oO0Oo

Twenty-seven days.

Almost a month.

Shawn had been missing for twenty-seven days.

oO0Oo
Gus
oO0Oo

He's dead. I know he's dead. It's been too long. I just… I just can't accept it yet. I don't know a life without Shawn. I can't imagine it.

Every memory I have. Every memory. Shawn. Complicating things. Making things worse. Getting me in trouble in a hundred different ways. Shawn.

Having my back. Making me better than I am. Being the only person I can say anything to. And I mean anything.

My best friend.

My only friend on more occasions than I care to admit.

My brother.

Infuriating. Irresponsible. Annoying.

Loyal. Smart. Brave (usually). True…

The truest friend anyone could ever ask for. Most people never get a true friend, but I did. And now he's gone.

He died that night. I'll never stop looking for him, but sometimes I'm sure he's dead. I just can't say anything. I mean it's pretty much my fault. I was arguing with him, and then I let him go out and get killed, and I never even looked out a window.

How do I tell anyone that? How do I tell Mr. Spencer?

It's my fault Shawn's dead.

How do I go on without him? How do I continue alone?

I have no idea. I don't know if I can.

But there's a chance.

Even after all this time, there's a chance he's alive.

The main reason I haven't said anything is because Shawn wouldn't. If our positions were reversed and I was the one missing, Shawn would never give up—never stop looking.

I can't imagine it—being held prisoner for all this time… What that kind of captivity would do to Shawn... I hope he has something to do, some way to pass the time, some way to stay sane.

Honestly, it almost feels selfish. I want so badly to find him alive. But that's for me. For Shawn's sake, I almost hope he died that first night.

I can't even imagine what the past month has done to him.

If we find him…

Will he still be Shawn?

oO0Oo
The Night of the Capture
oO0Oo

When Gus finally finished his paperwork, it was late. Shawn had left hours ago. They should have been working on those forms together, but at least this way Gus knew they'd be correct, and he was comforted by the fact that he'd won the argument with Shawn. 'The Facts of Life' was a much better option for their weekend marathon than 'The A-Team.'

He frowned when he stepped outside to see the Norton still parked where Shawn had left it but didn't think much of it. Shawn was always off doing something crazy. He had probably come outside and been hit with a "brilliant" idea that he just had to do right away—or seen a pretty girl—or decided to go for a long walk in the middle of the night—who knew?

Gus had a sinking feeling his buddy had figured out a way to win their argument after the fact. He usually did. He probably wanted Gus to worry about him.

Not this time! Gus shook his head and went home.

oO0Oo
The Next Morning
oO0Oo

In the morning, Henry unplugged his phone and saw he'd gotten a text from Shawn late the night before. He must have slept through the alert. He opened it thinking that either Shawn was in desperate need of help or he'd thought of some joke that was so hilarious it couldn't wait until morning. It was a toss-up.

When he read the text, Henry's blood ran cold.

"I've got your son. You will never see him again. I will keep him for twenty-seven days, and then I will kill him. There is nothing you can do about it. You deserve this."

oO0Oo

Over the course of the next three weeks, the SBPD, Henry, and Gus investigated every possible lead—and a few impossible ones.

More than once, someone commented, "The person we need working on this is Shawn."

The text had come from Shawn's phone, but it must have been destroyed immediately afterward. There was no lead there.

Gus remembered the argument that night. Satisfied that he'd convinced Shawn to watch 'The Facts of Life' instead of 'The A-Team' he'd turned back to his paperwork the moment Shawn had left. He hadn't seen or heard a thing, and, for that, he would never forgive himself.

They scoured the outside of Psych. Shawn had disappeared somewhere between the front door and his bike. There was no sign of a struggle. The only clue they found was a single drop of dried blood on the sidewalk just outside the front door. They confirmed it was Shawn's.

There was nothing on any security cameras in the area. The only one that had been pointed anywhere near the front of Psych looked as if it had been hit with a baseball bat. They checked every camera within a mile radius. Several showed vehicles driving away from Psych. All discernable license plates, even partials, were checked, both electronically and in person. Nothing.

Due to the late hour, there were no witnesses.

There was obviously some significance to the number twenty-seven, but no one knew what it was.

There was obviously some significance to Henry since the text had been directed at him—"you deserve this"—but no one, not even Henry, could find any connection. No amount of scouring old files had turned up a single clue.

oO0Oo
Day Seven
oO0Oo

Sadly, since it was impossible for the head detective and his partner to focus only on one case, Lassiter and O'Hara had been forced to divide their attention.

It hadn't been long before Gus had been given the ultimatum of, "Get back to work or lose your job."

Of course, Henry never stopped and rarely slept, but he was only one man.

oO0Oo
Henry
oO0Oo

Shawn.

Aw, Kid.

What did you get yourself into this time?

Where are you? I taught you everything you need to know to escape from every possible scenario.

So why haven't you?

The answer to that question terrifies me... Keeps me up at night… Provides fuel for nightmare after nightmare…

What are they doing to you?

Are we too late?

Where are you?

oO0Oo
Day Sixteen
oO0Oo

Henry was just about at the end of his rope. Exhausted, he had dragged himself into the station, but he didn't really know why.

Karen stood in her office and watched him through the window. Shawn's disappearance had cast a gloom over her entire station. She had never really stopped to think about how much his presence meant to so many people. Personally, she had come to really like him. She was worried about him. But she hadn't fully grasped how much he meant to everyone else. She didn't think there was a single person here he hadn't interacted with—who wasn't worried about him. As immature and silly as he and Gus could be, he brought a certain lightness to an otherwise serious line of work. It felt as if the entire building missed him.

Poor Gus. He hadn't been to the station at all in nearly a week. He'd stopped by daily at first—constantly, desperately looking for ways to help with the investigation. Then he'd taken to showing up and just waiting around. Finally, he became like a ghost of his former self, moving mechanically, sitting and staring for hours. Finally, he just stopped showing up. Karen resolved to make sure she checked on him at her first opportunity.

Now, looking out at Shawn's father, who sat at his desk, clearly on the verge of despair, she knew she had to do something. She went out and sat across from him.

"How're you holding up?" she asked gently.

He just looked at her for a moment before telling her, "I called his mother this morning." Then he fell silent.

"How'd she take it?"

"She asked me what the odds are... that he's still alive…" He cleared his throat.

"Henry," Karen chided gently. "We have no reason to think he's not still alive."

Henry just shook his head, not meeting her eyes.

Karen waited quietly.

He continued, "Every night, when I go to bed, I wonder if he has a place to sleep. Every time I eat, I wonder if he's being fed. I happened to stub my toe last night, and all I could think about was what kind of pain he might be in…"

Trying to stop Henry's spiral, Karen interrupted, "Have there been any new leads?" She knew there hadn't been.

He just looked at her, his expression bleak.

Karen knew it was time for the Chief to take the lead. She decided to turn one of his own, favorite techniques on the man who had once trained her. "Run me through it again."

When he tilted his head and glared at her, she reminded him calmly, "This is how it works, Henry. Run through it again."

Then Henry suddenly had to close his eyes as tears pricked at them. How many times had he done this same thing to Shawn?

Would he ever do it again?

"The text," Henry replied, clearing his throat and getting down to business, "The text is really all we have."

"Tell it to me again… slowly."

"I've got your son…" he began. He slowly, deliberately recited from memory. He forced himself to consider every word, trying to do it as if he'd never seen them before. "You will never… see… him again… I will keep… keep him for twenty-seven days… and then I will… I will kill him… There is nothing you can do about it… You deserve this," he finished on a whisper.

"So?"

Henry shook his head, incredibly frustrated. "Karen, I have been through all my case files a hundred times! There is no reference to the number twenty-seven anywhere!"

"Okay, what else?" she asked patiently. She knew there was nothing in his case files; she'd gone through them herself more than once. "There has to be something else…"

"I deserve it," he recited, his voice dead. "Lassiter, O'Hara, and I went through every perp I've ever put away—everyone who isn't either dead or still inside. We checked. We verified alibis. We investigated every possible person."

"Mmm, I'm not sure you did," she said lightly. "What else?"

If Henry's glare could have started a fire, Karen would have second-degree burns. She knew he wasn't really angry at her, and he knew she was right, so he went over the text yet again.

"Nothing you can do…" he murmured. "Nothing you can do… You deserve this… deserve… Twenty-seven days… I will kill him… Son. I've got your son…" He frowned. "Son…" he whispered. He thought hard. "Wait a minute…" Something was tickling at the very edges of memory… He frowned in concentration. "Kill your son…"

Then he shook his head and swore under his breath. Why couldn't he remember?

But there was something. A tiny flame of hope was lit where, that morning, there had been none.

"Henry?" she asked, thinking he was on to something.

"Son… Twenty-seven days… There... was... something…" And he turned and began to type on his computer, searching files.

"What is it?" she asked.

"There was a case… someone I arrested… but I wasn't even the lead on the case. I wasn't even supposed to be there... I think… I think I was filling in for someone who was sick, or had a family emergency... so it wasn't in my files, but... The perp's son was somehow killed shortly after he got locked up… I can't remember!" he growled. "Was it twenty-seven days? I need…"

Karen realized he wasn't really talking to her. He was on the verge of a breakthrough…

oO0Oo
Day Seventeen
oO0Oo

Finally!

That day—after Shawn had been missing for well over two weeks—they finally understood the who. Karl Frey was the name of the thief Henry had arrested.

Having his identity, they also figured out the what and the why. They had been told the when. They would ask Shawn the how when they found him.

Once again, all department resources were dedicated to this one missing persons case.

They checked with the original lead on the case, Bill Smith, or Smitty, as he was known around the station. He didn't even remember the case until they showed him the file. It had been a straightforward case of theft. Frey had been easily convicted with the amount of proof they had gathered. Smitty hadn't even been needed to testify.

They checked every location to which Frey had any connection: his home, his job, his usual hangouts, and there was nothing. They followed the money, scouring every transaction he had made. They searched his phone records. They thoroughly investigated every contact of his they could find. Everyone claimed they hadn't seen him in weeks, and, try as they might, they couldn't poke a hole in any of their stories. It was as if Frey had ceased to exist. No sign of him, and definitely no sign of Shawn.

They still couldn't find the where.

Where was Shawn?

The momentum they gained that day quickly sputtered and died.

They couldn't find Frey, and they had no idea where he might be holding Shawn.

Day twenty passed. Twenty-one. Twenty-two…

Time was running out.

Where was Shawn?

oO0Oo
Lassiter
oO0Oo

I have wanted the stupid 'psychic' off my back and out of this station for so long…

But not like this.

Not like this.

No one is saying it—obviously—but there's a very good chance he's already dead. Why would anyone keep their prisoner alive when they're only planning to kill them later? There's no need for proof of life if there's no ransom demand. If he keeps Spencer alive for twenty-seven days then he's got an increased chance of escape, he has to give food and water to the guy, he has to put up with what I can only imagine is the most inane babble anyone on the planet has ever had the immense misfortune to have to listen to…

I'm not sure I'd keep him alive… Don't tell anyone I thought that.

If he keeps Shawn alive, he gives us that much time to find him. But maybe that's the point—maybe that's part of Henry's torture.

Underneath it all, I know Spencer's a good guy. And I have had to accept—although not acknowledge—NEVER acknowledge—that he is an adequate detective. I will never, ever believe he is actually psychic, so how does he do it? He astounds me.

How does he do it?

I will never know.

But I hope he gets to continue.

I really hope we find him alive.

I don't want to listen to everyone mope if we don't.

oO0Oo
Day Twenty-Six
oO0Oo

It was Buzz,, who finally brought something to Henry's attention. He, like many on the police force, had spent every spare minute looking for their favorite psychic.

Hesitantly, Buzz walked up to where Henry was poring over files. "Mr. Spencer?"

Henry didn't even look up.

"This is probably nothing. In fact, I'm sure you already saw it and dismissed it. I shouldn't even bother you—"

Annoyed, Henry glanced up at him. "What is it, Buzz?"

"I know you checked all his financials—"

"Get to the point!" Henry interrupted.

"What about cash?"

Henry sighed. The spark of excitement Buzz had managed to ignite died. "We can't track cash."

"Well… I know, but—"

"Spit it out!"

"We know Frey had a job… I checked his paychecks against the amount he was depositing each week, and there's a discrepancy." He sped up when he saw that Henry was about to shoot his theory full of holes. It wouldn't be hard to do. "The total discrepancy is $2,150."

Henry had several possible explanations for this. "Of course he kept some cash when he deposited his check. Everybody does that. The guy still has to buy food—" hopefully, he bought some food for Shawn, Henry finished his thought silently.

Buzz cut him off. "I ran that specific amount against his known contacts who have criminal ties."

Now Henry was staring hard at the young officer. His theory was such an incredibly long shot…

But… A long shot was exactly what Shawn needed.

"His former cellmate, Mark Jones—whom you, of course, investigated right away—and, as far as anyone can tell, is living on the straight and narrow—deposited that exact amount in his savings account a week before Shawn was taken and withdrew it again the same day."

Henry stared at him. This could be it.

"He screwed up," Henry whispered. "He screwed up! Frey paid him for something and must have been furious when he found out Jones had made a deposit we could track—forced him to withdraw it right away. This could be it, Buzz!" Henry stared up at him. "This could be it! Where did the money go from there?"

"That's as far as I got. I wanted to tell you right away."

Henry was on his feet. His chest was tight with excitement, hope, and fear. What if this was yet another promising lead that disintegrated in his hands, as so many others had over the last weeks?

"Lassiter!" he shouted.

oO0Oo
Still Day Twenty-Six
oO0Oo

They were up all night following this, the slenderest of threads…

Shortly after midnight, the beginning of what would be the twenty-seventh day, they finally had a breakthrough.

They found a connection between Frey's cellmate, Jones, and a shady real estate agent. Their investigation turned up three possible properties that had gone unsold long enough to be pulled off the market.

The race was on.

oO0Oo
Juliet
oO0Oo

I can't believe how long it's been.

Any kidnapping, you've got 48 hours, and then the survival rate starts to plummet. That's just procedure. That's what they teach us at the academy. Of course, that's mostly for children…

But Shawn? He's childlike, in the most endearing way possible. He likes me; I'm pretty sure. He sends out signals—pretty clear signals—but then he pulls back. Sometimes, I think something just distracts him. Or maybe he's scared. I'm pretty sure he's been hurt. But he should know I'm a safe bet. I'd go out with him in a heartbeat. But Shawn? He wants to keep it light. And I have a feeling that if the two of us actually got together—seriously got to know each other, like a couple—it would be light and flirty and fun, but it could get serious.

Oh my goodness. I could get serious with Shawn Spencer! I could! I can totally see that happening!

What am I thinking?

I'm an officer of the law, and Shawn… Shawn is a victim! A victim of a serious crime.

I must focus.

We know he was injured; there was a drop of blood on the sidewalk. And we know that, if there was a drop of blood on the sidewalk, there were many others on skin and clothing. Forensics can give you the volume of probable blood loss given the amount of blood left behind at the scene. Thankfully, Shawn probably didn't lose much in the initial attack, but the fact that his captor wasn't afraid to spill blood does not bode well.

And he's been missing for so long.

We've had so many false leads, clues that dissolved in our hands. I don't know if I've ever faced a case so frustrating—or so urgent.

Please let this lead pan out!

Please be there, Shawn!

Oh, Shawn…