"I could arrest you," Gil says, looking down at the kid, arms folded.

Malcolm doesn't meet his eyes. "I just wanted to try it. I wasn't partying or anything. I just wanted to see—if it would make me feel better." Gil knows. It's Jessica who made the call that her son was acting strangely, who'd found her prescription bottle emptier than it should be.

"Come with me," custodial touch on Malcolm's tricep, not painful, just secure. "You haven't ridden with me in ages."

Malcom is clearly ashamed, but Gil can feel the lack of stress in him. He feels safe. That part is good. Of course, that also means Gil can't bluff him. At fourteen, the kid can always tell if he's lying or not. He knows Gil was never going to bring him in.

Gil can't resist lightly touching the nape of the kid's neck as he ushers him into the car. Malcolm is still short, still small. "I'm worried about you, kid." Not like that's any kind of change from the norm.

Malcolm is silent as Gil starts the car and drives. Usually that's fine. Today the cop wants him to talk, to give him something to work with. "Is this about that school? You don't like it?" Nothing is ever that easy or simple with Malcolm. It would be a mercy if it was.

"Nope." Gil isn't surprised by the answer. "It's okay there. The teachers are nice. I get good grades. It's—better than school here."

The cop doesn't comment. There's plenty to unpack there, but it's not what he's after. He can't really fathom what the son of the Surgeon would go through in a local school, and Malcolm is at the top of his class at the prep school Jessica picked. It's not Gil's job to figure out if terms away and summers at home are the best way things could be done. He's not even sure there is a best way, when you're dealing with the family of Martin Whitly.

"So what is it?" He can't force the kid to talk, and he's annoyed at himself for letting his frustration bleed through. Patience is his greatest asset when he's dealing with Malcolm, and he prides himself on not losing his cool.

"I'm sorry, Gil."

"That's not—that's not what I asked," the cop answers. "You're trying to change the subject without making it obvious. I want to know why you did it, and then I'll figure out if I believe you regret it." He used to be able to win against the kid in mindgames. Now it feels like chess, and they're about equal in skill.

Malcolm looks over at him, and Gil feels the force of his serious blue eyes. "The meds from the psychiatrist don't make the girl go away." Checkmate. Malcolm still needs to please him too much not to answer.

The girl in the box. Four years. Four years they've been dealing with this. Gil figures Malcolm's subconscious must have amalgamated all the horrible things into this one dream. And nobody can crack it.

"I understand," he says, "but you're too smart to think that randomly trying some drug out of your mom's medicine cabinet is a good idea. What if it had interacted with something else you're on? What if it had made things worse? You could have been seriously hurt."

"Gil, I just wanted to sleep."

The cop suddenly has a host of mental images of all the things he would love to do to Martin Whitly. All the things the man deserves instead of a cushy room at a psychiatric hospital.

Gil leaves his left hand on the steering wheel and reaches over with his right and squeezes the kid's shoulder. "I'm sorry, kid. I know it's hard. But you can't do things like this."

"I know."

"You know I would fix it if I could." Gil stares hard at the road, trying not to get emotional.

"I know that," the kid echoes. "But I'm not even your kid. Why do you keep coming back? My dad's case is over."

Gil risks taking his eyes off the road for a split second and meets Malcolm's intense gaze. "I think you know. You've been profiling me since you were ten. I'm not even that complicated."

Malcolm finally smiles, and it's like the sun coming out after rain. "Thanks, Gil."