Prologue
It was the yelling that had woken her, but not what had driven her from her bed. Sara was used to hearing yelling at night. Usually she made herself small, huddling with knees tucked up and blankets pulled over her head, eyes squeezed tightly shut. No, it wasn't screaming or crying that made her unfold herself from the bed, to let trembly bare feet touch the floor without a sound. Rather, it was the abrupt cessation of noise that had urged her out of her room and down the hall. Toward her parents' oddly, eerily quiet bedroom, the door open slightly, ajar as if beckoning.
II.
"LVPD! Stop!"
Sophia's voice carried back through the cold air, the same air that rasped harsh and quick in Sara's lungs and stung her cheeks. Panting, she raced with all her might after Sophia, through unfenced yards and down dirty alleyways. Desperately trying not to lose her. Feet pounding, shoes usually comfortable but not really made for running. Every now and then the barest glimpse of Sophia's hair swinging, flashing glints of white-gold in intermittent porch light. Blood roaring in her ears. A muffled yelp from up ahead, a metallic crash. Then a strangled shriek, grunting sounds, the faint crunching thump of a body hitting the ground. Sara put on a burst of speed, gripping her gun tightly in her gloved right hand.
"Sara?"
She jerks back to the present and finds herself looking into Brass's concerned eyes. "Are you all right?"
She nods (a wordless lie), and grips her now-tepid cup. The trembling has partially ceased now that she's wearing her coat and has drunk half of the tea.
The scrolling dialogue has not.
You killed someone tonight, Sara.
Shot and killed.
She takes a moment to squeeze her eyes shut and rub a hand roughly across her forehead.
"We're done interviewing Detective Curtis," Brass continues. "We're ready for you now." Sara glances blankly around the busy crime scene, as though searching for something. Then she walks with Brass toward a semicircle of three serious policemen, waiting to take her statement. Greg stands with them, clutching his kit and looking overwhelmed. His hair is on end, and she has to resist the urge to smooth it down. She manages a small smile and aims it in Greg's direction. His eyes thank her silently.
"CSI Sidle," Brass says formally. "I want you to tell us exactly what happened here, starting from the beginning."
She tells them. She doesn't know where this calm front is coming from, but she's grateful for it. Grateful that she at least appears professional, that the cops and Brass, and especially Greg, cannot hear the thoughts that roil rampant in her mind. Sara recites every detail, clear and sharp, as though it was someone else who did these things, and she was only an observer. A stubborn, dazed part of her still thinks that it couldn't have been her. She can't have been the one who did this.
She's not a murderer. She's not like her mother.
The cops are attentive and calm, writing on their small notepads. Sara looks through them, past them as she speaks. Toward the scene. She can't seem to stop looking at it. She feels it burning into her mind, crystallizing and taking up permanent residence. The arrangement of the fallen garbage cans, the police cruisers with their brilliantly flashing lights. Neighbors in robes and slippers, arms crossed against the cold, local news vans squatting behind them. A crimson puddle congealing in the gutter. She knows helplessly that this, right now; this moment will become the stuff of her nightmares. This scene will come back to her in dreams, potent and freshly disturbing each time. Exactly like the dream about her parents' bedroom, her father very still in his red-streaked blue pajamas, sheets twisted and thrown haphazardly back, more red on the yellow wall.
And people wonder why Sara never gets much sleep.
She blinks and numbly begins to tell the cops about checking the man's pulse. It's at that moment that her voice falters. Her perpetually roving eyes find a familiar form as it strides purposefully through the crowd, flashing ID, ducking under the tape.
Grissom has arrived.
Sara's throat closes and she chokes on her words. The cops look up at her with patient concern.
She clamps her mouth shut. Watches Grissom make his determined way among the cruisers. Multicolored lights flash off of him. He doesn't look her way; his eyes are fixed on something. Sara's gaze jumps ahead, searching out his destination.
Sophia turns just as he reaches her. For a horrifying split second Sara really thinks he's going to put his arms around her. He doesn't. He places his hand on her upper arm, leans into her space as he speaks to her. His brow is furrowed. They're not close enough for Sara to hear what they're saying. Sophia gazes seriously up into his face as she replies, reassuring. One of her pale hands finds its way to rest delicately on Grissom's chest.
Sara clenches her teeth so hard that it hurts.
Finally he appears assuaged. She can't read lips, but even from a distance she always recognizes her own name when Grissom says it. Sophia looks up and gestures toward Sara's huddle of police; Grissom's head snaps around, swiveling in their direction. Quickly Sara looks away, back toward the circle of expectant cops. She makes desperate eye contact with Brass, who is regarding her with a knowing air of something like sadness. Sara inhales sharply and grasps for the thread of her story.
"I checked his pulse," she says. Her voice scrapes like broken glass. "But I knew he was dead."