Author's Note: A bit of a shorter chapter, I know. I hope you enjoy it though. Please let me know what you think and REVIEW!

Amy Coronado had loved books. She had them stacked about her room like tiny towers and Shawn used to imagine stomping through them like Godzilla. Only he would be Shawnzilla and the sound of his name would strike terror in the hearts of authors everywhere. She used to tell him that the only way she would ever feel at home would be if she were surrounded by words and the crisp smell of printed paper. Sometimes she would read to him and Shawn was confident that the only thing that kept him interested was the passion in her voice, the excitement and pleasure that flowed from her lips as she bared a part of her soul to him.

Her favorite book wasn't what Shawn had expected. She told him sheepishly, almost reluctantly, and she made him promise not to laugh. She had pulled it from her nightstand like a priest might a bible. Shawn had studied the front cover for a long moment and had to bite down hard on the smile he'd felt creeping up his lips. The book was thin, not even twenty pages, and the cover was colorfully illustrated with the words Goodnight Moon scrawled across the top.

"Isn't this a children's story?" he'd asked, trying to make his tone neutral.

"Yes," Amy had admitted. "But, its…there is something so beautifully simple in the words, Shawn. Its hard to explain but when I read this book I feel…I don't know…I feel like…"She'd frowned and pulled the book tight against her chest. "When I was little my teacher gave me a copy of this book. She told me to read it when times were hard and…somehow it helped. When my dad came home drunk at night I would hide in this tiny space we had beneath our kitchen sink. I had a stuffed rabbit named Jinxie and I would take him in there with me and I would read to him. I would read Goodnight Moon to him like it was a prayer, Shawn. I would pretend I was there with the little red balloon and the little toy house and for awhile…for awhile I felt safe." She'd looked away from him and swallowed nervously. "I know it sounds silly. I know it does, but…but its important to me."

"Would you read it?" he'd asked her, any traces of amusement gone.

"Out loud?"

"Yeah. Please?"

And she had read it. She had chosen to share something deeply personal with him and his heart had nearly burst with the emotion in her voice. It became a part of them, a part of what they shared together. Sometimes he would buy a red balloon and place it by her bedside. He toyed with the idea of putting Sampson in mittens, but the mangy feline had looked over at him as if he'd sensed the directions of Shawn's thoughts and yowled menacingly. Sometimes they had created their own version of Goodnight Moon as they sat snuggled together on the couch or lying in bed on a lazy Saturday night. Her version was always eloquent and rhymed perfectly. Shawn's was usually silly and made her laugh and the sound of her ringing laughter was what brought him the greatest joy. They had loved Goodnight Moon.

Now Shawn hated it. He hated the two kittens in mittens, the little house, the stupid fucking mouse, and the old lady that said hush. He hated the brush, hated the mush, hated the clocks and the socks, the bears and the chairs. He hated goodnight noises everywhere. He hated all of it, but sometimes when his mood was dark and his mind wandered he would still come up with his own version. Only it wasn't silly and it never made anyone laugh.

He did it now looking around the interrogation room with dull eyes. Goodnight night brick. Goodnight detective he often called dick. Goodnight chair. Goodnight photo of a girl with blood in her hair. Goodnight doom, goodnight gloom. Goodnight—

"Spencer," Lassiter barked. "Did you hear what I said?"

"No," Shawn told him slowly staring at the photos on the metal table.

"I asked if you were hungry," Lassiter repeated. "I was going to get you some lunch. My treat."

"That's sweet," Shawn snorted bitterly. "Who knew it would take a personal fucking tragedy for Carlton Lassiter to actually treat me like a human being? I should have pulled this card years ago."

"Spencer," Lassiter sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Its just lunch. There's no reason to bite my damn head off."

"Keep your lunch," Shawn told him coldly. "I wouldn't eat it anyways."

Lassiter opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, but he closed it again and appraised Shawn awkwardly from across the table. Shawn quickly looked away from the detective's penetrating gaze and studied the crime scene photos intensely. He would stare at them until he'd found something. Until he found the ONE clue that would lead him to the sick son of a bitch that had taken everything from him. And when he found him? Shawn was still debating on whether he would let the police arrest him or if he would—

Lassiter snatched the photos out from under his nose and put them neatly inside a file folder before placing the file safely beneath his arm. Shawn stared up at him incredulously.

"What are you doing?" Shawn snapped. "I need those, Lassie. I need to see—"

"See what?" Carlton asked him quietly. "Spencer, you're psychic, right? What do you need the photos for?"

"Are you really going to do this?" Shawn asked very softly, hands clenching into fists. "Now?"

"Depends," Lassiter shrugged.

"On?"

"You," Lassiter told him. "I'm taking the photos with me, Spencer. You're not technically on this case anymore and—"

Lassiter stopped at the look on Shawn's face. If his expression reflected even a small percentage of the fury surging through him he understood why. His hands were shaking and his eyes darted around the room looking for the perfect weapon to smash the stupid detective's skull in for even daring to suggest he be taken off the case. This was HIS case.

"Spencer," Lassiter said gently. "Can't you see how obsessed you are? You're too close to this."

"You can't stop me from being involved," Shawn told him harshly.

"I know," Lassiter sighed. "But, I can stop you from dragging everyone you care about down with you. Everyone I care about." He took the file folder from beneath his arm and glanced distastefully at its contents. "I want to help you, Shawn. But, you have to work with me on this. You can have the photos back."

"And in exchange?" Shawn asked sullenly.

"You come with me and you eat. Then you go home and try and get some sleep. Try and work through this block that you are—"

"I don't have time for that, Lassie! He's out there and he—"

"Do you care about Juliet at all?"

"What?"

"Juliet, your girlfriend? My partner? Ringing any bells?"

"Fuck you, Lassie."

"Dammit, Spencer! I'm trying to help you."

"Then give me the photos!"

"I already told you my conditions," Lassiter told him. "If you don't work with me then I am telling the chief to take you off this case…to put you in protective custody until we can track this guy down."

"You wouldn't do that," Shawn said softly.

"You know I would," Lassiter said. "I have a duty to protect my fellow officers and the civilians of this city. And you are one screw away from a full-scale breakdown, Spencer. You aren't thinking clearly, you aren't making rational decisions. You're angry and I get that, but right now anger is going to get people killed. Going to get you killed. Or Juliet. So, for Christ's sake, Spencer…let me help you."

Shawn stared at Lassiter a long time. He was right, of course. He had already thought of Juliet getting caught up in the sadistic game the murderer liked to play with him. The way Amy had. The thought sent terror crashing through him and it was all he could do to not tear the photos out of Lassiter's grasp. It didn't matter that Lassiter had a gun, didn't matter that the man was nearly a foot taller than him and could easily take him down, didn't matter that Shawn would be hurting someone he had once called friend. Nothing mattered but the hunt. The case. Saving the second woman he'd allowed himself to truly fall for simply because he couldn't save the first.

Except that was the point, wasn't it? Shawn had tried to take the sick freak on alone and it had gotten Amy killed. He needed help and Carlton Lassiter, methodical and level headed, could get the job done. Part of him wanted to ask, to beg, Carlton to help him make sense of the madness in his head, but to do that he would have to trust the detective in a way he wasn't sure he could. It meant telling him the truth…about everything. There was no way he could divulge the events that took place all those years ago without outing himself in the process. Without ruining everything he'd fought so hard to create. Goodbye Shawn the psychic. Hello Shawn the fake, the charlatan, the liar.

And where would that leave him? If he told Lassie that he'd been lying to them all for the past seven years there would be no way the detective could see past that. He would tell the chief who would pull him away from the one job he'd ever loved. And that was only if she didn't throw him in jail. More importantly, Juliet would find out and she would hate him. He would lose her, not in body, but in mind and spirit. He would lose the one person he'd fought so hard against for so many years that finally giving in was like learning to breathe again.

Shawn glanced over at the two-way mirror where he knew Juliet would be watching him. There was someone unfamiliar staring back at him and it took Shawn a moment to realize that the disheveled figure in the glass was himself. He was a mess. Clammy and pale, with glassy eyes and matted hair. He looked like a heroin addict. It wasn't long before he couldn't look at himself anymore. He blinked once and turned his face back to Lassie.

"Why are you doing this?" Shawn asked quietly. "Why are you trying to help me, Lassifrass?"

"Because your father was a good cop," Lassiter said. "Because Juliet is my partner and she loves you. And because you would do the same thing for me, Spencer."

"Just lunch?" Shawn asked. "Then I get the photos?"

"Lunch and sleep," Lassiter said firmly.

"I can't sleep, Lassiter. I can't sleep without seeing…without dreaming…" His voice caught and he had to stop. Lassiter merely nodded.

"One step at a time, Spencer. First lunch. We can figure the rest out from there."

Shawn nodded. He'd made a decision then. He would tell Lassiter everything because the surly detective was the only thing that could help him.

"Good," Carlton grunted. "I'll get O'Hara and we'll—"

"No," Shawn said loudly. "Just us, Lassie. Nobody else."

"Are you sure?" Lassie asked, glancing uncertainly at the two-way mirror and frowning.

"Yeah, I'm sure."

"Spencer," Lassiter ventured. "You're going to have to face her eventually, you know. This isn't going to go away."

"Yeah," Shawn whispered with a forlorn glance at the mirror. "I know."

A half hour and an awkward car ride later Shawn found himself watching the waves break upon the shore from his spot on the patio. They'd chosen Longboards Beach Bar and Grill for lunch because, according to Lassiter, they had the best Thresher shark sandwich on the West Coast. Shawn wasn't sure which disturbed him more: the fact that a Thresher shark sandwich even existed or the fact that Lassiter actually wanted to eat it. He felt that anyone that consumed something that might have bitten off chunks of human flesh was begging to be a victim of what Shawn dubbed 'surprise cannibalism.' He didn't have the heart to mention his reservations to Lassie especially after he made a mewling sound of delight after his first bite.

Shawn had his order taken by a perky blonde waiter, resplendent in the orange sheen of a fake tan. She'd practically bounced up to them with her white teeth gleaming and before she spoke Shawn couldn't help but wonder if she sounded like Minnie Mouse. She didn't. He hoped that she wouldn't bring back the headache that had been gnawing away at his skull. She did.

In the end, their food had been delivered and Shawn managed to scarf down a burger with buffalo sauce and potato chips on it. Normally, such a concoction would have delighted him, but now it took all he had not to throw it all back up. After he'd eaten, he stared at his plate, idly making shapes with his fries, and waited for Lassiter to finish up his meal. The buffalo sauce was sitting heavy on his stomach and the day felt far too warm even though the sky above them was overcast. He just wanted to get this over with. He just wanted a drink. Something to numb the pain…if only for a little while.

When Lassiter excused himself to use the restroom Shawn called the waitress over and ordered five dirty martinis and one cocktail called the 'Blue Moondoggie.' The martinis would get him right to the edge of a drunken stupor and the ridiculousness of the cocktail's name alone could push him over the top and down into the sweet abyss. Of course, Lassiter had to ruin it all.

"Spencer," he snapped, taking his seat just as Shawn raised his third martini glass to his lips. "What the hell do you think your doing?"

"I think the official term is 'drowning the pain', Lassie." He knocked the third martini back in one fluid motion and had barely set the glass down before he was reaching for the fourth.

"Stop it," Lassiter growled, pushing Shawn's hand away.

"Don't tell me what to do, Detective. You're not my father."

"No, I'm not. Thank God." Shawn rolled his eyes and reached for the blue cocktail. "Spencer, I swear if you touch that drink I will handcuff you to the table."

"I need this," Shawn begged. "Please, Lassie…I—"

"The hell you do," Lassiter told him gruffly. "The last thing you need is copious amounts of alcohol. You're a train wreck as it is, Spencer."

Shawn bit his lip hard to keep from screaming and turned his eyes back on the soothing California surf. He could feel his hands shaking beneath the table and his stomach tightened uncomfortably. He began to wonder if the buffalo burger with potato chips was such a good idea. The conversation he was about to have would be difficult enough without feeling the urge to barf everywhere.

"Lassie," Shawn finally said, refusing to look at the older detective. "We need to talk."

"About what?" Lassiter grunted.

"About this case. About what I am. Or…more importantly…what I'm not."

"What you're not? What are you talking about Spencer?"

"I should have never let her get involved," Shawn said hoarsely. "I knew then that I was making a mistake, but I wanted her to be happy, Lassie. I wanted her to be happy so badly that I ignored every instinct I had. And then, he somehow figured out what I could do, and…and I failed her."

"What you could do? You mean…your psychic abilities?"

"Well," Shawn said bitterly. "There's the ironic thing, Lassie. He thought I was psychic. He thought that I could see the future."

"Spencer," Lassiter said very softly. "What are you trying to say to me right now?"

"He believed that I was a psychic, Lassie! Don't you get it? He never cared about her. About Amy. She was just a means to an end. That was the whole point of his game. To prove that I had psychic abilities. That I was in tune to the other side."

"Shawn," Lassiter began, staring at him strangely. "Maybe you should calm down. You don't look—"

"But I wasn't," Shawn exploded, drawing awkward glances from other patrons. "I wasn't, Lassie! I never have been. I have never had a psychic vision in my life. I've never communicated with the dead. Ever. Do you understand what I'm telling you, Lassiter?"

"Yes," Lassiter said calmly.

"Well," Shawn panted. "Aren't you going to say something?"

"Spencer," Lassiter sighed. "I've been waiting for you to admit that you're a fake since you first walked into my police department. You fooled a lot of people, but you didn't actually think I ever believed your bullshit, did you? I already knew you were a scam, Shawn." He shrugged. "But, regardless of your methods, you get results. For now that is all that matters to me."

"I don't understand," Shawn whispered, collapsing in his wicker chair. "I thought you would be furious, Lassie. I thought you would—"

"Drag you to the chief?" Lassie asked with a small smile. "Get you thrown in jail?"

"Yeah," Shawn said softly. "Something like that."

"Most of the time you bug the hell out of me, Spencer. You're unorthodox, untidy, chaotic, immature, and annoying as hell. But, sometimes…sometimes there are moments, brief moments, that I actually like you." He shrugged. "If I had been able to prove that you were a fake three or four years ago I would have liked nothing better than to drag you down, but I don't want that any more."

"What do you want?" Shawn whispered.

"I want you to be honest with me," Lassiter told him. "From now on, no more psychic visions. No more putting your finger to your head or having imaginary conversations with animals and figurines. And you need to tell Juliet."

"I can't," Shawn blanched. "Lassie, I can't do that. She would hate me. I—"

"Tell her," Lassiter growled. "Or I will, Spencer. You can't have a relationship that is founded on lies. Believe me…I know."

"After I catch him," Shawn begged. "After this son of a bitch is dead, I swear I will tell her."

"Fine," Lassiter sighed. His eyes suddenly narrowed. "You said dead, Spencer."

"What?"

"You said after this son of a bitch is dead, Shawn. You were never going to allow him to make it into police custody, were you?"

"Slip of the tongue," Shawn began.

"Don't start with that," Lassiter snapped. "This is the kind of stuff I was talking about! The kind of stuff that will get you killed. Playing vigilante hasn't solved anything, Shawn."

"Why should he get the chance to live?" Shawn yelled, pushing himself up from the table. "Why should he be given a fair trial when he murdered and killed—" Shawn stopped and swallowed, attempting to breathe past the painful lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat. It felt like his throat was closing up, like his airways had narrowed and been crushed inwards.

Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong. The tightening of his belly became a fire, licking red hot flames against his insides. His head was swimming and though he felt uncomfortably cold he was all but dripping with sweat. The agony in his gut intensified into harsh, stabbing pains and Shawn felt himself fall against the table, dragging the tablecloth, the remaining martinis, and the dishes to the ground.

"Spencer," Carlton was yelling at him. "Spencer, what the hell is wrong with you?"

Shawn tried to answer, but his tongue wouldn't work. He collapsed backwards and fell onto the wooden boards of the patio. He couldn't breathe. He could hear himself attempting to draw in wheezing gulps of air and was both sickened and mesmerized by the site of his own spit dripping onto the patio, thicker than any spit had the right to be.

"Somebody call an ambulance," Lassiter shouted before getting to his knees beside Shawn. "Hey, Spencer, talk to me. What's happening?"

He opened his mouth and tried to speak the words, but all that came out was a harsh groan of mutilated consonants and vowels. His whole body tingled, like thousands of bugs were crawling all over his skin. The pain in his gut was reaching a blinding crescendo and Shawn grabbed hold of Lassiter's shirt so that he could heave himself to his side in order to throw up. The buffalo burger came back up his throat and peppered the deck. There was blood there, harsh and red. His blood. What the hell was happening to him?

It was then that he saw it. A glass vial taped to the underside of their table and Shawn knew instantly that he'd been poisoned. Poisoned by the very son of a bitch he was trying to hunt down. The message would have been clear even if it hadn't been for the numbers carved into the wood. 1-0. The game was beginning and Shawn had lost the first round.

He wouldn't die. He knew this instinctively. The killer wouldn't want him out of the game so quickly because without Shawn there would be nobody to play with. The glass vial must have contained and antidote of some kind, but as comforting as that thought was it did little to help ease the pain. He reached out a trembling hand and tried to rip the vial off the table, but his fingers wouldn't work. His muscles shook and cramped and he felt himself convulsing at Lassiter tried to hold him still.

"Shit," he heard Lassiter hiss. "Shit, shit, shit. What the hell am I supposed to do?"

Shawn grabbed for the vial again, but this time Lassiter's eyes followed the direction of his hands. He yanked the vial off the side of the table and ripped open the tiny note that was attached. His face paled as his eyes scanned the page and Shawn tried to ask him what was wrong, but his muscles cramped so badly that his back arched off the floor and a choked scream escaped his lips.

"Lassie," Shawn ground out. "Lass…ie, help…help me."

"Keep breathing," Lassiter told him. "Just keep breathing, Spencer. Do you hear me? Help is on the way."

Shawn tried to do what Lassiter told him. He was trying so hard, but with every spasm of his muscles and every labored beat of his heart he knew he was losing the fight to stay conscious. It was a fight just to keep his eyes open and he was losing.

Suddenly, he was falling. Falling through clouds and past rainbows. He could feel himself convulsing uncontrollably against Lassiter's chest, could hear the head detective shouting at him, could see bright flashes of light followed by horrendous flashes of pain, but it all seemed so far away. He knew, somewhere in the back of his head, that there were no clouds or rainbows. He was hallucinating, perhaps a side effect of the poison, but this knowledge did little for him. He could see the ground rushing up to meet him and all he had to do was let go, let himself crash into the earth and sleep forever.

Shawn let go. He felt a brief pain of impact and then nothing.