A/N: Even though I'll soon be up to my eyeballs in work at my real job, I'm going to go ahead and begin this little tale because I'm already pretty excited about it. It'll be partly a casefile (which I've never written before), but mostly a character-driven story full of drama and friendship, and possibly some romance. It's a bit more ambitious than other things I've attempted, so all (polite!) reviews will be greatly appreciated.

Enjoy!

He sat across the street from her little house, perched high in the driver's seat of the van he'd painted up to resemble those of the local cable company. He knew her routine, or more correctly, that she didn't really have one until she returned home for the evening. The time of her arrival often varied, but once inside the house she had stayed in every night that week. He could see her through her windows with his binoculars, even through the curtains thanks to heat-sensing technology: fixing dinner, making phone calls, watching TV, working at her computer.

And he smiled.

At eleven o'clock her lights went out, and he knew she was going to bed. A bit later than usual, he noted, but it was a Friday night. If she remained true to form, she'd probably watch TV in bed for an hour or two before drifting off to sleep. He pictured her long brown hair framing her face on the pillow, her blue eyes closed serenely, her lithe frame at rest beneath the covers.

That was his opportunity, when the TV shut off and her bedroom was completely dark. That's when he would make his move. That's when he would take her life.

———

Tim Speedle sighed as he pulled to a stop in front of the little house surrounded by crime scene tape and police cars. It was early in the morning—four a.m. he saw, glancing at his watch—and he should have been asleep.

"I was asleep," he grumbled to himself, retrieving his kit and camera from the back of his Hummer. "Until the night shift ran out of criminalists."

He sighed again and shook his head a little, trying to clear his mind. Walking up the driveway and ducking under the tape, he met up with Frank Tripp, the detective who had caught this case.

"Hey Frank," he greeted the man. "What've we got?"

"Twenty-eight year old female, asleep in her bed," the detective replied, "until someone attacked her. There's some scratches on the lock on the back door…he may have picked it to gain entry. Bloody footprints, too, way too big to belong to the vic."

"Murder weapon?"

Tripp shook his head. "We found a bloody knife a couple of blocks from here, but it isn't the murder weapon."

Tim drew his eyebrows together. "How do you know?"

"She wasn't murdered," the detective clarified. "She survived—on her way to the hospital now." He led the way into the house, continuing to talk as he moved. "Paramedics have been through here, me, and the first officer on the scene. Other than that we've been waiting for you."

The CSI frowned. "Great." He made his way to the bedroom where the attack had taken place, carefully scanning the floor for evidence, lest he step on something vital to the case. Pausing in the doorway, he gave the room a once-over, noting instantly the large amount of blood on the sheets. He glanced over his shoulder at Tripp. "You said she survived?"

"Yep. Couldn't believe it myself. She even managed to call 9-1-1," he said. "Couldn't do much but moan into the receiver, but it was enough to get rescue out here."

Tim's eyes widened in surprise. "She was still conscious?"

Tripp pressed his lips together. "Not for very long. First officer said she was about ten seconds from death when the paramedics got to her."

"Well, if she makes it, we'll have a witness."

"I'll call the hospital, get an update," Tripp agreed, "after we finish canvassing the neighbors."

"Have 'em bag her clothes and personal effects, too, Frank," Tim reminded him. "And find out when she might be able to talk."

The detective nodded one last time and headed for the door. "Will do."

———

It was several hours before Tim snapped off his latex gloves and rubbed his eyes. Reinforcements had come to the scene in the form of Calleigh Duquense and the processing had gone faster after that, but it had still been a lengthy job.

Having carted all their collected evidence back to the lab, they now were wading through it all again, logging it in and sorting it all out. The gloves had come off when Tim's eyes began to blur, and he stood up, stretching his cold muscles, working the feeling back into the part of his foot that had fallen asleep.

"Long day?" a voice called, entering the little room where the two CSIs worked.

"Hey Frank," Calleigh smiled at the detective.

Tim swiveled around. "Hey, how's our victim doing?"

"She's out of surgery now—in intensive care, but the hospital says she's conscious. Wanna take a ride?"

"You okay logging the rest of this in?" Tim asked Calleigh.

"Yeah," she replied cheerfully. "I'll get Delko to help me."

Tim sighed tiredly. "Okay," he told Tripp. "Just let me get my kit."

A camera hung around Tim's neck when he and Tripp found the victim's hospital room thirty minutes later, his kit in one hand as he reached for the door with the other.

"The doc said she's in pretty good shape for what she went through—no major organs or blood vessels hit."

"That explains why she was conscious for so long," Tim answered. "She bled a lot, but she bled slowly. Did the hospital staff collect any evidence from her before she went into surgery?"

Tripp shook his head. "No trace, if that's what you mean. They were more concerned with saving her life."

"But she's awake now? Able to talk?"

"Yep. Still kinda groggy, they said, but lucid."

Tim pushed the door handle and entered the room slowly, studying the victim as she lay in her hospital bed. She was clad in the standard-issue gown with a blanket pulled up to her chest, I.V. running from her left hand, oxygen tubes in her nose, pulse-ox monitor clipped to her right index finger to show the level of oxygen in her body. A nurse was carefully adjusting the cardiac leads that were attached to her chest, producing an electronic replica of her heartbeat on the screen beside her bed. Her eyes were closed and Tim thought she was asleep, but her lids fluttered open at their footsteps.

"Allyson Brooks?" Tripp asked, following Tim inside.

She licked her cracked lips before answering. "Yes," she managed.

"I'm Detective Tripp, this is Tim Speedle, Crime Scene Investigator. We'd like to ask you some questions about your attack, if you feel up to it."

She nodded slowly. "Okay."

"Can you tell us what happened?"

"I was asleep," she croaked, her throat still dry from the breathing tube that had been inserted for surgery. "I was dreaming that someone was holding me down, and there was this horrible pain in my abdomen," she told them. "When I woke up there was a man…straddling me…holding my hands above my head with one hand…stabbing me with the other."

"Did you get a look at him?" Tripp asked.

Allyson shook her head gingerly. "I-I don't know. It all happened so fast…"

"Can you tell us anything about him at all?" the detective prompted.

She thought for a moment, trying to organize her memories of the last twelve hours. "His hair was light colored…blond, I think…it was lighter than the shirt he wore."

"Could you tell how tall he was?"

She shook her head again, frustrated with her inability to remember. "It's all a blur…I don't know…"

"It's okay," the nurse interjected, sensing her agitation. "The hangover from the anesthesia hasn't gone away yet."

Tim had been watching Allyson as she spoke, and took the opportunity to agree with the nurse. "That's right," he told her. "You might remember better in a couple of days." That seemed to calm her a bit, so he continued with the interview, knowing the answer to the next question but asking it anyway. "Did you struggle with the man that attacked you?"

She nodded. "As hard as I could."

"Would you mind if I examined you for evidence?" he asked. "He may have left something behind that will help us catch him."

She nodded again slowly, and watched him place his kit and camera on a chair, taking out a pair of latex gloves and putting them on. He gently inspected her wrists where she'd been held, along with the small cuts and bruises on her hands and forearms, under the watchful eye of the nurse.

"Defensive wounds," he told Tripp, reaching for the camera. He snapped a few pictures, then retrieved a small package from his kit. "I'm going to scrape under your fingernails," he said, focusing back on Allyson.

She followed his movements with her eyes as he ran a wooden stick under each of her nails, dropping it onto a sheet of paper and folding it into an envelope.

Tim grabbed his camera again, holding it at chest level. "I need photographs of your other wounds, too," he explained. "Now, I can do it, but if that makes you uncomfortable Detective Tripp and I can step out into the hall while the nurse photographs you."

"It's fine," she responded with a slight wave of her hand. "Do what you need to do."

Tripp cleared his throat. "I think I'll step out anyway," he decided, making his way to the door.

When it had closed behind him, Tim nodded, signaling the nurse to draw back the blanket. Pulling his camera up to his eye, he focused on Allyson's legs, clicking a few times at the cuts there. He paused, lowering the camera a moment. "The nurse is going to lift up your gown, now, okay?"

Allyson smiled a little, despite her pain. "It's okay," she assured him.

He chuckled in reply, raising the camera into position again and adjusting the focus. The deepest stab wounds were contained in her midsection and had already been stitched, so comparing them to the knife they had found would be difficult, if not impossible. He took the pictures anyway, documenting each of her injuries for the case file.

"Okay," he said quietly when he finished. He turned respectfully away, tending to his camera while the nurse covered Allyson. By the time he had packed everything up, she looked exactly as she had when he had entered the room. "Thank you," he told the nurse. "And thanks for not bandaging those before we got here."

"Sure," the nurse responded. "You need anything else?"

He thought a moment. "No," he decided. "I'm almost done."

"Okay." Shifting her gaze to her patient, she continued, "I'm going to get the gauze and antibiotic cream so we can cover those wounds now," she said sweetly. "I'll be right back."

Allyson nodded one more time, watching her exit the room and pull the door shut behind her.

Tim brought her attention back. "There's just one more thing I need." He peeled back the paper wrapper of a cotton swab and held it up where she could see it. "I need a sample of your DNA so we can tell which evidence came from you, and what might have come from your attacker."

She opened her mouth and he deftly sampled the inside of her cheek, slipping the swab inside a cardboard box for transport.

"Thanks," he said, dropping it into his kit and snapping it shut. He quickly gathered his things and faced Allyson again. "Detective Tripp and I will probably be back in a few days to ask you some more questions," he explained. "When you're memory is better."

"Okay." She reached out and touched his arm, grasping his sleeve weakly between her fingers as her eyes met his. "Get this guy."

Tim pressed his lips together, reading the frustration that was returning to her face. This time, though, it was mixed with fear.

"We'll do everything we can," he promised.