Disclaimer: I don't own them.


Chapter Seven:

She drove home slowly, amazed at how calmly she had managed that—amazed that he hadn't even tried to deny her accusations… She parked her car outside her apartment building and realized just how tired she was as she climbed the stairs—it had been a long shift. She let herself in, locking her door behind her out of habit, and slipped off her shoes. Her purse and kit were dropped in the doorway and she hurried into her kitchen, sticking two pieces of toast into the toaster and pushing down the lever before returning to take her kit and purse to the slightly cluttered table she never used. Her coat was tossed to the table as well—she was normally not so messy—this was an effort to prevent compulsive cleaning.

She often felt the need to clean and re-clean, never leaving garbage in her apartment when she left, just in case she didn't come home and her work family ended up digging through her things. The problem, however, was that it truly had become a compulsion. She had started changing her sheets daily—scrubbing her bathroom daily—organizing and reorganizing her bookshelf and forensic journals and CD collection every few days.

She had begun to realize that she did not have time for anything other than work, eating, sleeping, and the constant cleaning, so she had given herself limits on how ordered her life could be.

The toast popped up then, and she went over to it quickly so that it would be hot when she spread her peanut butter—she wanted it melty. She poured herself a glass of juice, not wanting to get stuck awake by drinking more coffee, and took her plate and glass to her couch, setting them each on the coffee table and turning on the TV. Early morning television was never very good—she wasn't a talk show person…she wasn't really a people person, truth be told—so she flipped it to the discovery channel and lost herself in a documentary about black holes.

She turned the television off as soon as she'd finished her small meal and downed the last swallow of her juice before taking her dishes to the kitchen and placing them in her dishwasher. She had the compulsion to turn the dishwasher on, or scrub the dishes by hand, but she overrode it, closing the door to the machine and then turning her tired eyes on the doorway to her bedroom. She was exhausted.

She trudged into her room, quickly stripping off her work clothes and allowing herself to toss them into an empty clothes basket, but not into the washer. She moved, naked, through her bedroom and into the master bath to quickly shower off the crime scene and all the accompanying bad feelings that went along with it. She took her time, enjoying the hot water, and then dried off in a hurry, slipping into her usual tank-top-and-underwear sleeping arrangement.

She was running the towel through her hair when there was a knock on her door again. She sighed in frustration and grabbed a pair of PJ shorts from her dresser and slipped them on as she stumbled out into her living room, almost tipping herself completely over in the process, but finally making it to the door. She swung it open, breathless, and there he was again. She drew in a deep breath, arms rising to fold across her chest once more.