. . . .

. . .

Early Wednesday, somewhere around three a.m., Lassiter woke from a dream about rampaging squirrels and thought I need to know she's all right.

He stared at the ceiling, wide awake, pulse racing.

I need to know she's all right.

By four a.m., he had vowed not to run Juliet's financials to see where her credit card was being used; nor would he track her phone. He would not abuse his authority out of nosiness when she'd only been gone two days (even if it wasn't nosiness so much as something he didn't want to think about right now).

Maybe after four or five days, if he didn't hear from her. But not this soon.

At five, he got up and went for his run, and asked himself why he was so concerned in the first place. (Irrespective of that thing he didn't want to think about.)

She'd taken vacations before; she'd taken days off work before. So had he. It wasn't as if they were never apart.

This just felt weird. All day Monday and Tuesday he'd felt… exposed. Aware of that too-tidy desk, its chair pushed in, its computer dark. No lilac-scented breeze as she'd pass. No smiling observations about the color of his tie, or admonishments for him to play nice. No eyerolls. (Okay, the absence of that last one wasn't so bad.)

It was the not knowing.

Truth was, if he did think about that thing, Juliet was one of the very few people he actually gave a damn about, and the damn he gave was pretty big. In fact, he couldn't think of anyone—even Victoria, during the brief period when they'd been "happy"—he'd ever given as big a damn about.

He'd even threatened to shoot Spencer if he ever hurt her, and he meant it, down deep in his bones. He had come pretty close when Spencer was manipulating Juliet into seeing her father, but Juliet had wanted to take care of everything herself so he hadn't interfered.

He, Carlton Lassiter, had not interfered, because he didn't want to add to her pain and frustration.

(Hell, he should have at least brought the butt of his Glock sharply against Spencer's head. Just once.)

(Maybe twice.)

As he ran, trying not to think (or feel) what he didn't want to think (or feel), he wasn't seeing his springtime surroundings at all; he knew them by heart along with every place a car or a bike or a dog was likely to veer into his path. His mind was only on Juliet O'Hara, and where she was, and how he could find out without aggravating her.

And… find out whether it mattered to her what he thought at all.

This thought, pathetic and self-serving and juvenile, made him run faster, push harder, pounding out on the pavement his desire to not care so damned much for a woman he could never have... which was something—a reality—he needed to think about more often.

Because reality, the SOB, was at least a reliable SOB, when it came to women he could never have.

. . . .

. . .

At his desk, steaming mug of coffee at hand and the case folder for a fresh burglary in a recent string of same in front of him, he realized he would never be able to shut his brain up by sheer willpower. Not when Juliet was the topic of its obsession.

He got out his phone and stared at it for a minute. Wherever she'd gone, even if she'd left the country, she'd be there by now. In nearly any time zone which mattered, he wouldn't be waking her. He wouldn't call, because that would seem too pushy, and he knew he'd sound like a total idiot, but he could text her. That would be safe, wouldn't it? She wouldn't mind, would she?

(Just in case, he paused to review their interaction in the days before she'd left, and once more concluded that he probably hadn't done anything to piss her off.)

And really, there was only the one thing he simply had to know, so this wouldn't take too much of her time.

Are you okay? Sincerely, Intruding Investigator

He tapped 'send' before he could change his mind.

Now to wait. Maybe get some work done. Maybe he could put this aside, the flare sent; let her think about it awhile. She could be busy, getting a massage, having coffee—maybe she'd gone home to Miami and was sunning herself by the pool—oh hell, Juliet in a bikini—FOCUS—yes, there were many reasons she might not immediately be able to answer—

Bzzzzt.

I'm good, I think. Thx for asking. You? Officer Optimist.

Lassiter smiled at the screen, far happier than he'd expected. She was there. Well, she was somewhere, and willing to acknowledge him as soon as she heard from him.

This was… good.

At my grumpy best. Place is too quiet without you. Det. Dipstick.

Send.

He sipped coffee, and opened the folder. The most recent burglary was in a gated community, suggesting an inside job, and—

Don't call yourself that, Carlton.

Oh.

He swallowed. After all these years, her unflagging loyalty still touched him.

Sorry. Better me than someone else, which is the norm. Constable Conciliatory?

Damn, but she typed fast—Those someone elses are dickheads. Cpl. Crankyette.

And double damn, but he felt his face growing warm.

Thank you, Juliet.

It seemed natural to use her first name. Then he sent another right away—

Sorry to intrude on your time off. I just wanted to be sure you were all right.

Her response was again quick.

You're not intruding. I don't mind hearing from you AT ALL. Just don't ask me about work. :-)

From down by the front doors, he could hear Spencer and Guster approaching.

Your boyfriend just came in. My aggravation level already went up a notch.

He expected something like 'say hi for me' (which he would refuse to do on principle) but what he got back startled him.

Mine too, on your behalf. Big favor please? Don't tell him we talked.

He stared at the screen, puzzled. Spencer was getting closer, though, so he typed out a quick 'OK. Later,' and put the phone back in his pocket, away from prying Spencer-eyes.

What the hell?

"Lassie my good man," Shawn said, dropping into the chair beside Lassiter's desk. "You're looking very—" He stopped, studied the death glare Lassiter was sending, and went on, "much like yourself. So what's up with the burglary case?"

"Stuff got stolen," he said succinctly.

"So funny," Shawn said. "Isn't he funny, Gus?"

"Hilarious." Gus glanced over at Juliet's empty desk. "I don't suppose you need our help?"

"For what?"

"He's in a mood, Gus."

"Yeah," Gus said absently. "Hey, Lassiter, what do you hear from Juliet?"

Lassiter looked him over. "I'm sure I don't hear as much as Spencer does."

Shawn was silent a moment. "I, um, haven't heard from Jules at all."

The morning was full of surprises. He said as much, and studied Shawn's expression. "You honestly had no idea she was going anywhere? When's the last time you saw her?"

"Friday, here."

"What did you fight about?" he asked bluntly.

"We didn't fight! At least I don't think we fought."

Even Gus rolled his eyes at that one.

"Spencer, you either fought or you didn't. You claim to be psychic—can't you tell when a woman wants to kill you?"

"Oh, like you can."

"Please, Shawn. It's Lassiter you're talking to." Gus immediately looked as if he regretted this, and took a step back.

But Lassiter wasn't offended, because Gus was right. "Exactly. I've had multitudes of women pissed off at me over the years, including O'Hara, so I know what I'm talking about."

"Lassie, comparing you to me is like comparing…"

"Oil and water?" suggested Gus.

"Brick and pudding," Lassiter supplied with a curl of his lip.

"Yes. That's what I'm talking about, and now I want pudding, thank you very much. The point is, we're nothing alike, man. At all."

"Yeah, Spencer, I just said that. What I'm waiting for you to say is what you did to piss O'Hara off."

Shawn laughed. "Easy there, slugger. Hand off the Glock."

His hand hadn't been anywhere near his Glock, but he knew Spencer knew he understood his meaning.

Gus, fortunately, stepped in. "So have you heard from her? Where is she?"

Two questions, one of which he'd promised not to answer. "I have no idea where she is. I didn't know she was gone until I got in on Monday."

Immediately, Shawn asked, "So she, what, sent you an email? A text? A voicemail?"

A handwritten note was none of those things, and Shawn was very unlikely to think of it as a form of communication. "Nope. I asked Vick." Never mind what he'd asked her.

"So Vick knows where she is?" Shawn was already halfway out of the chair.

"Don't think so. Seriously, Spencer. You have no clue why she left without a word?"

He sat back, and with excess precision said, "Lassiraptor. Would I be sitting here quizzing you if I did?"

"You might," Gus said. "You don't have a lot else going on today."

"That's fair." He got up, stretching. "I guess I'll go on waiting. But that's okay—Gus and I have seasons of Silver Spoons and Square Pegs to watch." He gave Lassiter another look. "Sure you don't need us on the burglary case?"

Lassiter gave it 1.2 seconds' worth of thought. "Pretty damn."

"Check." They ambled away, leaving Lassiter to ponder this new information.

He'd thought Juliet only didn't want Shawn to know they'd talked (which was an odd enough request)—not that she was apparently avoiding him completely.

Why?

He sure as hell knew why he would avoid the idiot, but yeah, that was too easy.

. . . .

. . .

Juliet stood on the deck, looking up at the night sky. The stars were crystal clear, sparkling vividly in the dark blue heavens, and the spring breeze was cool on her skin.

She was glad to be here, glad to have her opportunity to think, in peace. Solitude. Peace.

Her head and heart and gut had been roiling with unease and discontent and anger and hurt and regret and so much more; it would have been impossible to work through it all if she'd stayed in Santa Barbara. Even if she'd taken time off from the job, just being in town made her accessible, and she did not want to be accessible.

She could not afford to be accessible until everything was clear in her mind. And in her heart.

For the gut, there were antacids.

She wasn't sure, as adamant as she was with herself that this solitude was essential, why her phone was in her hand, and why she wanted to text Carlton.

Telling him what was going on was not an option, not yet. Not until she'd made more progress with herself.

But his text to her this morning—from "Intruding Investigator"—said so much more than he could have imagined. It said he was concerned but didn't want to push. It said he cared about her enough to let her know he was worried, and also enough to let her know she didn't have to say anything more than "I'm okay."

She was sorry Shawn had shown up and ended their back-and-forth. But then, that was Shawn's thing: disruption.

Damn, the roiling was back.

She sat on the wooden bench, sighing under the stars, and texted her partner.

I hope you're not still at the station.

It was nearly ten.

Not tonight. You miss the place?

She smiled. Not yet. I might in a week or so.

You're really going to be gone for that long?

Yeah, I am. I'm sorry for the suddenness. It just had to be that way.

There was a longer pause before her screen lit up again. You have to do what's best for you, whether or not anyone else understands it.

Now why did that make her misty-eyed?

Thank you, Carlton.

Any time, Juliet. Any time at all.

. . . .

. . .