CHAPTER 2

Juliet leaned her elbows on the interrogation table and rested her forehead in her palms. She felt like she'd been awake for a week, which was closer to accurate than she liked to think. She just hoped the headache currently splitting her skull would go away after a few handfuls of ibuprofen and a real amount of sleep.

"We're almost done here, detective," said Detective Robson with an almost-conciliatory tone. "We just need to review your statement and have you sign it."

She put her hands down and nodded tiredly. "Fine."

She'd been talking to the Internal Affairs detective for almost two hours now. It had been so much harder to endure than she'd anticipated, and that was including the fact that Robson had been relatively pleasant and accommodating. He was Ocampo's replacement in the IA Division, Ocampo's ambition having paid off in a higher-ranked position, but he was thankfully not cut from the same cloth as the other detective. He seemed genuinely concerned about getting all of the facts straight about the shooting, rather than just how he could dig up dirt to implicate her or Lassiter. He was still a bit too thorough for her tastes, though, or at least for the tolerance levels of her exhausted self. When he had, early in the interview, gone down the road of bringing up Lassiter's divorce and his record of discharging his weapon on the job, she hadn't been able to keep up her facade of politeness. Her brain was really starting to get fuzzy, but she was pretty sure she had actually said "Oh, don't go there" to him. Luckily, he'd taken her response in stride and had from that point focused mostly on her part in the shooting.

They'd taken a break about halfway through the interview and she'd gone to splash some water on her face and get some coffee. The chief had come out of her office to get coffee for Lassiter and to give her a quick pep talk, too. Since they'd gotten back to the station, Lassiter had been sequestered in the chief's office, delivering his report directly to her. The chief had taken one look at him upon their arrival and had gone into mother-hen-overdrive. When IA had arrived, the chief had allowed them to speak to Juliet in one of the interrogation rooms, but she had told them they'd need to wait to interview Lassiter for at least a day, until he could get some sleep. She'd taken the initial incident report from him and was going to send him home to rest.

Robson pushed a form across the table to her. "Read this over, please, and sign it if you have no changes to make."

Juliet squinted at the form, not happy with how the words kept swimming on the page. She fought to focus on the statement to be sure it covered everything clearly, then she sighed and signed it. At least now maybe she'd get to go home and sleep. She knew that the ordeal wasn't over, yet, with the thrashing the department was going to take in the press, but she couldn't worry about that until she had some rest.

There was a knock on the door, and then Chief Vick entered. "Are you finishing up?" she asked, looking intently at Juliet. She'd been hovering protectively during the whole interview, making sure Robson didn't badger her too badly and apparently giving Lassiter plenty of breaks from delivering his report in the process.

"Yes, Chief," said Robson as he scribbled some more endless notes in his notebook. "I need to have Detective O'Hara do one or two more things, then she'll be free to go. After that I'd like to make a few calls. If you don't mind, I'll just keep using this room for that?"

The chief nodded and gave Juliet an encouraging look. "That'll be fine. Thank you, detective. We can talk about Detective Lassiter's interview time when you're ready. I've taken his report and will be sending him home in a few minutes."

"Fine," said Robson, still diligently scribbling.

Juliet gazed back and forth between the two of them, leaning heavily on the table and feeling herself start to zone out.

"I'll have someone drive you home as well, Detective O'Hara, when you're finished."

Juliet nodded. "Thank you, Chief."

"Just stop by my office when you're done," said the chief as she turned and left the room.

Juliet stared blankly at Robson as he finished some scribbles and began to speak again. She had to struggle to focus on his words instead of on the constant drone of "sleep" that seemed to be the only coherent thought her brain could dredge up anymore.

oOoOoOoO

"So the chief didn't call us?" asked Gus as they neared the police station.

Shawn shook his head as he fiddled with his cell phone. "No, but I'm sure there's something happening at the station this morning. See?" he said as he held up the phone in front of Gus's face.

Gus swiped at Shawn's hand. "Shawn! I'm trying to drive. What are you doing?"

"I got this sweet new app for my phone. It's a police scanner, and it started going off like crazy last night. So, I figure there must be something really big going down at the station."

"What is it?"

Shawn shrugged. "I don't know."

Gus glanced at him quickly before returning his eyes to the road. "What do you mean you don't know? You didn't listen to the scanner while it was going off?" He entered the SBPD parking lot and pulled into a space.

"No, I was watching Beastmaster, and then I fell asleep and dreamt of owning helpful ferret companions," said Shawn as he unbuckled and climbed out of the car.

Gus sighed and shook his head as he got out.

As they started to walk up to the main doors of the station, Shawn looked at him and donned an indignant expression. "Seriously, man. I don't understand how ferrets aren't categorized as service animals. Did you see all the things they do for Dar?"

"Shawn, it's just a movie. A bad movie."

"Don't dis the Beastmaster, Gus."

"And anyway, you don't qualify for a service animal. You need to have a disability," said Gus dryly as he opened the door to the station and waited for Shawn to enter.

Shawn pursed his lips as he walked past his friend. "You are just rocking the negativity today, buddy."

Gus raised his eyebrows. "I'm being negative pointing out that you are of sound mind and body?"

"Yes, you are. You are saying I am not disabled. Not is a negative."

"Fine. Setting that aside for a moment, what if there isn't anything actually going on here today? Or what if the chief doesn't need us for whatever it is?"

"I figured we can also see if there's any news about Mrs. North's sons," said Shawn, looking around the bullpen as they made their way towards the chief's office.

A Mrs. Gina North and her brother Bill Carcillo had visited the Psych office three days earlier requesting help locating North's two teenaged sons. She had explained that she didn't believe in psychics but needed any help she could get. Five years earlier, her ex-husband had kidnapped her sons, when they were 9 and 13, and ever since then she'd been searching for them and tracking down any leads she could find, no matter how slim. She'd received an anonymous phone call that her boys were in Santa Barbara, but had gotten no other information from the caller. So, she'd flown to Santa Barbara from her home in New Mexico and had started yet another hopeless search. Shawn and Gus had taken her information and had checked in at the station about the case, but there wasn't enough to go on. She had already visited the station too, and all they could say was they'd keep their eyes out for the boys.

Shawn paused for a moment after entering to take in the scene at the station. There was certainly a lot of activity, but Shawn couldn't tell yet what it was about. Officers and other personnel were rushing around, but there was no sign of Juliet or Lassiter. He didn't even see Buzz hanging around. He marched on up to the chief's office with Gus in his wake and stopped short when he looked through the partially opened blinds.

"Dude, is that Lassie?"

Gus peered through the blinds. "Yes, that's Lassie."

"But what happened to him? It looks like he was on an all-night bender."

Shawn stared through the glass at the head detective who was sitting in a chair at the chief's desk with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. The chief wasn't in the office, and Shawn wondered why Lassie would be sitting in there alone instead of at his own desk. Noticing his unkempt hair, the stubble on his jaw and the rumpled, untucked shirt, Shawn realized that at the very least Lassiter had been up all night and hadn't been home to clean up. Shawn squinted and noticed also that Lassiter's shirt sleeves seemed smudged or stained with something, and they looked wrinkled like they had been wet and then had dried while rolled up. Shawn hadn't seen Lassie look this bad since he'd been suspected of murder and suspended. He pursed his lips, wondering what the detective had been doing. And because he'd never been one to resist tapping on the glass of fish tanks or animal cages, even when told explicitly not to do so, he knocked on the glass window of the office.

Lassiter lunged to his feet and spun around, listing dangerously as he did so, as if his balance was impaired. He reached for a gun that wasn't there because the holster was also not there. Shawn raised his eyebrows and took a step back from the glass, surprised at the violence of Lassie's reaction. He looked at Gus who returned the look of surprise. They both looked again into the office to see Lassiter's glare as he realized who had knocked. But, shockingly, Lassiter's face dropped from the glare into a weary look of despair as he turned his back to them and nearly fell into his seat, rubbing tiredly at his face. Shawn had a perverse impulse to knock on the window once more to see if Lassie would be startled again, but he was stopped by the sound of familiar footsteps.

"Mr. Spencer. What are you doing?"

They turned to face Chief Vick. "Hi, Chief. We were just stopping by to see if we can be of any help," said Shawn as he put his hand to his temple. "The spirits have been absolutely raking this morning."

"I think you mean raucous, Shawn," said Gus as the chief's brow furrowed in confusion.

"Racketeering?"said Shawn.

"Making a racket?" said Gus.

"Gentlemen, please. I don't have time for this today. We've had a major incident take place this morning that I need to deal with," she said as she stepped to her door. "So please just leave."

"Don't you need our help, Chief?" asked Shawn, hoping to get at least a little more information about what was going on before being shuffled off.

"No, Mr. Spencer, I do not," she said. She opened her office door and turned to enter as a hint that she was finished talking to them.

Shawn had also never been one to take hints easily. "But the spirits have told me that Detective Lassiter has been involved in a shooting, and there are complications," said Shawn, putting together the fact that Lassie didn't have his gun with the fact that he was Lassie and making the intuitive leap that he'd had to surrender his weapon because he'd been in a firefight. "Did he actually shoot someone this time, or do you need our help clearing him from another frame job?"

Chief Vick turned back to Shawn with an expression of outrage on her face, but before she could vocalize it, there was a blur of rumpled white dress shirt as Lassiter barreled out of the office. He grabbed the front of Shawn's shirt with both hands and pushed him backwards into a pillar.

"The spirits had better start telling you to keep your nose out of police business," growled Lassiter. He was looming over Shawn, still pushing him into the pillar with fists balled up in the front of his shirt. Shawn could see that his eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed, almost as if he'd been crying. Lassie crying? He couldn't picture it.

"Detective! Stand down!" bellowed Vick.

Lassiter released Shawn and stepped back. "Just stay the hell away from me," he said, though his voice had grown quiet and more tired sounding than angry. His shoulders slumped and his eyes lost their glaring fire quickly again, as they had after the knock on the office window. He was no longer focusing on Shawn and seemed to be staring at nothing, but a nothing that disturbed him. Shawn felt a shiver run down his spine at the detective's odd behavior.

"Holy crap, Lassie," said Shawn, feeling more shocked at the detective's reaction and general condition than he felt anger at his treatment. "I was just asking if I could help."

Vick shot a warning glare at Shawn and then said to Lassiter, "We're done, for now, detective. I've asked McNab to drive you home. He'll be here in a few minutes."

Lassiter just turned away and trudged to his desk. He stood for a moment by his chair, staring at it as if he didn't know what it was for, then he pivoted and walked slowly down the hallway towards the bathroom. Shawn watched him for a moment, still leaning back against the pillar, then he turned back to see Vick and Gus both watching Lassiter with expressions of concern and confusion respectively. Chief Vick shook her head sadly, then she met Shawn's questioning look.

"Shawn," said Vick with an expression of helplessness. "I will call you if I need you, but for right now I really think it's best if you leave."

Shawn nodded, but then someone beyond the chief caught his eye. He saw Mrs. North, the woman who had come to the Psych office three days earlier asking for help locating her sons. She was just entering the station with her brother who was supporting her with one hand under her elbow while his other arm was wrapped around her shoulders. She had a look of devastation on her face. Shawn felt a tightness in his chest as his brain started to put pieces together. Something was telling him Mrs. North's arrival wasn't coincidence.

"Chief," said Shawn quietly, tearing his eyes away from the distraught Mrs. North to look at the chief, dreading the question he had to ask. "What happened? Who was shot?"

Chief Vick pursed her lips and looked from Gus to Shawn. Then she sighed. "I can't go into details," she said. "But I can tell you as much as we tell the press. Detectives responding to a home invasion found the owner shot dead by the burglars. The detectives engaged the burglars, shots were exchanged, and a fourteen year old boy was also shot and killed."

Shawn jaw dropped and he and stared at Vick as the puzzle pieces fell terribly into place.

Gus's eyes widened. "Lassie shot a fourteen year old kid?" he asked in a horrified whisper.

A look of agony crossed Vick's face. Shawn put a hand out to grab Gus's arm. "That's not the worst of it, Gus," he said as he pointed at Mrs. North. Gus looked at her and then back at Shawn.

"Oh my god, Shawn."

Chief Vick looked at Mrs. North and then back at the two of them. "Do you two have some kind of information here that I'm missing? Wait, don't tell me yet. Come in here," she said as she stepped into her office. Shawn and Gus followed her inside, although they left the door open.

"Chief, that woman out there is named Mrs. Gina North. She came to our office the other day asking for help in finding her two sons. Her husband kidnapped them five years ago and they all disappeared. She got an anonymous call that they were here in Santa Barbara," explained Shawn quickly.

Chief Vick's eyes narrowed. "I believe I saw that report, although we get a lot of requests for help in finding children kidnapped by parents. They are very hard cases to solve, if the kidnapping parent is smart about hiding."

Shawn nodded and then swallowed hard before saying, "Her son Justin was nine years old when they were kidnapped."

Vick's face fell into an agonized frown as the the calculations were made and the information sank in. "Oh, damn it all," she whispered.

They all turned to look out of the office window as Mrs. North and her brother were escorted to another detective's area. Mrs. North stood for a moment, staring at Lassiter's desk, and Shawn realized that she was reading his nameplate. She had apparently heard or had been told the names of the detectives involved in the shooting. At that moment, Lassiter returned from the hallway. Shawn's eyes widened as he realized what was going to happen. Mrs. North saw Lassiter approach his desk. She suddenly burst from her brother's supporting grasp and rushed over to Lassiter, her agonized expression turning black with anger.

"Are you the detective who killed my son?" she asked darkly.

Lassiter blinked at her in horror. Chief Vick started to shoulder past Shawn and Gus on her way out of the office. Shawn was transfixed by the scene, but out of the corner of his eye he saw a haggard and disheveled Juliet coming up the hallway from the interrogation rooms.

"Are you?" Mrs. North yelled. Her brother tried to pull her away, but she shrugged off his grasp.

Lassiter stared at her like she was the bony hand of death coming for him. Then he straightened up and swallowed thickly, his expression turning resigned. He nodded and said, "Yes."

She slapped his face hard, snapping his head to the side. She pulled back her arm to slap again but her brother grabbed her from behind just as Chief Vick reached them and jumped between the furious woman and her detective. Juliet rushed to Lassiter's side and put a hand on his arm. Shawn stepped out of the office and saw that Lassie was still holding his head to the side and had his eyes squeezed shut. His eyelashes looked wet.

"Mrs. North!" yelled Chief Vick.

The distraught woman let her brother pull her backwards, but she hissed at Lassiter, "He was just a boy!"

Juliet's face darkened with anger and she opened her mouth to protest, but a warning look from Vick stopper her. Instead she turned her attention to her partner and tugged at him, intending to get him away from the area. Lassiter let her lead him a few steps, but then he raised his head and pulled away from Juliet. He turned and walked past the chief who put out a warning hand. He approached Mrs. North, who was now standing by the other detective's desk. Her brother was hugging her from the side to hold her arms down and was glaring at Lassiter. The devastated mother just looked at him coldly as he approached. He stopped several feet away and stood meeting the mother's glare with a look of agonized contrition.

He cleared his throat and said, "He said to tell you that he's sorry they left."

Her cold glare cracked like ice and a deep sob escaped her chest as she sank into the chair by the desk. Her brother leaned over to hug her tightly as more sobs escaped her. Lassiter turned away and walked slowly back to Juliet. Chief Vick glanced at Mrs. North, her expression full of sadness, then she turned and followed the detectives. She spoke to them briefly before heading down the steps to the interrogation area.

Shawn had watched the whole scene with a strange feeling of detachment, as if it was a movie playing out on a screen instead of real. As if they were actors playing pretend instead of people he knew and cared for dealing with the aftermath of a traumatic event. He stood in the doorway watching Jules and Lassie descend the steps to the lower area of the station, shuffling their feet like disaster survivors, and he realized belatedly that he had a hand over his mouth. He looked at Gus and saw some moisture in his friend's eyes.

"Holy crap, dude," said Shawn, unsure in that moment of anything more appropriate to say.

"Maybe we should just leave?" asked Gus uncertainly.

Shawn looked around, not sure either if there was any reason to stay. He felt like such an outsider to all of the events, which strangely gave him a small pang of jealousy. Although, they did have a thin connection to the situation through their prior meeting with Mrs. North. Shawn looked at the distraught mother who was still crying, quietly now, at the detective's desk. Her brother had pulled up a chair next to her. Shawn put a hand on Gus's shoulder, then he walked over to the grieving pair.

"Mrs. North, I'm so very sorry for your loss," said Shawn.

She looked up at him and blinked in confusion for a moment, then her gaze cleared. "Oh, Mr. Spencer. Thank you," she said absently. Then her gaze sharpened. "What are you doing here? Did you find out any information about my..." Her voice hitched as she got stuck on the word.

"No, ma'am. I'm sorry. Gus and I work with the police on a lot of cases," said Shawn vaguely. "But I heard what happened. Mrs. North, I don't want to cause you more pain with questions, but I was wondering if you could give us some information about your ex-husband."

She scowled as more tears sprang to her eyes. "He's a bastard. He always was. I was just blind to it. Bill tried to warn me," she said, glancing at her brother.

Bill grimaced and shook his head. "Riley is just one of those smooth, bad boy types. We never really knew how bad, though. He'd been a crook the whole time he was with Gina. He stole from his employers and ran with a crowd of friends who were mostly thieves. He's smart. He knows how to hide his true self."

Shawn raised his eyebrows and nodded. "Okay," he said, wanting to ask a question but not finding himself able to vocalize it.

Mrs. North seemed to read his thoughts, though. "I'm sure Riley was behind this robbery. He was always talking about his boys, proud of them, possessive of them. He'd say things about having them follow in his footsteps, although he never really held steady jobs for long. I wasn't sure what he was talking about," she said darkly. "Now I know. He's turned them into criminals." She swallowed thickly and stopped, staring into a bleak nothingness.

Shawn's heart felt heavy, and he was ready to get away from the sadness of the whole situation so he could think more clearly. "Thank you, Mrs. North. And again, I'm sorry for your loss."

"Yes," said Gus. "We're very sorry. Please let us know if there's anything we can do for you, or if you have any more information for us. We'll continue to investigate."

"We'll do that," said Bill with a nod. "Thank you Mr. Guster, Mr. Spencer."

Shawn put a hand on Gus's shoulder again and the two of them headed for the exit, eager for a dose of bright sunshine to dispel some of the morning's sudden and overwhelming heaviness.

oOoOoOoO

Lassiter heard someone yelling, he felt the sweat soaking his shirt, he smelled gunpowder and blood, he saw a muzzle flash, he saw eyes wide with fear, he felt his gun recoil as he fired. He tossed in his bed, shivering and sweating, dreaming and not dreaming. He saw muzzle-flash and red-rimmed eyes. He saw Juliet's look of disgust and the critical glances of everyone surrounding him. He was surrounded and frightened and he just wanted to get away. He saw someone with a gun and he aimed. He felt his gun recoil and saw his partner's blonde hair as the muzzle flashed and the bullet flew towards her, then he felt a searing pain in his gut, like he was being cut in half. He gasped and sat up, eyes wide with fear. He looked around and saw his bedroom with the curtains drawn against the daylight. He felt his stomach twist and stumbled to the bathroom, only managing a few sobbing dry heaves, empty and only filled with an aching emptiness. After a few minutes he sat on the edge of the tub and just tried to calm his breathing, blinking away tears and the dregs of the haunting dream. His heart felt like it had been squeezed in a vice, he thought, as he absently rubbed at his chest. His shirt was soaked again.

He took a shower and changed into a pair of sweats and a t-shirt. He couldn't stand the thought of sleeping, but he felt too weary to do much else. The clock read 6PM, so he still had a whole night to get through, somehow. He wanted to call Juliet, but he wasn't sure what to say, and he figured she was sleeping. Sighing heavily, he shuffled into the kitchen and poured a shot of scotch. After downing it and coughing from the burn on his raw throat, he grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator and flopped onto the couch, turning on the TV. He stared past the flickering images of it, not seeing anything and trying not to see the memories that kept pushing their way into his brain. There was a sudden, quiet knock at the door and he shot to his feet, feeling his heart hammering painfully. He realized that his right hand had moved across his chest, once again reaching for the nonexistent holster, and he felt a flash of self-disgust. Why the fuck am I always reaching for my gun? Get a fucking grip! He kept his hand on his chest for a moment as he walked to the door. When he opened it, he blinked in confusion, wondering if he'd fallen asleep on the couch and was dreaming.

"Hey Lassie!" said Shawn cheerily. He held up a large paper bag. "We brought some chicken soup and fresh bread. Nothing better than comfort food!" He shouldered his way into the house as Lassiter continued to stare blankly.

"Hey, Lassie," said Gus, smiling pleasantly and following his friend as if the two of them were common visitors.

Lassiter turned and regarded the two men who were busy unpacking the contents of the bag onto the table in his kitchen. He took a breath and realized he was waiting for the surge of irritation he usually felt in their presence to take hold, but it was curiously absent, or at least it was very tardy. He waited another few moments, then he decided the anger wasn't going to come. He walked over to the table and pulled out a chair.

Shawn looked at him, then focused past him for a moment. His eyes flashed with concern. "You forgot to shut your door," he said.

"Here," said Gus quickly as he moved to the door and closed it. "I got it."

Lassiter turned and followed Gus's movements, feeling as if he was stuck in slow motion while Shawn and Gus were on fast-forward. He cleared his throat, realizing he hadn't spoken a word to them yet. "Thanks," he rasped. He sat down in the chair and tried to think of something else he should say. "Uh." He stopped. Shawn and Gus looked at him expectantly. He returned their looks for a moment, but then he moved his gaze to his hands on the table, suddenly feeling lost.

Shawn and Gus exchanged a look as they both raised their eyebrows at Lassiter's behavior. Shawn cleared his throat. "So, uh, we figured you probably haven't eaten anything all day," he said as he set a takeout container of soup in front of Lassiter and dropped a plastic spoon next to it. "You should try to eat something."

Lassiter stared at the spoon for a moment and then picked it up, poking it into the soup. "I probably should, shouldn't I?" he said wearily. He didn't feel even remotely like trying to eat food, but the logic-side of his brain pushed its way through the haze of confused depression and urged him to do so. He took a bite and wondered why it had no taste.

"Have you managed to get any sleep?" asked Gus as he took a seat next to Lassiter.

Lassiter grimaced and poked at the soup some more. "Sort of," he said, then he took another bite. It still didn't have much flavor, but his stomach didn't seem to be rejecting it. He took a few more bites, oblivious to Shawn and Gus.

Shawn wandered into the living room. "Why are you watching a quilting show?" he asked with a hint of amusement in his voice.

Lassiter looked up and saw Gus glaring at his friend and shaking his head. He looked at the TV and said, "Uh, I don't know. I just turned it on. I guess I didn't see..." His voice faltered as a suddenly vivid memory interrupted him with a vision of the kid aiming his gun at Juliet and squeezing his eyes shut as he squeezed the trigger. Lassiter sucked in a breath as he saw the muzzle of the kid's gun flash in his memory. He had seen the kid fire his gun. He'd seen it, and then he'd fired. He'd yelled something, too, but he wasn't sure what. He blinked away the vision and looked up at Shawn and Gus's expectant gazes. "I did see," he said faintly.

Gus blinked and shook his head slightly. "What did you see?"

"Nevermind," said Lassiter, not sure how he felt about the vision and not wanting to talk about it, especially with these two. He looked at them again and felt a flicker of irritation, as if he was just waking up to his usual self. "Why are you two here?"

Shawn pursed his lips and shoved his hands into his pockets. "We just wanted to check on you. We thought you'd need some food...and maybe company."

Lassiter cleared his throat and looked at the rapidly cooling soup. He felt like he should tell them to leave, like that's what he would normally do, so he should do it now. But he wanted to eat more. He nodded and tried to ignore the feeling of self-conscious embarrassment that was beginning to envelop him. He could be embarrassed later. It didn't feel bad to have some food and someone to talk to at that moment, even if it was Shawn and Gus, so he began eating again.

The two friends seemed to sense the resolution of Lassiter's mental dispute. Gus opened another container of soup and started on it while Shawn turned off the TV and walked over to join them. They all ate in silence for several minutes.

"How's Juliet?" asked Lassiter as he pushed the empty carton of soup away. He felt more clear-headed than he'd felt since before the shooting, although his bone-weariness remained.

Shawn glanced up from his bowl. "She didn't answer the door," he said sheepishly. "We didn't knock very loudly, in case she was sleeping. I guess she was."

"Good," he said, feeling grateful for their thoughtfulness towards his partner. And then he remembered their light knock and realized with another flash of embarrassment that they'd extended the same courtesy to him, too. "And, uh, thank you for the soup." He rubbed tiredly at his face. He was almost shocked to feel how long his stubble was and tried for a moment to remember the last time he'd shaved.

"You should try to sleep," said Gus as he stood and started clearing the table.

Lassiter felt a pang of fear at the idea of sleeping, but then he sighed with resignation. "Yeah."

"Do you want us to stay for a while, you know, in case you can't fall asleep?" asked Shawn with a note of uncertainty, as if he wasn't sure he wanted to make such an offer.

Lassiter scrunched up his brow. "God, no," he said automatically. Then he realized how harsh it sounded and looked at Shawn. "I mean, I don't think that's necessary."

Shawn smiled faintly, looking strangely reassured, and said, "Okay, man. No problem. But if you do need anything, you can call us."

Lassiter shrugged and nodded, then he stood up and followed the two men to the front door. Gus gave a small wave as he and Shawn walked outside. Lassiter shut the door and then locked it. He turned towards his bedroom, feeling like he was walking through heavy surf. When he reached the couch he almost unconsciously decided to just drop onto it instead of completing the journey to his bed. He pulled his legs up to fit onto the couch and pulled a throw over his body, and then the world and his tired mind went blissfully blank.

At midnight his phone rang, the Cops theme eventually working its way into his awareness as part of an unremembered dream. He didn't quite wake up. Ten minutes later, the song played again, worming into him until he finally opened his eyes and blinked with confusion at the glowing screen of his cell phone on the coffee table nearby. He tried to remember why he was sleeping on the couch, but he couldn't. He reached out and grabbed the phone.

"Hello," he managed to croak in a sleep-thickened voice.

"Are you the one who killed him?" asked a whispered rasp.

Lassiter felt a stab of fear and unreality. He lay still for a moment, feeling like any movement would be his downfall. Then he mentally shook himself as his sleep-fogged brain became more alert. "Who is this?" he asked.

"Why did you kill him?"

He gaped, trying to figure out how to answer the disembodied voice over the phone that seemed to be echoing his own guilt-ridden brain. Can my own brain call me on the phone? He cleared his throat and said honestly, "I didn't want to."

There was a pause on the other end of the line, the soft sound of breathing, then the line went dead. Lassiter looked at the phone but the caller ID showed no information. He ended the dead call and held the phone to his chest as he stared at the ceiling, wondering if what had just happened had been real.