Night shift was over. His team had left some half-hour ago, but Grissom was still at his desk, reviewing the latest nightshift's expenditure report. He hated having to justify every single cent spent, every necessary test and procedure, but such was the nature of the game. He was turning to the last page when his cell vibrated on the desk. Sara, he immediately thought, snatching the phone up fearfully, only to breathe a sigh of relief when he saw Brass's name flash on the screen. Tiredly, he connected the call.

"So, an hour or so ago," the captain said without preamble, "I got one Cameron Quinn walk into the station."

Grissom tried to shake the fog clear from his mind. "And who's he?" he asked, his brow creasing in bafflement.

"Heather Clarke's boyfriend."

His interest suddenly piqued, Grissom removed his glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose – slowly changing the shape of his nasal passage so he could get more air in and wake himself up – and straightened up in his seat.

"Says he drove all the way from Phoenix, Arizona, as soon as he heard the news," Brass went on. "He's a contractor, been working there since Tuesday."

"That's the day before the fire," Grissom remarked. "His alibi checked out?"

"Sort of. He hasn't got one for when the fire started, he'd clocked off by then and lives alone in his truck when working away, but he said he was on a job until around four thirty pm. Should be easy enough to check."

The drive from Phoenix to Las Vegas took a good five hours; if his alibi checked out there was no way he could have been at the crime scene for six pm in time to cover up a murder. "What else did he have to say?"

"Said Heather was clean. Didn't even smoke, which tallies with what her co-workers all told me."

Pondering that reply, Grissom sat back in his seat and scratched his head.

"What did Robbins say about the drug use?"

"Not much. He can't see any signs of chronic use – cocaine or otherwise. No needle marks, or scarring in the nostrils, and nothing showed up in the stomach content. Her organs were all in good physical shape – pre-fire of course. She was young, and otherwise healthy from what he can ascertain. He can't swear to anything of course, on account of the extensive burns the body sustained." He paused, frowned. "Did you ask about the black eye?"

"Ah, the black eye," Brass mused in a chuckle. "That's a trickier one. Boyfriend said she told him she got it at work – some fight she tried to break up."

"At the Mediterranean?" Grissom exclaimed with undisguised surprise.

"My thoughts exactly. Her co-workers said the same as the manager, that she'd run into a door."

"Well, someone is lying."

"Or she lied to both parties."

Brass's words gave Grissom pause. "You think the boyfriend's telling the truth?"

"He says he was away on another job when it happened. I still need to check that out, but I'm inclined to believe him."

Grissom pursed his mouth. "Maybe she led a double life, one neither the boyfriend nor her co-workers know about."

"Boyfriend often away for periods of time?" Brass mused. "Wouldn't be the first woman to play around – the manager a case in point."

"I thought that was only conjecture on your part."

"One of Heather's co-workers confirmed it. She found them smooching in his office. Her words, not mine."

"Is he a suspect?"

"Give me a definite time for when the victim died and I'll tell you. But he was at work when the fire started."

"And the boyfriend?"

"He was pretty cut up. Says they'd been seeing each other for the last six months or so, that they were making plans, you know, for the future. But listen to this. When I asked about Heather's sister, he said he didn't know she had one, that she never mentioned it. So, I'm thinking they're estranged, right? It happens. Anyways, I put her name into the system, and guess what?"

"She's got form?"

"Yep. One misdemeanour marijuana possession back in 03, and another one for solicitation of prostitution. That was last year. All up in Reno. I got a contact at Reno PD looking into it as we speak, see if he can find her. Maybe she knows about the secret life. I called the parents again, but they've not seen her, or heard from her, not since she left home. They're coming over to Vegas to ID the body later today."

"Well, you have been busy."

Brass chuckled. "All in a day's work – and a night."

Grissom sighed. "You still suspect foul play?"

"Too many loose ends for my liking."

Grissom nodded in agreement. "I'm going to get Greg to look into the vic's employment history and finances, get her phone records and bank statements, see if he can find anything that would sustain this double-life theory. A cocaine habit isn't cheap. She had to pay for it somehow."

"Rent in that neighbourhood's not cheap either, especially on a waitress' salary."

It isn't, Grissom silently agreed, but the apartment building was in a nice, safe neighbourhood with views of Mount Charleston in the background. "Maybe she got tipped well."

"Yeah, but tipped for what services exactly?"

Grissom's brow rose. "You're thinking high end prostitution?"

"Or escorting―I don't know," Brass sighed. "But what I know is that there is more to Heather than meets the eye." And then after a beat, "You thought any more about my offer?"

Grissom frowned. "Your offer?"

"You know, about Sara moving in with me."

Grissom's brow rose sharply; he didn't like Brass's phrasing. He didn't like it at all. It sounded too final and permanent. Sara was supposed to be moving in with him. He sighed, but otherwise kept his frustrations to himself. "I'm going to go over to the hospital later. I'll speak with her then, see what she says."

"Good. Tell her I look forward to having her stay."

Grissom gave a disgruntled grunt as answer, and then hung up. With a look at the time, he folded his glasses and slipped them and his phone in his pocket, then stood up to collect the scattered sheets of his expenditure report.

"You busy?"

Grissom looked up toward his open door with a start. Catherine was leaning against the frame, watching with a soft smile on her face. How long had she been standing there, he wondered? Immediately he went over the end of his and Brass's conversation on the phone just then, but didn't think Catherine had been privy to anything she shouldn't have. "I thought you'd gone home already," he said, casually placing the report into its folder.

"I'm on my way now," she replied. "I had some paperwork to finish. You got your meeting with Ecklie?"

"Yep," he answered, walking round his desk, "And I'm late for it. I've been trying to come up with new reasons why we spend so much on ballistic gel."

Catherine laughed. "Because it's fun?"

Grissom's smile was cynical. "I don't think Ecklie approves of 'fun'."

Grissom indicated they should head off, and laughing Catherine fell in step with him. "Anyways," she said, "I just wanted to let you know that I contacted the cleanup firm and they're coming tomorrow – nine am. I'll go over after shift and supervise. They'll remove all the furniture and furnishings and everything else salvageable and take it to their warehouse to clean."

"That was quick work."

"Well, maybe not quick enough. You know how tough smoke damage is to clean up."

With a quiet nod, Grissom stopped walking and Catherine followed suit, slowly turning toward him. Grissom's eyes lowered hesitantly, then came back up to her face. "Tell them to send me the bill," he said. "I'll cover the expense."

Catherine registered a look of surprise. "You sure?"

Grissom gave a definite nod. "Yeah. I'll sort it all out with Sara later. I'm sure her insurance will cover it - eventually. She's got enough on her plate right now as it is."

Catherine's smile was soft as she nodded her head. "Anyways I best go," she said, patting her hand to his arm, "or I'll miss Lindsey altogether." She began to walk away. "See you tonight."

"Bye, Catherine. And thank you."

"You're welcome," she called back over her shoulder, and with a sigh Grissom walked off in the opposite direction, headed upstairs to Ecklie's office.


At first she isn't scared.

She's always been a light sleeper and so is easily roused by the incessant beeping of an alarm she's heard before and recognises all too well. Rubbing sleep from her eyes, she checks the time on the alarm clock but nothing is showing on the display. With a frown, she grabs her robe from the end of the bed, slips it on and knotting it tightly in place goes to investigate. She opens her bedroom door, the shrill sound of the smoke detector intensifying and echoing painfully in her ears.

The first thing that hits her is the smell of noxious fumes filling her nostrils. The living room stands in darkness, bar for a ray of sunlight through the gap in the badly drawn curtains and Sara clearly makes out a shimmery haze of smoke seeping from underneath the front door and rising. Her heartbeat quickens. Instinctively, she closes the bedroom door after her. She thinks about calling 911, but can already hear the sirens of emergency services approaching in the street below.

She still isn't scared, doesn't panic.

Should she stay put? No, the fire is near she can tell, the smoke getting thicker, and she might get trapped. It's already stinging her eyes, irritating her airways, and decision made she quickly crosses over to the front door. On habit, she shoves her bare feet into the boots she knows are waiting there and makes for the bolt. She takes a breath, opens the door and pushes forward into more darkness. No time to lose, none is wasted.

The heat is intense in the corridor, crushing like a solid wall steadily advancing toward her and she can't push through. But the heat is nothing compared to the black acrid smoke that immediately attacks her insides and leaves her gasping for air. Her eyes water, tears streaming uncontrollably down her face. What she should have done before she'd opened the door, she realises now, is to go back to the bathroom and soak a towel she could have wrapped around her face. Should she turn back?

Hold your breath, she tells herself, hold your breath. It's not far to go. She knows the way, after all, the quickest, most direct way out. It's just hot air, she thinks now. Hot air rises.

She can hear the fire, distant yet close by, crackling and quickly destroying everything in its path. She can't see a thing. Taking a right, she drops to her knees and as she crawls forward keeps taking small, shallow breaths to preserve her lungs. She is already exhausted. Her chest hurts; she keeps coughing. Her eyes refuse to open. Her head is spinning. The heat seems to be getting stronger, but she knows she's too committed to turn back.

Not far to go, she tells herself again.

She feels her hand along the wall and counts the doors all the way to the stairwell, pushes to her feet with difficulty and tries to open the fire door. It's heavy, stubborn. Staying upright takes all her remaining strength and concentration. The handle is so hot that it sticks to her hand and she cries out, but holds on to it nevertheless and lowers it, all the while weakly pushing her body against the door.

The door swings open, the momentum propelling her forward. She falls to her hands and knees, tries to catch her breath, fails to. The door as it automatically swings shut behind her hits the back of her legs, and weakly she gathers them to her, allowing the door to fully shut. Blindly, she crawls forward, reaches the top of the stairs, but her lungs are ready to explode and gasping for air she collapses. Her body's tired and beaten, starved of oxygen. She can feel it shutting down, herself drifting away.

"She's in respiratory distress, non-responding," a female voice called fearfully, over the sound of an alarm.

"Sara?" a man said, gently shaking her shoulders. "Sara, can you hear me? Can you wake up for me?"

Wake up? The concrete feels good, cool against her hot cheek. She doesn't want to wake up.

"She's tachycardic," the female voice said. "Her sats are down, below 90. I'm switching from the cannula to a mask."

Sara blinks her eyes, tries to push herself up off the concrete floor. But it's too much effort and when she can't manage it lays her head back down.

"Come on, Sara," the male voice said, as the cold metal disk of the stethoscope was pressed onto her chest. "I know you can hear me. I need you to breathe slowly into the mask."

Breathe? She feels like she is drowning now, fluid filling her lungs instead of air. She feels sick.

Now she is scared.