Catherine Willows walked down the hall of CSI HQ a little slower than usual. She had a monster headache, one that felt like a parasite eating away at her skull from the inside out. This was not a headache Advil could cure. The only remedy was a good night's sleep. And she was more than ready for it.
She had just wrapped up a case involving the death of a young gay man named Roger, found hung from his bedroom rafters. The story was supposed to be that when he discovered he had AIDS, he hung himself in shame and depression. It had taken nearly two months to figure out that his lover, Kevin, had killed him in rage when he discovered he had contracted AIDS from Roger. It was proven to be indeed murder, made to look like suicide
It was a complicated case, with many intricacies and cover-ups. All Catherine saw when Kevin was lead away in handcuffs, was absolute pain. He had loved someone to death…literally.
The whole case had been agonizing for nearly everyone involved and now it was just catching up with Catherine and her headache. She had already arranged for Lindsey to stay over a friend's house for the night, so she was counting on a nice, peaceful time by herself.
"God, Catherine," came an exasperated voice. "You look like a train wreck."
Catherine turned and smirked. "Thank you, Sara," she said to her still-perky coworker, jealous that Sara did not currently have bags under her eyes or a pale complexion. "And don't you look like Iman today," she added sarcastically.
Sara frowned and looked down at her wrinkled jeans and faded Harvard sweatshirt, "Heyyy…"
"I just cannot wait to crawl into bed and sleep forever. Just lie still in complete darkness…like I'm dead," Catherine made a sharp turn into the break room to get a last-minute cup of coffee. Sara followed like an obedient puppy on an invisible leash. Catherine envied her boundless energy.
"I was hoping you might want to get a beer or something later."
"No offense, Sara, but I feel like I've got an eighteen-wheeler bursting through my forehead."
Catherine poured herself some coffee, popped a lid onto the Styrofoam cup and left the room. Sara continued to trail her so Catherine continued to speak,
"At least I'll have Lindsey out of the house for the night. No Spongebob Squarepants or Barbie for me tonight."
Sara chuckled.
"What are you doing tonight?"
"Ah…now that the Roger Bells case is closed, I have a free night. That's rare for me, huh?" Sara smiled. "I dunno. Maybe I'll go to a movie, hang out at a club. Warrick's been trying to get me to come to this new place for him for a few weeks now. I might take him up on that offer now."
Catherine winced at the thought of throbbing techno music and strobe lights. "Well, I'm heading off. Good night, Sara."
"G'night."
Sara watched Catherine leave, sighed to herself and went to find Warrick to tell him she did indeed feel like clubbing.
All of a sudden, she felt a jab on her back, as if someone had mistaken her shoulder blade for a doorbell. If it was one thing Sara hated, it was being tapped or poked. She whipped around to see who was poking her like a steak and came face-to-face with a young woman.
She was very petite, with a flawless hourglass-shaped body. Her hair, a shade or two lighter than chestnut, was pulled back into a ponytail revealing her widow's peak and sloping forehead. Her lips were thin and her hazel eyes were strikingly familiar. Her chin and cheeks were round, which made her look chubbier than she was. She wore a pair of faded boot cut jeans and a Motley Cruë tour shirt that had seen it's better days in 1983. On her feet were plain white tennis shoes and a purse that seemed to be made out of duct tape was on her shoulder.
"Can I help you?" Sara asked, wondering how the hell the girl got in here. But then she saw the yellow visitor's pass on her purse.
"Do you work here?" the young woman asked in return.
Sara folded her arms over her chest, "That depends. Why?"
"Oh. Um," the young woman dug into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out a photograph. "I'm looking for someone. Could you help?"
"What so they look like?"
The girl held out the photograph for Sara to take, "I know this is old…but maybe you could help? Do you know this guy? I found out that he works here…I'd like to see him, please. If that's possible."
Sara took the photograph gingerly and scrutinized it. It was at least twenty years old, but something in the eyes, the face, screamed familiarity. She stared for a very long time before she realized who it was in this dated portrait. A light went on in her attic.
"This is…Gil Grissom."
The young woman gave a sigh of relief and smiled, "Yeah. So you do know him."
"He's my supervisor. Yes. I know him," Sara handed back the picture to the young woman. "But the question is, how do you know him?"
"Oh," she said in somewhat of a relieved voice. She looked at the picture adoringly and touched a finger to the subject's face. "I am his niece."