Author's Note: This chapter ends a little abruptly because the next chapter is going to be a flashback. I will have a few of those in here to sort of add substance to the story. Anyways, I love reviews and am far more inclined to write more if I get them . They really help motivate me so….PLEASE REVIEW! Anyways, enjoy and I will work on the next chapter tomorrow morning.

Carlton Lassiter had seen a great many things in his ten years as detective and even more during his time as a rookie cop on the streets of L.A. He had once put a trio of clowns in the drunk tank after they had guzzled one too many and duked it out in the alleyway behind the bar, giant shoes squeaking and nasally voices distorted by bulbous red noses. There had been escaped monkeys from the L.A. Zoo and Botanical Gardens, numerous domestic disputes between a crazy man who sat outside his neighbor's homes and ranted loudly about his no good blow-up doll wife named Lucinda and their four nonexistent children, and even a cross-dressing prostitute named Ralph who had frequently promised to show him a good time if he ever took a fancy to the idea.

One thing he had never seen, however, was a shaken Shawn Spencer; until now, of course. If he were honest with himself the idea that Spencer would be disturbed by anything sent Lassiter's world spinning on its axis. The man was an annoyance, true enough, and certainly a farce, but Lassiter had to admit, however grudgingly, that Spencer contained a certain aptitude for keeping his cool at crime scenes. Even when shot and bleeding heavily, dangling from his car like some kind of macabre hood ornament Spencer had been the epitome of calm and collected, though Lassiter suspected the young man had been feeling anything but.

Now, however, as the young faux psychic sat across from him in one of the interview rooms Lassiter couldn't help but feel a little sorry for the kid. He was pale and obviously emotionally drained though Carlton had yet to discover why. For once he felt slightly guilty that he had to put Shawn on the spot and he tried to do so as gently as possible. Well, as gently as Carlton Lassiter was actually capable of anyway.

"Look," he sighed, folding his arms. "Shawn, you know you aren't a suspect so why can't you just work with us on this? All you have to do is tell us the deal with the photograph and we'll let you out of here. You can go home and play Yahtzee! with Gus or whatever the hell it is you guys do when you aren't here getting on my nerves."

"We prefer Parcheesi, Lassie. Or a nice game of Mouse Trap. Yahtzee! is so yesterday."

"Spencer," Carlton growled. "What is going on with the damn photograph?"

Shawn's hazel eyes flickered down at the picture lying face up on the cool, metal table. The expression on his face was so unlike the one on the Shawn in the photo that Lassiter wondered if they were even the same person. The flat virtual rendition of the man seemed to contain more life than the actual consultant sitting across from him.

"Just leave it be," Shawn said quietly. "Please, Lassie, just…drop this one, alright? In the name of our friendship."

"We aren't friends, Spencer."

"Fine. Drop it in the name of our friendship that we have in an alternate reality somewhere. Preferably one where Flubber actually exists and every Friday is free pizza day at Domino's."

"A girl is dead," Lassiter snapped, feeling only slightly guilty when Shawn flinched. "We don't have the luxury of dropping anything, Spencer. If you know something that could help us catch this son of a bitch then it's your duty to tell us about it."

Shawn remained silent and Lassiter sighed. Normally, Lassiter loved the Miranda Rights. In fact, reading said rights to his convicts was his favorite part of the arrest, followed closely by the satisfactory click of the cuffs as they snapped closed on his chosen prey. Now, however, Carlton wished he could do away with them all together just so he could figure out what the hell was going through Shawn's head.

"Did you know the victim?" Carlton continued, deciding to drop the photograph subject for the moment.

"No," Shawn said instantly. "The first time I saw her was in the picture the chief showed us at the beginning of the case, Lassie. Same as you."

"And how did you know where to find her, Spencer? She was in the middle of nowhere and you honed in on her location almost spot on."

Shawn raised his eyebrows at Carlton and smirked at him like he was the dumbest man alive. He even felt like it at times, but he would never admit that to the young man. If he did he would never hear the end of it and he doubted whether he could take Spencer's ribbings for very long before he drew his firearm and discharged it repeatedly in the kid's general direction.

"Dude," Shawn grinned. "You really don't get the whole concept of psychic, do you? I'm led by the spirits, Lassafrass. And I do what they—"

"Cut the bull shit," Carlton snapped. "You and I both know that you aren't psychic, Spencer. I don't know how you do the things you do, but you don't commune with any spirits and you don't see the future."

"I think you mean commute, Lassie."

"It's commune, you idiot. Did you even go to school as a kid?"

"I've heard it both ways. And I'll have you know I went to a wonderful school. It was off a street called Sesame and had a delightfully grouchy fellow living in a trashcan and big yellow bird taught gym. I'll be you'll never guess their names, Lassie. Grouchy and Big—"

"I will say it one more time, Spencer, and not again. A sixteen-year old girl is dead, her family is going through hell and you know something that could point us in the right direction, but all you want to do is sit here and talk about freaking Sesame Street. What the hell is wrong with you? Don't you even want to catch this guy?"

Shawn was silent for a long time. His eyes had gone a flat, metallic green color and if Lassiter believed in such nonsense he would say the kid's soul had flown the proverbial chicken coop. His teeth were clenched tightly and Carlton could see the muscles in his jaw working powerfully as he ground them together.

"Don't think for a second I don't want to catch that bastard," Shawn said finally, tone unlike anything Carlton had ever heard from him before. It was hard and as cold as ice. "He took something precious from me, Carlton. Something I will never get back. Don't you dare think for a second I don't want to catch him."

Lassiter blinked. Carlton? Since when did Spencer call him by his first name? And what had Shawn lost that was so important to him? His eyes flickered down to the woman in the photograph and the answer hit him like a bag of bricks. He felt…well, he felt like the world's biggest asshole.

"Spencer," he asked softly. "Did the person who killed Veronica Dunning also…well, did he….shit, this is harder than I thought."

"Ask it," Shawn ordered flatly. "Go ahead, Lassie. Ask it."

"Is the woman in the photo deceased, Spencer?"

"Yes," Shawn whispered.

"Jesus," Lassiter started. "Shawn, I'm so—"

"Don't say you're sorry," Spencer said harshly. "Say anything else, Lassie. Just not that."

"Alright," Carlton said gently, trying to swallow past the lump of discomfort in his throat. "Was the woman…what was her name?"

"Amy," Shawn replied quietly, lifting his hands to cover his face so he could show his pain without Lassiter being privy to it. "Amy Coronado."

Carlton didn't mind that at all. He was a damn good detective and his first priority in any situation was to keep people safe, but when it came to comforting and offering condolences he had little luck. O'Hara had frequently told him it was because he lacked tact, which, he supposed, was true. He usually left such difficult tasks to her and she seemed to like it that way.

"Right," Lassiter coughed awkwardly. "Amy. Was Veronica Dunning and Amy Coronado killed by the same person?"

"I…I believe so," Shawn said softly. "Yes."

"So…he's coming after you then. Is that what you're saying?"

"I don't know what his end goal is, Lassie. I haven't figured that out yet. But…but, I know why he's here in California and why he left the photo."

"Why's that?"

"He's mocking me," Shawn spat, flat eyes suddenly sparking with fury. "He's making sure I remember how I failed."

"Failed what?" Carlton urged gently.

"Everything," Shawn said, bowing his head. "Failed to catch him. Failed to find out who he even is. Failed to save her…to save Amy."

"What the hell happened seven years ago, Spencer."

"That's a long story," Shawn said bitterly. "And not a happy one."

"I've got time," Lassiter replied. "Tell me."

At first, Lassiter thought that Spencer wasn't going to tell him a damn thing. He sat there across from him, looking at him like he was the most vile creature on the planet. Hell, perhaps he was. He was asking the perpetually cheerful man to relive a time that was obviously filled with a great deal of pain and heartache.

In the end, however, Shawn had nodded slightly, taking a large gulp of lukewarm water from the small glass sitting on the interrogation table. His hands were shaking, but Carlton didn't dare comment and remained silent, waiting for the young man to begin.

"Seven years ago," he murmured. "A year or so I guess before I finally made my way back here and started Psych. I was in Chicago and the first time I met Amy Coronado was at the carnival on the pier there. She was playing the balloon dart game, you know the one, you throw the darts at the balloons and if you pop them you get a prize? Well, she was playing that and I knew the instant I saw her that I had to meet her."