"Lisbon." says Jane. I sit straight up. I realize I was slumped on my desk. The image of Tommy screaming "Reese!" as the bottle collided with his head is still bouncing around my mind. I shake my head a bit to clear up those thoughts.

"Yeah?" I turn to look at him, hoping my expression doesn't reveal what I just remembered.

"You okay?" He frowns a bit. "You look a bit-" He trails off, still staring at my face.

I turn so he can't see my face. "I'm fine. What do we got?"

"A case down in Redmund. We got to go." He's still frowning a bit. "You sure you're okay?"

"I told you, I'm fine."

"If you say so" He says, now grinning.

"What?" I mutter.

He held up my keys. "I drive." He flashes me a smile. "Lets go."

On the way to the car, I'm still being tormented by images. I can't stand watching Tommy pass out in slow motion again and again but it seems like today, I have no choice. I know I am suffering from PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder) and I have my good days and bad days. Today is obviously a bad day.

30 minutes later, I'm standing at the entrance to a house. The paint is peeling and the door hangs in the frame. Part of the porch has fallen in and as I'm staring a rat scurries under the broken door and into the hole in the porch. Something about this place is oddly familiar, as if I've been here before. It sends shivers down my spine.

Rigsby opens the door and the stench just about knocks me out. Whiskey. Its not necessarily how strong it is, but how familiar it is. And the memories it brings. Suddenly the image I've been trying to block out is back. Tommy cries my name as he falls to the ground, blood dripping from his forehead. My back burns as if I'm replaying that horrible moment which, thanks to my PTSD, I am, sort of. "Reese!" He falls to the ground. I hear the terrible shatter of glass. "Reese!"

"Boss?" That clears my head. "Boss?" "Yeah?" I turn to Cho, ignoring Jane's curious looks. "Victim is Thomas Berkley, age 42. He's got 4 kids, Wendy, 15, Sienna, 12, Max, 8 and Ben, 6. Wendy called 911 after Berkley passed out and stopped breathing. She called as soon as he passed out."

"Mmmmmmm, nope." Said Jane. "She call a day or so after he passed out." We all turn towards Jane. We've been through this enough times to know that he's probably right. "Elaborate." I say. "Well..." said Jane, enjoying his audience,"This is obviously a home of a drunk" He gestured to the broken dishes and the overall appearance of the room. "He's been drinking for a while so she must have been used to him passing out."

This was starting to sound awfully familiar...

"so therefore, he must have been passed out for an awfully long time, maybe a day or two before she took his pulse and called 911."

"So we have no time of death or witnesses besides 4 kids who were probably doing their best to avoid or ignore him." summed up Cho. Oh, Cho, you always look on the bright side of things.

"Yup." we all mutter.

A half hour later, I'm getting out of the car and starting towards the front door of the CBI HQ. I had kept my hand on the keys during the whole crime scene investigation to stop Jane's attempts at stealing my keys.

The crime scene really freaked my out because it reminded me of the last time I saw my dad. He had stumble into his bedroom, stone drunk as usual. We had ignored him and avoided the room. We knew by now that a drunk was better left alone. Four days later, in a crazed search for food, James, age 11, opened the door and found him hanging from the ceiling. The coroner later told us that he had been dead for at least three days and asked if we had smelled the body. Truthfully, we hadn't. The house already reeked from whiskey and moldy food.

Great. Now I'm switching between hearing James scream when he opened the bedroom door and Tommy passing out, blood dripping down the side of his head. What a long day it's going to be.