Lassiter sat silently in his car with Spencer #2 next to him, staring at the side of a building where a shady-sounding witness had last been seen. He'd been tempted to threaten (or possibly even bribe) this Spencer into keeping his mouth shut while he was trying to work, but he was mildly surprised to find that it hadn't been necessary—Spencer #2 was sitting quietly and gazing out of the window, not fidgeting, not doing anything except gently tapping his fingers against his thigh. Judging by the rhythm, Lassiter thought he probably had some stupid song in his head, but he didn't care as long as it stayed there and didn't come belting out of his mouth. Lassiter had his dark sunglasses on, so he was fairly sure that Spencer couldn't see that he couldn't help glancing at him every now and then. He wasn't sure why he was doing it, only that this Spencer just seemed different than the other, and he couldn't put his finger on it. It wasn't just the way he looked (a little thinner in the face and arms, his hair shorter and flatter, much like Spencer #1 had worn it the first year Lassiter had known him); it was something in his overall demeanor, something in the way he spoke and in his eyes. Not just with Lassiter's other self, either—that much was obvious when it came to the difference there, although he still thought he'd be damned if he'd ever understand it.

"What did he say to you?" he asked after a long silence. Not that he cared—whatever had passed between them as Lassiter #2 and his Spencer looked at each other before they'd all parted ways was between them, and Lassiter himself had no part in it—but it was weird to be so quiet and calm with any sort of Spencer around, and that might get him talking.

"Hmm?"

"The—" Lassiter made an awkward gesture to himself. "You know, the other me. Before we left. If he told you to keep some secret agenda while I'm trying to work on my case, I need to know about it."

"An agenda? Like, what? Ten-thirty: sneak into the computer and find out who's been busted for casting spells all over town in the last six months? Then at eleven o'clock: tacos?"

Lassiter rolled his eyes. "No. I just—you just looked really serious, and it's such an unfamiliar expression on your face that I wanted to know if he was trying to put you up to something."

Spencer's smile widened. "Nah. He just told me to be good."

Good? "What does that mean?" Lassiter asked suspiciously.

"You know, just... to be good." Spencer #2 shrugged. "Behave, obey, make him—or I guess you—happy."

Lassiter blinked at that, surprised. "What, and you actually listen to that?"

"Of course," Spencer said, smiling again. "I'm always good for him. Well, maybe not always, but as much as I can, I am."

"I'm surprised you can actually behave at all." Let alone take direction from him—or some version of him—to do so.

"Sure I can," Spencer said softly, looking at him intently. Lassiter blinked again and was glad once more for his dark glasses. "And I do, for him, when he asks me to."

"Whatever," Lassiter muttered, and he turned to gaze out of the window again. It was quiet for a minute or two while he studied the building, seeing nothing and feeling frustrated. It didn't help that his hand was starting to ache, the muscles cramping from how long he'd spent at the shooting range yesterday. He rubbed at it, flexing his fingers and cracking his knuckles. Spencer #2 glanced over at his hands, and then he turned toward him, reaching for him.

"Here," he said softly. "Let me."

Lassiter frowned. "Let you what?"

"Your hand—it's from shooting, right?" Before he could say anything, Spencer had taken his hand and started to pull it closer to himself. Lassiter wasn't sure what the hell he was doing until he gently held his wrist in one hand and applied the tip of his thumb to the bunch of muscle underneath Lassiter's thumb and started to knead and rub it.

Lassiter tried to pull his hand back, but Spencer gripped his wrist more firmly and held on, looking up at him and holding eye contact while his fingers continued to massage his hand. "What the hell are you doing?" Lassiter asked him, feeling incredibly awkward, half like he wanted to relax and let him—it was working, his hand was loosening up and already feeling less achey—and half like he wanted to reach over him, open the car's passenger door, and shove him out.

"I'm reading your future," Spencer #2 said, grinning slightly.

Lassiter rolled his eyes. "No, you're not. You at least admitted you're not psychic, even if he hasn't, so I'm counting it." He looked down, still torn between allowing his arm to relax and using it to fling the alternate-universe apparition off of him. "Besides, that's not even how the real fake crystal ballers read palms. You're not even looking at my palm."

"The real fake ones," Spencer said, sounding amused. He did look down at Lassiter's hand now, using the flat of his thumb to knead a larger area of the muscle in his hand, stroking it outward, seeming to disperse the worst of the ache as if it melted at his touch. Lassiter scowled again—that was a weird thing to think. "I'm impressed, Carlton," Spencer said. "I'm learning all of these things I never knew about you, like how much of your own expertise you really have in all things crystal ballin' and shot-callin'."

Lassiter opened his mouth to retort, and then he just closed it again, dropping from Spencer's face to his hands, which were expertly locating each painful area of his hand and either gently or firmly, depending on the muscle or bone structure, easing every bit of tightness and pain. He then moved on to his fingers, running each one through his own fingers before going over each knuckle, the tips of his fingers holding them and rolling them slowly in a circular motion. His gaze was focused down at Lassiter's hand, and Lassiter found that he'd been staring at Spencer's face for several long moments before managing to catch himself and realize again that, apparently, he was getting a pretty good hand massage from the doppelganger of the most annoying person in the world... one that was sleeping with his own doppelganger.

He tried to pull his hand back again, starting to say that it was enough, but Spencer #2 held onto his wrist again, this time gripping his palm with his other hand. "Shhh, stop," he admonished. "I know what I'm doing."

That much was clear, but it wasn't the problem. There had never been much physical touching at all between himself and Spencer—not counting times he'd been reduced to manhandling the smart ass when he simply wouldn't leave after being told to—and here this Spencer was, holding his hand and rubbing it in an entirely casual way, like he did it all the damn time. It was strange enough that a double of himself and of Spencer had fallen out of the goddamned mirrors, but did they really have to be like that? And to behave as if it was perfectly normal? This Spencer had just called him Carlton, for god's sakes—he didn't think the Spencer he knew had ever done that unless he was taunting him. This Spencer probably called that version of himself Carlton all the time. He probably called him that when they—

"This is weird," Lassiter said in a low voice, meaning all of it, but particularly what was happening right now. Spencer touching him, his fingers warm and sure, applying just the right amount of pressure in just the right places. Spencer's other hand was still holding onto his wrist, not keeping him in place but just holding onto him, his other thumb moving back and forth over his skin.

"No it's not," Spencer #2 said nonchalantly, going back to the bunch of muscle under his thumb, which—goddamn it—felt really good. "I do this all the time. You from my world gets a lot of hand cramps from the shooting range, but you won't stop going. I keep telling you you're going to get arthritis and have The Claw permanently, but what do I know? I decided I'll mimic your Claw and it'll be our secret clubhouse signal." He looked up again, both hands stilled but not letting him go yet. "Better?"

Lassiter flexed his hand, not looking at Spencer, but looking down to inspect his palm as if he'd loaned it out for a week to someone who usually returned books with bent covers and he'd just gotten it back. "Yeah," he muttered. "Thanks, I guess."

"No prob," Spencer said, sounding pleased. Lassiter was about to pull his hand back when it suddenly rose toward Spencer's face, stopped, and Spencer finally released him. Lassiter looked at him questioningly and he shrugged. "Sorry," he said. "I always kiss your hand when I'm done. But you're a different you, huh? Guess you're not into that here." He tilted his head slightly to one side, looking as if he wanted to say something, or to ask a question.

Lassiter didn't want to hear it. Nothing was happening around the vicinity of the building yet, so he used his newly relaxed hand, still warm from the massage and feeling loose but agile again, to start the car. "I'm into lunch," he said abruptly, hoping that this version of Spencer was as distractible—particularly with food—as the version he knew.

It seemed he was—Spencer #2 sat up excitedly. "Taco taco taco taco," he chanted, bouncing in his seat a little. "Wait, no! Do you like fried peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?"

"What, like a grilled cheese?" Lassiter asked, slightly disgusted.

"Yup!"

"No, that sounds horrible."

Spencer beamed at him. "You love it, trust me—I brought some home once, and you did think it was a grilled cheese and tried to steal it. Then when you realized what it was and how superbly the salty crunch goes with the sweet, melty filling, you stole it more and got addicted and now you actually have kind of a problem." His grin widened as he remembered something Lassiter's other self had done or said regarding the monstrosity of a sandwich he was describing. Spencer #2 nodded decisively. "Let's go to the Nutter Butter Hutter. I mean, it's called The Peanut Hut, but I think my name gives it the zest it's been missing."

"That seriously sounds gross," Lassiter said, but he imagined the place would have to serve other things too. That there just proved the differences in worlds, or universes, or whatever had been going on to somehow create two (or more—that was a terrifying thought) of each of them. Whatever his double in that world was like, including whatever nonsense or outright insanity that caused any version of him to be in any kind of a relationship with Shawn Spencer, he would never eat something that sounded like the results of a ten-year-old unsupervised in a kitchen and out of cheese and Easy Bake Oven lightbulbs. Some things—and some people—just did not go well together, that was all.

They arrived at the restaurant twenty minutes later. Spencer #2 was delighted when the girl that came to serve them recognized him—or recognized this world's Spencer, anyway—and confided that she would ring him with up the employee discount. Lassiter rolled his eyes as Spencer smiled and flirted with her, actually feeling a little more back on track now that he knew that at least Spencer was a charming conman in every incarnation. He ordered the fried peanut butter and jelly—"With extra fried!"—while Lassiter ordered sesame noodles with chicken. When their food arrived, he speared a piece of chicken on the tines of his fork and was about to dig in when he saw Spencer cram half of one of his sandwich triangles into his face and tilt his face up to the sky, sighing in complete satisfaction. He looked at the other half of the sandwich, which did look exactly like a grilled cheese on the outside—golden brown, a little greasy but crispy—but was leaking a mixture of melted peanut butter and grape jelly instead of American cheese. Spencer licked his thumb, where some peanut butter had squished out of the part of the sandwich he was still holding, and when he noticed Lassiter watching him, he grinned again.

"Just like I remembered," he said. "It's been awhile since I've been here, since Gus decided he was going to switch to almond butter and almond milk. That stuff's okay, but this is where the money lies." He held out the half of sandwich he'd bitten into. "Try a bite?"

Lassiter made a face at him. "No thank you."

"C'mon," he wheedled. "You like it, hey Mikey!"

"No, I don't!" Lassiter said, annoyed. "I have never tried it. Look, I don't know what the hell is going on here, or how any of this is possible, but you need to get one thing straight. I am not a continuation of—of whatever version of me you have in your world, just like you are not the exact same irritating jackass I know that keeps screwing with my cases." He watched Alternate-Universe-Spencer look at him solemnly and then put down his sandwich and look at him as if he was actually giving him undivided attention—which just went to prove his point: they were not the same person. "You're very similar, yes, just like I'm sure I'm similar to your—your—um, version of me."

"My boyfriend."

"Whatever. The point is that no matter what you seem to think, I'm not him. I'm me. There are differences—and I can assure you that probably a good portion of his life, and your memories of him, are not mine. You need to stop talking about us like we're the same person."

"But you are," Spencer said. He held up a hand when Lassiter glared at him. "Experiences and memories aside. I know there are differences, some itty bitty and some more blatant—like the fact that I'm with him, but you're not with anyone, let alone any sort of me. I get that, all right? I'll stop saying that things he did and things he likes are things you've done and liked if it weirds you out." He paused thoughtfully, and Lassiter moodily stabbed another piece of chicken. "I guess I just want you to know that I know you," he said finally. "The differences are teeny-weeny almost-can't-be-seeny, other than the obvious, which I think is mostly happenstance, not personality. I mean, the theory of parallel universes is that they run alongside each other with minute differences, right? The difference between ours just seems to be that we're together in mine but not in yours—which is a big time bummer for the me that lives here. I bet that accounts for almost all of the differences you're seeing."

Lassiter gave him a doubtful look. "Sleeping with me makes you less annoying? Well, why didn't you say so? You pick up the check while I'll go grab your other self and give him something to shut him up."

He regretted saying that when he saw this Spencer's eyes widen slightly, and the tip of his tongue poked out to wet his lips a little. "Just FYI," he said after a moment. "That totally works."

"Great," Lassiter said sourly. That was an image he hadn't really needed, nor had he required the way it sprang into his mind so quickly. His gaze flicked toward Spencer #2 again, at his lips, which he was licking again after another gloppy mouthful of his sandwich. Lassiter dropped his eyes down to his food again and scooped a huge bite of noodles into his mouth, telling himself again that no matter what they said—and no matter how he'd seen this Spencer straddling that world's Carlton Lassiter and appealing to him in a way that was very like two people in a relationship—he simply couldn't square that they were sleeping together, that any part of him in some other universe was, as this Spencer had put it, "into that". Into him.

"You suuuuure you don't want to try a bite?" Spencer asked, holding out the second half of his sandwich. "It's reeeeeeally good. Sometimes things that don't seem like they'll work totally do. There's no rhyme or reason to it, so there's no use trying to sing along—just watch the popular TV show that's about absolutely nothing, dip your French fries in your Frosty, and try this."

Lassiter huffed out another annoyed sigh. "If I do, will you shut up about it?"

"Honesty points say no, but at least I'll refrain from the 'I told you so' and stick with the 'Isn't this delicious? Aren't I right all the time? And amazing? And hot? Aren't I delicious?'"

"I am not tasting you," Lassiter said, taking the sandwich and looking closely at it.

"Your loss," Spencer said lightly. "Well, and your Shawn's loss."

"He's not my anything." Lassiter gave him a quick glare and then quickly took a bite of the sandwich, intending to pass it back and say, 'There!', having completed his side of the bargain and thus entitled to silence. However, the second his tongue started to swirl the odd combination of flavors in his mouth, he looked back down at the sandwich in surprise. He wasn't just surprised that it was somehow delicious, and that he did like it, but that Spencer had been right. Maybe he did know him. Or some part of him. Or maybe all of him, who the fuck knew in this situation? What else did this Spencer know? He glanced over at him quickly and saw that he was smiling again, not looking self-satisfied in his victory, but simply happy that Lassiter did indeed like the sandwich, his eyes smiling just as much as his mouth. Lassiter tried to swallow the glob of peanut butter and bread in his mouth and it went down in a too-large clump, sticking to his throat.

He reached for his glass of water with one hand while pushing the rest of the sandwich at Spencer #2 with the other. He took several long swallows, feeling better and more collected. When he glanced back at Spencer, he saw that he was holding the sandwich, but hadn't eaten any more of it. As Lassiter looked at him, he held it out again. "Want the rest?" he asked.

"No, it's yours. And I have my own food," he added.

"I was going to order more to go anyway—one for later and one for my Carlton. Here." Spencer put the sandwich half on a napkin and pushed it over. "Trade you for half of your sesame chicken."

Lassiter sighed and gave in, although he wasn't that hungry anymore. He took the fried peanut butter and jelly and pushed his noodles over. "Finish it."

"You sure?"

"Yeah." Lassiter picked up the sandwich and took another small bite. Yes, it was definitely strange—crispy, buttery, salty... sugary grape jelly and smooth peanut butter melted together—but the first taste hadn't been a fluke. He could see how another version of himself that had tried this would continue to eat it regularly.

"Sweet," Spencer said, gave him a smile, and dug in.

When the server came back, Spencer #2 did order two more fried peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to go, and Lassiter thought again how strange it sounded to him to hear his given name coming from him. "Do you always call him by his—by my—first name?" he asked. "The you that I know never does."

"Hmm? Oh, yeah. Well, not always—when Gus is around, or people from the PD, I still go with Lassie, which he's cool with." Spencer paused. "You know the reason I started calling you that is just because I like nicknames, right? I—the Shawn from here doesn't do it to piss you off. He does it for the same reason he calls your partner 'Jules'."

"Yeah, well, her nickname isn't demeaning."

"Aw, c'mon, it's just 'Lassie ', not 'Assiter'."

"It's the name of a dog!"

"A great dog! A dog that saved a kid how many times? Plus, you're loyal, and you love it when I rub your tummy and give you a nice bone."

"Spencer!"

"My bad, my bad," he conceded, but he was grinning again. "That's him, not you. Anyway, I don't call him that all the time—when we're alone, I call him Carlton. And he calls me Shawn."

Lassiter watched him scoop up the last bite of noodles, thinking about being comfortable enough with the Spencer he knew to actually refer to him as Shawn. About hearing that Spencer calling him by his real name. He wondered about that other world's version of himself, about how it had happened that he was with this version of Spencer, how they had gotten to the point of being easy enough with each other to be happy.

"Are you happy?" he asked suddenly.

Spencer #2 looked up at him with his eyebrows raised. "Sure?" he ventured. "I mean, I'd like to get back home to where we belong, but at least I'm not alone here, and as long as he's with me, I'm good. Although it is worrisome that we're here to begin with. Overall I'm pretty okay, thanks for asking?"

"That wasn't—I mean—are you happy," he said, trying to clarify without having to say it. Spencer squinted at him slightly, and although he probably would have arrived there in a second, Lassiter gave it to him anyway. "With him. Being with him, your... version of me."

"Yes," Spencer said immediately. "It's not all sunshine and roses, I mean. We fight, we argue, we sometimes hid my bike keys and threatened to call my dad if I was trying to investigate a case and got slightly too reckless—"

"Would that even work?"

Spencer raised an eyebrow at him. "Maybe," he said. "But I wouldn't advise trying it on your-world-Shawn. It only sometimes worked with me because he has special boyfriend privileges, which actually include that 'sleeping with someone makes me less annoying' thing you mentioned earlier, along with the 'all efforts to be honest at all times' policy, and absolutely no experiments in the house, not counting fun and fancy free time in the bedroom." He paused. "But yeah, we're happy. I know it probably doesn't make any sense to you, but I'm not sure I can explain it. You should maybe talk to him about it." He paused again. "Although he did tell me that he finds it super weird to talk to you and that he's still not one hundred percent sure that you're not a cyborg."

"He's the cyborg," Lassiter said dismissively. "This is my world—Spencer-that-isn't-you and I were here first."

"True," Spencer #2 said. "But if you cut us, we bleed blue. Which actually does sound like something a cyborg would do." He suddenly looked excited. "Oh, dude, I can't wait to tell him that he's Robocop. That makes me Nancy Allen, that sweet Officer Lewis."

Being that Lassiter had had something of the same thought Spencer had mentioned—that it actually gave him the willies to be around that other version of himself that was him, but who moved and spoke and thought independently—he didn't think the manly heart-to-heart over boyfriends/potential boyfriends was going to happen. "I'll take your word for it," he said. "I'm just... having a hard time understanding how it's even possible, no matter the universe or whatever else."

"That we're happy?" Spencer smiled again and shrugged. "I dunno. There's something there—I'm pretty sure if you deny that, your pants are going to burst into flame, which is a direct violation of the fire code, and we'll be invited to leave before my sammiches are done."

Something. Maybe. But what? He didn't know, and never thought more that he never would.

"Like I said, we're not, like, over the moon every day of the week and twice on Sunday." He paused. "Four or five times a week at most." He grinned when Lassiter rolled his eyes again. "But there are ways—and means—and we make it work. We give and take. He knows how I work and lets me do my thing, and I bring him evidence before I ask him to move on a case unless I or someone else is in danger. He's more tolerant of my wily ways, I behave myself a little more—"

"You don't lie to him," Lassiter muttered.

Spencer #2 paused again. "No, I don't," he said. "But I also trust him, and he trusts me. It didn't happen overnight, but we got there, and now... yes, Carlton. We're happy together."

Lassiter forced himself to look up at this Spencer, this Shawn, the version of him that another part of himself, somewhere, trusted and wanted to be with, enjoyed spending time with. The one another Carlton Lassiter kissed, held, touched... made love with. Spencer's eyes were soft as he looked back, and Lassiter thought it likely that he knew what he was thinking. Psychic or not, the man knew things; his eyes were too fast and too deep.

"Does he love you?" he asked.

Spencer smiled. "Yeah, he loves me. A lot. And I love him."

Lassiter dropped his eyes down to the napkin with fried sandwich crumbs on it again. He had nothing to say to that. Thankfully, the server came by with a white cardboard box containing Spencer's to-go order, and they paid and left the restaurant. When they got back to the police department, Lassiter let Spencer come inside with him while he reported to Chief Vick that he hadn't been able to locate the witness. He left Spencer sitting in the chair next to his desk ("You stay here and don't touch anything," he'd ordered. Spencer had sat back, crossed his ankles, smiled, and said, "Sure." As Lassiter paused outside Vick's door, he glanced over his shoulder, and saw that Spencer #2 was still just waiting for him, looking around but making no sign of either getting up or rifling through any of the things laying on Lassiter's desk, while Spencer #1 would have seen the order as an engraved invitation to snoop) and went in to see his chief.

Vick had a grim look on her face; she informed Lassiter that an hour ago, Officers McNab and Nunez had responded to a call about an altercation in a mall nearby, and an ambulance had also been dispatched. He was about to ask what that had to do with him when she went on to say that twenty minutes ago, a county medical examiner's van had arrived on the scene and that it was now a murder investigation. According to mall security, a man had approached a woman perusing the Mirror Maze, a shop that exclusively sold mirrors, both large and expensive ones and small decorative ones. The clerk at the register had heard raised voices, including a man's voice pleading and a woman's shouting to leave her alone, and then there had been a tremendous smash; the clerk had then come around the corner to find the man unconscious, halfway through the frame of a large mirror, many broken shards of glass sticking into his body and a pool of blood growing on the floor. The woman was nowhere to be seen, but almost every mirror in that corner was also broken.

"Get up," Lassiter said to Spencer as he came back into the bullpen fast. "We've got another case, and I'm wanted on the scene now." Without a word, Spencer jumped to his feet and followed, sliding into the front seat of the car and snapping his seat belt on. He looked excited, watching Lassiter expectantly as he flipped his siren on, and because he was just continuing to wait instead of either demanding to be let in on the case or chattering annoyingly, Lassiter told him. He probably should know, just in case. "A man was killed in some house-of-mirrors store at the Rockway Mall," he said. "Sounds like he went after some woman and she shoved him back, almost all the way through one of those full-size jobs that go on the backs of closet doors. There were other broken mirrors all around, but no other blood on the glass, and she fled the scene, although nobody saw her."

"Whoa," Spencer said softly. "Do you think it could have to do with...?"

"Don't know." Lassiter pressed his lips together as he blew a red light. He debated calling the other Spencer and his other self, but they were supposed to be looking into it through other avenues, and while he thought it unlikely that they were making any progress, he didn't really want to deal with either of them. He glanced at Spencer #2, highly disapproving of what he was about to say, but as much as he hated it, he couldn't deny that it had worked, more than once, and it could possibly really help now. "Think you can go ahead and pretend to have a 'psychic vision' so you can look around and see if you can find anything? If I'm going to bring you on the scene with me as a consultant, that is your cover, no matter how stupid it is and what it is you actually do."

"Sure, no prob. That's what my Carlton has me do when I'm working a case with him."

"Fine," Lassiter said shortly. "I'm going to look at the body. I'm also going to instruct the security guard and the store manager to show you any surveillance tapes, and when I'm done, I'll meet you there."

"Okay." Spencer paused, and then he frowned thoughtfully. "A man is pushed back through the same kind of mirror I came through, but he didn't go anywhere—he just died. All of the other mirrors broken around them, but no blood except his, and the mystery mistress is melted away. I wonder if she went through."

Lassiter wanted to roll his eyes, but it was getting harder to not take his own case—or the case of his and Spencer's doubles—seriously, since they were seriously in their world and seriously needed to find out how, and why, and most importantly: how to get back. "If she did, she might have been taken," he said. "The cashier heard the dead man pleading and the woman shouting for someone to leave her alone."

"So maybe she was pulled back somewhere, and whatever it was tried to pull the man too, but he got stuck or the spell failed, and then the mirror-as-a-doorway turned back to real glass and cut him up?"

It made sense, as much as any of this did. "Let's start with that as our working theory until we find out more."

"Okay. We should call my Carlton and other-me, let them know."

"Not yet," Lassiter said quickly, imagining trying to deal with two Spencers sniffing around what was supposed to be his crime scene and offering bullshit theories. But two Spencers may help, because he does do something... just because I don't know exactly what doesn't mean he doesn't see things I don't, figure out things I can't, and solve crimes I haven't, he thought sourly. Still, it would be more than difficult to explain the suddenness of apparent twin Spencers (and his own apparent twin that he'd never told anyone about, who was also a detective within the same city), and if it came to it, they could easily tell the other Spencer and the other Lassiter about it later, get their input on it when they met up that night. "Let's just start the investigation ourselves," he said. "They're working on the psychic side; we'll work on the police side."

"Okay," Spencer said reluctantly. He clearly wanted to call the other Lassiter anyway, but Lassiter couldn't tell it was in a police case sense or a boyfriend sense. Probably both. He looked doubtful, and Lassiter wondered if he would try to find a chance to get out of his earshot and call the others anyway.

"We'll call them when we're done with the scene," he reiterated as he pulled up behind a patrol car with its lights flashing and put his own car into park. He turned the car off but didn't jump out right away, turning and looking at Spencer, into his eyes to gauge his sincerity. He looked serious—he hadn't made a ton of wisecracks, he was still sitting there instead of vaulting out and immediately making a spectacle of himself, he had agreed to let Lassiter take the lead and follow his orders. "Are you going to help me on this?" Lassiter asked him softly. He almost said, are you going to be good? because that was the phrase used with him earlier, which had seemed to work, but he had also recognized that as relationship-language. It wasn't his place, and he knew that.

"Yeah," Spencer said. "Just tell me what you want."

What do I want? "Just... follow me in, and when I introduce you as a consultant to the case, have a minor—very small—vision or whatever, something to get a little bit of attention. Not the entire mall, got it? I'll have them show you any tapes of what happened and then I'll come see the tapes, too. I'll tell you about the body and the scene, you tell me if there's anything you think I need to know, and we'll go from there."

"Okay."

"Okay," Lassiter said back, and he got out of the car. Here we go, he thought.