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. Don't own reference to Stephen King's Carrie or Stand By Me.

Author's Note: Thanks many times over to my readers and reviewers and for all your support, encouragement, feedback and constructive criticism. Enjoy. :)

Reviews, feedback and constructive criticism are welcome and appreciated. Thank you.

Note on Native American words: kaga (Lakota: "demon"); gode (Apache: "shadow spirit who haunts dreams"); katiyimo (Lakota: "enchanted mesa"); Aiyana ("eternal blossom" or "forever flowering").

####################################################################################################################################

Chapter Nine: You're A Stranger To Me, You're A Danger To Me

####################################################################################################################################

# # #

Henry almost left without talking to Detective O'Hara; it was almost easy to convince himself that, as Karen had originally put it, it was none of his business, the portrait of on-duty misery following the kind of ordeal that rocks whole departments, or this in case, choice individuals.

It was hard to believe that Lassiter had been in a position where he had been physically unable to defend himself due to great injury, Henry thought. It was even harder for him to picture the Juliet O'Hara he knew—or used to know—blowing the brains out of the killer. There was still the constant refusal to see either coming off as weak, given the situation; even with extensive training, it was hard to guess what his own reaction might have been if he had been faced with either possibly.

According to Gus, Shawn had been inside with them at the time . . . what if he had seen?

Shawn was no stranger to witnessing suspects get shot; he'd been at close proximity at least twice, to Henry's knowledge, when suspects were wounded by SBPD fired shots. But . . . he had never seen anyone shot to death right before his eyes.

Shot to death by . . . Detective O'Hara, no less.

No, he had to talk to her, regardless of Vick's muted warning, or his own hesitation. She might have little to tell, might not know much more than Gus, but there was the chance she could fill up small gaps in time when she and Shawn went into that building together.

The articles from months ago about the killer's demise that he had read in the local papers gave nothing away; either Shawn had declined an interview or worse still, hadn't volunteered. Surely, if he had been part of the solution (and surely, wouldn't his being part of the problem utterly skim his mind?), he would want the glory, deserved or not.

Henry thought about this. What could make Shawn not want that glory? Not actively seek it out?

Shawn had wanted something akin to attention when he made that convoluted demonstration at the station, Henry considered. Hearing Gus talk about it had made his stomach clench. But then, according to what Karen had said, she herself had needed much convincing. Henry sighed, but made his way towards Juliet's desk.

When he was close, a dread caught him about the legs, causing him to stumble as if he'd knocked his shoes into a crack of uneven floor. Was there . . . a faint possibly that Detective O'Hara was the wrong detective to ask? Henry stopped walking, feeling unnaturally cold, disquieted.

He had no interest whatsoever getting into Lassiter's state of mind. Karen, for what little she had said to him, had frankly said enough in silence.

Still, even if Lassiter was "fine" . . . Henry shook his head, feeling at a loss. How could he possibly get the detective to open up enough to gain insight into Shawn's current mindset? He didn't want to seem like he cared . . . didn't want to trigger an unwelcome flood of emotion, or much worse, never-ending, rage-filled silence.

Curiously, Detective Lassiter was nowhere in sight. He could be out in the field at the moment, but Henry hoped to find him to chat briefly about Shawn.

Always an unpleasant subject, Henry surmised, but in desperate times . . .

# # #

The question had only occurred to her once, poised on the tip of her tongue. It was much too thick to swallow, but she didn't want to spit it out, she didn't want to say it to him. It was too much of a what if scenario, and would do nothing to put either of them to rest.

Still, in the walls of her head, she posed the question to him, unable to gage his reaction, unable to even imagine it, one way or the other.

Carlton, do you wish you had been the one to kill him?

Juliet swallowed and coughed. One bullet shouldn't have been enough; what she wouldn't have given to unload her entire cartridge, or to cut him in half with a close range shotgun blast. She ran her palms over the cool surface of her desk, taking breaths in through her nose. The question brought her a mix of emotion: a knot of anger which went straight to her head and a flash of sadness which rattled her bones.

He might not even have an answer. Or her words might go through him without being absorbed, without being heard.

But one bullet had been enough. Her bullet.

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. What a thing to cause a smile.

Killing a man. No. Killing the man who hurt her partner. Killing the man who almost killed Lassiter.

Juliet flattened her lips, resisting the grin. It wouldn't look right, if she had something to smile about.

Now, with detached disinterest, she watched Henry Spencer approach her. A pang, a tiny stone into a well within her body—he could only be here about his son.

What about that promise she had made to herself, that white lie about trying to find Shawn?

Lying. Now she had no choice; she couldn't possibly tell Shawn's father who had been on her mind 24/7, as it hadn't been Shawn.

# # #

Carlton used the sleeve of his dress shirt to wipe sweat from his brow without evening thinking about it. Funny, that his outsides were so hot when his insides were so cold, in spite of his futile attempts to dredge up anger and exasperation. They had drained as he went over it again, unable to push it aside for its sheer stupidity alone.

He was thousands of miles from home and still, a charlatan, a seer, had found him . . . found him vulnerable? Was that it? Carlton frowned, not able to believe his bad luck. Once out of the diner, he'd stopped for a couple of seconds to check his notes and map, and she appeared in his path when he turned back towards his car.

Or it was that she danced in front of him, her long skirt catching his eye as its hem swung across the ground, stirring up dust. She wore earth tones but also jewelry of silver and turquoise, adorning her ears and neck and her wrists. He guessed her to be mid-twenties, of Apache or Navajo descent. He'd found her mildly attractive, with her dark eyes and hair, before she started speaking to him in a steady but dreamlike manner; even when he flashed his badge at her she was not deterred to stop.

"A presence," she whispered, "you have a presence . . ."

He flashed her a quick, mean glare and gritted his teeth. "I am Head Detective of the Santa Barbara—"

"A presence attached to you. A mass, negative energy," she continued as if she hadn't heard him, aiming her dark eyes intently at something—nothing—at the back of his head. Instead of touching her fingers to her temples, she began gesturing around her own head. "An evil presence, kaga, he has become gode. He took your blood—"

He? Carlton saw red, and felt it color his face. "Who told you to say that?" he blurted angrily.

" . . . You have a presence right here, right here, about your shoulders, your throat. A weight." She hissed and closed her eyes as if in pain. "Even in death, he walks with you, he walks a few steps behind, into the shadow land. He still grips the handle of a knife . . ."

Lassiter froze, confusion and anger flashing across his face. Instead of the expletives he wanted to yell, the demands he wanted to make of her of what she meant, he spat out, "Just who the hell are you?"

"It could have been years you laid there, in what could have been your grave," the woman replied instead as if she, again, had not registered his protestations.

Whether he would it admit it or not, he could drift on a sea of restless dreaming; could hardly lie flat on his back without thinking about it, without perceiving the outline or the shadow leaning close and closer to his face. And now this woman had said what he had thought of, and dreamed of, countless times. "Grave," he repeated, angry suddenly for "playing along". "Just a minute—" he tried again.

The woman reached for him, as if to keep him from fleeing before she had her say. Her grip surprisingly firm on his arm. "I am Aiyana," she told him softly, "I am chosen to see."

Lassiter pinched his mouth shut, doing his best to convey that he didn't care the woman had shared her name with him, that he didn't care about her or her words for him: "You have a presence attached to you." He was irritated to be in a different state and to still be plagued by an insistent person claiming to be "touched by spirits".

Saul grinned a coyote smile somewhere in his head, all sharp teeth. The smile was devoured in fit a raspy laughter. Lassiter paused, listening; he always had to listen, though he never wanted to.

"Attached to you," the woman breathed, keeping her fingers pressed to Lassiter's suit jacket. Lassiter scowled. "Drew you to katiyimo—"

"Kati-what?" Lassiter interrupted, trying to step out of her reach. She had already used foreign words that he'd failed to catch—though he told himself he didn't care.

"Katiyimo," the woman breathed, "enchanted mesa. This place where he found you." Her eyes opened. They were a startling brown, warm and wise. "This place where you gained your scars." Without warning, her hand slid down his arm to grab his wrist.

For the love of Mike, was there a sign painted on his back? Kick me. Kick me while I'm down. "You hippie freaks are all the same!" Lassiter barked, pulling his arm free of her grasp. "I should have you arrested for assault on an officer of the law!"

Aiyana remained unflustered, even after Lassiter's wrenching sent her back a few steps. She held her hand out as if she were still gripping his wrist, checking for a pulse. "She would take those scars."

His face grew purple with rage and discomfort. Whether he believed her or not, her words and "knowledge" of things and people she could not possibly know or know of were starting to wear on him. "They're not for sale! And I'm not giving you any spare change! Go get yourself a real job and stop harassing me!"

"She would follow you—a source of light," Aiyana went on. Her voice was soft, her tone as even as bells. "A personal source of strength." She pressed her right palm to her heart, as if she was about to recite the pledge of allegiance. "She is with you, she stays. That is her hand is on your arm."

Lassiter swallowed, staring at her.

Aiyana stared back, unblinking, as the words hung in the air between them. Finally, Lassiter broke the silence, growling, "Go crawl back into the hole you came from." He turned away quickly, stalking off towards the lot where he'd left his rental car.

"Not even the presence hovering about you can shake her off. She would fight your demons."

Lassiter's shoulders hitched and he froze mid-step. His lips moved but he couldn't bring the sound to term. Instead, he clamped his hands to his ears, and left, softly muttering, "I can't hear you, I can't hear you."

It didn't occur to him how ridiculous he might look, how much he might look like an outsider anyway, besides this behavior, until he'd taken quite a few long steps away from her. A glance backwards told him she hadn't tried to follow; her long skirt fluttered in the faintest wind—a breeze that only seemed to touch her. The expression on her face was mystifying; he had no clue why she looked sad, her dark eyes heavy, why she was still fixed on him. At last, he dropped his hands from his ears. A cold sweat had found its way under his collar on the back of his neck, but he couldn't be sure why.

As he pulled out his keys and opened the door, a sensation of vague stupidity fell across him like a shadow. He folded himself into the seat and hastily slammed the door. Why was no place sacred? He couldn't go anywhere and not be accosted by someone claiming to be spirit touched. Psychic. "I speak for the dead." What the hell, did he look so gullible? Or was it that something about his attire screamed "free handouts"? Kick me. Kick me while I'm down.

Though she, this Aiyana, hadn't used any of those words.

Sweat gathered on his upper lip as he waited for the air conditioning to kick in. Her words were starting to pierce him, and it made him feel ill. She'd used words he was unfamiliar with . . . she'd said things to him that seemed impossible for her to know . . .

Carlton scrunched his brow hard with thought. Could she have read something about him in the papers—even though the papers were local and specific to Santa Barbara only? And the story had run three months ago, nearly immediately following Saul's death. But the details of . . . Lassiter closed his eyes. Vick had been dead serious with the media, threatening all the aggressive reporters she came across, that only limited knowledge be given for public consumption regarding Lassiter.

Still, SERIAL KILLER SHOT DEAD; HEAD DETECTIVE FOUND was still a neon sign in his head. The other paper had not run a front page headline, choosing instead a small blurb within:

Thanks to the expert policing skills of our own Santa Barbara Police Department, the man known briefly to the public as "The King of Hearts Serial Killer" was shot dead yesterday outside city limits. DET. C. Lassiter infiltrated the building the killer—John Doe, as yet his identity has not been discovered—was found to be hiding in. DET. Lassiter, attempting to obtain backup, was ambushed by the killer. A reliable source tipped off Chief Vick; her quick actions, as well as those of DET. Lassiter, stopped the murderer after the man refused to relinquish his weapon.

Miraculously, the down and dirty details had been spared and the small blurb found him looking more like a hero then a victim. His only regret was that his partner had no mention.

O'Hara had made no comments about the articles; she had, in fact, after seeing his reaction to one blaring headline, announced that she had not read the paper for quite some time. She was, she had said, uninterested in hearing what outsiders had to say about the whole affair.

The whole affair. She'd given a dour expression quickly, as if she were numb to other word choices regarding it.

Carlton put his hands on the steering wheel, annoyed to see his fingers shake. The encounter with this woman was forcing him to think of a conversation he'd had with O'Hara about Spencer's presence that night, one where she had done most of the talking.

Spencer arrived at the station looking worse for the wear, she'd told him, and then explained he'd had a vision that he knew the serial killer's location—and Lassiter's as well.

But what bothered him most was how Spencer had known where to look in the first place. And also why Spencer hadn't known better to bring some backup with him; clearly, neither one of them had had any sense that night. If Spencer was as psychic as he proclaimed, why couldn't he have seen what he was walking into?

Lassiter snorted derisively. What he was partially upset about was that Spencer had brought about Saul's death, a feat Lassiter had been incapable of doing himself. Spencer had brought the hired gun—or was she working for free? He sighed. It wasn't fair to O'Hara, but she wasn't the one privy to "visions"—locations and names and deaths.

This woman hadn't named names, hadn't even said his name, but Carlton couldn't help wondering if she had somehow been able to—he rolled his eyes—read the constant that took half his thoughts, as if "the she" had a viable reason to compete with Saul for his attention. O'Hara.

"She would take those scars." Lassiter straightened, running his hands over his face. Did it really matter who had killed Saul? Even if he had been able to do it himself, wouldn't he still find Saul to be "kept alive" with memory, the kind which pounded his head, taunted him mercilessly with "what ifs", saw him through the waking and sleeping hours?

Okay. So, she had a viable reason, Lassiter decided. He started the car.

# # #

Steeling himself and feeling silly for doing it, Henry stepped towards Detective O'Hara's desk. Up close, she only appeared older than she was supposed to look—dark circles, hair pulled back too severely, her petite mouth fixed in a line. Her lipstick had worn off.

At his approach, she glanced up and smoothly slid a few papers into a file. Out of sight almost too quickly, but not before Henry caught the letters, upside down, "ndfather". Juliet turned to her computer screen and began to type. No greeting; she had surely seen him, but she continued to work.

Henry found this weird. He cleared his throat. "Detective O'Hara?"

When she flicked her eyes to his, Henry caught a flash of her partner—hard, cold, angry for time being wasted. He decided these impromptu moments were not the time to ask her about his son, not when she was coiled up, when she could strike. He wrestled an apologetic smile to his face and eyes.

"Don't mean to bother you," he said, waiting for her features to relax. They didn't, but he had her full attention. "I was just in talking to Karen and it slipped my mind to ask if Lassiter's in today. Do you happen to know?"

Casually, he took a seat adjacent to her desk, thinking he could wait there for Lassiter, and work up the courage to ease Shawn into the conversation.

Juliet's shoulders hitched. She rotated her neck back towards her screen, annoyed that Henry was making himself at home. "I'm sorry, Mr. Spencer," Juliet began coolly, "the Chief didn't tell you? Lassiter left."

"Left?" Henry repeated, puzzled. "What do you mean? He quit?"

For a few seconds, Juliet looked lost, sad enough to tear up, then she regained composure and shrugged. "He took some vacation time, and went off to New Mexico."

"What's in New Mexico?" Henry blurted before he could stop himself.

Again, Juliet shrugged. "More ghosts, I think."

Henry stared at her; the way she'd said it, so casually, then turned immediately back to her paperwork unnerved him. As he'd considered her mere appearance earlier, from Vick's office, up close he also found demeanor to be tilted. Remarkably, he was reminded of Gus's state of mind—the remorse and unease he presented at falling so out of touch with Shawn.

"Detective, have you been in touch with Shawn? Has he called you, or stopped by?"

He watched Juliet carefully, watched her as he held back an exasperated sigh, as she gritted her teeth. "I haven't, Mr. Spencer. I assumed . . . he left town, himself."

"Looking for ghosts?" Henry asked softly.

Juliet shrugged. "Escaping them."

It was a curious response, he thought, but she wasn't keen to offer more. He could try to interrogate her, but maybe his previous thoughts had been correct: she wasn't the one to ask. For a few moments, he debated asking her about her solo time with Shawn, but wondered if it wouldn't be better to go straight to the source.

Shawn, when found, would want to talk about it. If he knew his son.

Rubbing a hand across his mouth, Henry stood up. It felt funny to say a polite "thanks for your time" so instead he muttered, "Take care of yourself, Detective."

Juliet nodded without looking at him, and spoke to his back when he was a few steps away. "That's all there is now."

Henry kept walking as if he hadn't heard her. He wished, on some level, that he had not.

He made a mental note to ask Karen about it if his and Gus's search for Shawn yielded nothing. He knew Lassiter never used his vacation time; but then again, he'd thought he knew Detective O'Hara to a tee. After all, Shawn was always liberal in his descriptions of her; even hardened felons sent her Christmas cards, Shawn had once said.

Still, it was unlikely that Karen would share more than she already had, about either of her two top detectives.

On his way out, Henry's attention was caught by three uniforms, the one in the middle being the tallest officer on the Santa Barbara force. The three were smiling, which Henry took as a good sign. Outside of Karen, it looked like Buzz McNab was the only other one gone unchanged.

Henry cleared his throat and stepped forward. "Officer McNab?" He hoped he could get a little gossip—and maybe even a lead on Shawn. McNab nodded to his fellow officers and stayed to address Henry.

"Mr. Spencer. How's it going? Is there something I can do for you?"

Henry smiled.

# # #

Shawn sniffed the air again. He couldn't be certain if the air was heavy with a scent of steadily baking bread . . . or damp towels turning in a dryer at a laundromat. He felt unsettled enough to stop on the sidewalk. Shawn clenched his teeth, tasting something in what he smelled, but he couldn't be sure if he felt hungry or deceived.

For a few seconds, he was all right, as if nothing had happened that he'd like to banish to the deeper reaches of his mind.

I hate a life by other people's rules, he thought, and I hate the deceptions of the so-called real world. Still, he fell for them each time without fail. Hope was actually a terrible thing.

This scent had pulled him from his newest apartment, beckoning pleasantries through a small window that refused to close all the way. Resigned to his own craving for food, he got up and starting walking, going in the direction he thought he smelled it coming from.

Shawn's eyes burned; still, he paused, turning his head slowly from left to right. People passed him and, as slowly as he had turned his head, he began to pick up small details about each, details which could unravel the big picture about each individual. Within him, a flicker of self. He read what could be scandals, bombshells, or the most joyful news. These parlor tricks were the reasons for suspicions and laughter and disbelief and acceptance—that he was indeed psychic, communing with unseen forces.

Well. It should say something that he could "commune" with a spirit he could "see", and he wasn't even psychic. Shawn backed up out of the main foot traffic flow and leaned his head against the glass of some storefront. He waited in the low grade shadows a partial awning offered. No one so far inside the store had complained of his presence, but he figured eventually he'd tire of this game. Or at least get distracted enough to wander off.

After an undetermined amount of time passed, Shawn's stomach growled. Sighing, he pushed himself back into the flow. It was hardly time well spent, but was that these days? He couldn't smell it anymore, whatever it had been, but he didn't want to go back to his apartment just yet.

On autopilot, he found himself on the boardwalk, buying Churros with crumpled dollar bills, staring across the way at the darkened Psych office. On the same whim, Shawn went towards it, surprised to be here. He hadn't thought about taking cases in three months because he'd been preoccupied. Or was it . . . something else? Shawn stared at the office, scanning over the familiar details he recalled. The paint wasn't peeling off the window; actually, the window appeared clean, both inside and out. Shawn furrowed his brow.

If he had his keys, he wouldn't have to window shop, so to speak, right now. This place was the symbol of that life he had liked to lead, the one where he had no one telling him what to do, where only his "special otherworldly abilities" were deceptions to the real world. Deceptions which got him, eventually, to the truth.

Shawn swallowed. This place was his old friend, and he had missed it. He wandered around to the back door and pressed his face to the glass. It was too dark to tell what the place looked like on the inside, but it was still here. Gus must still be paying the rent, anticipating its reopening.

For the first time in a while, Gus filled his mind without bringing him sorrow or anger. Maybe the Psych office was proof enough that Gus hadn't lost hope. Hadn't lost hope in him.

Shawn turned quickly, suddenly overwhelmed. He moved quickly to the front, taking a last gaze at the Psych window—and started at what he saw in its reflection. Facing forward, he stopped, shocked; he had been so absorbed that he hadn't even heard the car, or the footsteps.

Gus froze too, his arms stiffening around the paper bags filled with snacks and cleaning supplies. His mouth agape, for a few seconds he could do little more than stare. For all his searching and attempts at following and talks with Henry, he certainly hadn't expected to stumble across Shawn here, in the least—or most—likely place.

Gus looked his estranged best friend up and down, noting that he'd lost weight and hadn't shaved in an especially long time. This sort of it made it harder to read the emotions on his face, but his eyes looked tight.

They may have stayed like that until the sun set, but when Shawn blinked and took two steps towards the boardwalk, Gus dropped the bags and hurried forward.

"Shawn!" Gus cried, reaching out to catch the half-turned shoulder of his long lost friend. As soon as he clapped his hand down, Shawn winced, and Gus started at his reaction. "Shawn?" he said more quietly. The two of them stood frozen again, Gus staring at Shawn's face in profile, his more than scruffy chin, his long nose, his still perfectly coifed hair.

Shawn wasn't quite looking at Gus, but he wasn't looking away either. This felt like a bad, bad dream.

Was it all wrong, the way he'd gone about it? He'd never meant to make Shawn flinch. Gus waited, holding his breath, keeping his hold tight on his friend. Let the passersby who were staring at them call the police. He didn't care.

Shawn swallowed a few times, and realized as the awkward seconds passed that he was afraid to speak aloud. What if this wasn't real after all? What if he just . . . Your eyes are open.

What?

Your eyes are open, a voice reminded him. You are not asleep. So, it was a bad dream.

"Shawn, where have you been?" Gus asked in that same quiet voice, biting his lip. "You had me worried. I've been looking for you all over."

As Gus' words washed over him, then through him, Shawn heard himself speak, just as softly. "You have? Gus? You—" Shawn jerked his head away. No, he couldn't believe this, this wasn't real. "You know what this reminds me of?" Shawn began sadly. "That scene in Carrie the seconds before the popular crowd—destined to die—dropped the pig's blood on her—"

"Shawn!" Gus gasped with horrified unease. "I was going to say it reminds me that scene in Stand By Me, when River Phoenix says to Wil Wheaton that he'll always be there—"

Shawn stiffened, but found himself strangely unable to wrench himself from Gus' grasp. He wondered if Gus would get as mad as before—the repeated punches—but Gus just looked sad too.

"Shawn," Gus breathed, "I—I don't know what I'm supposed to say, other than I'm sorry, but you have to know you are not blameless in this whole thing. I'm sorry we haven't talked in a long time. I'm sorry I—was so angry—"

Shawn didn't move. He slowly processed every word, swallowing hard when he got to Gus' apology. Then he dwelled on the words "not blameless".

"Is that why he let me live?" Shawn asked nearly inaudibly, as if he'd found a new revelation which made sense.

Gus squinted. "What? What did you say?"

Shawn shrugged, not really wanting to discuss it. But then his mouth started to work, though no words came out. Then, just as softly, "Did he want me to suffer? Knowing I would live—and Lassiter would die?"

Gus shook him. "Shawn, what are you saying? I don't understand. Talk to me. Please," he added urgently as he watched Shawn's lips moving as if were really a psychic communicating with a entity no one else could see. Perhaps, bribery. "Pie?"

Shawn's head moved at the word. For a few seconds, all was forgotten; under the sunlight, the day was like any other, and none of the past events had occurred. But then Shawn remembered, and turned his head.

He could see, if he could actually see it in front of him, now, so clearly, the outline of the maniac, make out the swagger in his eyes, the power he wielded in the upward tilt of his mouth. He didn't have to say it, not with words, as he never would anyway, never would have, anyway, had he lived. "I ain't never gonna tell."

Shawn waited, attempting to sneer back, frozen to the spot.

"Pie?" the killer mimicked.

Shawn's jaw tightened. "Pie?" he repeated.

"Yes, Shawn, pie," Gus replied. His patience was getting thin, but he kept his voice steady. "Or cake?" He looked at the half eaten Churros. "Are you going to finish those?"

"He asked me," Shawn breathed, looking ahead at nothing. Abruptly, Gus turned so he could firmly grasp both of Shawn's shoulders.

"I've got you," Gus said to his face, leaving Shawn to almost laugh at how literal Gus was taking this. But he couldn't do that either. "Shawn, I'm sorry I hurt you. I'm sorry I held a grudge, and didn't call, but I kept thinking . . . maybe this time, you'd take the first step—"

"Be the better man," the killer hissed. Shawn tensed. It wasn't that he'd never "seen" this shadow "walking" around out in the open, or "heard" the imagined dialogue—or in most cases monologue—it was that the few tiny words from Gus's mouth had set some sort of trigger off in his head. And these bullets were slow moving, and right now was not the best time for epiphanies. He couldn't afford to lose these valuable moments with Gus, so he told himself.

"You left me," Shawn monotoned, looking over Gus's shoulder to see the killer still standing by. He was grinning like a wolf. "I left you," the killer repeated, his voice smoky and rough.

Gus frowned. He wanted to say that, while he had left, he did come back. But this wasn't the place. This wasn't the time.

Shawn was . . . off. Or wrong. He didn't know which. And it more than scared Gus; the cure was going to take more than just one or two pieces of pie.

# # #

Though he told himself it was through Herculean persuasion, in actuality getting Shawn to his car was more like walking a marionette on a string than a pit bull terrified of a visit to the vet. Gus was relieved too that the action looked more like one friend being comforted by the other rather than something construed as "by force".

Shawn had said nothing following his wounded statement, nothing which would confirm or deny Gus' urge that they go off somewhere less open public and with more food to talk. Gus kept his hand at Shawn's elbow, enough pressure to let him know if Shawn slipped the coop. Shawn didn't resist; he stood still as Gus opened the passenger door and "helped" him in, even remaining in his seat as Gus hurried around to the driver's side, got in and locked all the doors.

"I'm glad you're still here, Shawn," Gus told him quietly, reaching across to squeeze Shawn's shoulder. "I've missed you."

No one ever takes me seriously, Shawn thought distantly, as if the words were out of his reach, not his own. He opened his mouth but, as of late, had no nonsense formed, ready to pile out, as if many clowns emerging from a tiny car at a circus. Shawn closed his mouth, felt his dry lips hit each other, and swallowed dryly. He was taking in Gus's words, chewing on them without tasting them or processing them, but still, they were going down this throat. "Like powdered mash potatoes," he whispered, hoarse.

"What is?" Gus asked, confused. "Which part? Shawn?"

He swallowed. This was not the time to discuss how magical he found water lately, not just for humans but for powdered mash potatoes alike.

Gus looked Shawn over again. Physically—in spite of appearing a little skinner and a lot scruffier—he seemed fine. But he couldn't see what Shawn looked like emotionally. He wanted to believe that he could get Shawn to talk to him but he confronted the possibility that he might need some help.

He wanted to be greedy, keep Shawn for himself for at least a few hours, but he knew that Henry would want to know as soon as possible Shawn's whereabouts. Sighing, he retrieved his work phone and sent Henry a quick text.

Shawn is found. In a way, he added silently to himself.