XXV. A Few Little Beasts

Juliet had been right: buying a new table for their place did make Gus feel better. Nothing like dropping $800 on a new piece of furniture to draw and inspire unity in their love-match, and their forthcoming nuptials. It was no wonder couples bought pets together. He and Juliet didn't need pets. They needed $800 tables. Well, just the one table, for now.

And now what he needed to do was get rid of the old one. This was no easy task. Juliet's desire to be philanthropic with the thing by offering it to Lassiter complicated the matter. Neither of them could get a hold of Lassiter. Juliet called him twice that afternoon, and frowned at her phone when it kept going directly to voicemail. Gus had tried reaching him, too, but the results were the same.

"I can't reach Shawn, either," he said, having just then dialed Shawn's number. Direct to voicemail. He didn't want to say what he was thinking. His future wife didn't mind so much, as they stood, arms crossed, and stared at the old table taking up no space at all in the dining room. Now that they didn't need it, they didn't want it; they wanted it to go away as soon as possible.

"Maybe they're in bed together." She almost managed to hold in a grin. It smeared across her lips, unfinished. "You know, napping."

He was relieved to have the image somewhat altered in his imagination. Difficult as it was to imagine Shawn and Carlton together, it was becoming much easier. Over the last year, Shawn had been scarce, and his attitude towards Lassiter had evolved. Gus hadn't been able to figure out why. At times, Shawn seemed to be friendly towards Carlton, and, other times that the four of them would hang out, he would withdraw, wouldn't talk to him much, as if afraid to say an offensive or unwanted thing. When in the world would that have ever worried Shawn? Gus hadn't noticed it, really paid good and decent attention to it, until the last couple of weeks. It started to make more sense. Shawn wouldn't hang out with his friends if Lassiter was around, like he'd been avoiding him. Like someone was making Shawn avoid him. He'd brought this up to Juliet as they wandered through three different furniture stores over the length of the springtime afternoon. It all came down to one simple fact: they could not believe that Adrian Harris-Collins was jealous of Carlton Lassiter, but they could believe that it was possible. The mere idea made them snicker—but, more sobering, was that it was the only explanation they could come up with. The only other one was that Shawn had exchanged his feelings for Adrian for Carlton, and that—that wasn't possible. Shawn had been too devastated—and if Gus had to see him like that again, the way he'd been last weekend, he didn't know if he could handle it.

"If they are napping, I really hope that's all they're doing," he grumbled. The statement wobbled. He dipped it back in for more truth. "Actually, I do hope they're together doing something."

"There's my Holmes and Watson shipper!" Juliet hugged his arm and rubbed a cheek against his shoulder. They hadn't decided who was who, really, and couldn't decide if Carlton was more like Watson or more like Lestrade. Juliet dismissed it: Lestrade was too ambiguous of a character, anyway; too unfinished and too poorly defined, even in the canonical works of Doyle himself. It was easier to say Shawn was like Holmes and Carlton was like Watson. It was still square-pegs, round-holes, but the allusion was what fit. Allusions could always fit if twisted and knotted.

She leaned away when he brought out his phone again. Gus put out another call to an unexpected half-friend of theirs.

When Gus parked in the driveway of the Spencer house, he anticipated a walk up to the front door to announce himself, but Henry was already in the garage, cleaning. A big, black-bristled broom was in his hands, and piles of dirt and dust showed the work he'd put forth.

"Perfect day for this," Henry insisted, making one big pile of pale brown-gray dust from two smaller ones. "Not too hot. Not too chilly. A man can do a lot of labor on a day like this. What are you up to, Gus? Is Shawn with you?"

"No," Gus said, biting back the urge to cry again. He'd been doing that a lot lately, and ninety-percent of it was done around Shawn. He felt like he was letting Shawn down, and not sure how to fix it. He wished he'd known more about Adrian, that Shawn had practically been living in Ventura the last year, and all the other sundry capers and nonsense Shawn hadn't bothered to tell him. How was that his fault, then? Shawn had been happy. Shawn had been the one who'd kept a secret. And Gus wondered if it was Shawn's silent, unformed attempt at revenge. It'd take Gus and Juliet weeks to tell anyone they were dating. So many weeks, in fact, that months could've been used in place of weeks, and would not have been incorrect. He just refused to say months. Weeks sounded less damaging, and wasn't a lie if looked at the right way. "Uh—have you seen Shawn lately?"

"Yeah, couple hours ago," Henry answered promptly. "Left him at the station. You know they found out who the dead guy was in holding, right?"

"Yeah," Gus said, getting a chill across his shoulders, folding his arms across his chest. "Juliet heard from Lassiter earlier today." And they couldn't get a hold of Carlton now, either. He didn't want to bring it up. Henry seemed too preoccupied. He didn't even know if he could bring himself to ask how Shawn was when Henry left him a bit ago. "You think Shawn will be around later?"

"Nah, not likely. I left him in decent hands. He's with Lassiter," Henry averred, remembering his earlier wish that Shawn's next significant other be Girl Lassiter, or, hell, at that point— "I'm not worried about him. Did you look for him at the station?"

"Uh, no. I wasn't actually looking for him." If Shawn and Lassiter had been at the station together, perhaps they were just busy. Or busy napping in the video conference room, for all Gus knew.

"Hey, Gus—" Henry began, bobbing in and out of certainty.

Gus had known Henry Spencer most of his life, and there were times, as adults, that they talked about Shawn though Shawn wasn't around. Even when they'd met, usually on accident or his parents would invite Henry around for a barbecue, before Shawn moved back, that they would talk about Shawn though Shawn wasn't around. "Yeah—what is it?"

"I was wondering—" Henry set the broom to a standstill against the side of the garage. He rubbed his hands clean of invisible grit, coming to stand closer to Gus. It invited intimacy and helped relinquish a modicum of Henry's discomfort. "Look, this stuff with Adrian—"

"What about it?" Gus went stiff through the shoulders, reflected even in his voice. "I don't know much, so don't—"

Henry looked him right in the eye. "Does Shawn need a lawyer?"

This was not what Gus had expected. His head tilted with intrigue, trying to fit it together. "A lawyer?" And then he remembered the things, very pointy, poniard-shaped things, about Shawn's and Adrian's relationship that even Gus and Juliet wouldn't discuss. If Henry knew, then— "I don't think that's a half-bad idea, actually. Just in case. Again, I don't really know anything, but just in case seems like—like, well, just in case."

"Right," Henry said, "just in case." He grabbed the broom and started putting gray gritty piles into an oversized dustpan. The burden had evaporated. "I know one. I'll call her tomorrow. I'll ask for Shawn's forgiveness later for butting in."

"Wise idea. It's usually easier to ask for Shawn's forgiveness than to ask for his permission. I've noticed that, too. Especially when it comes to stuff that he doesn't really want to talk about."

The thing was—the thing was— "I met him a couple of times."

Gus listened, nodding. They had all met Adrian a couple of times.

"He seemed all right," Henry said. "I thought he was a little pretentious and shallow, but he went to Stanford and always had money."

"Yes, he does come from a good family. But, if I can just say something here, Henry—?"

"Yeah?"

"You were a cop. You know that sometimes that crimes are not always committed among the classes of people and geographical areas that they suppose. Some of the most painful and harmful and terrible crimes are committed by the upper classes, hiding away in their big mansions, sailing on their fine boats, swimming in their money."

Henry took a moment to consider this. It was true. Santa Barbara had a long history of the wicked rich, from the Hayworths to the Castellanes. There was speculation that the Golden State Killer and the Zodiac Killer had both taken victims from Santa Barbara County. Not to mention that Elizabeth Short used to eat at the long-gone Snappy Lunch Diner before she was murdered and became known as the Black Dahlia.

Henry was provoked into speaking more of what was in his heart, but sounded far more flippant than intended. "I just hope that, next good friend he makes that sucks up his life and causes all this drama, it's someone that I know and can see often. And the next time he starts disappearing for long periods of time, I'm going to be all over him like flies on horse shit. I don't care how mad Shawn gets at me or how much he tells me to get out of his life. I am not letting this happen again."

"None of us should," Gus said, reaching his breaking point. The heavy stone of sorrow returned to his throat. If he hadn't been so self-involved, maybe he would've noticed. But if Shawn hadn't been so secretive and arrogant—they might've known sooner. "Maybe Shawn hid away with Adrian because he knew we'd find out, that we'd see through his façades. And we would judge him too harshly—Shawn, I mean. That we would judge him too much."

"Maybe," Henry said, finding this insight startlingly accurate. It hit him hard. "Maybe it was just one of his rebellions. He knew you and Juliet were getting closer to each other, which is all well and fine, Gus, and— I'm not blaming you. Hell," he said angrily, "it wasn't anyone's fault, really. But I hope this is one of his final rebellions, because I don't think I can stand watching him go through another one." He finished cleaning up the dust from the garage, stood with his hands at his waist and watching Gus, alternatively not watching Gus. "I'm sorry, Gus—we went on a tangent about Shawn."

"Seems appropriate, given the circumstances."

"What'd you really come here for? You said you weren't looking for Shawn."

"I wanted to ask if I could borrow your truck." He explained to Henry's awaiting face about the trip to furniture stores, their purchase of a new dining room table that would be delivered Tuesday, and his interest in taking the old one to Lassiter's place. "We talked about giving it to him, thought I'd just go ahead and do that now."

"Do you need some help?"

Gus was well-built, had a gym membership that he tried to use three mornings a week, but sometimes only did two, sometimes as many as five. It was the awkwardness of the table that bothered him, not its weight. "Yeah, that'd be nice. The back door at Lassiter's house is a little on the thin side. Or, at least, I always thought it was."

Henry admitted that he hadn't given it much thought, but would pay attention to it when they dropped the table off. "We can get in through the mudroom door, then one of us can open the patio door. The table should fit through it." He grabbed the keys, put his light gray hoodie back on, closed the garage door, and backed the truck out of the driveway. He waited for Gus to pull his car ahead, and soon they were off for the ten-minute drive to the condo.

Henry was glad he'd offered his services. It wasn't his muscles he needed, but his history of moving lots of furniture in and out of tight places. He started telling stories, from his and Maddie's first cramped apartment to the woes of homeownership when they bought the house Henry still lived in. It'd belonged to a relative who'd passed away, and taking care of the property had not been high on his list of priorities the last ten years of his life. "It wouldn't be high on anyone's priorities," Henry said, grunting as he twisted the bottom of the table to get it through the door. "But there were a few issues. Wasps. Damn, the wasps. Up until Shawn was, I don't know, eight, maybe, we would still find wasps upstairs from time to time."

He panted with Gus as they set the table down at the truck. Once it was secured in the bed, the three of them hopped into the cabin and took off for the house on Sunberry Lane.

-x-

Carlton hoped he would beat Shawn home. While he drove and thought and worried and thought some more during the drive, a drive that had never seemed so long, it was only logical that Shawn would've taken the bus back to the house. How else would he get there? So, if that were true, and his logic won out, pulled the correct scenario from the few possibilities that existed, then he would be there ahead of Shawn. He would be there ahead of Shawn. He had to be the first one there. He didn't know what fallout he was expecting, but he just knew, instinct upon instinct, that something was going to happen. Jasper hadn't made his final phone call to Adrian for no apparent reason. According to Vick, who'd called Lassiter to tell him, Adrian had been contacted a lot of times over the last two weeks. Some calls lasted a few seconds. Some lasted much longer.

And why—why?

He couldn't figure that out. Adrian had known something? Maybe, but what? Jasper had wanted to confess it to someone, perhaps sensing that he was nearing the end of his life? Maybe, but confess what? Jasper had been trying to reach out to one member of his family—the social and gregarious one, the one that everyone loved, that was loved by so many—without knowing, without being aware, that Adrian had a dark side, one that he had tried to drown in drink, one that he had tried to brighten with whisky and wine. Adrian would've been no help to a dying, repentant Jasper Collins.

If there'd been a clue left behind by Adrian that Shawn had now sopped up, Shawn would connect it—Shawn could perform that kind of magic. He'd know. And Lassiter didn't know what he'd do if Shawn found out first.

Lassiter thought about the house, thought of how Adrian had wanted it then didn't want it, or, apparently, Shawn, once he found out that Lassiter wanted the house, too. Even if Adrian thought that Lassiter had also wanted Shawn. Nothing would've convinced him otherwise. And this certainly wouldn't help. Shawn and Adrian wouldn't get back together. But the thought burned, and brought more weight to the gas pedal, more speed through the last major intersection.

The neighborhood was oddly quiet for a nice Sunday afternoon. It looked like a weekday. Houses doused in curtains and closed doors. A few people were out, tending their lawns, plucking at dead leaves and dead grasses, planting new life in bright colors and vivid greens. He didn't know why he thought it then, but he knew that if he was going to live in that neighborhood, he was going to put forth an effort to get to know some of the people surrounding him. And, someday, if Shawn ever spoke to him again, he wanted Shawn around more. He would've never had that house if it hadn't been for him. The last thing he wanted to do was get there and find Shawn's body lying in the living room.

He turned a corner, tires peeling. One neighbor looked up from her flowerbed, on her knees, staring at him. He had the gumball out, flashing, so he looked fierce and legitimate. It might take a while for his neighbors to like him—and he didn't care, as long as Shawn was all right. For someone so smart and so damn sure of himself, Shawn made a lot of stupid mistakes. Why would he even get involved with someone like Adrian? What had been the draw? Was it an instinctual need to defend himself because everything had gotten too easy? Was it a need to create chaos? Or did he just like being smacked around once in a while, and never knowing, loving the anticipation of waiting for that next chaotic moment to appear?

Lassiter quit thinking about it. His breath stopped in his chest. He was aware of his stupid, gallant heart and what kind of diamond it was hammering free. The closer he came to his house, the closer he came to wanting to pass out. He'd been through lots of frightening, life-threatening instances while a cop, even instances before he finished college, and nothing was as bad as this. The 5% terror joked about. All because of Shawn. Because if something happened to Shawn, how could he face anyone again?

He could see the top of the roof—the edge of the carport—and the driveway. An old sedan was parked crookedly there. As he got closer, he realized whose car it was. It was Will Lissner's old red Audi.

And everything stopped spinning one way, and starting exploding. The scintillations were massive, almost blinded him as he pulled the car into the drive, blocked in the red Audi. He braked, threw it in Park, turned it off, threw the keys into the bushes so no one could steal his vehicle if something happened to him. At the back door, he listened for voices, heard nothing. His fingers hovered over the aluminum alloy of his service piece, but it stayed holstered as he entered the backyard. No one was there, and he knew they were inside. Doubtlessly, three of them. Because he believed Shawn to be in immediate danger, even if Shawn didn't know that, Lassiter ripped the screen door open and kicked the back door in. Regardless of the alarm system, or because of it, he knew the door was weak. It flung in, splintering at the handle, whipping dust and debris.

There was always that split second when he wondered if he'd be shot. If he did, at least he'd be at home.

"SBPD! Don't move! Nobody move!"

It was easy to spot three silhouettes in the living room, against the window and the strange, glared light. Six hands shot into the air. Only one weapon.

"Drop the gun!" Lassiter didn't hesitate to point it at someone—Will, he thought, but he wasn't sure—and whoever it was did not have to be asked twice. "Nobody move!"

Nobody moved, not even Shawn. Motes of dust shifted lazily in the sunbeams cut through the front window. Someone breathed loudly, but Lassiter realized that was just him. Nobody spoke.

He had one set of handcuffs, and that was all. At least he didn't have to handcuff Shawn, and Adrian, if it was Adrian, wasn't thinking of anything more than how in the hell this had happened. Shawn looked like he'd been hit in the cheek. It was red and his hand hovered over part of it. Lassiter realized it wasn't just red from the rush of blood to the surface, but from a streak of broken flesh. He handcuffed the person who'd had the gun—it was Will. Odd. And no doubt there was a story behind this, which he'd really like to hear in a second or two.

Just as he got Will handcuffed, more shouts came from the back door, from the front door that was barreled in. The whole house seemed to quake and quiver as feet pounded its floors and shouting bounced off the walls. Vick was at the head of the team, but she saw that the situation had been reined by Lassiter.

"Handcuff the other one until we know what's going on," Vick commanded of Ballas. For once, he listened without a smart-aleck quip.

Shawn had the great pleasure of watching handcuffs being slapped on Adrian. It felt shallow and far too human to enjoy it so much. But his cheek hurt with the explosion of stings and pain, and his eyes were having trouble staying focused on the images that mattered: Adrian in handcuffs, and Lassiter there, as if he'd been trying to save him. Shawn hadn't thought he was in any real danger, though his stupidity was hurting his pride, and that would hurt him a lot longer than the injury to his face. He saw uniformed officers take away Will and Adrian for questioning back at the station. Good—he wouldn't have to look at them again for the rest of his life. He hoped so, anyway, aside from the memories that would scrape across his conscious at inconvenient moments. He sat down on the couch, waiting for the house to fall into silence.

Over him stood Chief Vick. She leaned forward to touch him at the shoulder. "Are you all right? Do you want an ambulance?"

Shawn declined needing one. Vick organized the remaining uniforms, leaving Shawn on his own for a moment. Lassiter sat down next to him. They didn't say anything for several seconds.

"Lassie?"

"Yeah?"

"Could you open the drawer in that end table thingy right there?" He used a wilted forefinger to indicate which one, the one between the couch and the wall. Carlton used it to store a candle-lighter, matches, a flashlight, and, as he saw when he opened it, a cartridge for his sidearm. That sounded like him, but the sight of it there reminded him how violent he'd allowed his life to get. Next to the extra bullets, a box of bandages with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on them. He grabbed one, pulled a clean tissue out of the box, but held Shawn by a wrist.

Shawn let himself be led into the kitchen. He pressed the tissue against his cheek, hoping to stanch the blood. It felt like Adrian's blood, not even his own. It felt like someone else's injury. "How did you know?"

"I'm psychic," Lassiter remarked, wondering how many times in the future shit like this would happen and he'd use that exact excuse to come to Shawn's rescue. "Next time, try to save me, okay? I can't wash your wound, Spencer, if you don't drop your goddam hand. You're not invisible."

That sounded like Lassie, a cross between Peter Pan and Mary Poppins. And maybe a little—just a little—Captain Hook. Shawn dropped his hand, watched the blood unmoving on the tissue. "How did you really know?"

"Tyas found the last phone call Jasper made on his cell."

"It was to Adrian?"

"It was to Andre, Adrian's father. Most of his phone calls were to Adrian over the last couple of weeks. I knew there was something—something that we couldn't figure out. Now—how did you know?"

"I'm psychic, remember? Ow!"

"Sorry," he said instinctively when Shawn winced. "I think we might have to sacrifice one of Andromeda's leaves."

Andromeda was their aloe plant. Well, Lassiter's aloe plant. She felt like theirs. A lot of the things there started to feel like theirs. Lassiter broke off a leaf and used his thin-sickle moon of a thumbnail to pierce it, open it up, like a grotesque sacrifice. The area around the scrape had been burning, now soothed by the aloe. Shawn could feel Lassiter's breath, cool and palliating.

"Something Will said," Shawn started to say, talking like a real detective who'd pieced together clues, who didn't use histrionics to announce those clues, "something he said last night."

"What did he say that was so revelatory?"

Shawn looked him in the eye, fingers still hovering lightly over the injury, the Teenage Mutant Ninja bandage with its bright green splotches of turtle-power against a white background. He tried to smile a little, to show his appreciation for the irony. "That he was happy. That getting rid of Adrian was the best thing that happened to him."

Why would that be a lie? Lassiter wanted to know. He drew a thumb along Shawn's shoulder, then a fingertip, then wondered what he was doing. He thought Shawn was going to hug him, or at least throw his arm around him in moment's abandonment, but Shawn didn't—and he couldn't—

"Shawn!"

Shawn moved his eyes from the knot of Lassiter's shirt to the form of his father running across the dining room, running to him. He was elated to see his dad—and flanking him were Gus and Juliet. His dad squeezed him briefly, moved him out to examine him. Shawn got his earlobes rubbed, but one thumb inched closer to the injury on his cheek.

"Is this all you got?" Henry asked, doubtful.

"All I got, yeah. Promise. Lassie fixed it up for me. Stings, though. Not going to lie to you, Pop. Hurts really bad. And everything looks a little hazy. Is that normal when you have a broken heart? Oh. Yeah. We had to sacrifice Andromeda, too."

"Wha—?" Henry looked at Lassiter. "What's he talking about?"

"Andromeda's a plant, an aloe plant." He pointed to the leaf used to help Shawn, resting on the counter. Still, he tried to glimpse something else going on in Shawn's head. Their almost-intimate moment was enough to make him think Shawn was a little unwell. "You might want to take him to the emergency room to have him looked at. I think he might've gotten his noggin knocked pretty good." He didn't know, after all, how Shawn had sustained the injury. He could've gotten hit with a fist, an open hand, or struck with a weapon, like a gun. At least, Lassiter suspected that Will had done the hitting and, for once, Adrian had kept his hands off Shawn.

"Yeah, all right," Henry agreed. "Shawn, would it be okay if we took you to the hospital now?"

"I want to stay home and watch cartoons," Shawn said.

"He might be in shock," Juliet offered.

Henry took off his hoodie and wrapped it around Shawn, who was only in his t-shirt. "Come on," he urged Shawn along with an arm over his shoulders.

Lassiter watched them, pushing aside a sense of longing for a sense of logic. "Wait, what are the three of you doing here, anyway? I didn't call you. Did Shawn call you?"

"I didn't," Shawn said, throwing his father's arm off of him again. "Can we stay a sec? Please? I want to know what they're doing here. Why are you here?"

"We've been trying to reach you for hours," Gus said.

"You, too," Juliet threw in to Carlton. "Don't you guys ever have your phones on?"

Lassiter poked around the living room for Shawn's phone, explaining what he could of what'd happened. That didn't really explain why Henry, O'Hara and Gus had shown up. He found Shawn's phone under the couch, and, along with it, pulled out a white cotton sock that was clearly Shawn's. Figured—but it stirred something in Lassiter until he ignored it. On Shawn's phone, he found six calls from Gus, three from O'Hara, one from Henry. None from Adrian, none from Will. The outgoing calls, though, told a different story.

"Shawn called Will just forty minutes ago," he said to the two of them. "I wonder what happened?"

It would be a while before he, and the rest of them, found out. Shawn, standing there in the dining room, wasn't talking yet. It occurred to him that he could start telling, but he really didn't feel well enough. In the meantime, seeing Shawn's muteness except when it came to delaying his departure with his dad, Juliet tried to bring levity to the moment, now that they so desperately needed it.

"Gus and I brought you something," she said with almost false cheeriness. "Two somethings, actually."

His glance to the two of them was distrustful. "What did you bring me?" Their charitable souls had brought him, uh, let's say, interesting things over the last month. "Is it a new Kiss the Cook mug? I broke mine."

"Well, uh—that's uncanny, really," Juliet said, a little spooked by Lassiter's insight. She brought from her oversized handbag a box.

Lassiter took the box. It was white with a blue top, and the sides showed the image of what was inside. Mugs. Mugs with Tigger from Winnie the Pooh on them, in Tigger-like poses. He assumed there was some allegory there, but with all that'd happened, he couldn't dig for it. "Thanks."

"And we brought you something else," she said, pleased that her Tigger mugs were a big hit.

"What?" Lassiter said, glancing at Shawn as he looked at the mugs. Shawn started opening the box, but Henry put a stop to it. ("Let's just leave those alone until we know you're feeling better, okay?" "Sure thing, Pop.")

"It's a dining room table," Gus proclaimed. "Ours, in fact."

"Oh," Lassiter said, putting Shawn's phone in his pocket, and, likewise, without thinking about it, the sock he'd unearthed from the tomb beneath the couch. "The small bistro one? That one?"

Lassiter was pleased to have it. At least he'd have somewhere to put his keys when he came in the door at night. He said this out loud to them when the table was where he wanted it. "And," Juliet added, eyes popped open wide as her fingertips spread against its clear glass top, "you can even eat here. I know! It's crazy! But you can!"

His face was deadpan, betraying nothing. He could see nothing of his future, of meals he would eat there with the loves of his life, with notebooks written in foreign languages, and schoolbooks and a backpack there, and Shawn's shoes a ubiquitous but lovely annoyance underneath. Eat there? That seemed so simple. What an idea! "I'll keep that in mind."

Shawn kept turning the box with the Tigger mugs in his eager hands. He stopped abruptly. "I think I—" He thought he felt something tug at his insides, a kind of reflex. He dashed off to the bathroom, and all of them heard him throw up.

"He does that a lot when he's here," Lassiter said, almost apologetically. "Excuse me." He went through his usual routine of giving Shawn a wet washcloth, but it was Henry who came in to help Shawn. "You'd better take him to the hospital, Henry."

"I've been trying. He keeps telling me no." Henry cuddled Shawn gently, squeezed Shawn's shoulder. He really did look pathetic and unwell. "Want to go to the hospital?"

"Sure," Shawn said. He patted the front of Lassiter's shirt with limp fingertips. "I'll explain things to you later. Thanks for saving me."

"You would've saved yourself. You always do."

With a sense of sadness, he watched them go out the back door. Gus and Juliet were talking to each other, assuring themselves that Shawn would be all right, that he'd bounce back, "like Tigger." Carlton wasn't as sure.

"He'll be okay," Juliet said. "I'm sure he'll be out of the hospital in no time."

It'd probably be hours, surely, Carlton judged. He thanked her for the sentiment anyway. "And thanks for the table. And the mugs."

"No problem!" Juliet said.

Gus said, "I'm sure Shawn will tell you the whole story soon. Don't worry."

Not worry—him? Yes, he could do that. Just as Gus and Juliet left, Vick came back in. Lassiter was surprised she was still there. She'd been outside, he learned, taking statements from the neighbors. They hadn't seen much, and asked too many questions.

"Excellent way to impress your new neighbors, Carlton," she added. She gave him a thumbs-up, which caused him to roll his eyes.

"Maybe I should move out now and save myself all the aggravation," he grumbled, knowing full well he would not do that. The house meant too much to him. Even now. Maybe more now. He had a feeling the neighborhood kids might egg his house or throw toilet paper around the yard, but it was too late: he was attached, he was in, and the house was his.

"This looks nice," Vick said of the new table. "Where'd this come from?"

In a single sentence, heart not in it, Carlton explained. The chief was also aware of Juliet's and Gus's donations to Lassiter's domestic life, in more ways than dishes and a table.

"We should get back to the station," Vick said to her head detective. "You have a lot of explaining to do, and I'm sure the two gentlemen we apprehended would also like their chance to explain. Shawn went to the hospital with Henry?"

Lassiter nodded, padding his side for his gun. It was there. He had put it away. Must've been an automatic movement amid the commotion. He found something else in the pocket of his suit coat, lifted it out, remembered it was Shawn's phone, let it drop into oblivion again. He pulled the sock from the other one, and, without thinking, and glad that everyone else had gone, Lassiter gave it a careful toss. It landed with deftness, as if it had meant to do it all along, right over the gentle, wide slope of the beige armchair. It looked like it belonged.