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 know references to Batman Forever or Alien.

Author's Note: So . . . it's been over a year since I updated, huh? Well, I recently was inspired by a sort of sad dream that I decided to write into this chapter rather than trying to text it to friends. I think this was the best way to express it. By the way, I know I still owe many of you review responses—I haven't forgotten, I promise.

I'm also toying with the idea of breaking this story into two parts, possibly making this into a trilogy rather than just keeping it a sequel. I suppose there was more story to tell then I originally thought and planned for (when doesn't that happen in my fics? lol), but I guess I'll see how it goes. :) "Where Do We Go From Here?", to me, seems to be shaping up to mostly about emotions and less about action and adventure, so I wonder if it makes more sense to have a third story which follows the sorting out of psychological pains and such.

As always, reviews, constructive criticism, thoughts and feedback are welcome. Thanks for support and encouragement! Enjoy!

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Chapter Ten: Don't Come Around, I Got My Own Hell To Raise

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# # #

Shawn's words buzzed in Gus's head; when they were said they were tender and wistful, and their brief appearance into the air of the car had almost broken his heart.

"We used to do this, all the time. Ride together."

Gus's earlier selfish ploy of playing keep-away with his best friend at one of their favorite diners or at the Psych office dissolved. This may look like old times to any outsider, but it was not; both men in the car were close and closer to tears. He needed reinforcements; if he had to admit something big in that moment, Gus would have said he was on edge, nervous and fearful—either that Shawn would not talk or that he would. Still, he took the scenic route, gritting his teeth at how much gas he was wasting doing so, just so he could spend a little more time with Shawn while it was just the two of them.

He kicked himself for not thinking to have them stay at the Psych office; obviously, Shawn had been interested in it as a destination, if he'd walked there on his own. Gus had at least a thousand questions he could think of off the top of his head to ask Shawn, but as he struggled with his own muddled silence, Shawn seemed almost . . . at ease not to speak. Gus stole another not so furtive glance at Shawn. Even when highly disgruntled or frustrated beyond coherent speech, Shawn would still run his mouth. Gus thought of their last summer at Camp Tikihama, when he had chosen Jason Cunningham over Shawn because he wanted to win the pinata contest.

"Killer Bee. If you're looking for your pocket knife, it's still in my back."

Gus experienced a swell of emotion, as if he had a balloon expanding from within his ribcage. "Shawn," he burst out, "you're not going to go away again, are you?"

Shawn turned his head to give Gus another once over, taking his time. He was curious at the verge of waterworks in Gus's voice, and heard, without actually hearing the words, "Say you'll stay."

He answered it with a certainty he hadn't felt in months, not since the last time he'd taken a good look at that hat pin—proof of crimes, a killer's as well as his own. "I'll stay." Then, because it felt good to say it and feel the rush of hope he'd felt while looking at the Psych office, Shawn added, "Gus."

When Gus answered, he was still choked up. "You will? You really will?" A few tears slid from his eyes in long streaks. He wiped at them with the back of his hand. "That's great, Shawn."

"Gus?" Shawn asked.

"Yes?"

"Do you . . . need a hanky?"

Gus jerked his head in Shawn's direction, sure that he had not imagined the hint of teasing in Shawn's voice, before turning back to the road. "No, thanks," Gus sniffled, "I'm good."

"What about an ascot?" It was out of his lips before he even thought of saying something else or not. When he caught Gus' eye, he saw something familiar in the wrinkle of Gus' brow and the bridge of his nose, something that flashed in a blink across his face that acknowledged Shawn's comment and decided on the spot whether or not such comment should be dignified with an answer. It looked as if Gus was fighting a comment, a negative one at that. A smile tugged at a corner of Shawn's mouth.

As they drove—all over Santa Barbara, it looked like—it surprised Shawn how it was almost easy to fall back in rhythm with Gus—even with the few words they exchanged; even in the silences—following their temporary separation—almost as if there had been no reason to stay apart.

But there were reasons. The estrangement had been voluntary, and one-sided; Shawn tasted something bitter under his tongue as he cast a look at his friend, but found he couldn't hold his evil stare with much conviction. Maybe the estrangement had actually been two-sided; plenty of time passed with neither of them making efforts at communication or reconnection.

But this didn't matter, it was graffiti on a overpass—or was that saying water under the bridge? Well, he'd heard it both ways. Shawn was reminded of his return to Santa Barbara four years before, dropping in on Gus at his other workplace and proposing the idea of becoming private detectives. Then, Gus could have said no, but Shawn had been counting on Gus saying yes, and maybe there was a tiny bit of him that was actually psychic because Gus had said yes, with little convincing. And then Gus had stayed after the case wrapped to become a co-owner of the Psych office and to see what was going to come next.

Yeah, now was sort of like that, in a way. Shawn felt his lips press into a small, brief smile. He wasn't the least bit unnerved, once he got used to the idea of it, to be in the car—or care—of Gus. This was the best he'd felt in months.

Shawn held onto that, ignoring that it might be fleeting. Sooner or later, he might have to talk about it all—but not now.

He recalled a recurring dream he had, an anomaly really, in accordance with his more nasty recurring dreams—both sleeping and waking—of the killer ghost. This other recurring dream left him saddened upon dreaming and nearly brokenhearted upon waking. Its main player was Gus, but sometimes Jules or his father tagged along, each nicely dressed, with an air of cold business thinly veiled with quick smiles that never really touched the eyes. They would show up unexpectedly, at his latest makeshift apartment or sometimes, at the Psych office, which was always grey around the edges, cobwebs in corners and on the ceiling and dust on all their cheery toys. Shawn would dream of other company, somewhere in another room, faceless company who expected him to sit and dine with them, but his surprise at the arrival of Gus would give way to forgetfulness and a budding mirth.

"You're here," Shawn mouthed with an astonishment, taking in the neat details of their outfits—the heather gray cable knit sweater Gus wore, his well-pressed tan slacks; the dangling, tiny black bows hanging from Juliet's ears, her blond hair worked smartly into a bun; his father wearing a sharp blue tie. "Please, can you stay?" he'd asked, looking them over as if they were nothing more than apparitions who would fade away. "I was just about to eat—"

"We can't stay, Shawn," Gus—or Jules—would state coolly, making to smooth out an invisible wrinkle in a shirt or fix a hair that was not out of place. The same speaker—often Gus—would continue while the other partner in the cruel act of deception would remain eternally silent, mostly not looking in Shawn's direction at all. His father never spoke at all. They would both rise, if seated on a desk or a couch and tell him, "We have reservations."

"Please," Shawn implored, his own voice a soft whine in his ears. "Have dinner with me, here."

When Shawn woke, he was still in the room with them—or visa versa—as the dream dissolved, gone. It was never any less sad that he had not had to watch them walk away, the question of why he could never tag along much less be invited to their plans dying long before it ever reached his lips.

Now, he stole a look at Gus, tears stinging his eyes. Gus had just finished begging him to stay, and he could have easily said no, could have easily done whatever was necessary to make Gus suffer, but he didn't know if he had the strength or the cunning to refuse. Maybe he'd deserved it, at least some of it, and it would be too much a waste to blame Gus for their huge rift, for the ravine that had gaped wide between them.

Back then, however many months ago, Shawn had had a plan, one he'd thought relatively sound and solid, and didn't even consider an alternative ending to it. "It was supposed to . . ." he whispered aloud, his face to the window. It was supposed to go down like this: After his "anonymous tip", Jules and Lassie would go to investigate, find the killer and make an arrest based on circumstantial evidence, and halt any further killings then and there. Then Shawn would be called in to "divine" actual evidence, or at least, where to find it.

Truth was, Shawn wasn't really psychic and didn't know—didn't know that when he'd caught a glimpse of The Man Who Would Be Killer, that the man was actually the killer. In real life. Still, Shawn had inferred that the man he'd seen—only from the side and then the back, turning gracefully into an open door—looked suspicious enough, oily and feral. He was not here to drift, as Shawn had own done on the other side of the world, but looked to be here for a bad purpose.

Shawn hadn't wanted to touch him with a ten foot pole, had not wanted to be close enough to him to smell his breath or sweat, nor to exchange any words with him until one of them was safe behind bulletproof glass. "Preferably me," Shawn whispered, his eyes fixed on the passing scenery.

"Shawn?" Gus asked quietly, tentatively holding off from asking any direct stupid questions, waiting to see if Shawn would answer.

"Where are we going?" Shawn asked, rubbing his eyes. He turned his head to Gus, as if he could tell from the look on Gus' face better than the familiarity of his surroundings out the car window. "Are we going to your apartment?" He waited, reading Gus' tensed jaw muscles as a warning: No way in hell, Shawn, are we going to my apartment. So you can wait till I fall asleep and take off in my car and disappear again?

Shawn gave a small laugh. "Gus, do you really think that? Dude, I haven't even driven my motorcycle since that night, not since I wiped out in the SBPD parking lot." His voice, still small, turned dark. "I walk everywhere now, I never have that far to go. Are we going to my apartment?" He ignored the look Gus was giving him, the somewhat "you sound crazy right now" look, with raised eyebrows and widened eyes.

"Shawn, I—"

"Now you're going to say you didn't say anything but I still somehow read your mind," Shawn interrupted. "Well, I didn't. I can't do that." He sighed. I've missed you, Gus. "I can't do that. Don't be an ambidextrous platypus. I don't want to go to my dad's house."

Gus let out a little sigh, followed by what he hoped was a placating "Shawn—"

"No, no, no, no, no, not yet," Shawn pleaded. "Too many questions, too many questions, too many questions, too many variables."

Without thinking, Gus slammed on the brakes. His heart had begun to slam against his chest; Shawn, whom had just seemed properly himself, was too quickly changing back into the man who spoke too softly and answered questions with single words or cryptic declarations. A car horn shook them, and Gus took his foot off the brake.

"Your dad wants to see you, you can get that, can't you?" Gus muttered, watching the car that had honked pass him a blur of engine noise and middle fingers.

Shawn shook his head.

"You can't see it or you don't want to see it?" Gus narrowed his eyes. He'd started to circle Henry's neighborhood, dropping down below the recommended speed of 30mph, hoping that it wouldn't be a speed Shawn would consider safe enough to tear off of his seatbelt and leap from the moving Blueberry.

"I've heard it both ways," Shawn muttered, crossing his arms. He looked out his window, noticing the houses that had looked so much bigger when he and Gus were just kids. Most of them were still well-maintained, except for Old Man Fuller's house, which looked as decrypt as it had both when they were growing up and when they'd focused on it two years ago following Fuller's murder. New ownership had done nothing for it, Shawn observed; just as well. He thought about the saying about putting lipstick on a pig; no matter what, that place would always be some old haunted den of secrets.

"I want to see Jules," Shawn declared. "I want to see her right now." He tugged on his seatbelt. "If you're not going to take me there I'm going to walk."

Gus threw his arm out, as if to hold him back. "Wait, Shawn!" He pulled Shawn's hand off the seatbelt. "Take you where?"

"To the SBPD. I bet she's there, right now. I wanna go!"

Gus looked Shawn in the eye, wondering which one of them was out of his right mind to want this, right now.

"Come on, Gus! I got to see you today, now I want to see her!" Shawn had a wild look in his eye, but Gus had a feeling he better not comment or refuse his best friend. Maybe after catching up with Juliet, some of Shawn's restlessnesses would be shaken off. Or maybe he'd insist Gus chauffeur him around, to anywhere and everywhere but Henry's house.

# # #

The woman outside the diner had detoured Lassiter's route; no longer did he want to hit the books—or as he more suspected, the Microfiche—at the moment. Instead, Carlton drove around till he found a pub, betting a midday Scotch or two might clear his head. Clear his head, sure that was what he really wanted. If he were in Santa Barbara, he'd be on duty right now; he didn't so much like this idle time as he thought he might, but he knew this bar would be frequented by locals, so he figured he could do a little detective work anyway. It was time to start asking the right questions.

He sat down at the bar and ordered a Scotch, but only took a few sips before his mind wandered.

Dying could have been easy; it was his blood on the floor, leaking out, dripping out, but for some reason he was a fighter and clung to life.

He was still clinging, had been since he was discharged from the hospital and cleared for desk duty. Carlton had begun to believe that if he went to New Mexico, his problems would remain in Santa Barbara, trapped behind the threshold of the building where Saul tortured him, or inside his apartment where O'Hara unwittingly glimpsed his chest scars, or chained to his desk where all of his detective work centered around planning his journey and locating Saul's perhaps mythical grandfather. A tall tale, even more of ghost than Saul would ever be.

Carlton started his journey alone and intended to finish it as solitarily as possible. In this place, he had no use for a partner or for any friends. He might be able to count on the support of the local LEOs, but he'd believe it when he saw it.

If there was a way to forget . . . a way without mind-altering drugs, or a serious head injury, or time travel . . .

Carlton licked his dry lips. There had been plenty of moments in his life he'd rather forget, rather not remember with either clear precision or with an uneasy blur, plenty of moments before the traumatic, life-altering day spent with Saul. Since then, he knew he had hovered in a state of limbo, uncertain of direction.

Carlton sat up straight, pushing his drink away with his knuckles. He got the bartender's attention with a wave of two fingers, and told the man to make his Scotch a double. When the bartender returned with his order, he beat Carlton to the questions. "New in town or just passing by?" the man asked, giving him a shrewd stare. No one else in this bar was wearing a suit; obviously Lassiter didn't belong in a shifty little place like this, not for long.

Carlton didn't like the looks of him. He'd bet anything the man had a sawed-off shotgun hidden behind the bar, well in reach. He took a sip of the Scotch, letting it burn his throat before he answered. "I'm visiting."

The bartender raised a curious eyebrow. "Visiting what?" He leaned forward, though the place was half-empty so they weren't that likely to be overheard. "You a lawman, mister?" His eyes narrowed. "Or you a priest?"

Lassiter bristled at this last and touched the glass to his lips. His unfortunate encounter with the delusional woman was sliding away, replaced now with a scorn for this yokel. He thought about standing up and flashing his badge, slamming it down on the bar. He swallowed these thoughts with another sip of the amber liquid. "I'm here to find any living relatives of Saul Grant," he told the bartender.

The man pulled back, rocked on his heels. "Is that so," not a question; perhaps he didn't care for confirmation.

Carlton curtailed a scowl and kept his voice even. "Do you happen to know—"

A barstool slid across the floor, making an awful scraping noise. Before Carlton could finish his question, another man's liquor heavy breath was in his personal space. "What'reya asking about that for?" the drunken redneck demanded, suspicious. "How ya know about the Grants?" Carlton turned his head with a mild annoyance in mind.

"Hey, ya shit, I'm talkin'to ya!" The redneck, an older man with tan, battered skin resembling old leather, reached out drunkenly and hit Carlton in the chest, right over one of his longer scars. He winced but managed to grab the man's hand and shove him backwards. He got of the stool and stood to his full height; the redneck didn't look intimidated in spite of not being much taller than 5'8. "Ya wanna go?"

Lassiter let a frustrated growl escape through his nose. It might feel good, to get in a fight, to throw and land a couple of good punches, even to get thrown out of the bar, but he really didn't want to fight with this idiot. "What the hell is your problem?"

"The hell's yours?" the redneck spat. He had a mean look in his eyes. "We don't need no strangers here, so get your ass the hell out."

Lassiter bit his tongue to stop himself from saying "Make me." It was too easy. Threatening this idiot was just as dumb as asking him questions—but he had gone on alert the second his question was challenged. Was it just the mention of Saul Grant that had riled them up, or was it the question of living relatives? He shot a look at the bartender, who'd crossed his arms and flattened his mouth, but was watching them as if he were just itching to see a fight—or pull out his shotgun and start shooting.

Ignoring both of them, Carlton got his wallet out and paid for his drinks, leaving a couple of extra bills for the tip.

"City slicker," he heard another voice hiss from across the bar.

"Coward," another man threw out. There were murmurs of agreement.

Carlton started, catching the lilt of accent in this man's voice of what he had heard in Saul's. He was about to open his mouth and snarl the first thing that came to mind when the redneck closest to him drew a blade from its sheath on his belt.

"Who the hell ya think ya're, stirring the pot?" the redneck slurred, his eyes flashing.

A few precious moments passed before Carlton even considered reaching from his gun usually snug in his shoulder holster. He had frozen, "weapon shy", staring at the glint from the blade. Clearly, this man wasn't about to grab him, put the knife to his throat and make threats. He had only pulled the blade to scare him, to get him to back away physically and to get him to stop asking questions. He blinked hard, his heart rate going up and up.

"Jimmy, put it away," the bartender growled from behind them. "I'll call the sheriff."

"Go ahead," Jimmy slurred, his knuckles around the blade turning white.

Lassiter cleared his throat, wishing suddenly for a glass of water. "Forget it. I'm leaving." His voice sounded rough but not shaky, a small mercy.

Outside, in the safety of the sun, Carlton reflected on his cool reaction. The blade was just small and he figured, despite any lingering pain from his older injuries, he would have be easily able to deflect an attack and disarm the old fool; always his training instincts kicked in, especially with adrenaline on high alert.

He shook his head and pulled out his phone. He just wanted to hear her voice, even if she agreed that he was nothing more than a coward. She might be able to reassure him that he wasn't, or even offer a long distance slap on the forehead so he could snap out of this current funk. She was the only one who could give it to him.

"O'Hara," she answered.

"O'Hara, it's me, Lassiter," Carlton said, plunking himself behind the wheel of the rental. He had expected her usual cheery greeting or even an over-sharing of what was going on with her or in a case she was working. Instead, silence. Then, a chilly acknowledgement of him, like an accusation. "Oh. It's you."

Truthfully, they hadn't spoken much—was it at all? He couldn't quite remember. Had he called her when he got here, made any indication that his flight was fine?

"I—" Lassiter moved his tongue around his mouth, trying to moisten all of its dry parts. He swallowed and his head pounded, either from fear or the Scotch—maybe both. His fingers fumbled with a lukewarm bottle of water, pressing it first to his temple before taking the cap off. He decided to just say it, and allow her to pass whatever judgment she saw fit. "I—I just had a knife pulled on me . . ." He swallowed again. "And I froze."

On the other end of the line, her sighing took a gradual dip from angry indifference to sympathetic concern. He listened to her breathing, waiting in surprising patience for her to come up with an answer.

"Carlton," her voice crackled after a few minutes. He could see the lines creasing her forehead, see her running her hands across her tired face, see her mouth etched into a loose frown. "It's been two weeks. Will you . . . will it be . . . much longer?"

He pressed his lips into a tight line. I thought she was just going to yell at me, tell me to be more of a man. More of the goddamn Head Detective I am. "I'm not . . . I haven't . . ."

She sighed loudly. He couldn't tell what kind of sigh it was. Finally, she made a request. "Will you let me . . . come out there?"

"What are you asking me?" he countered, thinking he knew well, but frowning to think it was what she really meant. "You're not asking me to leave already? I just got here."

Juliet huffed. "I don't think this is good for you, being out there. I never did."

"You have no idea what's good for me," he replied, his voice flat. "I don't need you to rescue me from this, not this time." His frown deepened into a scowl. "It was a mistake, calling you."

"How dare you," she snapped. "It was my mistake for taking your call. You are so far gone that you don't even know. I'm the only one who sees it—who saw it."

The implication hung in the air between their charged silences: he had run away from her despite his telling her that wasn't the case. It was a lie. Or. at the very least, a mistruth. "Can't you just support me and just leave it at that?" he demanded.

"You are so blind that you don't know when you need rescuing," Juliet spoke in an angry, low voice.

"I don't need—"

She cut him off. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I don't know you, or know what's good for you. You certainly spent enough time while you were here, pushing me out of your life. Now you've gone off to the desert to hunt down your demons even though you have no idea what they look like. Sounds really healthy to me."

"Don't come here," Carlton snipped suddenly. "I don't need you to fight this battle for me."

"I don't need your permission!" she yelled so loud his ears rang, and the launched into a tirade. He was certain she must be drawing the attention of everyone in the Bullpen, that soon enough Vick would emerge from her office for an explanation or a reprimand. Rather than hanging up, he remained silent as she swore at him, ranted the splinters she must have been carrying around with her for a long time in her small body into his like javelins, piercing the roof of his car, trapping him in place. He was going to need the jaws of life to get out of here, following this tongue lashing. Then Carlton heard her scream at Shawn Spencer, who must have come in during her session of roughly shoving Carlton back in his place, of holding him down by the shoulder, by the fingers or with her high heeled shoes.

The call ended abruptly. Lassiter pulled the phone from his ear slowly, not sure what to think. He wasn't sure if he should be proud of the "values" he'd instilled in his partner or appalled at her tone and trucker language. He did feel he should be furious, and want to call her back for a long rant of his own . . . but alone in his car with the windows up, he started to laugh. At some point, the laughter changed; his phone beeped with a text message, the letters all capitalized.

He opened his phone, checking the area for onlookers. No men had followed him from the bar, no one he could see was watching him.

DON'T YOU THINK FOR ONE SECOND I'M THROUGH WITH YOU, CARLTON LASSITER.

It was from O'Hara, of course, but for a few seconds, Lassiter's mind pitched him backwards to the killer's leaning over him, holding his chin with one hand while he sliced open one of the smaller cuts on his face from his fall in the police station—the morning before he was abducted. Saul had spoken words similar after he'd returned from chasing Spencer off, trying to make Lassiter believe he'd murdered the fake psychic.

Breath shuddered from his throat, the air around him "chilled". He should see this text as a blessing—though he knew it for it was. But for now, and to escape from yet another terrible reminder of the killer's physical and emotional wounds, Lassiter decided to take its meaning that his partner—still his partner—was not yet giving up on him—that she would never abandon him, no matter what he had to say about it.

Carlton wondered if she was serious, if she would honestly get on a plane, track him down and try to drag him back to Santa Barbara by the hair or the hand.

She had to know, she must have to, that he had to do this. He had to be here. She didn't have to understand it or accept it or agree with it, but she had to . . . Lassiter chewed on these thoughts, wondering just how much she did "know". From what she just admitted, it wasn't much.

He knew he had called her seeking . . . familiarity, more than anything else, but he hoped with all the shattered remains of his soul that she did not come out here, that she did not believe it was in her place to reach him, pull him back from the edge.

# # #

She had seen the phantom. A flash of him, white-faced and wordless, his lips formed a pained "O". Within her chest, a deadened shift, as if something substantial was trying to pound itself out, vaguely reminiscent a scene from Alien. Fleetingly, Juliet wondered if she should be more ashamed—since she had chased him away—a flash, that was all, in the station in almost two months—the months in which he had been "missing", "out of the way", or, at the least, missed.

He was not, at the quick glance she'd had of him, the Shawn she'd last seen, no, he was scruffier and skinner, face as pale as a full moon.

It took her much reflection before she realized what he reminded her of, with his dark circled eyes and general unhealthy appearance. He looked just like the two of them, her own reflection in the mirror and the one of herself she saw in Carlton: lackluster, haunted, going through the motions. I'm sure he's just fine, she'd told herself unconvincingly.

The Chief had words for her, but wanted to hear Shawn's story as much as her own, postponing ordering Juliet into her office only to intervene, to keep Shawn and Gus from disappearing completely. "McNab!" Vick called. "Stop them!"

After her sharpness, Karen lowered her voice so just the two of them could hear. "Detective, when's the last time you made an appointment with your psychologist?"

Juliet sat back, straining a long huff out through her teeth. "I was just talking to Carlton—our conversation was heated, and it just got out of control," she confessed. "It won't happen again."

Karen looked unconvinced, but said anyway with a sigh, "I'd like to believe that, Detective." She looked like she had plenty to add, but held her tongue when she saw McNab escorting Shawn and Gus back. Before they were even to Juliet's desk, Gus frowned. He had a good grip on Shawn's elbow.

"Was that really necessary, Juliet?" Gus snapped, as if he'd been the one she offended. He had a steely gleam in this eye. "He wanted to see you. He asked to see you."

"Gentlemen, what's this about?" Vick asked, nodding to McNab for an aside.

Gus make a tsking noise. "Why are you asking us for? She's the hysterical one who freaked out."

Juliet's mouth dropped open. "That had nothing to do with—" She took a deep breath. It was no use sounding defensive.

"Shawn," Juliet said quietly, looking him up and down as he sat before her, in the same chair Henry had sat in not that long ago. Though he smelled like himself, he looked unwashed, a tangle of hair on his chin and the sides of his face. He wasn't looking back at her, not quite, and he hadn't said a word since he'd been here, all factors which unsettled her. Could there be . . . someone else? Was he now giving her the silent treatment? How long had the world—their world—been so wrong? Since the Lassiter Disaster or—? She bit her lip.

"Shawn," she repeated more firmly, aware of Gus's hard glaring in her direction, "I apologize, I didn't mean to yell at you. I wasn't—I wasn't really yelling at you." Juliet felt unsure whether to take her explanation further. It had been difficult to put into words for the Chief, as she didn't really know. Instead, she put her hand on his wrist, immediately pulling his eyes from studying the floor to her face. "Are you okay?"

Her voice was soft and thin, pulled taut across her lips but it was still her, Shawn noticed. She was still in there. It was a loaded question—one that even changed Gus's glaring to an expression of worry. He didn't know the answer either. Shawn considered saying, "I forgive you", directing it to the whole room just to make his insides hurt less, but the words wouldn't come out.

His eyes started to wander, drifting away from her face.Where's Lassie? he wanted to ask. Is he dead? His desk was empty and there was no sign of him, no Crown Vic in the parking lot and no sound of his bark—as scary as his bite. Shawn shook his head slowly. No, that wasn't right.

Lassie wasn't dead. Even though there was so much blood, less red than black, sinking into the ground. "He's not dead," Shawn whispered, barely loud enough for the two of them to hear, squeezing his eyes shut for a few seconds. Juliet, in a panic, dropped his wrist.

Just like that, it seemed, their momentarily reconnection was literally broken. Shawn caught Gus' eye, and half stood up. "I wanna go," he said.

Gus got up right away and went to him. "Right now, Shawn?" he asked gently, ignoring Juliet completely.

"I want go to my dad's house," Shawn replied softly, "isn't it funny?"

Gus nodded. "All right."

"Shawn?" Juliet frowned and stood up too. "Don't you want to talk about this?"

"I don't want to talk about anything." He sounded defensive, and backed away from her. Gus slipped his arm around Shawn's shoulders. "I can't talk about anything."

Juliet's heart beat quickly, not knowing what to do. If anything was usual between them, it was that she was the one who pulled back, who walked away leaving Shawn with a reproach over her shoulder. But now she just wanted him to stay, and he wanted to go. "He's not dead," the blank words she wondered if were uttered only for her benefit confused her. She didn't know what he was talking about, not quite.

He didn't have any plan, no plans to make her suffer, but when he saw Vick, standing on the fringe, watching, his felt his words loosen, felt himself open up to her, because the Chief had never been in his dreams. He turned to her, unaware of Gus' slip of pressure from his arm, going on ahead.

"Where's Lassie?"

Karen blinked, pursing her lips. "Mr. Spencer—" She looked solemn. "He's on leave, vacation time."

Shawn paused, physically stopping while his thoughts tripped over each other. "What? Lassie . . . doesn't go on vacation."

"He's not on vacation," Juliet said stiffly from behind them. Shawn could feel her breath on the back of his neck. For a few seconds, he was nowhere in the world, and then he was suddenly in that building with her, watching her pull the trigger. He flinched with recollection.

"You killed him," Shawn murmured, turning around to face her.

"I didn't—" Juliet began, unsure of what he meant. Her mouth was dry.

"I was there, Jules," Shawn continued, his voice too faraway. "The killer, you killed him. That vile evil man."

"Shawn?" Gus called. "Are you ready?"

Shawn looked up at Gus' voice and left the two women, both in a daze as much as he was. "Gus, are we going to get pie now? You promised me pie. You ate my Churros."

Juliet threw up her hands, watching Shawn go, turning a corner without looking back. "Where have you been, Shawn?" she whispered, retreating to her desk. Just where?

Forget where her partner was—oh. Juliet paused as she sat down. At least she knew where Carlton was, his geography at least—Norton, New Mexico, Saul's Grant hometown. And she'd just heard his voice a short time ago, when he'd called and when she'd taken his head off.

She knew that she owed Carlton a call back, and possibly—probably—an apology. He hadn't said a word against her when she started screaming, had not even hung up the phone. Juliet also owed Shawn time, but not space. She wouldn't dream of dropping in at Henry Spencer's house; it could be a recipe for disaster—unless, unless, she baked something. Shawn had babbled briefly about pie, and she knew Gus had a soft spot for anything sweet and pastry related.

Her words to Carlton echoed furiously in her head as she thought of what Shawn reminded her of, and considered the same, strange way the three of them were still haunted—still in the grip of a man who was dead. It was me. I did it. I made him a ghost.