Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended. I don't own references to the short story "The Monkey's Paw" by W.W. Jacobs; or to the fairy tale "Little Red Riding Hood".

Author's Note: Reviews, feedback, comments and constructive criticism are welcome and highly appreciated. Thanks for the reviews thus far. *hugs* If you have an extra moment to spare after you read this chapter, please do review. :) It would be so encouraging to know what you think/feel about this story so far. Thank you so much. :)

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Chapter Two: The Killer In Me Is The Killer In You

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# # #

Gus stared at his phone. He was missing something, had been for a few months now. But his anger had been such a good, unwavering companion that it was getting harder and harder to turn his back on it.

What had passed between them had been entirely Shawn's doing—Shawn's recklessness, his unfettered selfishness, his carelessness—the big nesses Gus had always been able to look passed in the past.

But that was when they had still worked cases together, got in scrapes together, got rescued by the police together.

Gus had done his part—he'd gone directly to the police when he'd suspected trouble for his friend. And trouble had found Shawn—while he'd been looking for it alone.

"I was there, Gus. With the killer." The memory still stung; his fists balled up in reaction as if there was a target to strike. Gus sighed. Anger was a good companion, but a lonely one also. He pursed his lips, wondering if he was ready to dive into the can of worms awaiting as he finally reached out to Shawn. Could he handle his friend reappearing stupidly, as if nothing had happened—nothing had soured, gone to hell, been altered—bounding up to him like a puppy, ready to lick his hand or eat all of his favorite treats? Would he not make note of Gus's silence in the car on the drive to the hospital, or Gus's quick exit without a word to even Henry Spencer?

Gus frowned. Shawn would expect Gus's forgiveness—just as if the events hadn't ever happened. Gus remembered too well Shawn's guilty behavior and refusal to clue him in on whatever it was Shawn may have done—and then he'd left for his other job. Shawn had had plenty of opportunities; even when he texted, he'd left it deliberately vague.

He could have come back early—left the meeting, met Shawn instead wherever he had gone. They were supposed to be . . . in this together.

No. Gus wasn't ready for forgiveness. He wasn't tired enough of the anger squeezing his gut, or grinding his teeth while he slept, of relying on his dry toast Central Coast coworkers for interesting evenings out. He was still content to cling to the numbness that had come over him following the anger following the line uttered by Shawn that had changed Gus's worldview.

Why, Shawn? Gus had thought—still thought, quite frequently—why wasn't I there with you?

# # #

He was . . . he was . . . he was . . . inside the nightmare. While awake, Shawn realized; he was standing in line to buy a smoothie; he'd woken with such a craving. It was sometime in the afternoon, but he wasn't so good counting time neatly into hours or days anymore. Too much blurred—when he was asleep, when he was awake, when he was dreaming, when he was dying.

As if he could never be so alive again. He wanted the plastic cup in his hands, he wanted the straw pressed to his tongue, he wanted the pineapple coolness flooding his mouth.

That night, he'd tasted too much of his own blood. He'd bitten his lip hard enough to draw blood when he slid off his motorcycle, eating dirt, eating pavement, eating sparks—his teeth chattering violently in his head. And he'd still had to find his footing, get up the stairs of the police station, tell his side of the story, in a manner of speaking. Or psyching.

Sweat beaded across Shawn's brow; he felt like he couldn't wait for his turn at the counter, wondered if he made it up there if his hands would shake too much getting the wrinkled dollar bills out of his wallet.

There wasn't anywhere he needed to be. No one was looking for him. He imagined the coins slipping through his fingers when he tried to drop some change in the tip jar; the coins made too much noise . . . what if . . . what if the killer was waiting around the corner? What if he could hear Shawn coming? Shawn sucked in his breath, holding it while he looked around for something familiar—there were only two people wearing hats. He counted instead the visible jewelry—including eyebrow rings, bracelets and watches nearly hidden by the few with long sleeves, and pinky rings sported by men.

"Hi, there," the cashier greeted with a practiced smile. He'd made it up. She didn't drop it even when he turned to her, realizing he hadn't shaved in at least a week; lately, the razor had been shaking too much in his grasp. He'd already cut himself too many times. His hair . . . unbrushed. "How can I help you today?" she asked, and Shawn stared at her plaintively before finding his voice; it crackled with disuse.

# # #

After me, Lassiter thought, without really thinking what that might mean, until it lingered and he followed it. After me. Is he still after me? Who would have come after me . . . once I was finally dead? Surely someone SBPD officer, if not O'Hara—or at least a homeless bum or some teenage kids looking for privacy. Someone would have found my body. Unless . . . Saul would have taken the evidence with him. He seemed to have no qualms about carrying dead people around.

Lassiter's Adam's apple moved as he swallowed the knots. For a few moments, he was overwhelmed by a sensation of choking, having a bit of food or hair or bone stuck in the back of his throat. It passed. Who would have come after me . . . once I was dead? he thought again, this time thinking the context through a different way. Would Saul have stuck around here or would have drifted his way elsewhere, maybe back or forward to another mostly desert state, Nevada, Arizona? He would have killed again—he'd even promised Lassiter that he would. But after Lassiter and his wealth of sweet, strong blood, the kills would be carried out with purpose. As if this meant something, as if murder wasn't still murder. Though he was sitting, Lassiter grabbed the edge of the desk for stability. It was silly to feel lightheaded by only a couple of thoughts, he thought, but there wasn't any helping it. Would he have killed another person in Santa Barbara?

He considered O'Hara, arriving on scene, her backup delayed . . . finding her partner a corpse, finding Saul with his blood soaked platitudes, waving his knife around, taunting her. Could she have been next? Would she have come after? Lassiter made himself look up, find her, rest his eyes on her. She was sitting at her desk, focused on casework, looking calm and professional. He breathed a small sigh of relief. She was fine. She was okay. Saul's influence had not been cast over her like a net—like a noose—pulled tight. He nodded, satisfied to know.

And she really wasn't going anywhere. Earlier, she'd fixed him with a raised eyebrow, giving him a glance which suggested she "had her eyes on him". Lassiter knew, even deep down, that he wasn't altogether comfortable with this, but there was a smoldering coal of warmth resting against his ribs that reminded him that she was his: She wanted to be . . . his friend, partner, cinch pin when it was called for it (or even if it was not). She was there. Here. It was a marvel, truly, that he figured he wouldn't ever wrap his head around.

He guessed there was some advantage to her still being young; it was less that she was impressionable and more that she still had hope of even dire situations coming out well. Again, and again, she believed in this. Lassiter sighed. He supposed that . . . a part of him had come back around to see the world like this. Open, full of possibilities, people with good intentions. She believed he was a mostly good person under his secretive web of anti-social eccentricities. And she had not given up on him, even when he transferred all of his life's anger to her, as if she had been the one to make the world so sad and hostile. Yet, he blamed her for feeling this ridiculous idealism; for clinging to it now, after such bad things. . . . Lassiter crumpled a napkin in his fist, for the first time aware he was holding on to something. He gazed down at his desk and found a pile of crumbs; his food fairy had been by and he hadn't even noticed; was it because, lately, she seemed to move through this world like a ghost?

Unless, he was more ghostlike. Sometimes, he could swear his hands were transparent, his eyes so bleary from interrupted sleep, from working too hard for little reason to perform this kind of research. He felt obligated. And he had been using finding next of kin as an excuse for so long he almost believed it himself. Outside patience was fraying; he could do this for as long as it took but he knew who was watching him would soon act.

How did he spend his days? His nights? Was the process—the abduction, the torture, the deaths—effortless, both physically and mentally? Or was there extensive planning? What were his habits? Lassiter toed the line, partially feeling ill considering Saul's life prior to . . . but he couldn't help it. It was sick to think about it, he considered, scrubbing his pen in a long line against a pad of blank, white paper. It was sick. But he . . . he wanted to know.

# # #

Juliet wondered why—how—when she'd become so in synch with Lassiter's small movements, why she could hear a pen scratching a piece of paper and miss him, deeply, when he was right here, just a few feet away. This little thing, she told herself, reminded her that he was still in there; it hurt her to think of him this way. He was still living—alive—she had arrived at zero hour, T-minus three seconds and counting. She had not been able to wash or throw away the clothes that were ruined by her partner's blood. She'd stuffed them into a garbage bag and dropped it in the back of her closet, hungry ghosts seeping out of a net.

In the hospital, he'd smiled at her, a broken thing that reminded her of the disguise of smile—or broken genuine smile—on his lips when they'd come to get him. "You came for me."

Juliet let the guilt wash in ankle deep; she'd made a promise they would get through, together. Was it fair to indulge in remnants of the past, the little things she missed and wanted back? (She'd worked so hard on him, hadn't she? And he'd done the same for her. She owed him.)

He had, without fail, sworn her to secrecy and even mustered some venom-filled phrases of just what might become of her if she told anyone, anyone, that he had become so emotional in front of her. Juliet played along, pretending to be relieved as some of his usual self peeked through the bandages, through the fear still etched into his demeanor—but in truth, her partner's crying had taken as much out of her as it had taken from him, and she was certainly not ever planning to share this private moment—as much hers as his—with anyone.

Her stomach had knotted as she watched, listened—first trying not to watch but then finding herself unable to look away; she experienced the terror of physical loss—the terrible "what ifs" of losing him, not just to a killer or to death—but also his personality up to this point. These thoughts stunned her speechless; she gasped at even her own thoughts—because Carlton Lassiter was so rough around the edges, endlessly gruff and often blunt with no apologies or remorse of his behavior or words—going on as he always had, as a solitary man. Had anyone asked her, a yesterday before all of this, even if she had been in a good mood, wouldn't she have easily stated that they all always had traits to improve upon, that Carlton had many, many to be improved upon? To have him wiped clean, the rough spots polished, the edges of his smile pulled up towards his eyes, an offering of kind words for no reason but the mundaneness of daily life, a small buoy in the large sea of a long, long day?

Juliet wondered, had she received her 'wish'? A 'wish' with the price tag as hefty as in a horror story she had read about a cursed monkey's paw?

Lassiter had confessed a reason for his emotion, one that almost broke her heart and made her furious, though she could understand why even her strong, tough, and unwavering partner might go to such a place with his thoughts. He was disappointed and disgusted with himself—humiliated to have ended up in a situation where he had been made into a victim—unable, she realized, to stop blaming himself: He had failed—not she. It was going to be tough work convincing him of his self-worth; again, Juliet found herself stunned—another trait Lassiter seemed to carry in spades: strong self-confidence, self-value, perseverance, and drive. "You think that—you're no longer good enough to be my partner?" Juliet breathed, holding his eyes with the lasers of her own. He winced, discomforted, wanting to jerk his head away. Then, "How dare you." Then, "We'll get through this." She squeezed his hand hard enough to make him grimace. "We're going to get through this, Carlton."

How could I make such a promise? she asked herself now, glancing up to see him, hard at "work".

# # #

Lassiter figured it might be an unsolved mystery, unless he was actually able to track down every last person who may have come in contact with Saul Grant . . . or whatever alias or aliases he used, small town to small town, city to city, state to state, country to country . . . Lassiter's mouth twisted. Should he? Should he try?

Across the bullpen, his partner cleared her throat; it was hardly directed at him, and though he didn't acknowledge it, the gesture hit him on a subconscious level.

His accent . . . his accent must be cultivated, his drawl practiced, certain words smokier or huskier than others. It wasn't fair, a statement that Lassiter could be almost positive he'd heard his partner utter to herself when she thought she was alone. He might have imagined that the sentiment was about him, but it was hard to ignore—though he did his damnedest—that she spent her days pouring her energy into getting him ship-shape. And still, he was resisting. Couldn't help it.

Was Saul's ancestry murderous? Lassiter chewed his lip, remembering one of many searing dialogues he had gotten into with the killer. Was this . . . grandfather . . . a participant? Did he . . . even exist? Or was his existence, and his old tall tales, perfectly crafted lies?

But why . . . why did violence follow almost any insistence in which Lassiter retorted negativity towards what might only be a fictional character lurking in the killer's mind?

Lassiter tried to clear his head. He had many open cases, the file folders stacked on his desk. He knew he should focus on them, follow his partner's silent and not-so-silent advice to retrieve his old lifestyle. What a kicker, wasn't it? She wanted him back, just as he had been, before? Carlton could almost smile at that. (Though he often wouldn't admit that there was anything wrong with the way he usually behaved, she had still stepped up to the plate often enough to call him on it that further dismissal of it would only be childish. And they already had a consultant who was childish enough—perhaps stuck in a permanent state of willing regression. He refused to stoop to that level.)

He had a few specific reasons in his intensive, all consuming quest that he needed to have confirmed. They were not optional; he couldn't go on and on and on forever not knowing. Lassiter had not thought as far as what to do with the information once it was attained; would it bring peace or merely open another door for another quest?

But he couldn't sleep-couldn't-eat-couldn't-focus anymore; he had to know. His eyes were bloodshot on a daily basis, his features drawn, ashy, and he was losing weight. He lived on mostly coffee and whatever O'Hara dropped in front of him because he kept forgetting the desire to eat. Like his passion to fight other people's crimes, it had just dwindled down to almost nil.

Had Saul Grant been a born killer? A born-again killer? Did he have a soul? Was he deranged of mind while "sane" of action—or was he a sane man who chose to kill?

The questions ate at Lassiter. He felt that—knew that—when these questions related to any other victim of any other crime, he had always simply written off the criminals as head sick sociopaths, remorseless, unfit to interact with average, law-abiding citizens. Then, when it wasn't about him—down to such a nasty level—it made perfect sense to feel like that and sweep whatever loose ends the victims' families demanded closure from under the rug. Closure was their problem, once he had closed his cases. But now he wasn't so sure. He still felt he'd done right by bringing the criminals to justice, but it was near impossible to write Saul off as "just disturbed" or as a "sociopath considering himself above the law". It didn't feel right.

Another question niggling among these was that Saul had told him that the two of them were more alike that Lassiter would ever consider to admit. Loners, lone wolves, solid but solitary men, handsome enough to attract many pretty womenfolk, though laden with a sour disposition which soon drove the women away. Friendless. Respected but hated. Driven. Drifters. Killers. He'd spoken of this at length, how what he did was just like what Lassiter did, only Saul did it with a knife and Lassiter with a gun. Tools of the trade, quick in the hand when needed, administered with precision on situations by the professionals which steered them.

Was he . . . could he . . . be . . . ? Early on, when he tried to seek answers to his now sorted questions and also separate all of the tortures he remembered so well, he experienced periods of blackouts. Sometimes, there would be gaps in his memories as if he'd fallen asleep, and he'd wondered if hadn't literally blacked out because of the strain. He briefly considered asking for pills, but realized quickly that a psychiatrist would have to prescribe them—and that professional would have to know why. (He had put in the bare minimum asked of reporting to a psychiatrist, just enough to get him back on the job—and oddly enough, Chief Vick had not yet pressed for more.) Lassiter knew his hands would shake reaching for the bottle of pills, and that alone would be enough to halt him from taking any. Instead, he forced himself to start slower, only thinking on one question at length until he was tired, either mentally or physically. This process was just as agonizing for him as the overwhelming blur of memories and questions and pain which made no sense and had no reason, but he eventually stopped blacking out.

It may have helped a small bit too that he started talking to his partner—not so much about what had happened, or about his need-to-know questions, but just little things. A lot of the time, she just listened; he did notice, after much too long, that she wasn't as cheery or talkative as she had been, that she often did not offer advice. And though it embarrassed him to say anything to her, even the mundane things: doubts about returning to work, the lessened mobilization due to his injuries, the hints of a bad dream, he often felt better after speaking to her. Even when she didn't have much to say back. He never let it show, that he felt better; it was better for her to think nothing had changed, wasn't it? That nothing had changed with him . . . he was the same Head Detective Carlton Lassiter he was before all this. Let her believe this; he could be strong for her sake, he decided.

And just what was he supposed to do now? Once he'd discovered himself awake and his mind slowly revealed to him he was in a hospital to recover, he realized he was alive, that he was going to live.

Going to have to live with all that.

And once he learned it, live with his young female partner facing off with Saul in order to save him. But what if . . . what if he had bled to death anyway? Lassiter had felt a cold prickling enter his stomach, seizing him so that he had to fall back against his pillows, so that he reached for his stomach with his most damaged arm. He stared at it, his wrist bound tightly with with reams of gauze. Underneath the stiffness, a tickle, minute, but it was a little reminder, even so early, that his body was going to heal. That's what the body did when it could. But the mind . . . He'd sighed, feeling a different kind of weakness—not quite weak because he'd managed to survive, or because he needed others to come to his aid—an angry weakness. Wasn't he better than that? Better than letting a criminal get that much inside his head? Worse even than "letting" the criminal slide the blade under his skin. Bleeding . . . he'd done so much, and inside his head, none of the wounds had been sealed up, bandaged smartly, or itched to heal. He'd gulped, not knowing what to do with a quick flare of fear.

Lassiter cleared his throat, forcing him to focus on his workspace, a trick that lasted a few seconds before he started to drift again.

She was the only one he could really say anything to. And even then, he wasn't entirely certain why he saw her as a "safe zone"; perhaps it was simply because they were friends and because she already knew about his unsavoriness. Because she called him on things all the time; because she had become his guide point; if he ran some things by her that he considered good, she would tell him the straight up shit whether it was good or the worst idea he'd ever had since yesterday.

Still, it wasn't long after his return that he found himself on the wrong end of her intense affection. The first time it happened, Carlton was too startled to form rational thought; later, he'd scrutinized what had happened until he could "rationally" chalk it up to what he had secretly termed "intense affection". Because of this—and ironically, because of their bonding over what they both considered self-failures—Carlton had let himself draw in, understanding at some level that at the base of his partner's aggression was her need to help him. If he had to endure her at her worst, he at least figured she was doing it out of care.

He'd never had a friend like this; had limited exposure with people in his life who had the enthusiasm or wish to care about him. Whatever niggling behind his ears and eyes warning him that something could be off with his partner he did his best to ignore.

Still, if he'd learned anything from past events, he knew he couldn't ignore red flags and blatant warnings forever. In fact, he probably should have said something right away, but he'd come to realize he was actually flattered by her attention—that she still thought so highly of him after . . . everything. But this could also mean he wasn't seeing what he should be seeing as a detective; had he been so distracted since he'd become part of a crime that he really couldn't see it?

After all, had he ever "reciprocated" her attention, he might have been facing charges. But Lassiter considered it was only a little thing, little to worry about in the long run. He would take what he could get.

He had made the mistake of mentioning in front of her that sometimes he felt he was still breathing in the killer's air, that he could turn a corner and encounter his past waiting for him in a darkened alleyway, propped up in a pool of shadow, or even puttering about in what should be a harmless, well-lit, even peopled space. In his sleep, he was no match. The first couple months of recuperation in his apartment had found Lassiter almost "afraid" of the dark—afraid of stupid things he felt he shouldn't fear. He knew, rationally, that there would be no horror film reincarnation; that Saul would not turn up in his kitchen to clamp his hand around Lassiter's throat, cutting him just so with his blade.

She'd risked it at work too, the first time. They were alone when he'd said it, sitting at his desk as she stood next to him. "You don't know," he'd said, not attempting to lord something over her; it had just come out this way.

Juliet had slapped him, not hard enough to jerk his head, but the shock was just as great. In turn, Lassiter had jerked his head in her direction, his jaw slackened further when he saw her hand still raised, a fierce expression stretching her features strangely. She did not apologize. "So tell me," she'd said instead, dropping her hand finally to cross her arms.

Lassiter, in the moment, told himself what had just happened had not happened. He had recognized the edge of voice; she was challenging him not to be weak—unless she had some morbid fascination to know the inter-workings of Saul's special torments. "H-his—his name was Saul," Lassiter said, ignoring the stutter of his voice. He brought fingers to touch the red spot on his cheek, waiting for his partner to come to her senses. "He was my killer—"

Juliet's hand snaked out and snatched him by his chin. She bent her face close to his and whispered sharply in his ear, "You're alive, Carlton." Then she let go and stalked away, leaving her befuddled partner to his own devices.

The occurrence was so surreal—and had no witnesses—that Lassiter could have almost believed he'd fallen asleep at his desk, had a nightmare, and subsequently awakened, dazed. Later, when she'd dropped off a coffee, her mouth was bent into a smile and he agreed that he had imagined the whole thing. Until she reminded him that she was there whenever he wanted to talk.

He found himself staring her sideways, a touch of shock parting his lips. Was it possible? She looked softer, almost incapable of becoming violent. But then he saw the dark blue fierceness of her eyes. He felt himself nodding, and made himself not reach for his cheek.

After that, an entire week of their new normalcy. But it wasn't the last time; and it made had him seriously consider opening up to her, which, he told himself, was messed up, but still, he reasoned with himself, he felt he owed her something.

He . . . wouldn't have to tell her everything. Not . . . all of it. Not . . . ever. He faltered, uncertain of which path to go down. Did he . . . owe her something? Or was it best to keep his silence—to . . . keep Saul to himself? Lassiter's lip curled into a sneer. Even he could recognize how unhealthy this thought was. Maybe then . . . maybe just a little then. See . . . see what she could or couldn't handle. If she wasn't willing, he guessed she would let him know. Lassiter winced.

Never, never in his lifetime did he expect—or fear—his partner turning to such means, especially the only one he ever got to know this well—her demands that he keep on living. Such fire—too hot to even look at, let alone touch—to hot to garner warmth from, only worry that the element at war would just melt everything in its path, burn it up or down, make transformations of frail objects to shapeless piles of ash. Still, he had no choice. She was reaching for him over this bonfire glare, and he knew that he had to lean in for her, no matter how much it hurt him, how it changed him.

# # #

She felt the room tilt and she wasn't even drunk, or sick, with any other explainable excuse. In the corner of her eye, she was blinded by red but resisted looking at it full on. She knew this color often—lately—had its horrible way with her. I'm Juliet, she thought, as the darkest forces raged in her head. I'm Juliet. Just to remind herself. She had no middle name, so she could not claim this to be her real name, act out accordingly. I am Juliet, for a while. Just this way.

He didn't tell her no; he must have assumed the "no", but she had pretended to be deaf. Or worse, he welcomed it. She paused, truly frightened, considering this. These thoughts made her want to run to him, put him in her best headlock, clamp tight.

She really . . . didn't want to lose him. How odd, how odd, when he was the most pessimistic person she had ever encountered. But he was still . . . her anchor. She measured her improvement by him, by his standards. And now that his standards were . . . practically devastated, she was at a loss. How selfish, how selfish she was, truly, inside. No one could ever see this. She deleted the words she'd typed and retyped what was plainly objective, what anyone could have said. She ignored what she was doing, the way she was treating him. He was here. This was all that mattered.

If she lost him to someone else . . . to another partner, she was still going to worry. She believed in forever friendships; she still believed, on some level, that she and the Chief were friends. She believed, in spite of being told by the Chief that it was near to impossible as a female officer to make and keep friends, that she could do it and still be respected. She felt . . . responsible for him. The only other person in Santa Barbara she could claim this vehement responsibility for was . . . was Shawn. She clenched her jaw. What a mistake. What a terrible mistake. No. She must . . . hold onto Carlton. Why didn't he . . . let her in? She was confounded by it. Subconsciously, she found a way. And he couldn't say no. Why didn't he say no? A part of her knew, at a basic level, what she was doing was horrible. But Juliet couldn't help feeling a connection to him through the violence she administered. It was . . . her only way. She didn't second guess it until much later, until she second guessed herself, what she had done, if it was the right or wrong thing. By then, she was in moral limbo, re-guessing all of her actions until she fell into restless sleeps, waking suddenly, not remembering her dreams; other times, remembering too well.

So many times, Juliet replayed the idiosyncrasies in her head—like her yelling match with Shawn, her ferocious demands that he tell her the exact whereabouts of Lassiter—yesterday. She remembered this version of herself when she displaced herself from the memory: pretending she was an interloper, a stray, a glance happened to be caught. Her stomach tight; she could remember this version of herself too well: she was The Big Bad Wolf with teeth like razors, ready to gobble up Little Red Lying Spencer whole—no, no. She had been her active detective self, taking on the traits her partner would be proud of in his absence—while Shawn had been splitting at the seams before her, bloodied, stammering. He was not at all his cool, collected self—his voice had been wavering, his eyes scared and wild.

And still, he'd tried to lead her on.

Juliet thought about this. So many times, she had dissected their conversation—though it was a blur of walking through underwater muck. She remembered that Shawn had told her the scenario was different—she was not the fairy tale villain, and for once in an entire lifetime, Shawn had not been at the center of the tale. Instead, Shawn told her the wolf was not in the room with them. He was at least a half an hour drive from them—and he was the same wolf who had attacked and ripped apart five victims prior to . . . clamping his teeth around Lassiter's throat, dragging him towards what would be hours of solid torment.

While she had no idea—though she'd had big, unfounded ideas that something was wrong. Juliet gritted her teeth, hating herself for ignoring her detective instincts. The whole time, Lassiter had been relatively close—a drive away but not a hike. With the pedal to floor, she'd cut the ETA in half. Within range—god, she hated herself. Why had it not occurred to her that Lassiter was missing? He had been missed—and the feeling had dug its talons into the base of her skull. Why had she not once considered that he had gone to the address of the anonymous tip?

When Shawn uttered the numbers, Juliet had been hit—a shock that lit up her insides. The serial killer left no survivors.

Had she known, she would have not hesitated to drive out there immediately—even if the tip was another dead end. Even if it earned her irritation from her partner; all of the other tips they had they took seriously and checked out together. Juliet was hurt, stupidly, and much after the fact, that he would make such a potentially dangerous errand alone. That he would wait to call for backup because he had—a minute detail he had spared for her—fallen under the cold spell of the building that rose before him, with its maze-like paved paths—and by the time he saw a person—likely a man—disappearing fast around a corner, his destiny had been locked in place. This was the place where he was going to die.

He'd been heavily sedated when he told her this, his eyes alternating between searching her face and searching the ceiling. The killer struck, he'd told her, in the seconds that he was calling her—sneaking up behind him with wet footsteps—shoving him through a door, down into a dark room. That was, according to the report, where he'd twisted his ankle—landing awkwardly on it as he tried to gain his footing in the dark, earthen space.

Juliet had gone back to look at the structure in daylight, solitary, an interloper—feeling a bit like a lost child when she got out of her car, while she walked down the maze of paths, as if to retrace her partner's journey. She tried to imagine it raining—the rain's unforgiving pelting, her own clothing soaked through, shivering, goose bumps covering her wet skin, fending off hungry bugs while trying to get her hands to stop shaking long enough to retrieve her gun.

She couldn't quite feel it, what he must have felt—this phantom beckoning, a whisper of demand: "I am just inside. Come. Get me." (She guessed; this was not something Lassiter had vocalized—but it was enough for her to investigate after he mentioned the inexplicable allure.) This could have been the thrill of the hunt; every good police officer wore this thrill as proudly as they wore their badges—though it was an idea that those who were not in law enforcement could not grasp as easily. Lassiter lived to serve "Sweet Lady Justice"—and to perform this service, he had to catch the criminals—give chase when required. If it was only a chore, none of them would be compelled to approach it with passion—and all of the criminals of the world would get away with it, every time.

Maybe she couldn't feel it now because she knew the danger had passed—she had been the one who killed the danger. She didn't want to go inside, but she made herself stay, trying to understand what had made Lassiter be so certain that the serial killer that had seemed like a ghost to them was physically here. Lassiter was paranoid but not superstitious; he liked facts, not tall tales.

She cleared her throat again. Sometimes, he needed a reminder.

# # #

How much time had passed, Henry wondered, when his own disappointment and resentment of Shawn's recent absence switched over to unease—when it prompted him that he should try harder to reach out, get in touch—find Shawn, find out what . . . what had gone unsaid?

The day was another ordinary one where he sat at his kitchen table, drinking coffee, reading the paper, feeling content and energized by the morning sun.

The question disguised as an answer creeped by the walls, slinked clumsily across the floor like a child wanting for stealth. It tapped his knee, then raised on its tiptoes to whisper in his ear.

Shawn. Just once.

Henry recalled that a good chunk of weeks had gone by with almost no word; he had called before that, heard Shawn's voice on the phone, but the voice had been too thin. And it had not been telling him much. Shawn had also refused dinner invitations—at least two—three?—with weak explanations. Actually, as Henry thought about it, he had been the one to fill in the blanks that Shawn left—a hot date, movie night with Gus, a cut and dry private consultant case, and other things Henry had invited on the spot. The back of his neck prickled with ache. Shawn had not denied he'd had plans already, but he had hardly confirmed them either.

What—if there was something—might he be hiding? And why . . . didn't he want to talk about it?

Should I have pressed him more, that night? Henry wondered. Then he wondered if he should call Gus—and if Gus would even tell him anything.

Maybe tonight, he would see if they were both free to come to dinner. Seeing them here together, eating and drinking and laughing would surely put his unease in perspective—show him he had felt his stomach drop, felt cold on a perfectly sunny day, for no reason at all.

Henry had brought Shawn to Shawn's childhood home after his treatment and quick discharge at the hospital. Shawn had been despondent, listless, but not listening to a word Henry said—this was usually the usual, but this time—Shawn hadn't made many attempts to speak, either over Henry or just to spout random trivia. Henry had worried silently that his son hadn't resisted for even a second when he pulled his ancient truck into the driveway of his home. Shawn remained in the cab, staring at the front of the house for a bit before finally fiddling with the door handle. His leg and corresponding arm had needed a few minor stitches, and he had—Henry noticed, as Shawn slept—some disconcerting bruising along his neck. But Shawn had been tight-lipped.

And Gus hadn't been . . . there. Hadn't called once. And strangely enough, Shawn hadn't called him. Henry didn't know what to make of it. Shawn didn't stick around for too long; Henry felt blessed to get almost two full days before Shawn vanished. Henry assumed he got a ride to the station to pick up his mostly mangled bike. He assumed it was Gus.

He'd wanted to . . . follow up, wanted to reach out, but he just hadn't.

It took him a few weeks to even admit to himself how unnerved he'd been to see Shawn that way, like a ghost self, barely clinging to the walls, almost afraid to speak. And now, Henry swallowed a lump, he had lost more time.

# # #

Norton, New Mexico—Lassiter stared at the three words until his vision blurred. He froze when he felt Saul's breath on the back of his neck, and the killer's voice reminding him of something important—possibly key—to discovering more. He listened as Saul confided,

"Don't get me wrong, I loved New Mexico, but there's only so much stale blood I could take. Didn't find my heart there, no siree. And before that, Nevada—I really thought she was gonna be the one. But turns out it was sweet, sweet Cali—shoulda known it from the start, shouldn't I? Though I was starting to banish my hopes. Yes, I've been looking for my heart for a while—granddad's tales told me—"

"Let me guess, you come from a long line of killers, like the Manson family—" Lassiter remembered his retort had led to a slap, but he'd continued on anyway, riling up the killer as much as he could. It had been important, during the ordeal, to keep the killer engaged, talking, no matter how much violence against him came with it. He'd wanted to . . . live, after all.

"You ain't got no business talking ill of my granddad, of my kin. My kin's of no concern to you. You mention them again and I'll make you real sorry. And it's too soon for that."

It had been a promise Saul had been intent to keep.

Them. Saul had said "them". "I loved New Mexico." Lassiter shivered, turning his head sharply towards a window. He wondered what Saul had meant by "stale blood", yet almost didn't want to know. Though he kept it secret—and endured it professionally, he wasn't immune to a few episodes here and there which twisted his guts enough to induce vomit. The killer had alluded to murders in Nevada; Lassiter moved his mouse to the Google search bar, typing in "unsolved murders Nevada" before realizing he had no timeframe or specific area in which to narrow down his search.

This was something which concerned O'Hara—something she had helpfully pointed out to him. She worried he was throwing what remained of his life into a possibly endless, unsolvable search. A search for what, he couldn't even put into words for her. Not fully; what he had offered was barely an outline—with no foreseeable conclusion or goal—but truthfully, he barely had the words to explain it to himself.