A/N: Be cool, reviewer daddy-os. This doesn't mean the other series are finished. More will come for Tango and Late. Promise. And when have I lied to you? Aside from the dozens of lies I post and call them fiction? When? WHEN? Apologies to whomever suggested this word. It was ages ago and I can't remember who offered it, but it stuck in my head because I like it.

Stonewall

He called her cell phone. He called her main line. He went by her place several times and looked in every window. Hell, he even emailed her.

Grace was gone.

Not missing. Lisbon was acting like her absence was unfortunate, but accounted for. She knew why, if not where, Grace had gone. So Rigsby wasn't allowed to fly off the handle in panic like he really wanted to. He wasn't allowed to file a Missing Persons report. He wasn't allowed to tear her place apart looking for clues, even though it was clear from scanning the rooms that she'd taken everything that wasn't nailed down. Her furniture, her books, even the ceramic kitty that sat on the kitchen window sill. All gone. Nor was he allowed to rail and scream in the office and demand to know what the fuck was going on. Apparently, that was considered inappropriate. The unspoken advice of everyone he came within spitting distance of was always the same: Move on. Be like Cho. Be like Jane. Be like Lisbon. Just let her go.

Well, fuck Cho. And fuck Jane. And double fuck Lisbon since she was obviously holding out on him.

His easygoing silence at work became sullen silence. His open, honest gazes became furtive and accusing. Like always, he did what he was told. But unlike always, he made it clear that he thought they were limping along on three legs and they were idiots if they thought they could just ignore the absence of the fourth. And not just any fourth. Fuck the interviews in due course. There was only one person capable of completing their unit. He didn't bother screening the knowledge that that same one person happened to own his heart and soul. That was irrelevant. People weren't simply allowed to vanish without a trace in the CBI. What was this? Stalin's Russia? To hell with everyone acting like never seeing her again was no big deal. Because it was. It was the biggest damn deal since Amelia Earhart disappeared over the ocean, never to be heard from again.

With this sense of immensity firmly in place, Rigsby began to search.

He started by submitting a formal request to Lisbon, asking for fuller disclosure regarding her removal from their team. Request denied. Fine.

He went to her yoga class and spoke to her instructor, hoping she might have let slip her plans or location. No luck. Grace had merely emailed her and canceled her payments.

Abusing his professional access, he tracked her bank activity. All he was able to discern was that her California account had been closed and her money rewired to an off-shore account. He had no authority in Singapore. His hunt ended there.

He pulled her file (now found in the Previous Employee catalog), looked up her emergency contact, and called her folks. He must admit, he wasn't prepared to hear Lisbon's words parroted to him in Mrs. Van Pelt's pleasant midwestern accent. "She's fine, Wayne," she told him evasively. Rigsby shook his head in wonder against his phone and asked again. "Please, ma'am. I know she and I aren't together anymore, but I'm really worried. No one will tell me anything. I need to talk to her. I need her to tell me she's okay. That's all, honest. Please?"

The older woman sighed into his earpiece. He heard tiredness in it. He felt the same sense of dislike in her words as he'd felt in Lisbon's. It drove him even crazier. Seriously, what the fuck was wrong with everyone? What was with all this cloak and dagger crap? Where was his beautiful, tall, soft, smiling, cruel, kind (ex) baby?

"Wayne," her voice jolted him back. "I'm sorry. You were good to my girl. I know you were. I never heard her happier than when she was with you. But you need to stop this now. Listen to me when I say that she's fine. Whatever she told you, or didn't tell you, she had her reasons. I'd ask that you respect it."

Rigsby huffed in amazement, but kept his reply calm. "I understand." Like fuck, he did. "If you speak to her, tell her..." he paused, unsure of how to finish that sentence. The answer had stalled on his tongue. Screw it. "Tell her I love her. I love her and I'm scared outta my wits here."

There was hesitation in the silence on the other end. He waited it out.

"All right," she said finally. "When I speak to her. I'll tell her."

"I love her," he reiterated hard, not wanting Mrs. Van Pelt to dilute his message with some pale word like 'care' or 'respect' or 'miss'. "Tell Grace I'm going crazy without her."

His bluntness seemed to strengthen her voice. "I will. I'll tell Grace that you love her."

"Thank you."

He hung up.