

He was annoyed by the wad of cloth shoved in his mouth and by the length of tape across it. He knew he had to do something to make her understand him, but he figured the task would be near impossible. He decided to repeat her name, even if it was entirely non-pronounceable this way, until he was able to get through to her and she settled down.

It seemed to have an almost immediate effect; she stopped breathing to listen, recognizing even a small bit of him—enough to put her at momentary ease.

He sounded mad at her; she really appreciated that; pretending she couldn't hear the frustration or fear.

# # #

Violet tilted her head back until she felt the delicious strain of her throat. The back of her head rested against the cool post in the hall. She liked being underground, knowing that her captives were within a couple steps; with a turn of a key in a lock, she could be there, see them.

And Shawn hadn't the slightest clue where they were. Yang grinned; she knew he had it in him to figure it out, but she wanted it to be harder, hurt more, make him wonder and ponder and seethe until he wanted to die.

Her grin widened. He didn't even yet know what that felt like.

She liked to stretch her neck like this because it reminded her of classic horror films, of instant slices across necks, of ear-shattering soundtracks, of silent screaming. When movie monsters were almost always male, when no one even suspected what a terror the fairer sex could be, given the right mental tools. It reminded her of the first time she'd brushed her lips to death's icy cheek, liking what she took away from the kiss.

Her timing was everything; again, they had a head start, leaving a thin line (the clue) in their wake. She pictured her words in Shawn's mouth, biting back when he tried to sort them out. It was both difficult and a joy to delay her pleasure—how badly she wanted to see Shawn Spencer face to face again. The waiting was part of the process, necessary, needed. When they were finally together—when he knew escape was . . . she sighed. She really wanted to see that knowing look in his eyes, that broken look—he had to know it was someday going to end.

Violet ran her fingertips up her neck, pressing her lips together. She remembered acutely his odor cool hair gel and cold sweat—he smelled of no man she could remember. She wanted to taste even a teaspoonful of his fear—but if she was really honest with herself, she wanted much more.

This time, couldn't she get just a little bit closer, touch him? Learn what his clothes felt like as they sat on his skin? She wanted to dig her fingernails into a forearm, a bicep, bite him on the mouth as her tongue slid inside; she would be pleased at the sharpness of his own, the way he would jerk back from her face; how she loved to chase.

She really knew him, she thought, more than anyone else knew him. More than his father, his best friend, his ice statue of a mother, more than either of those detectives under her thumb. Violet expected bloodshed, expected some of the outsiders' missions in this game would be completed long before the game itself would; how she'd wanted to stop that doctor's heart! She chewed on the loss, hoping there could be a trade somewhere up the road. I can be patient, she thought. Make up for it . . . with lots of little pieces. It delighted her to imagine herself in the role of reaper—she and Shawn Spencer were really so very alike.