DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, nothing at all. I receive no monetary gain from writing, just happy feels. All characters are property of their respective owners.
Hey! So...the confusion with Liz should be cleared up soon, but I can't promise it won't lead to a little more...o.O Thank you for continuing to read and for giving feedback, though! Always means a lot!
My house is quiet and empty, save for Sara and I, sitting across from each other on the couch. The emptiness swallows us whole and spits us out, the taste of our nightmare thick on its tongue.
"Do you know who it is?"
"It could be anyone who knows about my tattoo, I guess. I didn't think anyone would ever..." A fresh tide of emotions rushes through my core as she trails off, and I can't help but wonder how many people have traced the stars on her back, known her skin, the welcoming softness it holds. I shake away the thoughts.
"We have to get you some kind of protective detail."
"I, uh, called Grissom before I came over here. There will be an unmarked watching my house and another following me at all times." I turn from her to hide the disappointment at her words. I should have known I wouldn't be the first person she came to. I take a few deep breaths, reigning in the swell of feelings swirling like a hurricane in my body. I feel as if I've lost my footing in our exchange, and I can't put my finger on why. Anger swiftly replaces my confusion, something I'm familiar with, and I run with it.
"How long have you known?"
"Since the last victim. The burn marks - I...I didn't want it to be true." I must look like a mad woman, pacing frantically around my living room. Sara watches me from the couch, following my motions with worried eyes.
"Well, it is true. And three women are dead." The words fly like bullets, aimed at her chest, and she flinches visibly, as if struck.
"I know."
"You should have said something sooner."
"I know."
"If you couldn't trust me, you could've at least told Gil." She stands, her body shaking, and puts herself in my way, stopping me in mid stride.
"I get it! I fucked up! Don't you think that's been killing me?!" Her voice is almost a yell, matching my own pitch.
"I wouldn't know! You never tell me anything! You never let me get close enough to know you!" I take a step forward, my face inches from her own, our breath mingling together in the air between us.
"Maybe I don't want you to know me!" It's my turn to look struck as her words hit me, a freight train running through my gut. I refuse to let her hurt me, even though I feel sick, even though it feels like I've lost something I never had to begin with. I wonder why we always end up here, together but apart, swapping barbs until we bleed, and I step back from Sara. The distance is as metaphorical as it is literal, and when I find her gaze, I see a kaleidoscope of emotions filtering through her eyes. I don't know what she feels. I don't know what I feel.
"Well, it sounds like you have everything figured out. I have some things I need to do, so if there's nothing else."
"Cath, I didn't mean that. I just-"
"It's fine, Sara."
"Really, I was just angry. I-" I can't talk anymore. My mouth is dry. My head is pounding. I cut her off again.
"Sara. It's fine. Please." She turns angrily and stomps out of my house, the door slamming shut behind her, shaking the glass in the frame, shaking the pictures on the walls, shaking me.
I meet with Gil when I get to work, who tells me Sara's been taken off the case. She's too close. She shouldn't even be here, but I'm guessing she wouldn't stay home. I can't say I could sit around and do nothing either, just waiting for some psychopath to show up at my door. He gives me a list she made of people who have knowledge of her tattoo and people she's close to. Looking it over, I feel a strange sense of relief at the fact that it's not very long, but it's sad to see her life on paper, so few connections. I imagine how lonely her life has been, everything she's gone through, and I feel a new headache creeping along my forehead.
I spend most of the shift tracking down the eight names on Sara's list, which is actually fairly easy. The first six are all ex lovers - four women and two men. I don't miss the preference. None of them live in or near Vegas, and they all seem to have solid alibis, corroborated by bosses or friends and receipts. I request surveillance footage from the places that have it, but that will take a day or two. I call the second to last name, a Thomas Arnold, and get no response, so I leave a message and put a star by his name to check out later. It's the last name that makes me pause: Elizabeth Anderson. I know it's Liz. Liz with the bouncing, blonde curls and an apparent dislike for me. Liz who knows about Sara's tattoo. She's probably seen it, touched it, kissed all fifteen stars like she was catching them from the sky.
Sara and I have been ignoring each other all night, and I don't mind. The wounds are fresh, trying to heal, and we'd only tear the scabs. I'm not sure there's any point in trying to fix the damage we've caused anyway. If she doesn't want me to know her, doesn't want to know me, then there's nothing left. So, I'm surprised when I see her shadow cross my window, stopping at my door. I wait for the knock, for a paper slipped under the crack, but nothing comes. She passes after a few seconds, probably on her way out for the day. My eyes shift from the list in my hands to the door, and I can't help myself. Like magnets, my feet pull me towards the now empty spot in the hallway. I suddenly feel uneasy, like something in my world has shifted, like some important part of the machine has stopped working, and I survey my surroundings, looking for the culprit as if it were a person or some tangible matter. I try to eschew the sensation and head for the parking lot.
I'm aware as soon as I open the doors that something is wrong. A car alarm is blaring to my left and tires squeal from somewhere in the distance. I squint against the abrasive sunlight and search the area for the earsplitting sound, my stomach rising in my throat with each step I take. I know who's car it is, before I reach it. Somehow, I knew before I set foot outside that it was her.
The driver's side door of Sara's Tahoe is hanging open, the keys dangling from the ignition. She must have hit the alarm button in an attempt to get someone's attention. There's blood dripping down the inside of the door, splattered on the seat and running board, and her phone is smashed on the asphalt, bits of plastic and metal littering the ground.
"Ms. Willows?" The voice of the day shift security guard makes me jump.
"Get Grissom. Now." He looks the scene over quickly before rushing into the building. Bile burns at the back of my throat, and I make it to the bushes lining the building just as my stomach rejects its contents. Gil's hand on my shoulder does nothing to comfort me, and my eyes are red when I turn to face him.
"She's gone."