It makes a lot more sense, now.
Shawn stuffs his hands in his pockets as he shuffles down the boardwalk. He no longer thinks that Lassiter dislikes him. In fact, he's pretty sure that Lassiter wants him as much as he wants Lassiter. The problem, then, is that Lassie is clearly freaking out.
What to do about this?
Shawn tried to be as nonthreatening as possible after Lassiter dropped the "this is new" bombshell. Tried to be reassuring - not an easy task - and gentle and even slow-moving. Lassie was as jittery as Jessie Spano on caffeine pills until Shawn made it clear that he wasn't going to push the issue.
The nap was nice, though.
He replays the image of Lassie asleep in his lap over and over. The feeling of Lassiter's skin beneath his fingers. The long, steady breaths Lassiter took in his sleep. The way he tucked one hand under Shawn's leg and pulled himself closer, curling against Shawn like a long-limbed kitten.
The adorable way he yawned and rolled over and stretched when he woke up. Sleepy-eyed Lassie...yes, he'll take more, please.
He carries the day with him. It'll be the one thing that makes him feel better after tomorrow's meeting with Woody. After he says goodbye to Emily.
Shawn sits on the bench outside the office and stretches his legs toward the ocean. He sits there for a long time.
Next day, and Shawn is anxious. He slept poorly and woke up with his neck and head aching. He can't settle down: by noon, he's cleaned the entire office, done all his laundry, reorganized Gus's desk, and eaten four Fruit by the Foots. He shows up a full half hour early at the morgue. Waits. Impatiently.
"Shawn, my good man!" Woody is his usual cheerful self.
"Woody, hi." Shawn forces a smile and declines to shake Woody's hand, which is spotted with blood. "What's the word?"
"On little Miss Hernandez?" Woody's expression falters a little. "Such a shame."
"I know." Shawn wipes his palms on his jeans and takes a deep breath. "So..."
Woody shrugs. "Exactly what we thought," he says. "She bled out from the wound in her neck. Went straight through the external carotid. She knew what she was doing."
She made sure there would be no chance she'd survive, in other words.
Shawn shoves his hands in his pockets. "Can I see her?"
"Sure." Woody's lips thin a little. "If you're sure..." He trails off, a question mark in his tone.
"I'll be okay," Shawn says. Tries to sound reassuring.
He steadies himself before he pushes the door open. Woody doesn't follow him.
And oh, he isn't ready, but there she is on the table. Under the spotlight. Draped in a sheet, pale and still and silent, hadn't he just talked to her three days ago?
He approaches slowly, each step more difficult than the last. He feels as though he's wading through molasses.
It was the hardest interview he'd ever done, in the break room of the pharmacy with Emily. Because as soon as he'd asked her about Victor Xavier, he'd known that something was wrong. He'd seen the way her face changed when Shawn said Victor's name. Fear hate panic shame, all in one flash of pale blue eyes. And at that moment, Shawn knew.
He looks down at the woman on the table. She's his age. His age, but so much older, and had so much less. He thinks of everything she had stolen from her. Hears her voice in his head.
He came to my room at night, she'd said. Her face had been entirely devoid of expression. At first, he just wanted to...talk. Then he touched me. A downward flicker of her blue eyes. Then...other things.
Nine years old.
Woody, bless him, has sewn up the gash in her neck with surgical precision. Her hair is clean, still wet, clinging to the metal table. The sheet is pulled up high enough that Shawn can't see the Y-incision he knows is there.
He touches her hair, her cheek. Her skin feels cold and heavy and so very, very dead.
"I'm so sorry," he whispers. "I'm so sorry, Emily."
And what if?
What if he hadn't gotten involved? What if he'd never investigated Bethany, if they'd never found Emily at all? What if she'd gotten away with it?
Victor would be dead and she'd be alive.
But Shawn found her. And Shawn talked to her and she had practically confessed. They already had the means and opportunity. She provided the motive. And so they caught her, and Victor is dead and so is she.
He weighs the what if and the what happened, the hypothetical and the actual. Tries to make it right in his head. He can't do it. If he had never found her, Victor would be dead and she'd be alive.
But that wouldn't have been right either, would it?
Would it?
He washes his hands before he leaves, but he still feels death clinging to his skin. Woody hasn't reappeared and he's grateful.
He goes home and showers. He feels like he's going crazy, all these thoughts and scenarios pinging around in his head like Superballs, and no way to let them out. He can't be alone with himself for any longer.
So he's really, really glad when Lassiter answers the phone.