It's not Bryce Montgomery.

Rizzoli had brought him in. Shawn watched Lassiter and Rizzoli questioning Rebecca Xavier's husband for less than thirty seconds and knew he was innocent. The poor guy was clearly distraught. He couldn't have looked less guilty.

While Lassiter is in the interrogation room, Shawn takes the opportunity to sneak away. A few choice words to the file clerk, and he's searching through Bryce Montgomery's record. Finds one arrest in the juvenile record. And one more name: Tabitha Helena Montgomery. Bryce's twin sister.

He hides in the bathroom and calls Gus.

"Shawn, I'm busy."

"Need you to look something up for me, buddy."

Shawn can practically hear Gus's frown. "What, they don't have the internet in Boston?"

"Come on," Shawn pleads. "I'm at the police station and there are only so many computers I can take over before they start asking questions. Plus, my phone is slow."

Gus huffs in exasperation. "Fine. What do you have?"

"Google this. Tabitha Helena Montgomery." He spells it, just to make sure Gus gets it.

There's a pause. "Oh wow."

"What? What?"

"She's wanted for murder, Shawn. There's an article here from Boston - she killed a guy." Gus pauses. "There were speculations that she was paid off."

He gives Shawn the details of the murder, briefly, and hangs up.

Okay. So Bryce's sister is a murderer. And maybe even a hit man (woman? Person, Shawn decides). Not great. Obviously, that made her a suspect.

"Thanks." Shawn hangs up.

He opens the door to the interrogation room without knocking. Lassiter's expression is pure annoyance, and Shawn is momentarily distracted because oh, he looks so sexy with his sleeves rolled up like that.

Rizzoli shakes him out of it. "What do you think you're doing?" she snaps.

Shawn squeezes his eyes shut and points at Montgomery. "The spirits are telling me he's innocent," he says.

Rizzoli grabs Shawn's arm, her fingers biting into Shawn's skin. "Get out of here," she hisses.

"He's confused! Afraid! Afraid because he knows his sister is-" here Shawn pauses for dramatic effect, eyes still closed -"wanted for murder!"

Montgomery inhales sharply. "How did you know that?"

"She's-" Shawn furrows his brow. "I'm seeing a woman. She's scared. Beaten. Tabitha is stepping in front of her. Saving her from her husband...by killing him!"

Shawn hears Montgomery's chair scrape the floor and then topple. Hears Montgomery's hands slap the table.

"She didn't kill him," he shouts. "She didn't do anything - Tabby didn't do anything!"

Shawn opens his eyes and looks at Bryce Montgomery.

"Tabby," he says. Short for Tabitha.

Bryce's eyes. One hazel, one green. He's seen those eyes before.

Tabby Helena. A few rearrangements, a letter swapped out here and there, and -

"Oh no," Shawn says, and runs out the door.

He's back in the men's room in less than thirty seconds, phone to his ear. "Pick up, Jules. Pick up."

After four rings, she does. "O'Hara."

"Jules!" Thank God. "Bethany Abel. Look her up. Quick. Priors and fingerprints."

"Shawn, what's wrong? Why are you-"

He cuts her off. "Just look it up, Jules, please, it's important."

"Bethany Abel, isn't that the girl who pulled the dancer out of the stage?" Shawn hears keystrokes in the background. Juliet must be typing.

"Yes, yes, yes," Shawn says impatiently.

"Clean," Juliet says. "No priors. No fingerprints."

"Photos?"

"None."

"Shit," Shawn says. "Listen, Jules, you have to get her back into the station. And be careful."

"Why? Shawn, what's going on?"

"Because." Shawn takes a deep breath. "I think Bethany Abel isn't who she claims to be."

When Lassiter and Rizzoli get out of the interrogation room, Shawn seizes Lassiter's arm. "We have to get back to Santa Barbara," he says.

Lassiter looks at him, then at Shawn's hand on his arm. "What?" he says.

"Tabitha Helena. Tabby Helena." Shawn snatches Rizzoli's pad, ignoring her indignant "Hey!" He scribbles the name on it. "Bethany Abel. She's the same person, Lassie. She has to be."

"Bethany Abel? The girl from the sideshow?"

"Yes!" Shawn yells. "Same eyes as Bryce. Anagram name, why do they always do that? Lassie." He puts his hands on Lassiter's shoulders and stares into his eyes. "We have to go home."

It doesn't take much psychic spinning to convince Lassiter that they need to fly back to Santa Barbara right away. In fact, it pretty much just takes a phone call to Juliet.

"We've got Bethany Abel," she says, on speakerphone. "We've got the info from your guys in Boston and we're fingerprinting her now. I'll send the prints to the lab and have them run an analysis, compare them to Tabitha Montgomery's. She's not going anywhere, Shawn."

"Yeah," Shawn says, "but the question remains, doesn't it, why she was in Santa Barbara to begin with. Unless it was to murder Xavier."

"Why would she do that? There was nothing in it for her."

Shawn pauses, thinking. "But she's killed before. And maybe for money."

Lassiter jabs Shawn in the arm with an outstretched finger. "Bryce."

Shawn considers this for a moment. "If she's really taken up killing for hire, I hope she at least gave him a family rate."

"Be serious, Spencer," Lassiter says. "Bryce could have asked her to do it. If Xavier was dead, Rebecca stood to inherit his fortune. If Rebecca was dead, Bryce would be the next one in line to get the money, because he was still her husband. And Bryce knew that Tabitha had assumed a new identity. She could do the deed, he could pay her off, and she'd disappear - and he'd know she'd never turn on him, because he's family."

"The perfect crime." Juliet's voice sounds thoughtful and tinny through the speaker.

"They were different enough to look like random crimes," Lassiter says. "One's premeditated, obviously well-thought-out. The other one is a B&E, a rush job. They couldn't be more different." He's talking faster now, his tone edged with excitement.

"Wait." Shawn holds up a hand. "Wait. Something doesn't make sense."

"What are you talking about, Spencer, it makes perfect sense!" Lassiter's blue eyes are wide, incredulous.

"No." Shawn runs through the scene at the sideshow in his head.

The red-haired dancer falling through the stage. Screaming. "Bethany found the body."

"She didn't find the body," Juliet says. "The dancer found the body."

"The dancer fell on the body," Shawn corrects her. Bethany launching herself onstage. Fast fast fast. Fast enough to tear her jeans and scrape her knee. "Bethany found it, and-"

fear concern shock horror

No. Her expression had been real. She hadn't seen that body before.

Bethany didn't do it.

Bethany talking to the manager, calming him down. Bethany talking to Lassiter. Bethany helping. Bethany reassuring. She had reacted fast to an emergency. And afterwards, she was calm. No signs of guilt: no tics, no sweating, no stammering. No nervous glances toward the body.

It wasn't her.

So why was she at that scene?

"Jules," Shawn says, "we need to get back there. We need to look at Bethany Abel's life. Workplace, home, places she hangs out."

"I'll get a warrant," Juliet says immediately, and hangs up.

They're on the next flight back to Santa Barbara. It cost the department a little bit, but it's worth it, especially when Juliet calls Lassiter on their way to the airport and informs him that Bethany Abel's fingerprints do, in fact, match Tabitha Montgomery's. The FBI is on their way: they want her back in Boston, where she's wanted for murder.

"Do not let them take her," Lassiter instructs. "She's a suspect in our murder."

"She's a suspect in theirs, too," Juliet points out.

"Ours is newer!" Lassiter exclaims.

"Just get here fast, and it won't be a problem. Oh," Juliet adds, "and good call, Shawn." And hangs up.

Lassiter is quiet for most of the flight. After two hours: "Spencer."

Shawn yawns and looks up from the novel he bought at the airport. "Sup, Lassie."

A pause. "How do you do it?"

Shawn's heart picked up speed the second he heard the tone of Lassiter's voice, because he knew what was coming. He takes a deep breath now, trying to slow it down. "Do what?" Trying to keep his voice even.

"I know you're not psychic." Lassiter places his hands flat on his tray table. He's not looking at Shawn. The words are unyielding, but Shawn hears the silent question mark at the end of Lassiter's statement: are you?

Shawn closes his eyes. Maybe if he ignores Lassie, Lassie will let the question go.

He doesn't.

"Spencer." More insistently now. Shawn feels Lassiter nudge his arm. "Look at me."

It's easy to lie to Lassiter. That is, it's easy to lie to Lassiter when Gus and Juliet and Chief Vick are there, because then it's a show. It's a show, and he's the star; and more importantly, he's not just lying to Lassie, he's lying to everyone.

Sitting next to Lassie on a plane, sleeping next to him, noting the evidence in the hotel trash can of a nighttime visit from Madame Palm and her five daughters-that makes it significantly less easy to lie to Lassiter.

He opens his eyes and looks at Lassiter.

To Shawn's surprise, Lassiter's expression isn't interrogative or aggressive. His jaw isn't clenched. The angry-furrows aren't in his brow. Instead, he's looking at Shawn with calm, unassuming eyes. The only thing Shawn can read in Lassiter's face is curiosity. He really wants to know.

Damn you, Lassie.

Shawn's supposed to be the psychic, but Lassiter knows exactly how to play him.

"Um." Shawn looks down at his hands. "Maybe we can talk about this later."

In an instant, Lassiter's expression goes flat.

"Fine," he says.

Damn, damn, double damn. Shawn passes a hand over his face. He can't tell Lassiter; that's the one thing he absolutely cannot do. Lassiter would be furious. He'd tell Chief Vick in a heartbeat and not only would Shawn be out of a job, he'd also probably be in deep doggy doo-doo with the police. Lassiter would probably never speak to him again, which would be the worst part.

On the other hand, Shawn has a feeling that this is going to come between them like Dylan came between Brenda and Kelly, so maybe that's the worst part.

Is there a third hand? Because if there is, Shawn thinks that it's possible that Lassiter won't tell anyone. After all, Shawn not being psychic means that Shawn is just a really good detective, and he got a perfect score on that stupid detective exam fifteen years ago, so he would kind of be a threat. Not that Shawn wants to make Lassiter feel threatened, but that would, at least, ensure that Shawn's secret is safe.

Shawn considers each of the possibilities for a few moments. Makes a decision.

"Okay, you got me," he says. "I'm not psychic."

Lassiter looks at him. "What?"

"I said, I'm not psychic," Shawn says. His heart is pounding. He really hopes he's making the right decision. "Shh. Don't tell. I have a reputation to uphold."

There's a long pause. Shawn can't read Lassiter's expression at all. Then Lassiter takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. "You realize you're defrauding the police."

"Yes." Shawn's heart sinks.

"You realize you're also defrauding the public and lying to your friends." Lassiter's voice is getting tighter. Anger edges his words.

"Some of them, yeah." Oh, this is really bad. Gus is going to kill him.

"You could be charged for this," Lassiter continues.

"I know."

Lassiter is silent for a full five minutes. Shawn is sweating. Finally: "Lassie? Um, can you say something?"

More silence. Then: "You don't have inside information."

"No."

"You aren't psychic."

"No."

"Then..." Lassiter swings an icy gaze toward Shawn. "How?"

Shawn hesitates. "I have an eidetic memory."

"What?" Lassiter frowns.

"Photographic memory," Shawn says. "My mom has it too. Henry...trained me."

Lassiter's frown deepens. "Trained you?" he says.

"Yeah. From when I was really little. He used to quiz me, make my cover my eyes. Then he'd ask me what I had seen." Shawn pauses. "Like the hat game. How many hats are in the room. There are six hats on this plane," he adds.

Lassiter's nostrils are flaring more than Judd Nelson's. "Show me," he says.

Shawn closes his eyes and points. "Flight attendant standing in the aisle, little airline hat. She has a green watch that's four minutes fast and a run in her hose on the left calf. Old guy across the aisle has a trucker hat that says I'd Rather Be Fishing, with fake red fly sewn onto the brim. Kid in front of the exit row is wearing a fleece hat with bear ears. When I went to the bathroom a while ago, he was playing Max and the Magic Marker on an iPad. College girl four rows back is wearing a red Indiana University ball cap. Her boyfriend is wearing an IU hat too, but his is white and really dirty. Incidentally, they were fighting when they got on the plane. And there's a chick in first class wearing one of those Newsies hats that Britney Spears used to wear. She's in her forties, but she wants everyone to think she's young and hip, so she's wearing slutty clothes and too much makeup. Fake gold necklaces, two of them. Bad move, in my opinion." Shawn opens his eyes.

Lassiter is staring at him, mouth slightly open, disbelief etched into every line of his face.

"You-" he starts, and breaks off. He closes his mouth, lips tightening. He's quiet for a long time.

"Why aren't you a detective?" he says at last.

Shawn snorts. "Please, Lassie. Have we met? I'd be a terrible detective."

"But you - that memory!"

"I'm distractible, whimsical, impulsive, and, as my dad likes to remind me, I never follow through with anything," Shawn says. "In other words: I'd be a terrible detective." He debates with himself for a moment, then decides to ask. "Are you going to tell the Chief?"

Lassiter turns front again, seeming to sag. He rubs the back of his neck. "I don't know," he says. "Let me think about it."

"Please don't put me out of a job." Shawn tries to make it sound light, but he isn't terribly successful: it comes out small and scared. This is the first time in his life that he's stuck with something for longer than six months and he likes it and he's good at it, and if he loses it he isn't sure what he'll do. Probably get a job at a Jamba Juice for two weeks, then spend two weeks folding shirts at Banana Republic, then two weeks as a barista at Starbucks...God, that's depressing.

"I should tell her." Lassiter sounds as though he's talking to himself. "She should know."

Shawn doesn't say anything. Can't. He's dismayed with himself - how could he have made such a bad decision? It was that look on Lassiter's face.

Lassiter looks at Shawn, his blue eyes narrow and shrewd. "You solve a lot of cases," he says.

Shawn struggles to keep his face neutral. "Yes."

"The Chief would probably have to fire you."

"Yes."

Lassiter falls silent then and just looks at Shawn, steady and assessing, until Shawn starts to feel squirmy and awkward.

"Say something," he says uncomfortably.

Lassiter takes a deep breath and looks away. "Who else knows?" he says.

At last, a question he can answer without thinking. "Gus. Henry. And you, now."

Shawn counts the seconds until Lassiter speaks again. Forty-seven.

"I'm not going to tell her," he says.

Shawn feels every muscle in his body slacken with relief. "Oh, thank God. I'm terrible at folding."

"What?"

"Nothing." Shawn grimaces. "But wh-"

"Don't ask why," Lassiter interrupts sharply. "I don't know and I don't want to think about it. Just...it's a gift horse. Don't look it in the mouth."

Shawn bites back a snappy "Yes, Detective!" and instead just says "Okay" in his meekest possible voice. "Thanks."

Lassiter grunts. Then he pulls out the book he brought - a biography of Ulysses S. Grant - and opens it. Shawn takes this as a sign that the conversation is over and tries to suppress the unsettled feeling in his stomach.

But Lassiter closes the book a few moments later. "How far back can you remember?" he asks abruptly.

Shawn's not quite sure where this is going. "What, do you mean can I remember my diapers being changed?"

"No," Lassiter snaps. "I mean can you remember little details very far back. Like - "

It's Shawn's turn to interrupt. "The first day we met - I mean the first real day, not that day Henry arrested me and you had that horrible mustache - you were wearing a blue-grey pinstriped suit. Your tie was navy and had blue and beige crisscrossy things. You had your badge on your right hip and your ID badge was clipped to your left lapel. Not a great picture. It looked like a mug shot. And in the third grade, Allison Mooneyham was wearing pink overall shorts and a white T-shirt with pink trim when she punched me in the face." He pauses, adds: "That happened to me a lot."

Lassiter shakes his head. "Unbelievable."

Shawn can't resist the urge to show off a little. "I can run through your entire tie collection, if you want."

Grimacing. "No. I believe you."

And because the hard part is over, because the big secret is out, Shawn feels like he just might be able to add in the little one. The one that includes the reason Shawn remembers Lassiter's suit from the day they met, and all his ties.

He thinks better of it. There have been enough revelations today.