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.

Author's Note: Reviews, feedback, thoughts, and constructive criticism are welcome and much appreciated. Thank you.

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Chapter Four: All That's Clear, You Left It With Me Here, In This Souvenir

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# # #

Underneath the violence, he could only hear bells, tiny, tinkling noise. Then, voices; the bells threading deftly into what he finally determined to be silence.

Bells, or sirens. He was lightheaded, his mouth dry.

Carlton opened his eyes to the gray wee morning hours, staring at the ceiling in his apartment. He had been treated to a dreamless sleep . . . dreamless in that he couldn't remember anything but the bells. He pushed himself up on his elbows, ignoring the bite of still bandaged skin, held together with stitches until it could knit itself on its own.

His stomach was knotted with foreboding. It was almost too early to get up, almost too late to go back to sleep.

Yesterday. That's what it felt like, every edge perfect and sharp. The worst part . . . Lassiter closed his eyes for just a second, a beat longer than a blink. Saul, he felt, was still alive, pulsing through his own blood like an aggressive toxin, a memento.

Lassiter rubbed a hand across his mouth, realizing as his arm twinged that it was the same that had been dislocated, sliced, and drunk from. The same one O'Hara had squeezed hard just a day or two ago in solidarity. He was required to do physical therapy three times a week at a clinic, as well as exercises and treatments at home for both the dislocation and the sprained ankle. He'd done his penance with yet another sling, then a brace, getting to lose it as well as the crutches he'd been instructed to use yet had had too much pride to use them in public just before going to work. They had told him he'd been lucky that nothing—physical—had been broken beyond repair, that he'd suffered only tears and strains, overstretchings and twistings. He hadn't even needed surgery. He'd taken this news silently, glaring at the floor and sneering when they dared not mention in how many places he'd been cut. Or the scars.

The scars were supposedly lucky things too. He had listened with detachment when Vick monologued about scars; Juliet had been present and he'd squeezed her wrist so tightly her hand purpled. The speech hadn't been too long; it had been Vick's way to express her gratefulness that he had not died; so Lassiter dutifully endured it. It had been his first day back and he was sort of her captive audience. Underneath the scar tissue of the reminders, Lassiter was touched by her consolation. It was lucky still (though not expressed) that Saul had known exactly what and where to cut.

Saul had wanted to keep his subject alive, conscious, for as long as he could, choosing when his subject was going to die. He had known how to avoid nerve damage; even in the heat of the moment when he executed the stabbing. He'd liked to see his victim bleed, but knew of other, better ways to inflict harm. With the ones already dead, it hadn't mattered much; they would never have the scars, the stiff muscles, stitches, or a plague of nightmares.

This was partially the reason why Lassiter had allowed Vick to drone on about scars. Saul's presence had cast a spell across the SBPD as a harbinger of death. Lassiter understood that, in a perverse way, Saul had reminded Vick of Lassiter's value as Head Detective. It was a morbid ego boost that Lassiter wished he could ignore, especially because he had gotten into most of the trouble himself. But there was still an amber glow from the Chief's brown eyes—sorrow mixed with pride.

He had hid a painful shudder by jumping to his feet, tugging at Juliet whom he had been unable to let go of. Carlton scrambled; he had to act both parts seamlessly—somber detective and last surviving man—while waiting to be dismissed. Chagrined at the realization he'd been holding onto his partner as if she were a stress toy, he released her with an mumbled apology. She had made him hold her eyes—twin balls of blue flame—until he had been able to nod and look away.

Juliet . . . she meant well, but a part of Carlton feared that she couldn't save him, not from this.

He wanted to give her a little without giving her . . . any of it, but the intensity of the blue in her eyes often lent to rest of her features, making her seem angled and precise like a marble sculpture. She wanted to get it out of him, would get it out of him with just a look, or with some tough love.

He knew he was out of his league when it came to stopping her.

The way she came at him was . . . ghostly reminiscent of. . . . She would die if she knew. Or she would deliver a blow that would knock him out for a good few hours. Maybe . . . maybe he deserved that. But now was not the time to tell her.

A conversation between them a few days ago at his apartment—when she'd dropped by, unannounced (though she'd made it seem a casual visit, as if to only discuss the next day's weather)—had sent a new set of gears whirling in his head. He now had another couple of somewhat clandestine projects to occupy his time—and others'—but the projects had also forced him to confront one of the demons (other than the most obvious one) that was still staring him in the face.

Being here . . . being back to work . . . Lassiter swallowed hard. He wasn't back to work, in spite of being at home at his desk in the SBPD. He hadn't the same motivation for current cases as he'd had before. Out there were hundreds, if not thousands, of killers and kidnappers, thieves, carjackers, hijackers, arsonists, stalkers, blackmailers, terrorists, dirty cops and other various assortments of the criminal element; and hundreds, if not thousands, more victims, innocents, and next of kin waiting for the dismissal notifications. There was murder, fraud, embezzlement, money laundering, domestic violence, vandalism, abduction, child endangerment, racketeering . . . and hundreds, if not thousands, of other crimes from the petty to the most serious that all needed his undivided attention, but he couldn't give it to any of them. He was rather surprised that Vick didn't suggest a "divorce" of partnership from O'Hara until he could get his head on straight, but he knew that Vick was keeping them both at arm's length. Lassiter considered why, but hadn't come up with a resolution.

Just as well. He'd had nothing to say.

But now . . . now he decided he must go to her, to make such a far-fetched request.

Should she deny it, he couldn't bear to think about what he would do.

Carlton sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes. He thought about O'Hara's recent visit, and was still heavy with the remorse of needing to have her answer the question, needing to know, one way or the other, in spite of the rather fortunate outcome: his survival.

# # #

He didn't know how to say it; after all they'd been through (though it was his norm to blurt everything out), shaping the question into non-accusatory words almost seemed impossible. He couldn't begin it with, "There's something I've been meaning to ask," because she would pick up immediately that this had been sitting on the tip of his tongue since . . . since he'd sent her the message.

He started it with her name, trying to be gentle, but her name sounded like metal on metal to his ears. Juliet looked up, waiting, her breath poised in her cheeks.

Carlton wanted nothing more to swallow it, but he already carried too many grudges. He couldn't afford to have one like this, one so large and between them, festering. He forced himself to explain, telling himself as he did that he would not yell at her, no matter the outcome. If she wanted to . . . cry, or punch a wall, or express her apologies again, he would stand back, biting his lip. After he'd said her name, he acknowledged his own failures—not being smart, being seduced by the area, and by the power of stopping a killer. "I should have sent word sooner," he said. "By the time I tried to call you, there wasn't a signal."

Juliet nodded, still waiting.

"It's just, I . . . I . . ."

He couldn't help but notice her body language: her arms tight to her sides, her muscles ready to throw her hands to her face to shield any physical hit he might . . . Carlton's stomach twisted. He couldn't tell her when she looked like that. He was torn for a moment between grabbing her arms and stepping back. He sighed, stepping back.

"I sent you a text message," he confessed, "before I tried to call. Before he pushed me into hell." He hadn't meant to add more details then necessary, but he was confused that she was receiving the "news" with blankness, confusion of her own.

After a few moments, Juliet moved. She swung away, trying to locate her purse. Finding it, she got the phone out before her partner could say another word. "You sent me a text?" she repeated, intent on the screen as she scrolled through. "What did it say?"

"You wouldn't still have it," Lassiter said. "I sent it on that day." He cleared his throat. "It was telling you that I was on the killer's trail."

Juliet was silent, shaking her head, still not looking at him. Her phone had no record of receiving this message. "It's not here," she said.

Lassiter half-shrugged. "You wouldn't have kept it; it's been a few—"

"No," she interrupted, looking up finally, locking eyes with him. "Carlton, I never got your message." She turned the phone towards him, showing him the log of texts from that month, the days before and after too. He took her phone to study it, not noticing, at first, her mouth pulling into a tight frown. "You really thought I'd ignore a message from you? I was . . . you had me so freaked, Carlton. Pulling that disappearing act! I'd tried calling you more than a hundred times!"

Juliet noticed her partner staring at her. She realized her tone had pitched from angry to a tad hysterical; there was a mix of hurt and disbelief in his eyes. A trace of guilt. "All I got was your voice mail," she added quietly. "I . . . you'd been having such a bad day. At first, I thought you went to blow off steam. But when you didn't come back . . ."

The feeling was almost like a sucker punch—self-inflicted. He had been . . . so ready to blame her, but to also forgive her; the twisting of his gut returned. "I knew it," he said quietly, letting himself stumble back, away from her, his long arm holding out her phone. Her fingertips brushed his palm as she took the object, clutching it hard, pulling it to her breast. "I'm . . . a bastard for even considering that."

"For considering that I wouldn't take a text about you chasing a serial killer on your own seriously?" She repeated it to understand it herself, but was unable to harness her biting words.

He nodded, hanging his head. "I just . . . had to know for sure. Hear it from you."

Juliet was considering punching her partner, at least in the arm, as hard as she could. But he was looking like a plush giraffe who had seen too many rinse cycles; there was even stuffing hanging out of a tear in his neck. She bit her tongue, and took in deep breaths to unclench her fists. He hadn't, she realized, been expecting to be the one to apologize; it made her sad to know this. But still, he had, all this time—all that time—thought that she had received the text. That she had ignored him. And he had been relying on her presence heavily; Juliet swallowed hard.

They stood there, staring at each other, Carlton looking like he might crumble. Juliet almost wanted to hug him, but she had to take the moments first—so much to absorb. "You thought I was going to come," she finally said. The statement was weighty. "Sooner," she added.

Carlton nodded. He sucked in air. "But I . . . speculated that you hadn't received it. I knew you—know you—you wouldn't have intentionally not acted if—if you'd known. If you'd heard specifically from me that—"

She nodded. But still he'd thought it. As if he could read her mind, he said, "I spent a lot of time thinking, while I was there. After he'd—" She watched him, by way of his eyes, tumble back into the past, almost as if the killer was here, in the room with them, putting her partner into a Sleeper Hold.

"You never say it," Juliet observed.

"Say what?" Lassiter repeated automatically.

She frowned at herself, trying to imagine herself in his rather large shoes. Would she want to say it? Out loud? In front of her partner? "Never mind," she muttered.

"Say that I was wrong?" Lassiter countered, mistaking her intentions for the statement. He stood up straight, and took a step closer to her. Taking a deep breath, he apologized, adding, "I was wrong. I texted to the wrong number." He was going to add more, but this last sentence made him wonder . . . who did he send the text to? He wondered if he could find out, if the cell phone service provider would give him the records if he asked.

Juliet wandered to a chair, feeling drained of everything. She was trying to remember why she had come here, what perfect reason she had told herself about her own apartment being too dark, too quiet, too cloying. She imagined the shadows greeting her wordlessly as she opened her door, her feet soundless on her carpet as she went to her bedroom, crawled under the covers after removing only her shoes.

For a few minutes, Lassiter was high on his own thoughts, feeling like a real detective again for the first time in a while. He mapped out an outline in his head, planning as many steps and excuses as might be called for. He felt like he could twist arms, bark orders, see the subordinates scramble to do their jobs under the gaze of his watchful, glaring eye.

Then, his thoughts jerked abruptly to the present, and he was humbled by the sight of his seated partner, not looking at him, not looking at anything. Almost against his will, he went to his couch and took a seat across from her, compelled to look at her, to see her. While he was not regretful for asking the question or getting the answer, it upset him that he had to hurt her to do it.

"O'Hara," he began quietly, seeing her chin lift towards him. Her eyes were swimming with pain. He wanted to keep her from tears, anything he could do to ease her hurt. He laid himself bare, opening up with something she did not need to know.

"He got into my head," Lassiter began. His eyes flicked away from her; even the small act of conjuring a single memory of Saul's internal torment brought the killer to life, brought him here to stand in front of Lassiter, to taunt and lie, to bend close and hiss his hot breath in Lassiter's ear. Lassiter fought to keep his flinch minimal. "He said he would kill me more times than I could count." He huffed. "But when he . . . he pulled a suicide king from his pocket, I thought—"

He frowned bitterly, knowing his personal reason for sharing this with her. Though he wasn't looking at her, Lassiter felt O'Hara staring at him with rapt attention. He soldiered on. "He folded the card, then he—he shoved the card into my mouth."

O'Hara's gasped audibly. "What?"

He shook his head, as if the card was in his mouth right now. Other than for a few more seconds of self-preservation, he'd worked hard to spit out that suicide king because it disturbed him that O'Hara, upon finding his body, would make the discovery of the card. In hindsight, he thought of this as vain, especially when he'd believed he was really about to die.

"I didn't want you to find it."

His voice was so soft Juliet had to lean in. "Find it?" she repeated, confused.

Lassiter huffed, the whir of his thoughts almost too sharp. He wasn't giving her enough context, he knew. He wondered if she could see how helpless he'd felt if he gave her more puzzle pieces. Sweat formed on his brow. Saul leering at him, squatting down next to him. "He put the card in my mouth to punish me, because he wanted me to share a bunch of perverted lies with him—convinced that I had been—"

"You ever been hurt? Real bad?" Saul's voice echoed with a sneer.

Her touch was light, disarming, just fingers on his shoulder. Unwillingly, his eyes stung. He'd been so caught up he hadn't even seen her get up and make a move to comfort him. Instead, Lassiter heard Saul asking him just who could have, who might have, who had done the sick things to him—felt his own thoughts lurch to the mysterious mentions of the grandfather—and then there was a tiny spark in the back of his head. He had wondered it many times; could the grandfather really be more than a figment of either of their imaginations?

"Carlton," Juliet said softly. Just his name was enough, a tell that he knew he didn't have to go on, didn't have to tell her everything. "Why didn't you want me to find it?" she asked, just as softly as she'd spoken his name.

"Because," he said, his voice broken. He couldn't look at her, couldn't look anywhere but the floor. He was overwhelmed with humiliation. He clenched his fists. "I . . . tried so hard to fight him. But you . . . you weren't going to see that." A half smile that failed. "You would just see . . . I thought it might hurt you, to know your partner—your partner couldn't fight off just one killer—"

Carlton was dissolving right in front of her. Juliet worked to catalogue every sentence for hidden meanings. She guessed that he was trying to tell her he assumed she would find him weak at every degree—and that to find him dead with the suicide king clamped in his jaw would have only added insult to injury.

"Please," she hushed. "I have never seen that side of you, partner. I expect I never will. You're the strongest person I know."

Lassiter never thought that what came after the fight for his life would be harder to come to grips with, to live with. Right now, Juliet O'Hara, too generous, was showing him her sweetest lie—but he heard in her tone that she was not patronizing; her voice was thick, torn up. "When we found you, I . . . it was the most fear I've ever felt in my life, Carlton. I thought . . . I thought I was too late."

He didn't want her to do this. He had to steer her away, though he wasn't sure which one of them he was trying to protect. But she intercepted.

"He hurt you, and god, I wish I could have stopped it so much sooner." Her eyes welled up.

"It's not your fault," he croaked. She sank onto the couch beside him. "You didn't get the message—and I had to be such a goddamned fool that I just didn't call when I had the chance. I had something to prove," he rasped. "And I hurt you anyway."

Juliet grabbed his arm and squeezed tight. "Carlton, I forgive you. And I . . ." She pursed her lips. "Please, I'm . . . glad you shared your doubts with me. I know the way I reacted might convince you otherwise, but . . ." Her voice trailed off into silence.

In his head, he could hear the faint tinkling of bells. O'Hara had not said it aloud, not that time, but he figured out that she wanted to help him . . . at any cost to herself.

Lassiter felt unusually lightened (though still sick enough to his stomach to almost be physically ill) after they had exchanged words—asked questions and received answers. He hadn't even given her much (except it had felt like a great weight) and O'Hara had taken it, whatever it was. Taken it with relief. Put him at ease when he decided he hadn't deserved it. Still, as soon as she had left, he fell asleep.

Saul was waiting for him after a couple of hours.

"Because you're formidable, I can tell," Saul grinned. "Worthy of the fight—not so easily scarred or breakable as the others were. The tales my granddad used to tell that his granddad use to tell—the stronger the man, the more potent his blood. The weaker the man, you see, the more blood he needs—good blood to fill up a wicked heart. If what my granddad's granddad said's true, then, if I drink your blood and upon your death, I will take your strength into me."

Lassiter tried to sit up; both his back and stomach protesting, but he managed halfway before his captor's boot caught him square in the chest. It hurt too much to fight; no, there was another reason he lied down like a dog, right? Scowling at that thought, he tried again, only to take a mild kick to the throat. Now, it hurt too much. Maybe as soon as he caught his breath. . . .

The look in his captor's eyes seemed to taunt: "Don't fight it, don't even try."

# # #

When he woke, dread. Had he said too much . . . too much for her to handle? How much longer could he keep doing that to her—as well as heading her off from the really twisted stuff? Mixed in the dread was a vague image of Saul's grandfather—a potential living relative. A potential . . . blood connection. With new urgency, Lassiter threw himself into finding out—nearly exhausting all of his Internet and phone searches.

But then, one tiny town kept standing out. There wasn't any concrete proof he could find—not from this far away—but now that the notions were in his head they were locked in place like a gun to his skull. Lassiter knew he had to do this—or else.

# # #

When Juliet returned home that night, sleep had not welcomed her after all. She had sat in her bed in the dark, the covers pulled up to her knees.

She was having a difficult time with this. Over and over, she . . . if she had been there . . . sooner . . . She shook her head in the darkness. This time, her partner was the victim—but by the grace of some god he had been spared the homicide statistic. She had to, as much as he had to, acknowledge and accept that he had been taken and tortured physically and psychologically for hours without her knowing his true whereabouts. She should have . . . "I should have known."

Her eyes welled up. She felt thin, breakable, and a little lost even considering his presence gone from her life. He was still not the easiest man to get along with, certainly, he'd always have his faults, but he had become an important and trustworthy friend. His methods of concern might be atypical, but it was a miracle that he'd come to care about people other than himself at all—other than the civilians he'd sworn to serve and protect.

The killer—a man—bent back on his haunches, his mouth soaked with blood. He glanced up at her, a man who looked like he might be cowboy, a rancher, a businessman if he just cleaned up. His eyes gleaming with satisfaction, he was in possession of no guilt. He didn't even react to her aiming her gun in his direction, her voice choppy in the aromatic, heady, air. She wished . . . she hadn't been there. Taking the shot, she felt as if she were somewhere near sixty, already at the end of her career, trying to tell herself she was just a spring chicken. Red hot. Wasn't she, certainly, easily, a femme fatal, a heroine, a dame, uberwoman? Not just a young detective trained to use a gun, running with her heart in her throat to get her partner back and justify her use of violence to stop . . . hell?

She could say it, think it, as if it was mundane, as if she was merely referencing someone else. It didn't feel like her. She didn't kill people.

She had never killed anyone before.

But she had shot people before . . . that was . . . that was basically the same thing.

Right. Exactly.

But, Juliet felt she would do it again, a hundred times over, the exact same way, if she only had that window. If she had someone counting on her, just her, only her.

# # #

"Chief?"

Karen looked up from a file she'd been examining intently for the past half an hour. He'd knocked, and was waiting at the door, eager.

"Do you have a moment, Chief?"

She waved him in. Absently, his hand pushed the door almost all the way closed. She started to protest, but he lumbered to the chair and took a seat, looking sheepish and nervous.

Karen couldn't imagine what could possibly have Buzz McNab so on edge, but after a second or two of fidgeting, Buzz sat up straight and said, "Chief, have you noticed anything different about Detectives O'Hara and Lassiter?" He paused for only a second before saying, "Because—because I have."

"I see," Karen said, fixing her eyes on the officer in the chair directly across from hers. He squirmed under her gaze; the discomfort was mutual. He didn't dare challenge her statement, but his slight frown seemed to betray his belief in her so-called understanding.

"I just—I had to bring this to your attention, Chief," he said, swallowing dryly. "I'm . . . I'm out there with them, everyday." He fumbled, looking down for a few seconds. "What I mean is, they—"

"McNab, just tell me," Karen coaxed in an effort to get him to say what he needed to say and leave the office as soon as possible. She hadn't realized it before, but she had some thoughts to chew.

Buzz sighed. "Chief, I know they would be different because of—" He faltered, then changed tactics. "Detective O'Hara, she's . . . charged up, like there's electricity in her body instead of blood. And she's . . ." He looked embarrassed. "I swear, it's as if she's created some force-field around Detective Lassiter." He stopped short of saying he'd become afraid to go near either of them, but Vick couldn't help but wonder if this wasn't true.

"And Lassiter," he continued, looking saddened. "He's so vacant in the eyes, as if . . . as if isn't even in there." Abruptly, he stood. "I just wanted to tell you, Chief. I'm . . . worried about them." Again, he looked embarrassed, and then backed away from her desk with a sincere thank you for letting him speak to her.

Karen considered ordering him to come back, but to be truthful, she was stunned by what the young officer had said. She watched him leave, trying to remember the promise she'd made to herself to be somewhat lax towards her two traumatized detectives, within reason. Had she . . . been too lax?

She had noticed changes, but more subtle things, at first. Lassiter wasn't as thrilled to return to work as she'd assumed he'd be, and O'Hara's fuse was shorter—but Vick had assured herself these changes were small, reasonable, and temporary.

Karen watched them through the blinds in her office, eventually unsettled by their new daily rituals; at least O'Hara had made the effort to 'bounce back', however, she had only suffered on one or two levels. Lassiter's horror went beneath the skin, was more than physical, was more than silence or words could muster. He wore a carefully grafted neutral mask, but Karen couldn't help but wonder if he was coming undone day by day or if he was slowly knitting his disbelief and his consciousnesses back together, as his body was doing for its skin and bones, the tear in his muscles like the tear in his soul?

It was worse that he wouldn't confirm or deny her suspicions; when she asked, he would return with a blank stare, or turn back to his computer screen, or a file. And what was even worse was that he was not leaving the office. He didn't go out to get lunch anymore, and got here early and stayed late. He was still pulling his weight—from his desk—when it came to investigating cases, but he seemed to be "gun shy" when it came to getting back out there.

Karen did know he wasn't getting flabby when it came to gun training; he was sharp and toned as ever, and still wore his holstered .17 under his jacket, after it was cleared to go back to him, or him to it. She wasn't as sure about his other weapons; again, she suspected they were snug against his person, at the ready—even if he wasn't.

She laughed a little at herself for the use of that word, "flabby". If anything, physically, her Head Detective appeared more gaunt, the space beneath his eyes constantly sallow, his mouth set in indifference—it was this, she realized, what made her mind jump to this word. Before . . . he had embodied what she considered an angry drive—a passion—a near obsession, honestly—for his work—but passion nonetheless. His mouth was open constantly, barking orders and snapping at people to get out of his way. He was always flapping his gums in her direction, or at O'Hara, begging for leeway, even as small as an inch. He was a good detective, she admitted, had that drive that was required to be good, even great, so she accepted it as another personality quirk that was not going away. Vick had even gotten used to it; as she got to know her officers, she had come to, subconsciously at the least, rely on their personality traits as a form of security. She knew who they were before she even knew all of their names. Even the bad personalities were a comfort; she knew when to change her tone and use her authority and when to ease off, just a smidgen.

So now, should she continue to be lenient or should she make demands, with Lassiter? With O'Hara? Granted, neither one had been the cause of headaches just yet, or made her question her judgment for letting them come back to work.

Karen had thought briefly on—and had as quickly passed on—the concept of contacting Hank Mendel, who had a kinship with Lassiter. But she resolved herself not get personally involved unless simple situations were turning into problems. Her detectives were adults; they were not her children, she told herself. She wasn't obligated to care about their personal well-beings outside of the job. Not this much.

It nagged her, however, that one of her officers had enough trepidation about the detectives to say something to her about it.

"What am I going to do with you?" she asked no one in particular as she glanced through her blinds, noticing that both of their desks were empty.

# # #

Later in the week, following their impromptu meeting, and while he was away from his desk, Juliet snuck a peek at Lassiter's latest bout of research.

Grandfather. It was underlined several times; underneath, a single severe question mark.

Juliet remembered that, according to Lassiter's statement, Saul Grant became hostile whenever Lassiter mentioned this particular relative. She winced, remembering that beatings—or cuttings—followed the hostility.

The killer, according to what she remembered reading (and by what she had seen in Lassiter's eyes), thrived off the suffering of others—had no remorse. She guessed that even his joy was repressed; he was patient as he cut. She shouldn't have read it; already considered herself appalled and angry at the very notion—if the shoe were on the other foot—of Lassiter reading the personal details of her statement. But Juliet couldn't have stopped reading even if she'd wanted it; she read with a guilty voyeurism, needing to know. She wanted to a be a witness, even far after the fact, to be able to say the man had existed and everything he had done to not only Lassiter but to the other victims—who had died—had actually happened. To say the man was not a ghost.

Juliet took out her notepad and copied as many of Lassiter's notes as time would allow her. Lassiter was not suspicious of her knowing what he was up to—but Juliet knew that he considered his searching (mostly) private. He still kept up an official pretense, but what he was doing was personal.

Well, it was personal for her too.

Juliet went back to her desk with time to spare, getting back to one of her most recent open case files.

She liked to pretend that she could easily detach herself while her partner blatantly could not. But no matter how she tried, Juliet always circled back around. She was just able to do it while also getting work done.

# # #

McNab had butterflies in his stomach. He had had them since Detective O'Hara, on her way out to follow up on a case, ordered, "McNab! You're with me!"

Buzz had gulped, as nervous as in his childhood days, when his least favorite elementary school teacher had ordered him to the blackboard. Detective Lassiter, seated at his desk, had not even looked up from his work. Buzz was certain that Lassiter was aware that Buzz was studying him, and that he had heard Juliet screech as clearly as Buzz had, but the Head Detective remained eerily still.

"Today, McNab!"

Buzz jumped, picking up the pace to get in step with Juliet O'Hara. She had been like this for a while now, like a streak of light—natural phenomenon to be looked at but never touched.

He hadn't been able to work up courage to ask her what was wrong, if there was something he could do for her. He could see that she wasn't upset at him; outside of the station she was entirely different person. Instead, he kept his conversation focused on the work they were doing together.

She looks like the same person to me, Buzz thought. Even if she didn't smile as freely anymore. Still, he had reservations, but whatever it was that was up with her was as elusive as air.