CHAPTER SEVEN

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. . . .

Juliet turned at the sound of Shawn's voice.

He looked forlorn. "Give a poor ex a hug?"

Maybe it was her mood about Carlton, and maybe she just needed one herself, but she opened her arms and Shawn stepped into them, hugging her hard. For a few moments she let herself remember all her good feelings about him, about them, because those good feelings had been real, and important, and she could not regret what had been good.

However, the strength of the hug very quickly became more than she needed, and she extricated herself to a safe distance.

He shoved his hands in his pockets. "Sorry I've been avoiding you. I kept chickening out."

"Of seeing me? What were you afraid of?"

Shawn shrugged. "That you'd hit me with more truth. But I have some too, Jules. One truth is that I'd take another chance if you'd give me one."

Juliet touched his arm. "I can't do that."

"I know. Gus said I should let you move on. And I will, I promise. I just… wanted to say… that I wish you had put me to the test. The real test. Trying to be who you needed me to be."

She tried to feel guilty—because he was right; she hadn't tested him the way he meant, but then again, giving ultimatums in a relationship wasn't her style. Or likely to work.

She smiled gently. "But Shawn… then you wouldn't have been you."

In contrast, he frowned again. "Tell me what changed."

"What do you mean? I told you—"

"I had Psych before I knew you. I had Gus and my dad and my Lassie-taunting. I'm the same guy who wooed you and eventually won you. What changed?"

Shivering a little, and so tired, Juliet said what she'd been thinking for a long time. "I grew up."

Shawn's frown intensified. "And I didn't. That's what you're saying."

Well…

No. No fighting, no arguing, no tension. Find another way to explain it.

"I'm five years younger than you. I had more growing up to do and the job helped with that."

He wasn't convinced. "I was right there when that was happening. If you were growing up, and still let me win you, then what changed after we moved in together?"

She had to choose her words carefully. "Actually, Shawn, you weren't there. You kinda flitted in and out of the station, in and out of the cases which interested you and brought the most attention to you and Psych, but you weren't there while I was becoming who I am now."

Carlton was.

"And when you were there, Gus was there most of the time too. You guys play off each other so well and so completely that I kinda think everyone else fades in comparison. For all your observational skills, you… missed me changing."

Maybe it was really that simple, she thought. Maybe he just hadn't been paying attention.

"It's not entirely your fault. I don't want you thinking I sit around looking for ways to blame you for this not working out. It's my fault too."

Shawn was looking at his shoes, hands still in his pockets, frown still firm. "You keep saying Gus when you talk about us. Not to rhyme, but it's there all the time. Dammit, now I'm stuck."

Juliet couldn't help but chuckle. "Gus is your other half. It's just how it is. No criticism intended or implied."

You just need to find a girl who has her own Gusette, and then the four of you will make one lovely couple.

He sighed. "I'm letting the house go. Gus doesn't think he can swing his two-thirds of the rent. I tried to talk the landlord into letting me start a pineapple-lovers' commune in the garage but he wouldn't go for it."

She almost asked what he meant by two-thirds, but then decided he was, in his way, being realistic about his own input. "Yeah, communes aren't usually money-makers. Will you go back to apartment-hopping?"

Another shrug. "It's a skill."

"I'm sorry," Juliet said softly. "And I thank you for taking chances on me."

This surprised him. "I didn't think they were chances. I thought they were sure things."

More than a touch of ego, but she knew what he meant.

"You took a chance on telling me how you felt up in Canada. You took a chance on committing to a relationship. For a guy who's always running at top speed from expectations, those were pretty big chances."

He thought this over, or seemed to. It was impossible to guess what Shawn was ever really thinking.

"Maybe," she said with a smile, "you're slowly changing too. Maybe someday you'll make a fine grown-up."

Shawn grinned. "Bite your tongue. And it won't matter, will it? It'll still be too late to get you back."

Yeah. It would still be too late.

Juliet stepped in for one more brief hug and a whispered 'goodbye' before walking swiftly to her car.

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. . . .

Carlton darted across the wide lawn, calling to mind the lay of the property from his earlier snoopery.

Dodge the bush, mind the birdbath, go around the low-lying sprinkler heads...

He ended up standing in the shadows of the back tiled patio, listening again. Glock in hand.

The sound was coming from the lower level, the basement Victoria had never seen. Another moan confirmed the directional source—while giving him chills—and he slipped along the edge of the patio toward a faintly golden rectangle which outlined a basement window.

What the hell was going on down there?

Was Ted Ridgway being attacked? Was he attacking someone else?

Was that basement full of victims, or worse, parts of victims?

Was the damn place haunted?

He rejected that idea; according to his research, the house was only fifteen years old and he surely wasn't hearing the moans of the late Mrs. Ridgway in a nocturnal visit to her Teddy.

Another moan… so low and deep and right there in his spine.

Despite himself, he shivered.

Yeah. Heap big tough man scaredy-cat.

Skulking further along, he got close to the window, flush with the stone foundation, and lay on the cold ground atop the mulch. The window was open slightly, tilted out, and the gap must have created one of those sound-enhancing effects to allow the sound to carry so far and so clearly.

As he peered in through that gap above the slightly grimy glass, there came another moan.

He couldn't quite process what he was seeing… didn't understand it at first.

Then, unexpectedly, he heard a different sound, one he recognized immediately and which was completely foreign to this... tableau.

A sound which changed the game entirely.

A sound which could only be described as…

A giggle.

Son. Of. A. Bitch.

I am WAY the hell too old for this crap.

He rapped sharply on the glass with the butt of his Glock, and then again.

From inside the basement, the sounds changed dramatically, but he didn't wait to see the full effects of his attention-getter. On his feet, he strode around to the side of the house and started pounding on the kitchen door.

Behind him he heard Victoria calling anxiously from her back deck, "What's going on?"

Nothing you want to know about, he thought, and kept pounding.

"Should I call 911?" she persisted, her voice half shout, half hiss.

"No," he said loudly enough for her to hear. "Go back in the house!"

He glanced to see she'd obeyed, and then the kitchen door was pulled open and he was face to face with the source of the moaning.

Or one source, anyway.

"Detective Carlton Lassiter, SBPD." He flashed his badge and brushed by the man—Ted Ridgway, he presumed. "Lead the way to the basement, pal."

The elderly man made a noise much like a whimper and did as he was told, scurrying along with his cane to the mirror-lined elevator in the hallway.

"I can explain," he started.

Carlton snapped, "Save it. I want both of you in my sights."

They rode down in silence to the finished basement, a paneled room with lush carpet and bookshelves and trophies and fine art and, handily, what appeared to be a full bar. A wealthy man's lair. The elevator fit right in.

The only thing out of place was the other elderly man.

The one who was nude and strapped loosely to some sort of wooden contraption in the middle of the floor.

While wearing a blonde wig and bright red lipstick.

And shivering. All over.

Glancing at the purple-kimono-clad Ridgway—God forbid he should have to see what was under that—Carlton looked the other man over as impartially as possible, hoping this image wouldn't be burned onto his brain.

"Are you here voluntarily?"

"I can explain," Ridgway tried again.

"Shut up. I'm asking him."

The bewigged man nodded.

"If he's Ridgway, who are you? And in the name of all that is holy, do not pull ID out of any place people don't normally keep ID."

The man mumbled something about his wallet and clothes over by the flat-screen TV.

Carlton checked it out, matching the driver's license photo of Ernest Fleiss to what he could make out under the lipstick and wig.

Ted Ridgway was wringing his hands. "Officer—"

"Detective," he bit out. "Lassiter. I'm here because of complaints about the noise. What you do in the privacy of this second circle of hell is your business, but the best way to maintain that privacy, Tweedle-dumb and Tweedle-idiot, is to keep your damned voices down."

"I get carried away," Ernest mumbled apologetically.

"Sweet. Next time express yourself in whispers."

"Yes, sir."

With a glare to Ridgway, he added, "This is just a warning, but the next time you freak out your neighbors, you better hope you're wearing a kimono that doesn't clash with his lipstick."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

He headed back to the elevator, tossing off one last warning: "And dear God, close that window."

Geriatric whackaloon sex-fiends. Swell.

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. . . .

Victoria stood in her kitchen, wringing her hands in much the same way Ridgway had, and she practically clutched at him once he was inside.

"What? What was it? Are you okay?"

Before he could answer she snaked her arms around him, sighing against his chest as if he were the most precious thing in the world.

Carlton froze. He froze because it felt wrong. Alien. Wrong.

He could smell her hair (not peaches); he could feel her body close to his (not Juliet… hell, not even sexpot Manda), and it felt wrong.

There was a time, years ago, when he would have leapt at this opportunity, damn near groveled for any sign of affection or concern or… compassion.

Not anymore. Not from her.

Perhaps realizing she was the only one doing any hugging, Victoria finally let him go, but remained standing close.

As if she has a right to be anywhere near me.

"What happened?" she asked again.

He moved away, putting the table between them. "Your neighbor was entertaining a friend. They were… excited about their activities. Please don't ask me to elaborate."

Her eyes—those perpetually mysterious-colored eyes—widened in comprehension. "Seriously? Ted's got a girlfriend?"

In a manner of speaking. Sure.

She started to laugh. "And they were getting frisky?"

"That's one way to look at it."

He wished he hadn't had to look at it.

"I won't say more. I warned them to keep it down. If they don't," he added uncomfortably, "call 911 and report the little sex fiends to your heart's content."

"Oh, Carlton, what did you see?" She was vastly amused.

"Nothing will induce me to tell you. Nothing." He started back toward the door. It was past time to leave this whole inexpressibly unfamiliar world behind.

Find your car, go back home.

Enough now.

"Wait," she said, catching his arm. "Wait, Carlton."

He looked down at her. "Thanks for the coffee and cake. It was interesting to see you again."

"Carlton." She was almost cajoling. "We're not really done talking about… what we were talking about upstairs."

Curious how detached he felt. "I think we are. I asked a question, you answered it. Now I'm going home. Have a nice life."

Victoria's grip was firm. "Implicit in my answer was a question for you."

"I didn't hear one," he said calmly. At least not one he had any interest in answering.

She sighed, stroking his arm now. "I'm asking if there's any way we can build on… what we had before."

Glancing at her hand, he kept his tone cool. "What we had before was an unsound structure comprised of shoddy building materials and which was, ultimately, doomed to collapse. Nobody would build on that."

Her motions stopped, and her expression grew tense.

Carlton went on evenly, "I don't think your question—or anything about the last two evenings—has been about us at all, let alone about me. I think this was about you trying to prove you could still get me to come running. Maybe since your last divorce you just wanted proof you've still got it."

She dropped her hand, her gaze now chilly.

He gave her a deliberate once-over from head to toe, and didn't miss how she flushed. "The answer to that question is yes, Victoria. You've still got it."

With his hand on the doorknob, he turned back to make his point perfectly clear.

"I just don't want it anymore."

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