If it weren't so noisy, Shawn would have left the bike running outside. As it is, he practically tips it over in his rush to get to his feet. He easily closes the distance to the door, reaching for the handle before his brain has enough time to think.
'No, Shawn, go right ahead,' his brain cracks sarcastically. 'Just barge in on a serial killer without a weapon in sight.'
'I have the same weapon I always use - my brain,' Shawn retorts, and that shuts it up.
The handle turns easily. Shawn's breath catches in his throat.
The apartment is dark, but he can instantly tell it's empty.
His heart sinks.
He flips on a light.
Scanning the room, his eyes analyze every detail. He takes a few steps, spinning around.
Everything's perfect; everything's where it's supposed to be.
"Damn it," he mutters, turning around once more before his eyes fall on a book on the coffee table.
It's one of the leatherbound editions that looks more at home behind a lawyer's desk than in front of a couch .
Shawn gingerly sits down on the edge of the sofa, swallowing a twinge of bile when he reads the embossed cover.
"'Our Story' by Mr. Yang."
He opens the book, flipping past the first few blank pages.
'Room for your foreword,' his brain supplies without being asked.
Page twelve has a colored, intricate drawing of three Indian figures. It means nothing to Shawn, and he turns the page, only to have his blood chill in his veins.
There's a polaroid of Juliet, unconscious and tied to a chair. A note to Shawn is scrawled underneath.
There once was a girl named Jules
But Shawn broke all of the rules
He turned Yang in
So he cannot win
No matter what his tools
Shawn studies the picture of Jules. The chainsaw behind her, to her right, jumps out at him at first viewing. As does the handsaw to her left, and the hanging wooden rack of dangerous, pointy instruments.
Shawn's eyes return to the text, but he can't find a clue.
Tools. Something about tools.
He's about to slam the book down in frustration when he notices the bottom-right edge of the page is bent slightly.
With a shaking hand, he turns the page.
Two limericks this time, and one picture.
It takes all of Shawn's restraint to read the clues without dropping his eyes to the photo.
Hibernating brown bear
sits in a rectangle square
If Shawn is late
We'll know it's Fate
and Jules will lose more than her hair.
Upon closer inspection, the second block of text wasn't actually a poem or a clue, just an ominous threat.
I'm not as patient as my sister... and I don't play as nice.
Shawn's eyes dart down to the picture.
Still unconscious, Juliet's head hangs forward slightly, her newly shorn hair in an almost pageboy cut framing her bloodied face.
Shawn feels something brewing inside of him. He can't put a name to it, but it feels like a rage unlike any he's ever known. Were he in a different frame of mind, he might make an Incredible Hulk reference.
He hears a faint beeping. At first he assumes it's the sound of blood rushing in his ears, but he realizes it's electronic. He follows the sound to Juliet's bedroom.
Hidden under her pillow is the stopwatch.
He has thirteen minutes.
Shawn swallows the bad taste in his mouth as every muscle in his body tenses.
Not bothering to call Lassiter, hoping he'll figure it out on his own, Shawn races back to the bike. He knows where he's going, but he contemplates a pit stop first. He knows his dad keeps his gun in the same spot he's always kept it.
Author's Note: What sick bastard cuts Juliet's hair?!?