Sophie entered the bullpen cheerfully the next morning. Her call to the mayor had been successful, and she was excited to tell Spencer they'd have their prints by noon.

Because the detective had given her outfit scornful looks the day before, this morning she was wearing designer jeans and a simple silk shirt. They looked good on her and were practical, so she hoped he would approve.

Detective Spencer scowled when he saw her, but both Baird and Hardison smiled. She was beginning to think scowling was Spencer's way of saying hello.

"Good morning, Eliot," she said cheerfully, causing Hardison to smirk.

"Devereaux," he acknowledged, ignoring the use of his first name. "I didn't expect to see you."

"I wanted to be here when the prints came in."

"They won't be in for awhile yet."

She shook her head. "They'll be in this morning."

"This morning?"

"I called in my favour."

"I thought I told you we had to wait our turn."

She shrugged. "I don't like to wait. Besides, you already know how well I follow orders."

Hardison and Baird exchanged an amused look but remained silent until Sophie asked them, "Did you learn anything from the canvas?"

Baird shook her head. "Nothing we didn't already know."

"No idea where she was murdered?"

"Not yet."

"So it all comes down to the prints?"

"Looks like it," Hardison agreed.

"That's a lot riding on one little picture. What if it's a dead end?"

"Then we find another thread," Baird told her.

"We go back to my murder scenes?"

"Yup."

Detective Spencer had been watching this conversation impassively. He was slumped lazily in his chair, his eyes resting on her face. Sophie could feel him watching her, but she had no idea what he was thinking. All signs of soft boredom were gone as his phone rang shrilly. He answered with an intensity that Sophie could almost feel.

"Spencer...Okay, thanks." When he hung up, he spoke to Baird and Hardison, somehow excluding Sophie. "That was our call. Kyle Cabbot. Brooklyn. Let's go."

XXX

She had no business smelling like cookies, Eliot thought as he pulled up outside Cabbot's apartment building. The faint scents of vanilla and cinnamon surrounded him.

Devereaux was in the other side of the car, peering out the window. She was looking at the building as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world.

"This is it?"

"Yup."

She turned to look at him and caught him staring at her. "What?"

He couldn't help himself. "Why do you smell like cookies?"

Her face had been uncharacteristically serious but broke into a smile at his words. "Not my normal scent, I assure you."

This he believed. Though she smelled delicious, Sophie Devereaux was not the kind of woman you'd expect to smell of something as domestic as cookies. On the night he'd brought her in for questioning, she'd smelled like some kind of exotic flower. That scent had seemed much more fitting.

"Parker bought me this vanilla shampoo for my birthday last week. She loves everything sweet. I didn't want to hurt her feelings by not using it. It doesn't bother you, does it?"

"No, of course not." It just made him wonder if she tasted as good as she smelled, which definitely was not the head space he wanted to be in at the moment.

Several cars pulled up around them, blaring loud sirens and flashing bright lights. Excitement drove the fun from Devereaux's face, and she reached for her door handle.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"With you."

"I don't think so."

Eliot couldn't even being to imagine the bad things that would happen if she got hurt in there.

"I'm paying the liability insurance," she argued.

As if money were the thing he was most worried about. There'd be a shit storm. There would be no more Sophie Devereaux books. Worst of all, she'd be dead. Besides that, if she got in the way, there could be a mistrial or worse. Nothing good could come out of her following him into the building.

"You don't have a vest."

"I'll stay behind everyone."

"No," he said with finality.

He saw the need to continue protesting go through her eyes, and he waited in exasperation for her next words. He was surprised when the light went out, and she huffed and let herself fall against the seat.

"Fine."

Eliot studied her for signs of rebellion. When he saw none, he got out to meet the officers who would be going in with him. He quickly checked his vest and drew his gun.

Eliot nodded to Baird and Hardison as they joined him. Trailed by their backup, they headed into the building and made their way to the third floor.

When they reached Cabbot's apartment, Eliot pounded on the door as his team spread out behind him. "Kyle, Cabbot, NYPD. Open up."

There was no sound on the other side.

"Open the door. If you don't, I will use force to open it. Do you understand?"

When there was still no answer, he glanced at Baird and Hardison. They both nodded. Eliot stepped back and kicked the door hard. It flew open, banging against something on the other side.

They swarmed into the small apartment. Eliot glanced around with his gun raised, noting the room was both neat and empty.

"Kyle Cabbot, NYPD. Show yourself," Hardison called as the search spread out.

Because the apartment was small, it was only seconds before voices started calling, "Clear."

When it was apparent their suspect wasn't there, Eliot holstered his gun. Some newspaper clippings scattered messily on the coffee table, out of place in the neat room, caught his eye. He moved forward and saw they were about Alison Tisdale's death. Among the clippings was one of Devereaux's books. It was open, with horrific pictures drawn in crayon inside. More of the hand drawn pictures were in amongst the clippings, and one closely matched the picture that had led them there.

Nearby, a well mounted bookshelf held a complete collection of Sophie Devereaux's works—everything Jake and Eliot owned plus one they'd never been able to find. There were ragged sticky notes along their tops and, curious, Eliot moved forward and took one down.

He flipped it open to see the book's pages were covered with more of those creepy pictures.

Hardison came up behind him and said, "You should ask him to join the book club."

"Shut up, Hardison," Eliot said without heat, snapping the book closed.

"Spencer, in here," Baird's voice called from another room.

He put the book on the coffee table next to an article featuring Devereaux's overly serious face—the face Eliot was beginning to think of as her author face since the expression was so far from her real one—and went deeper into the apartment. He found a cluster of officers standing in Kyle's bedroom in front of what could only be called a shrine.

There were pictures of Devereaux-both with her author face and with her natural expression-in various outfits and situations, articles about both her and her books, second copies or covers of her books, more of Kyle's strange drawings, and even Devereaux's autograph. It made Eliot's skin crawl, especially since he knew the object of Cabbot's obsession, and it was not unlikely that eventually his violent tendencies would turn to her.

"Oh," a soft voice said behind him, and he turned to see Devereaux staring at the shrine. Her eyes were wide, and her face was pale.

"Devereaux! What are you doing in here? I thought I told you to stay in the car."

"I'm sorry. I couldn't help myself." She paused, and her eyes briefly went back to the shrine. "That's rather creepy, isn't it?"

Eliot glared at her, trying to find the right words to chastise her with.

"Spencer, look," Baird said, catching his attention.

She was holding up a pale pink shirt containing two rips with blood around their edges. Rips that he was willing to bet matched up to the holes in Alison Tisdale's body.

Ignoring Devereaux, he joined Baird and saw a small gun. "And I think this is the murder weapon." Any other conversation was interrupted by a loud thump. "What the hell?"

His gun came back out, and he walked across the apartment, following the noise as the thumping continued. It was coming from a small door off the kitchen that they'd missed. Eliot stood to the side, out of the line of fire, with Hardison behind him.

Devereaux came into the kitchen, and Eliot stared at her until she moved behind Hardison, out of the danger zone.

He opened the door quickly, revealing a small coat closet. A young man was huddled inside, banging against the wall and muttering to himself.

"Show me your hands!" Eliot demanded, but there was no reaction except the mumbling got louder.

"Get out of my house. Get out of my house. Get out of my house."

"Show me your hands, dammit."

Voices exploded through the room, repeating, "Show me your hands...put your hands up..."

Cabbot raised his opened hands but had no other reaction. He kept pounding himself against the wall. Two members of Eliot's team had to reach in and grab him, hauling him out and reading him his Rights. He was so non-functional Eliot couldn't even be sure Cabbot understood them.

He holstered his gun, glancing at Devereaux. There was pity and compassion on her face, but she didn't say anything. When she met his eyes, she quickly turned away, as if putting up a wall. Eliot was intrigued in spite of himself. He was starting to think she wasn't the shallow, flighty woman she appeared to be. For a moment, he was tempted to go to her and find out what she was thinking, but he pushed the impulse away. Devereaux wasn't what mattered. What mattered was getting Kyle Cabbot into booking and wrapping up the case.

XXX

Sophie studied Kyle through the two way glass. He was young, much younger than she'd expected, and her heart went out to him. It didn't seem possible that the silently rocking boy could have murdered three people in cold blood, no matter how obsessive he was.

Captain Ford was standing beside her. His shirt was a little rumpled, and his curly hair was just a bit out of control. She liked the captain; he'd been very kind to her when she'd asked to join Spencer on the case. His detectives seemed to respect him, and she'd only heard good things about him.

In the room with Kyle, Spencer stood up and ran a fatigued hand down his face. Sophie watched him with concern. He still looked exhausted, and she wondered if he'd gotten any sleep the night before.

He glanced at the mirror before leaving the interrogation room and joining Sophie and Ford.

"No luck?" Ford asked, his eyes still on Kyle.

"Nope. Still not speaking. State Medical Records say he's got PDD."

"Pervasive Development Disorder?" Sophie asked.

"Yeah. I guess he was in hard shape before Alison got to him. History of delusions. In and out of the system. She got him the job at the diner. Really turned his life around." He shook his head. "What a waste."

"Well, that explains his obsession with me, then. PDD sometimes manifests that way. You said Alison was his caseworker?"

"And it got her killed."

"How sad."

"He was on some pretty heavy anti-psychotics. If he skipped a couple of 'em..."

"Looks as if the profiler was right. Limited intelligence. Thinks he has a personal relationship with Ms. Devereaux." Ford turned from the glass. "Good work, Detective."

"I don't know..." Sophie started, then stopped abruptly, biting her lip.

"What is it?"

"Isn't it too neat?"

"Too neat?" Spencer asked.

"I mean the letter, the pictures, Kyle, the evidence."

"I don't know about in fantasy land, but here in the real world, there's this thing called evidence."

"I know, but..."

"No buts. It's over. We solved the case. You can go home now."

She looked at both faces. Neither man was showing a shred of doubt. With a sigh, she accepted their words, but she couldn't silence the niggling in the back of her mind.

XXX

Flynn Carson hummed to himself as he rang Sophie's doorbell. His visit was about business, but he always enjoyed seeing the trio of women who, despite his and Sophie's divorce, were still a part of his family.

Parker opened the door. She was dressed in a black body suit, with her blond hair in disarray around her face.

"Hi!" she said, her face lighting up in a smile. Parker wasn't much of a smiler, but when she did, she smiled with everything she had.

"Hi, Parker. Sophie in?"

"You came to see Sophie?"

"And my favorite ex-sister-in-law, of course."

"Me?"

"Don't tell Cassie," he said solemnly.

"Cassie's not here. She's got a date."

"A date?"

"With a cop." Parker looked as if she disapproved.

"And you don't like cops because..."

She shrugged. "It's okay."

Parker led him into the kitchen, and Flynn realized she'd never answered his original question. "Is Sophie here?"

"In her office."

"Is she writing?" He was surprised and pleased.

"I don't know what she's doing. She's talking to herself."

"Acting out scenes?"

"Who knows? Do you want some coffee?"

"Sure. I'll have some. I'm going to go in and talk to Sophie. Can you bring it in to me?"

"Okay."

Flynn left Parker in the kitchen and went down the hall to Sophie's office. He tapped lightly on the door.

"I'm fine, Parker."

"It's me," Flynn replied.

"Oh. Come in."

He opened the door, hoping to see Sophie at her desk typing. Instead, she was curled up on her small couch with a notebook in her lap. She was frowning and impatiently tapping a pen against the paper.

"What's going on?" he asked. "More writers' block?"

"It's this case. It doesn't make sense."

"Case?"

"The people who were murdered because of my books." There was sadness in her eyes, though her face didn't show it.

"I heard about that. Are you okay?

"No, I'm not. They arrested someone, but I don't think he's the killer."

"How do you know..."

"I've been consulting on the case."

He gave her an incredulous look.

"Don't look at me like that...and stop hulking. If you're going to be in here, sit down and talk to me."

It was a fair enough request, so Flynn settled down beside her. He was close enough that their shoulders brushed, and he could smell the faint cinnamon scent of her skin. It was mixed lightly with a new, pleasant scent of vanilla.

"What's bothering you?"

"The details. No one is focusing on the details."

"Which are?"

Sophie sketched the case out for him quickly, and Flynn listened with interest. She ended with, "Kyle has PDD. He'd never get the details wrong. He's obsessive. And you should have seen him. Alison Tisdale's death destroyed him. I'm just a writer, and no one will listen to me. You believe me, don't you, Flynn?"

"I believe in you."

She smiled. "Thanks."

"And I know you'll do whatever you think is right, no matter what I say. No matter what anyone says."

She nodded slowly.

"Now, about your new book."

She groaned. "Do you think you can get me an extension?"

"I'll try."

"I'm never going to have it done on time."

"Have you started?"

"No," she admitted. "The words just won't come."

"I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks."

"Anything for my favorite writer."