I didn't believe him.
He couldn't be serious.
Since when was Spencer serious about anything?
Even after he just walked away, leaving the precinct before we had even executed our search warrant of Wilson's apartment and found Guster's sample case, I still didn't think he meant it.
I didn't think he could actually stay away for long.
Spencer could never stay away from the station for long. His compulsion to hover around like a fly, irritating the hell out of me, was too strong.
But he never came back.
He testified at the trial, of course. He sat on the stand and told the world everything he knew about Guster's murder. He was even in the courtroom when Wilson was sentenced...I saw him standing at the back, his arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against the wall, nodding silently along with the judge's words...but he never came back to the station.
He never called me once to check on the case.
I know he called O'Hara. I caught her talking to him on her cell phone at least once a week during her lunch...but I never asked what they were talking about.
I never asked if he had really walked away from Psych.
I couldn't.
Asking would make it seem like I actually gave a damn.
One day, however, I finally had no choice. I had to track him down. There were a few copies of some reports he had never signed, and I knew Wilson's lawyer could pull some song and dance and get his client off on a technicality if I didn't rectify that soon.
So, I went to Psych.
Spencer was there, like I knew he would be. He was sitting in the center of the floor, half-empty boxes spread around him.
He looked up as I walked in, looking somewhat surprised to see me.
"Lassie!" he mumbled, stumbling to his feet. "What are you--?"
"You didn't sign the reports," I grunted, shoving a Manila file folder in his face before he had a chance to finish his question. "Unless you want Wilson walking--"
"Oh," he shrugged, taking the files and walking back to the desk. "I'll sign them." He grabbed a pen and quickly scrawled his chicken-scratch signature across them all without even reading them.
I knew he didn't have to read them.
He glanced over his name one last time, then nodded slowly, handing the files back to me with a solemn grimace. "There you go, Lassie. Fry the bastard."
"I'm trying."
"I know."
I took the papers back, tucking them under my arm.
I knew I didn't have any other reason to be there.
There wasn't anything left to say...
So why the hell wasn't I moving towards the door?
"Spencer..." I began finally, still not sure where that sentence was going even as it worked its way out of my mouth.
"Huh?" he asked, glancing up from the desk at me. "Was there another form?"
"No."
"Then what--?"
"Damn it, you're still on the police payroll!" I burst out suddenly.
He blinked in surprise, apparently not expecting that. "What?"
"You're on the police payroll!" I repeated, wondering if it sounded as stupid to him as it did in my own ears. "So, where the hell have you been? If you think you're getting paid for not showing up, Spencer--"
"I don't think I'm getting paid," he cut me off quietly.
"Good," I nodded, spinning on my heel and starting for the door. "Because you're not."
"I know."
I was almost out.
I was almost free...
But then, from behind me, he said the four words I never thought I'd ever hear him say.
"I'm not psychic, Lassie."
I stopped dead in my tracks. For a moment, I didn't move.
I knew I had heard him wrong...
It was just a dream...
No way in hell would Spencer ever admit that.
Finally, I turned around to face him.
I had to.
"What?" I asked, though I didn't really want him to repeat it.
Of course, Spencer always has to do the exact opposite of what I want him to, anyway. He collapsed into the desk chair, looking up at me with even, unblinking eyes.
"I'm not psychic, Lassie," he said again, resting his hands behind his head. "I never have been."
I took a step towards him, on the verge of breaking his nose again.
What the hell was he trying to pull?
"What do you mean you're not psychic?" I demanded, feeling my fists starting to clench. "You're on the payroll as a psychic. That means as far as the Santa Barbara Police Department is concerned--"
"But I'm not," he insisted firmly, his voice rising. "Come on, Lassie. You've always known that."
I sighed, pulling a chair up to the desk and taking a seat.
For years, this is what I had wanted.
I had Spencer cold.
But this isn't how it was supposed to happen.
"Spencer--"
"I just can't do it anymore," he told me, not even listening to me. "I can't keep it up without Gus. I mean, he's the reason there's even a Psych at all. Without him, I would've gone bankrupt in a week. Hell, without his credit score, I wouldn't have even gotten the lease. There's...just no point anymore, Lassie."
He leaned back in the chair, gazing up at the ceiling as if it was a million miles away.
"I just started it to get him out of the office...he needed that sometimes. To remember there was a life besides work...to remember to have fun. That's why I thought..." he paused, sitting up again, blinking at me. "That's why I dragged him into it."
I nodded slowly.
What the hell was I supposed to say?
"You didn't get him killed, Spencer."
"I know."
I stood up, and for a moment our eyes locked across the desk.
"Quitting won't bring him back."
"That's not why--"
"You're not listening, Spencer," I cut him off, resting my hands on the desk as I loomed over him. "Quitting never brings them back. Partners...wives...friends...once they're gone, nothing brings them back. Once they're gone, the world just makes less sense. And the only thing that keeps you going, that lets you take that next step forward, is knowing that somehow you can make the world make sense again. If you can solve the puzzles...right the wrongs...then, somehow, it's all...just easier."
He stared up at me, for once devoid of smart-ass remarks.
"And that's why you won't quit," I told him, straightening up. "It's not because you don't want to. It's because you can't. Puzzles have answers, Spencer. And, like it or not, you're going to have to find them eventually."