Author's note at the end. You have been warned.

KC orders the boys and me out of her office. Before I can successfully leave, Las pulls me into a conference room.

"I'm kinda in a rush," I hiss at my brother.

I made the mistake of calling him my adoptive brother in middle school. He ignored me for five weeks. FIVE WEEKS! I will never make that mistake again. It took a coupon book of hugs and kisses (redeemable for eternity, with a free cookie at the time of use) and my patented puppy eyes to get Las to finally acknowledge me. That, and 47 days of the infamous Mona Lassiter guilt trip program. It was a long month.

Las ignores me and leads me into the room, introducing me to the king of the McCallums. I note the gauze encasing Mr. McCallum's wrist. When I question him, he gives a flimsy excuse, "It was a small gardening mishap."

Well, he's not a gardener. His hands are callus-free (likely since 1954 or the Jurrasic age), and he doesn't have any dirt under his immaculately trimmed nails. So rich guy is lying like a politician...why? I know if I press the issue, he'll get defensive, and I won't get any information if that happens. People tend to get defensive when you accuse them of lying. Something about being told they aren't trustworthy just puts them off.

I tow Lucinda out of the room to tell her what I observed. She sharply brushes me off in typical 1800s fashion. You know, when women didn't matter. KC then notices Shawn and Gus loitering around the station, Shawn like the miscreant he is. Gus isn't annoying anybody, so I'd let him stay, but that's just me. She directs Las's pain-in-the-ass girlfriend to get them out.

"Mr. McCallum!" I hear before the door closes. I excuse myself, figuring I can kill two birds with one stone. After I listen to Shawn's conspiracy theories, I can escape and pay my rent. No adult dreams of giving money to another paycheck leech. If I don't pay by the end of the day, Roberto will evict me. He's probably already moving my couch out by himself. As much as I despise the man, he has the body of Ryan Reynolds and the face of a young Matt LeBlanc. The man is aesthetically pleasing but is a total dick. That's a turn-off.

I think he may be mad that I cock-blocked him once. It was an accident. My stupid toilet broke, so I went to him to fix it. The worst part was I really needed to take a shit. I ended up in his bathroom, which was a disappointment for the girl he brought home. She ended up leaving in a huff. Let's just say she wasn't pleased with that last whiff. I also probably shouldn't have yelled out, "You're welcome!" in front of his face.

"What's with his wrist?"

Ha! If Lucinda wasn't listening before, she is now.

I get a look of surprise from the blonde before Shawn flashes his "Imma seduce you" smile. Any will to help him is immediately drained from me. "You don't give up, do you?"

"I do give up, all the time. But not until the moment is right. Now, come on. I know you don't think this adds up either," Shawn says to Lucy and me. I'm not going to let him know he's right.

"Okay, rumor is he tried to off himself." Yes, insanely wealthy men just get suicidal. It's natural. They can't wait to be separated from their money.

"Off himself?" Shawn shares a look with Gus. "The war hero? The man who's seen everything? No. That's not it. That's definitely not it."

"You know everything, don't you?" He's an idiot.

Before Shawn answers, I jump in, "Not everything. Mr. McCallum told me it was a gardening mishap."

"Anyway," Shawn distracts, "Something is going on, and I'm gonna find out what it is."

"No. You're not going anywhere near that man," Las informs, coming up behind me. "In fact, I'm going to make certain you never hear from this department again," He continues, leading Shawn to the doors.

"Whoa! I'm getting strong vibrations that you might be wrong." *Cough* Bullshit *Cough*

"I'm on to you. You've got a source somewhere, and I'm going to find it. You think this is some sort of game? I'm not going to let you just waltz around here like some kid in a candy store."

At that, Shawn glances quickly over Las's shoulder at me, his eyes narrowing slightly in suspicion. Jerk. I said I wouldn't tell my brother, and I didn't. Despite my mental instability, I do keep my promises. He seems to get all of that from my murderous stare and turns back to my brother. I was going for, 'I haven't been able to tell my brother yet, but I might if you doubt me again,' but close enough, I guess.

If Las can confirm that Shawn is a fraud, it'll crumble his entire belief system. He likes good ol' fashioned police work and thinks Shawn's voodoo psychic nonsense is a crock of shit. I mean, it is, but he doesn't know that.

"Let me be honest with you, Detective. I used to work in a candy store, and it's nothing like this."

Shawn bumps into Las's shoulder on his way out, furthering my brother's aggravation. He turns around to shout, "You're in over your head, mystic."

"Hey, Carl, I have to go."

"Carl?"

"I'm trying other names out. You're not really a Carl. Carls are incompetent. I'll stick with Las."

"That's not much better, YN."

"It's better than Lassie. You're not a dog or a girl. You're amazing. Don't forget that. I gotta go. Love ya!"

"Yeah, yeah. Love you too, YN," Las modestly chuckles goodbye. He doesn't hear it enough, but he's the best fucking brother a girl could have. I need to do something for him. A party...wait, he hates surprises. A not surprise surprise party?

*Timeskip because I've been 78 hours without sleep*

I'm greeted with the sight of my microwave, couch, and wardrobe strewn about the front of my apartment. Roberto, with his stupid ugly handsome face, emerges from my apartment. He's pulling my mattress out of the door, and, somehow, my sheets are gone. I push the check into his hands, and he groans in disappointment before dropping my bed, walking to his apartment, and slamming the door. I cackle as my weak self pulls my furniture back into my apartment. I'm not mad that he's moving my shit.

To the average human, I look like a crazy lady. To anyone who has been around the last 8 months, this is our typical Roberto/YN eviction dance. Two hours and some creative thinking later, my apartment is refurnished, and I'm sweating like a pig. Satisfied with my half-assed reassembly, I turn to the bathroom. A shower seems like heaven, but apparently, fate has a different ploy. Right as I was about to enjoy bliss, a knock echoed through the house.

I open the door, ready to curse out Roberto. "You've got the godda-"

"You're wet. Why are you wet? Is there a water-balloon fight? Are you swimming with sharks?"

"No," I state to the universe. I slam the door, leaving Shawn on the other side. I don't have the energy to deal with that chaos.

To my extreme disappointment, Shawn is still on the other side of my door 30 minutes later. I am impressed by his persistence, though. It takes guts to stand at a girl's door when she doesn't, A, like you all that much, and B, want to see you.

"What do you want?"

"Well, Gus and I have been waiting. He becomes a real Mr. Crankypants if he waits for anything longer than 15 minutes."

"Why are you here?"

"I need Gus, and I should probably have a witness. He's a bit peeved right now. I sorta dragged him out of his office."

"Right. Let me just get my gun. I'm still not sure if I'm going to shoot you, but it's better to be prepared in these situations," My remark seems to shut Shawn up for the time being. I smile imperceptively at my Glock 17.

The smooth handle and sleek design piqued my interest at the budding age of six. Las was *counts on fingers* 20 or 21. Graduation was months away, and he would visit the house frequently. One day, he was showing off his Glock, and I was enthralled. When I was 18, he finally took me to a shooting range. Turns out, I was a crack shot. Las made it easier for me to get my concealed carry license when I became old enough (21, and my brother is a stickler for rules).

I hate the gun nuts who use them to intimidate and harm people. They give people like me a bad name. I'm not a gun nut, but I think you should be allowed to carry if you know how and when to safely use a gun. Just my opinion, don't crucify me!

I spot the blue car before I see Gus. "It's so cute, like a little blueberry."

"Heh, blueberry," I ignore Shawn to greet Gus.

"Hi, Gus. I probably should have asked this before, but where are we going?"

"No idea."

*Timeskip brought to you by Central Coast Pharmaceuticals, "Drugs are overrated. Go for a run. Take a nap. Look at the stars." *

"Why are we at the McCallum offices?" I ask Shawn. Gus was the unwilling driver since Shawn has a motorcycle that can't fit two people, let alone three. I'd shove us into my black deathtrap, but it was towed. Las will probably take it to the shop now, so little victories.

"What is the magnification on these things?" Shawn ignores my query and questions Gus.

"2x."

"Okay, we need to stop at Walmart on the way home."

"Why not just stop at Stalker Central. They can take care of your every stalking need. While you're at it, trade-in your motorcycle for a perv-mobile" I suggest.

"Ooh, here we go. Here we go."

"Oh, hell no," Gus and I judge simultaneously. "You got me out of work so you could stalk a girl?"

"You interrupted my precious Shawn-free moments for a stakeout on Katarina?"

"Sounds like somebody's jealous," Shawn singsongs. I roll my eyes at the brown-haired, fake-psychic, motorcycle-riding creature before me. "Damn it! What is he doing here?"

"I can't believe this!" Gus exclaims in, well, disbelief.

"Yeah. I'm just as mad as you, Gus. I was going to call Mike over to relieve the tension in my shoulder. A knot formed in my back, no, shoulder a few days ago, and I can't seem to get it to go away."

"I can't believe this! What's up with his hair? It's horrible. I knew I should've had him picked up for questioning. Wait, that's not the way a grown man kisses a grown woman. We're--we're fine." Shawn mutters. He looks at me through the right-side mirror in the car. "Who's Mike?"

Instead of giving him an answer, I throw him his response back, "Sounds like someone's jealous."

Mike is my biological cousin, who happens to be a superb massage therapist. My mother's brother (my uncle) is a sane person who disapproved of my parent's relationship and the way they raised me. I was told that he offered to adopt but stopped when he saw how much 14-year-old Carlton loved and cared for me. Anyway, Mona always let my uncle, his wife, and his son visit to check in. She understood that I should have a connection, no matter how small, to my biological family.

Being in the front seat was always my favorite place in the car. Oh, and random topic changes are commonplace in my thoughts/monologues, so be prepared. *Dramatic Scar pose* I sorta lied and said I was carsick so I could sit in the front. Totally random but definitely necessary. Truth is, I don't. In fact, I'm considered to have an iron stomach. Gus is driving, I'm riding shotgun, and Shawn was thrown haphazardly in the back. I practically carried Shawn to the back. Nope, that's a lie. I hauled Shawn, fireman's carry, and hurled him into the back. He pulled his 'boneless' charade, not wanting to be sentenced to the damnation that is the back seat.

"Why does your girlfriend look so nervous?" I requite.

"We're not exclusive! Oh, no. Is it just me, or does that bag look like it's filled with stacks of ransom money?"

"Give me that," Gus commandeers the 2x binoculars from Shawn. "Oh my god."

"Katarina," Shawn groans.

"It was her," I analyze.

"Oh my god. You're dating a murderer."

"Not exclusively, Gus."

"Wow," I chime in happily. "You really know how to pick 'em. Clearly, there is a reason people say love is blind.."

Gus and I begin to laugh. Shawn has horrible taste in women.

I manage to curb my giggling. Gus, however, continues to laugh as he pulls out of the driveway.

We follow Katarina's silver coupe when she pulls out of her father's company parking lot. It doesn't make sense, though. Why would Katarina kill her brother and Malcolm? She didn't seem like she cared too much about her father's money. Something about it doesn't make sense.

"You see, I knew there was a reason she went for you so quickly," Gus gloats.

"She wasn't lying, Gus. I know when people are lying."

"Oh, yeah? Apparently not."

"You got played, Shawn. It happens to everyone eventually," I enlighten. "It's like walking in on family members getting it on."

"That's not normal."

"That doesn't happen."

"So you don't have trauma. Then what the hell did you do as a kid?"

"My dad forced me to do things. Horrible, stupid, painful things."

"What kind of things?"

"Shawn's father made him play a game."

"Weakling. It was probably some glorified version of a kids game like I Spy or something."

"For your informat-"

"You know what? It was."

"It was terrible. Where's your sympathy?"

"Non-existent. Too many failed relationships. Why?"

"Never mind."

For the remainder of the ride, we sit in comfortable silence until I hum the intro to 'Like Toy Soldiers' by Eminem repeatedly. I can't seem to remember any of the lyrics. I have an entire music library in my head, but for some reason, I can't remember any of the verses to a damn song. Uggh!

"That's the weirdest version of Ring-Around-the-Rosie I've heard," Gus comments on my pitchy warble.

"It's not Ring-Around-The-Rosie, Gus. It's 'Like Toy Soldiers' by Eminem. You don't know it?"

"Well, whatever it is, it's creepy."

Three blocks later, Katarina backs her car into an alley. I warn Gus to stop short, so we'll have the tactical advantage. Perks of living with an eccentric older cop for a brother, I guess.

"Should we call the cops?" The question comes from Gus, and Shawn answers, "Too late for that."

"You could pretend you had a vision of a girl totally manipulating you," I point out. Shawn's shoulders shrug in defeat as he asks me to stop. I figure he's had enough for now, so I relent. "Okay, okay."

It's not so much sympathy or pity, but I feel like a jerk. I hate to feel like a jerk, god knows I had more than enough negativity as a kid. More on my trauma later, though, because 'real life' is happening.

Gus asks what we should do. To be honest, there isn't much. We could try and find the guy, and by extension, the bag, after Katarina leaves, but we can't risk being seen by her either.

Regrettably, Shawn answers the question before I can. "There's only one thing to do."

He unbuckles his seat belt before opening the back door.

"You've got to be kidding me," Gus scoffs.

Shawn crouches behind the gray dumpster we're hidden behind, then runs to snatch the duffel bag from Katarina. On the return trip with the bag, he bumps into Gus, who got out to help.

"What are you doing?"

"Helping."

"Gus, I think you were supposed to stay in the car!" I call out.

"You two didn't tell me!"

I watch this happen from the comfort of the front seat. It's like watching a sitcom.

"Well, come on!" Shawn pulls at the handles in the back.

"Gus, you locked the car?"

"Oh, that was me," I pipe up. Shawn gives me a look, but Gus defends me, "It's a bad neighborhood!"

"Yes, it is. Now, what's the magic word? Here's a hint: It's Ryan Reynold's sworn enemy."

"What in the world's going on, Shawn?"

"Okay, a few things. First, it's Hugh Jackman, not the world, though that may be a close second. And I highly doubt Ryan knows about Shawn. Second, Shawn's an idiot who stole a bag full of clothing," I mutter, the glass muffing my answer. Wait, did I just use my ESP without getting a headache? This new medication is working wonders. Vicodin, you sweet narcotic you. I'm just kidding! I'm not Gregory House. I'm like a glorified version of Cuddy, but no one comments on my rack or my ass unless they want me to drop them.

"What?"

"Nevermind. I don't like repeating myself."

"I know what's in the bag," Shawn claims.

"Hey, buddy. There's no mo-" Shawn interrupts me. This is so going to bite him in the ass, and I'm here for it. I back off because if he doesn't want to listen, he doesn't have to listen. He can't say I didn't warn him.

"Thanks, YN, but I got this."

"You do?" Katarina questions.

"You're good. Very good. I didn't consider who'd be the sole heir to the McCallum fortune if Camden was out of the picture."

"Okay, okay. Wh--" Shawn shifts back defensively as the large man takes a threatening step forward. Katarina continues, "You think I want my family's money?"

"You don't need it, do you, now that you've got...this money!" Shawn holds an orange, purple, and pink beach towel. I let out a snort, watching with renewed interest. Shawn peeks back, clearly annoyed I didn't tell him about the new development. I did, and the idiot didn't listen.

Shawn continues to search through the bag, only to find more clothes and towels. "Gus, we have got to get better binoculars."

"Or, you could have listened to me," I chime in. Gus gives Shawn a dissatisfied glare. The stranger takes the opportunity to yank the bag out of Shawn's hands. Shawn finally notices the faded, yellow print and the red butterfly.

Katarina and the unnamed person give Shawn looks of disgust and disappointment.

"Katarina..." Shawn turns to face Gus and me. He stutters as he tries to come up with a response for his face-plant failure.

Once Shawn defeatedly enters the car, he orders Gus to buy the bag. Gus looks over in confusion.

"What, you want a souvenir of your ineptitude?"

"There was an indentation, which is an indication that someone did try to pay a ransom," I clarify.

"I'm not going in there. That guy wants to kill us."

"Gus," Shawn starts, his tone light, the way you talk to a toddler, "This guy works in a thrift store. Okay? He's a big, furry-hearted, good Samaritan. Come on. We'll be right here. Go ahead."

Gus hesitantly gets out of the car. "Okay, so while Gus is in there, I'll heroically grab the bag, distract the muscle, and solve the case."

"Shawn, I'll go in. If you go in, there's a 50-50 chance that Gus will leave you to fend for yourself."

"Gus would nev-"

"Shawn, think about it."

"Fine!"

I sneak through the back door, gently closing it. I motion for Gus to be quiet. I quickly duck through aisles of second-hand clothes. Some of this stuff I would wear. A(n) FC hoodie, a thick white sweater, thick Christmas socks. This stuff is marvelous! I pull a blue shirt off the rack just to swiftly check the size. I look back at the interaction between Gus and the rugged philanthropist, the shirt tucked protectively to my chest.

"Okay, hold on, hold on. Who's that?" Gus points someone behind me. I whip around to find Shawn sneaking up behind me. Gus turns and flees, leaving Shawn and me alone with the jailbird. I drop the shirt and lunge for the bag, nearly knocking over the display. With the bag in hand, I retreat to the car. Hopefully, I won't end up pulverized. Otherwise, Shawn and Gus won't be found for 150 years. Longer, if Chiefie finds out what we were doing