"Shawn?" asked Henry quickly.

Henry turned toward Gus, seeing relief wash over his son's best friend as well. "That's Shawn?" asked Gus immediately.

Henry nodded, listening to Shawn's answer—

—and all traces of Henry's concern from the moments before Shawn's call disappeared.

His son was cracking a joke.

All right, now he was mad.

"Shawn, you can't just drop off the face of the earth like you did," chastised Henry, falling into the much more familiar pattern of being angry. "Gus was worried sick," he said, ignoring the fact that so the hell was he.

Shawn paused before he answered.

Shawn hardly ever hesitated.

"You… you say something?" asked Shawn.

Why did his voice sound so... weak?

"Shawn, where the hell are you?" asked Henry, that feeling of off prickling at him. "Gus has been calling you."

"I-I don't know... I don't know where I am..."

Henry's expression shifted.

Shawn never stuttered.

"Do you know where I am?" asked Shawn, voice even more hollow than before.

Henry's expression deepened in skepticism. Why was his son talking like that? It was almost as if—

Henry sighed, the frown returning on his face, finally understanding what was wrong with his son. "Are you drunk?"

Upon hearing Henry's question to Shawn, Gus massaged his temples, leaning against the wall in exasperation.

Great.

Just fantastic.

Shawn was wasted.

Shawn didn't deny it like Henry expected him to, as Shawn always had in his teenage years. Instead, Shawn repeated, "I… I don't know where I am."

Henry rubbed his face, all relief and guilt gone and traded for irritation and the rehearsal of a lecture. Now he was going to have to track down his son in one of the hundred bars around town. This was not how he was expecting to spend his afternoon.

Well, thought Henry, grabbing for the handle and opening the door, might as well find out how bad he is. "Shawn, how much have you had to drink—?"

"Doors," said Shawn suddenly. Henry stopped halfway through the doorway, and Gus nearly walked into him again. Henry tried to swallow his annoyance. His son was incredibly wasted. Didn't that bartender know when to cut him off?

"Doors…?" repeated Henry, shaking his head, resuming his walk to the truck. "Shawn—"

"I think they're… moving." said Shawn. God, he better not be trying to leave the place and get to his bike, thought Henry suddenly. Shawn was delusional. He was in absolutely no state to be driving. Henry was about to command that Shawn sit down and wait patiently for him to pick him up, when Shawn continued, "But that could easily be the… the concussion talking."

Concussion?

Shawn had a concussion?

Oh, no, Henry inwardly groaned. Please tell me he didn't get into a bar fight.

Before Henry could say anything, he heard something that made him freeze mid-walk to his truck.

There was suddenly a pained cry from the other side of the line.

A cry that sounded far too much like his son's voice.

"Dad," said Shawn quickly. Almost as if he'd sobered in the past two seconds.

Henry felt his chest tighten at the sheer panic in Shawn's voice.

"Dad, I… I need help," gasped Shawn. "Call Lassie. Call Jul—"

Some commotion sounded from Shawn's line.

Loud.

Fast.

Noises Henry couldn't make out.

Well, all except the shout of pain.

"Shawn!" exclaimed Henry, heart picking up, hand clutching the phone in a grip that hurt. "What's going on? Shawn!"

He could hear him, still—his voice breaking off into another pained cry.

"Shawn!" shouted Henry.

It took a long moment for Shawn to gasp hoarsely, "Dad—?"

Henry felt ice sink into his chest.

The last time he'd heard that voice, Shawn had been shot, ready to pass out next to Lassiter's car.

Quickly discarding the theory that Shawn was drunk, he thought back through the conversation.

Concussion.

Doors.

Dad, I need help.

"Shawn!" said Henry, hearing Shawn's faint groan of pain. He turned to Gus when Shawn didn't answer, who was staring at Henry wide-eyed.

"Is he okay?" asked Gus, picking up Henry's change in tone. "What's wrong?"

"What are you talking about?" asked Henry into the phone, louder, momentarily ignoring Gus.

"I… I don't remember all of it," said Shawn, his voice unable to mask his obvious struggle to form the words. "They don't like me very much. But I doubt I should care if my kidnappers like me—" Shawn's words were cut off by a thud and another pained grunt. "They said they want to use me as—as ransom—"

Henry's heart had frozen in his chest. "Shawn, please tell me you're kidding. This is another one of your jokes. It's a prank. And if it is, you need to stop it right—"

"It's not a joke!" hissed Shawn, biting off each word, making Henry's breath hitch in his chest. "I got out of the room, but… but he's not unconscious, Dad, he's still up there—"

"Get in the truck, Gus!" yelled Henry, throwing open his own door. Without question, Gus let himself into the passenger's side. Henry pulled himself into the driver's seat, fumbling with his keys.

This could not be happening.

Not again.

"Mr. Spencer, you're scaring me," said Gus, watching him warily. "Where's Shawn?"

"He's in trouble," muttered Henry, finally getting the keys in the ignition. "He's been kidnapped."

"He's been what?!"

"Shawn," said Henry, starting his truck, tearing out of the driveway and onto the street. "Gus and I are headed to the police station. Do not hang up this phone. We're going to get a trace on your call." He took a sharp right, nearly throwing Gus against the window as his heart slammed in his own chest. "Run."

Shawn paused, and Henry could hear his staggered breathing.

It terrified him.

But not as much as the next words Shawn spoke.

"I can't."

Henry's heart slipped into his stomach.

"Why not?" demanded Henry, his voice clipped, fear rising only sharper.

"I… can't really… see… straight…"

Henry stepped on the gas, hearing Shawn's strength draining through his voice. "Shawn! Stay with me, here, son! You need to get out of there—"

"Oh, my god," whispered Gus suddenly, making Henry's head whip toward him.

"Oh your god what?"

Without another word, Gus snatched the phone from Henry's hand and pressed it to his ear, ignoring the older man's protest, saying, "Shawn!"

Henry took another set of dangerously fast turns, ignoring the car horns that blared in his direction.

It was when Gus shouted that he nearly had a heart attack.

"I lost him!" exclaimed Gus suddenly. "The line went dead!"

"What?!" Henry whipped back toward him, barely keeping an eye on the road. "Call him back!"

"I'm trying!" stressed Gus, slamming the phone back to his ear, only to curse. "He must have lost service!"

"Damn it!" hissed Henry, stepping harder on the gas, the truck shuddering with effort.

"How far are we from the station?" asked Gus, pressing the phone back to his ear again, only to curse again.

"Five minutes," said Henry. "But I can get us there in two." He pushed the truck past sixty.

"God, I can't believe it was him," whispered Gus, cursing sharper as he dialed Shawn again.

"You can't believe what was him? What are you talking about?" demanded Henry.

"That case Lassiter and Juliet are working on," said Gus, dialing again even as he spoke, his fingers shaking. "There was a second person in the cab, but—"

"They didn't find him," breathed Henry, remembering the files Juliet had been holding.

Hit and run.

One dead.

One missing.

Shawn.

"…Gus?"

Shawn's hollow voice hung in the air alone, only silence responding.

Fear snuck into him, the silence suddenly feeling claustrophobic. "Dad?" he tried, trying to ignore just how desperate his voice sounded.

He didn't get an answer.

Did Henry hang up on him?

Irritation surged through him. Of course his father hung up on him. Henry was angry with him; what else was new? He far happier with the idea that Shawn was pulling a prank on him. But Henry hated his pranks.

The coldness from the wall was long gone and Shawn wished for it back. His head felt ready to explode. The pain stabbed behind his eyes and at his temples, jagged and raw.

Shawn shifted on the wall, trying to find something—anything—to soothe the pain. But he'd shifted too far and was roughly meeting the ground once again.

"Agh—!" tore out of him as he landed on his side, ribs screaming. "Shit," he choked out, eyes flying open, and god, would the world stop spinning for even one second?

But the sharpness of the pain welcomed reality back into his dazed, broken mind. Just like it had when he'd fallen down the stairs. He cracked his eyes back open, panting through clenched teeth.

The phone connection broke.

Understanding—fragmented and slow as it was—dawned like a broken flickering lightbulb illuminating a dusty room.

No one hung up on him; the call dropped.

They were going to track his phone and find him.

Shawn nearly smiled, eyes fluttering shut again.

He could just rest here until they came for—

A thud, quickly followed by a bitten off curse suddenly came from the staircase.

Shawn's eyes snapped open.

Trent.

Damn it, he'd forgotten about Trent.

"Come on," whined Shawn, eyes screwing shut with nothing but petulance. The desire to rest was nearly as painful the pain itself.

Shawn's eyes opened, the world coming back into—

Nope, it was still as out of focus as a broken camera. Trying to make sense of the blur of the too many doors only made his headache worse.

Gravity was still titled, leaning too much to the side, making him want to press his back even harder into the wall.

White-hot adrenaline was shooting back through his veins and Shawn found himself scrambling to his feet, panic overriding the sharp pain that tried to stop him, the gravity trying its damndest to keep him on the floor. Shawn fumbled pathetically with his lack of coordination, pushing himself off the ground with a grunt, quickly throwing a hand over his mouth to keep himself silent. Tears burned his eyes, catching a cry in his throat because damn it, he's never hurt so much in his life.

Throwing a look to the hallway that was still shifting back and forth, Shawn felt a terrifying amount of doubt slide down his spine.

He could hardly even crawl; how was he supposed to outrun Trent?

Hide, whispered a voice in the back of his mind, barely heard over the clanging pain behind his eyes and the pounding of his own frantic heartbeat in his ears.

Help was coming; Henry and Gus were going to track his phone.

He didn't need to escape.

He had a chance against Trent if he hid.

And that...

He could probably do.

It would just be great if that plan didn't still require moving.

Briefly shutting his eyes to brace himself, he huffed out a breath. "C'mon son," he hissed as, with the help of the wall at his back, he half-shoved, half-dragged himself to his feet. He fell painfully hard against the wall, catching a low groan in his throat, biting his lip to keep from yelling as his ribs lit up agony like fire. Short, panted breaths escaped him, his entire body shaking as he struggled to his full height against the wall, his sense of gravity still somehow convinced he was lying on the ground, for up was now sideways, and that didn't make any sense at all-

The stairs continued to creak with weight.

Heart slamming in his chest and legs shaking with his weight, Shawn shoved himself down the hall, staggering to the first door he blurry vision could make out. His fumbling hand blindly reached for the doorknob, finding it on the fourth try. Desperately he twisted the door handle and fell inside, not even bothering to cushion his landing.

He hit the ground, agony whiting out his vision, just barely able to catch himself from crying out, the wounded groan stuck somewhere in his chest. His breaths were rough and raw and hurt. God, everywhere hurt. Everywhere. A sound like a whimper slipped out between clenched teeth as his shaking fingers scrambled to his ribs, a wildfire well beyond control. His eyes screwed shut, but it did nothing to stop him from the loss of his sense of gravity. The floor was moving, feeling like he was slipping—

He was so tired. So, incredibly tired.

Shawn's eyes drifted shut.

He would only lay here for a few seconds. Just to rest. He'd just absorb some of the cool relief the floor gave him to soothe his head and all the broken things inside him. He'd just wait for the pain to subside, and—

Another stair creaked, followed by a grunt in pain.

Shawn's eyes shot open.

Trent was getting closer.

Suddenly aware of how close he had been to passing out, Shawn blinked rapidly, clawing his way back to reality. No, thought Shawn, shoving himself up off the floor again, feeling the pain reverberate within his skull, sending him careening into the wall. You need to hide, said an urgent voice in the back of his mind.

Door.

The door was still open.

Thankfully, he could feel the edge of the door against his foot. With effort, Shawn kicked the door shut.

Turning around, Shawn heaved out a shallow breath. And damn it, he shouldn't be this out of breath. On his hands and knees, Shawn carefully looked around the apartment, blinking rapidly to try to see through the blur. It looked like the one he'd been in upstairs, except this was smaller and less furnished. The window wasn't just of sky, it showed a few more buildings, and a—

Thud.

Trent was in the hallway.

Driven by pure fear, Shawn painfully crawled to the closest doorway he could find.

A closet.

He dragged himself inside, grateful he could kick the doors shut. He pushed himself into the corner of the small closet, his entire body thrumming with sharp fire, wishing there were coats hanging that he could hide himself with. He settled back into the corner, pushing against it. It was cold in the closet. Dark. Quiet.

Phone.

Shawn opened his eyes to the darkness. The phone was still clutched tightly in his hand like a lifeline. Feeling as if it were made of lead, Shawn lifted the phone to his eyes, hitting the home button. The screen flared to life, burning his eyes, sharp pain attacking his head. He squeezed his eyes shut instinctively, then cracked them open, trying to find the numbers again, all of them still blurry and moving.

But the bars of signal were unmistakable.

He fumbled, holding the phone as close to his eyes as he dared, the pain intensifying, making him cringe.

But finally, he managed to dial the number, and pressed the phone to his ear as it rang.

He shut his eyes and waited.

Time had frozen.

Just stopped.

The world ceased turning. Everything in existence just seemed to pause. Because this was crazy.

This couldn't be happening.

And yet, all evidence was pointing to the fact that it was.

Juliet walked in tow of Lassiter as they strode into the SBPD. Sound came as echoes to her ears, only hearing snippets and distant voices and conversations around her. Officers turned and stared as Lassiter led a handcuffed and yammering Hal, going on about wanting his phone call. Lassiter shoved him to an officer in front of him and Juliet.

Of all the people in Santa Barbara, of all the cab stations in the city, it had to happen to Shawn.

It had to be Shawn.

The Chief was standing in front of her desk when Juliet and Lassiter strode in. Vick watched the officer lead Hal away through her windows, lifting a brow to her two detectives. "What's going on?" she clipped, picking up on their tension immediately.

"We have good reason to believe we know who else was in that cab," said Lassiter, pulling out the cab station driving records Hal had given them. He held them for to read, both he and Juliet hesitating.

Juliet said it.

"It's Shawn," she said, barely choking out his name, her blood running only colder at the thought of him in danger.

Or worse.

Karen Vick took the paper and found the address. Her eyes widened, and her head snapped back up, looking between her detectives. "How the hell…?"

"We don't know anything other than that Spencer was trying to get a ride to the airport," said Lassiter. "But nothing on why he needed a cab in the first place, least of all this sketchy as hell one."

"Shawn… I think—I know I need space."

Juliet bit her lip, guilt trailing hotly through her.

"We also found this."

Juliet looked up as Lassiter dropped the bag of money onto the table in the corner of the chief's office. He zipped it open and handed the chief a wad of cash. Vick's eyes narrowed in confusion.

"You found this at that station?" she asked incredulously.

"Hal—the kid in interrogation room A—" said Lassiter, "We found him in the office. Claims not to have known there was a bag of cash there with him. He's the nephew of the owner. All he told us was that there was money trouble and sketchy business transactions. We're in the process of locating the owner."

"And the missing person," said Vick, concern cracking her usual strong exterior. "We're assuming that it's... Shawn?"

Juliet nearly flinched.

Her eyes burned, and she felt the Chief's eyes shift to her.

"Yes." said Lassiter. "Somehow, Spencer, five million unmarked bills and a dead Mexican are related."

Juliet held in a correction that the driver was Indian.

She was too numb to speak.

"I need space."

Airport.

"This is officially top priority then," said Vick, and she rushed past them, calling the officers of the SBPD to attention and briefing them on the case.

"Oh, hell," muttered Lassiter suddenly.

"What?" asked Juliet, following his gaze.

Over by the main doors, Gus and Henry Spencer were running inside the building.

Her chest tightened.

Lassiter and Juliet left the Chief's office, meeting Gus and Henry halfway.

Lassiter held out a hand to stop them, and said, "Henry, Guster—"

"It's Shawn," panted Henry. "Shawn's in trouble—"

"Yeah, we know," said Lassiter. "We're already trying to—"

"You know?" exclaimed Henry suddenly, straightening, taking a step toward Lassiter. "You know my son has been kidnapped and you don't have the sense to contact me? Are you out of your damned mind?"

"Please," said Juliet quickly, taking a quick step forward, effectively standing between them. "We just found out, Mr. Spencer—"

"He was in the cab, Juliet!" said Gus, still out of breath, his eyes wide and scared.

"How did you two know?" asked Juliet breathlessly.

"Shawn called me." said Henry heavily.

"He said he was in the cab," Gus tumbled out, eyes wide and scared.

"He did?" breathed Juliet, unable to keep the desperation out of her voice. "When? Where is he? Is he hurt?"

He's alive.

He's alive.

Relief like none other raced through her.

"Maybe ten minutes ago." sighed Henry impatiently. "He doesn't know where he is. He said he was kidnapped."

"Kidnapped?" echoed Juliet.

"So the killer did take him from that cab?" murmured Lassiter. "What the hell does he want with Spencer?"

"You said he called you," Juliet cut in, looking between Henry and Gus. "Where is he now?!"

"The call dropped," said Gus. "We haven't been able to reach Shawn since." Only now she could see the phone in his hand, and his fingers constantly dialing Shawn's number. He pressed the phone back to his ear, only to curse. "Damn it, it's not even ringing," he said, voice edging on hysteria. "He must be out of range—"

"What is going on here?"

Everyone turned to see Vick approaching them. The office had suddenly become busy with newfound purpose. She looked between Gus and Henry and her two detectives. "Henry, Mr. Guster—"

"Shawn called them," said Juliet quickly.

Called them.

Not her.

Because she'd already ignored him nine times.

Juliet shook herself.

"Is he alright?" asked the Chief, suddenly abandoning her entire professional demeanor, eyes hiding none of her own concern.

"No, he's been taken and he's hurt," said Henry in a strained voice. "He said he didn't know where he was but there were doors," he said, his own face creasing like everyone else's at the confusingly unhelpful information. "He wanted me to call the SBPD," Henry went on "and that he'd been kidnapped. He said—"

Henry stopped speaking when his cell phone, still in Gus' hand, went off. All eyes darted to the device. Gus read the screen, gasping sharply as he answered the call on speaker phone. "Shawn!" he exclaimed.

The five of them waited in the tightest silence Juliet had ever experienced.

Until—

"…Hey, buddy."