Grissom sat on his own in the chow hall in front of his uneaten dinner, oblivious of the noise and chatter around him. His mind whirred as he stared unseeingly at a coffee stain on the table, a half-eaten sandwich in his hand. He was torn and struggled to believe that Mr Martinez's daughter had anything to do with Sara's kidnapping and subsequent blackmail. He had to admit however that the chain of events was all a little too coincidental for his liking and worth checking out.

Mr Martinez had still been in hospital during the trial – the only time he and Grissom had met was the evening of the accident – but Marisa and her husband had been present both days. He remembered clearly how heartbroken Marisa had been, how open she was with her grief, how outraged she had been when he was given what she considered too lenient a sentence. He'd kept his gaze shamefully averted to the floor during the trial and subsequent verdict but, the few times he'd glanced up to look at her and their eyes had met, he'd seen unconcealed hatred there, contempt and resentment too.

He hadn't expected any less. Those were feelings he'd shared at the time and understood. Could her father's death have triggered those emotions in her again, he wondered now, precipitating a need for revenge? Losing both parents like that had to be tough, and she was right to hold him responsible.

A tray clattered to the floor, and refocusing he brought the sandwich to his mouth and forced down the mouthful. He rubbed at his face, checked the time on his watch. He would wait until just before the computer room closed for the night to go and check his email. He hoped Brass or Sara, or both, would have had time to send him an update by then.

"Hey, Grissom," Mitch said, drawing him out of his musing. "This seat's taken?"

Looking up, Grissom gave Mitch a wry half-smile. "Be my guest."

Mitch set his food tray down before straddling the welded-to-the-table steel stool. Without ceremony, he grabbed a slice of Bologna and placed it between two slices of buttered bread. Bringing the sandwich to his mouth with both hands, he took a hearty bite. "You're not hungry?" he asked, chewing vigorously.

Grissom looked at the ham sandwich in his hand and tossing it onto his tray shook his head.

His brow rising, Mitch took another big bite of his sandwich before reaching for his cup, rinsing his mouthful down. "Your wife okay?" he then asked.

Grissom stiffened. "She is," he replied finally, relaxing when he remembered that Mitch knew about the kidnapping.

Mitch gave a nod, made up a second sandwich. "I'm glad to hear it."

He watched Mitch carefully. "She—she came to visit today actually."

Mitch bit into the sandwich. "They caught who took her?"

Grissom shook his head. "Not yet."

As he chewed, Mitch pondered Grissom's words. "I hope they do."

Grissom reached for his cup of coffee and, pondering his own opinion on the matter, took a lukewarm sip.

"Wouldn't be fair otherwise, would it?" Mitch remarked, his mouth full.

"I guess not," he replied quietly, reaching for the pot of strawberry jelly on his tray. "Do…you still believe in the system after what happened to you?"

"Too damn right," Mitch replied categorically. "Society cannot function without it." Pausing, he used a finger to free food from his teeth.

Grissom gave a thoughtful nod, then looked down and slowly peeled back the lid on his jelly. Using his plastic spoon, he scooped out one mouthful. It certainly went down more easily than the sandwich.

"Do I wish I hadn't gotten caught?" Mitch went on, unprompted, putting more food into his mouth as he added, "Sure. But I did, and it was fair enough. I knew what I was getting into when I broke the law. I wanted to make more money than I was earning, and for a long time I did." He gave a mirthless laugh.

Interested, Grissom stopped eating. "Would you do things differently now?"

Mitch's expression darkened. "Sure. I learned too late that money's not everything."

Pondering his own situation, Grissom gave a nod. Then he thought about Manuel and what he'd told him once: that life was all about making the right choices, and he, like everyone else behind bars, had made at least one wrong one. With a sigh, he returned to eating his jelly.

"Do you…think it was random?" Mitch asked.

Grissom finished his mouthful before he spoke. "Do I think what was random?"

"Your wife's kidnapping."

Grissom's ears pricking up, he scooped out another spoonful of jelly before looking back up. "I don't know," he said, putting the food into his mouth.

He just couldn't get a true measure of the man and wondered where he was going with the conversation, just couldn't figure out if Mitch was asking about Sara out of interest and curiosity, or if he had ulterior motives. Despite Brass's assertion that he couldn't link Mitch to the kidnapping, Grissom couldn't help thinking that asking for a ransom in Bit coins was well suited to a financial lawyer with a conviction for conspiring to commit securities and wire fraud.

"You…ever been to Jackson?" he asked, aiming for a matter-of-fact tone, hoping he'd succeeded.

"Jackson?" Mitch repeated, visibly puzzled by the change of topic.

"Mississippi."

Mitch pursed his lips thoughtfully. "I don't think so."

"So you don't know anyone there."

Mitch frowned. "No, why?"

"Just wondering." As casually as he could, he returned his attention to his jelly, scraping the last few dregs out of the pot.

Mitch's face softened with a smile. "The further east I've been is Las Vegas."

Again, Grissom stiffened.

Mitch pushed his glasses up his nose. "Been there a few times actually. Both for work and pleasure. Lost a shit ton of money too." He gave his head a shake in disbelief. "Had money to lose then, of course. It's all gone now."

"That's Sin City for you." He kept his tone light as he held Mitch's gaze and tried to remember exactly what he'd let slip in his moment of madness before he'd been sent to the hole. Mitch knew he was from Las Vegas, and wary the conversation would soon move onto more personal grounds, he considered what to say next carefully.

"'This is the end result of all the bright lights,'" he said, in his best De Niro voice, "'and the comp trips, and all the champagne, and free hotel suites, and all the broads and all the booze. It's all been arranged just for us to get your money'." He watched Mitch's face carefully as he spoke, gauging for minute changes in his expression that would betray the fact that Mitch knew more about him than he was letting on, but got nothing. Mitch's face just lit up with recognition at the quote and that almost immediately.

"Ace Rothstein, from Casino, 1995. I love that movie. Not so much your De Niro impression."

Grissom burst out laughing while smiling widely Mitch returned to scarfing the rest of his food down. It was clearly possible, Grissom thought as he watched Mitch eat, that their paths had crossed in Vegas, but if they had he didn't remember. And yet Mitch thought he did.

"You're not going to eat this?" Mitch went on, motioning at Grissom's untouched bread and ham.

Grissom refocused on his tray with a start and shook his head. They weren't allowed to take any food out of the dinner hall, or barter it, so Mitch might as well eat it. "You can have it if you want."

"You sure?"

Grissom nodded.

Glancing over his shoulder to make sure an officer wasn't nearby, Mitch reached across to Grissom's tray. "Thank you," he said, immediately putting the sandwich together and taking a bite.

Grissom's lips twisted in amusement. "You ran out of commissary food?"

Mitch gave a sheepish shrug. "Is it that obvious?" He gave Grissom a wide grin. "Beggars can't be choosers, huh? It makes me sick just thinking about all the good food I wasted in the past. If only I'd known."

Indeed, Grissom thought. With the benefit of hindsight, they'd all do everything differently. He reached for his apple and began eating it while Mitch prattled on about this and that, about how two cold meals a day at the weekends was criminal, how he'd been out in the yard playing softball all afternoon, which explained why he was sore and so hungry. Grissom was happy to let him talk; it was a welcomed, if only momentary, distraction.

"Want to play some chess," Mitch said when both trays were empty.

Grissom looked at his watch and nodded his head. He still had a couple of hours to kill until the computer room would shut. After disposing of their trays, Grissom went to get his chess game and glasses from his locker while Mitch went to the bathroom. In the dayroom, Grissom scanned his eyes for a free table and finally finding one weaved his way over to it. Sitting down he put his glasses on. He was setting the board up when Mitch slid into the seat across from him.

"I'm ready to whip your ass," he said, rubbing his hands together gleefully.

Smirking, Grissom looked up at Mitch over the rim of his glasses. That was all the challenge he needed. A few men gathered to watch, and he made his typical opening move of sliding a white pawn to D4. Without wasting time, Mitch moved his knight to F6, and they were off. All noise receded, his mind fully on winning the game. Mitch was a worthy opponent, matching every one of Grissom's attacking moves with great defensive ones. He had to think hard, constantly reviewing his strategy. Without realising, he found that he was enjoying himself.

He was about to play his winning move when he remembered he still needed to check his emails. He glanced at his watch, his eyes widening at how late it already was. Without a word, he pushed to his feet, much to Mitch's puzzlement.

"Where are you going?" the latter asked.

"There's something I got to do," Grissom said.

Mitch was staring at Grissom with amazement. "What? Now? Can't it wait until we finish the game?"

Grissom paused. Then he slid his rook to G3, looked up from the board and smiled. "Checkmate."

"Oh, come on!" Mitch exclaimed, a deep frown creasing his brow as dropping his gaze he studied the board.

Grissom slipped his glasses off. "You keep practising. I'll be back in twenty minutes."

His eyes still on the board as he clearly wondered where he'd gone wrong, Mitch nodded his head distractedly.

Grissom rushed away, but the computer room was always busy on a Saturday evening and then was no exception. Cursing himself for losing track of time the way he had, he joined the short line. As he waited, he kept stealing impatient glances at his watch, silently urging people on and hoping he'd get a turn. It was close to ten to seven when a computer finally freed up for him. He sat down, put his glasses on and hurriedly logged on. There were two emails waiting for him, the first one from Sara, the other from Brass. Sara's had been delivered first, so he clicked on it.

Gil, she wrote.

Back at the hotel. We're both quite tired so we're going to eat local and have an early night before the drive back tomorrow. It was good to see you today, and yesterday, and I hope you feel a little better. I wish we could have had longer together, but a month will fly by, you'll see.

I called Catherine and then Jim and told both about you know what. Both said they'd look into it, and we agreed Jim would email you as soon as he found anything – if indeed there's anything to find.

Catherine finally received a reply from M this morning. Ten BC is what they wants. It's about 50G. Can you believe it?

As he read, he smiled at how cryptic she was being, wondered whether it had aroused more suspicion than if she'd just told him everything quite plainly. But as the message had been approved and delivered, he guessed not.

Call Monday, usual time. I'll be waiting.

Stay strong,

Your loving, Sara.

Her closing words brought tears to his eyes. Casting a surreptitious look about him, he clicked on reply, told her he'd call on Monday just after nine, then thanked her again for everything she did for him and wished her and his mother a nice evening and a safe journey back. Conscious of the time, he opened Brass's message and smiled. Brass didn't share Sara's qualms about how forthright and open he should be with his news. It was clear however, from the thorough background check on Marisa Baker and her immediate family that he had conducted, that he'd taken Sara's suspicions seriously.

Marisa Baker, husband and two children, all share the same home address in Port Arthur, Texas. Have lived there for the last twelve years.

Marisa, 46, an only child, works at the local Home Depot, has done for the last ten years while her husband, Paul Baker, 52, is a long-haul truck driver with UPS. Or rather, was. Worked for the company for twenty years. Lost his job about a year ago. I'm still looking into why. Doesn't look like he's worked since. Both have debts to their name, mortgage arrears on the house. Neither has a criminal record.

Which can't be said for the son, Luis Baker, 22. Unemployed. He's done several stretches in the local jails, mainly for petty theft, public intoxication and disorder and auto theft. The last one was for possession of marijuana. Released a month ago. Timewise it could fit.

The daughter, Isabel Baker, 19, also lives at home. Unmarried. Unemployed. Mother to an eighteen-month-old girl. She's clean.

I'm still waiting to hear back from Catherine on the rest. Will email again as soon as I do.

Jim.

Grissom let out a long breath, then read the email again. Sure, the Bakers had their issues, but it didn't make them master criminals. It bothered him that Moneypenny had asked for the ransom to be paid in Bit coins. He wished he had access to the internet so he could do his own research into the cryptocurrency. To him dealing in Bit coins implied a greater knowledge of computer software and programming than the common man, or woman, usually had. What about hardware? That cost money. Unless, of course, it wasn't Moneypenny's first time – fifty thousand dollars was a considerable sum of money to extort.

The officer called time. Startling out of his thoughts, Grissom typed a quick "Thanks, Jim," before clicking on send and logging off. Removing his glasses, he rubbed at his tired eyes, then left the computer room at speed. A man on a mission, he didn't go back to the dayroom but instead headed straight to his dorm. He undid the padlock on his locker, reached for his writing paper and a pen and sat down at the table. A few of his dorm mates were chatting and playing cards nearby, others listened to music. He tuned them all out.

He wished he could speak with Catherine in person, felt bad that the only reason he wanted to talk to her was because he needed her help with the case. Still, he would write to her. He needed to apologise for keeping her in the dark anyway and if in the process he mentioned Bit coins and asked if she knew how the system worked then so be it. Catherine would know, and if she didn't then she'd know someone in the FBI who did. Knowing her, she had probably done that already. After all, it was the feds' level of expertise.

After many false starts, he finally got going. He was half-way through the letter when he realised that by the time Catherine received it and wrote back to him with the answers to his questions Moneypenny would surely have been caught already. Giving a small growl of frustration, he balled up the letter. He felt so powerless, so dependent of others for news, for a breakthrough on the case, and not for the first time in the last few days wished he wasn't locked up. He was packing everything away when he remembered he still owed Catherine an apology.

With a sigh, he smoothed out the creases on the letter, crossed out some words, added a few more, and when he was satisfied with the result copied up the letter onto a new sheet. It barely covered one side. He was about to sign off when he paused, hesitating, and thought back to what Sara had said during the visit about building bridges. He dithered only briefly before deciding to ask Catherine for an up-to-date email address he could add to his Corrlinks account. That way, he wrote, they could message each other.

Hoping that went some way toward appeasing her, he signed his name, folded the letter and slid it in the envelope. He was writing Catherine's name on the envelope when he remembered she didn't live in Vegas anymore, not permanently anyway. He'd email Sara the next day; she'd know Catherine's new address. And if she didn't then he was sure she'd be more than happy to ask Catherine directly. The letter wouldn't go until Monday anyway, and at least now he'd written it. He felt quite good about it actually, as if he'd reached another milestone in the long road to some kind of recovery.

By the time he finished it was past 8pm. At a loss as to what to do until lights-out at eleven, he reached for Martin Luther King's biography and toeing his shoes off turned his pillow upright and made himself comfortable on his bed against it. He began to read, but when his mind refused to focus fully on the text he let it wander. He couldn't help thinking back to the visit earlier that day and the words of wisdom his mother had imparted. Dr Walker had said pretty much the same things to him not so long back. They were right of course. His future was in his hands.

Betty had always been a great role model to him as he grew up. She had had many a hardship in her life, the first one coming at a very young age when she had lost her hearing, but she had always kept going, never faltering, it seemed, even after his father's sudden, untimely death or the various health issues she'd had since. He wished he had her strength.

"Hey, Grissom," Mitch's quiet voice said. "You sleeping?"

Grissom opened his eyes and found Mitch looking down at him.

"You left this behind," Mitch said, lifting Grissom's chess game in his eye line before setting it on the table next to his letter to Catherine.

"Thank you," Grissom said, swinging his legs over the edge of the cot as he closed the still open book.

"Everything okay?"

Grissom flashed a quick smile. "Sure."

Mitch waited for more, but when Grissom kept silent he just nodded his head again. "You're around tomorrow?"

Grissom chuckled. Where else would he be? Unless of course, Mitch assumed he had another visitor. "Yeah. I'm around tomorrow."

"Good, 'cos we need you."

Grissom frowned before his expression softened when he remembered that the softball tournament was taking place then. "You don't need me, but I appreciate the sentiment."

Mitch gave a nod, hesitated before turning to leave.

"Mitch?" Grissom called, setting the book down on the cot as he pushed to his stocking feet.

Stopping in his tracks, Mitch turned. Grissom moved to his locker and after undoing his padlock took out a chocolate protein bar from a pack of five he tossed over to Mitch.

"What's that for?" Mitch asked with puzzlement, catching it.

He was ambivalent and still didn't trust Mitch fully, worried it was only a matter of time before Mitch remembered where he knew him from. But Mitch was reaching out when not many people did, and he was grateful. "If we want to win tomorrow," he said, "we're going to need more than the crap they feed us for breakfast."

A wide smile broke across Mitch's face and he nodded his head in understanding. "I'll see you in the yard after the 9am count."

The events from the previous days finally caught up with him and Grissom slept well that night, waking with the buzzer the next morning. He felt good, almost refreshed. He went through his early morning routine, had breakfast and then got dressed in shorts and one of the white T-shirts Sara had sent him. How long had it been since his legs had seen the light of day, he wondered? On habit, he checked his abdomen but his injury had long healed.

As an afterthought, he put a protein bar in his shorts pocket for lunch – assuming he lasted that long. He hesitated briefly, wondering whether to check his emails before he went to the yard, but opted not to. Sara and his mother would be heading back to Vegas, and he decided that whatever other news there may be could wait. It wasn't like he could do anything about it anyway.

The yard was full and noisy, and it took him a few minutes to spot Mitch. The day was warm but overcast, a blessing really because the area around the dirt pitch provided very little shelter from the sun. After some arguing over order of play, the first game finally got underway. Grissom started off watching and cheering various teams, then got talked into umpiring and finally playing for his unit as little by little players grew bored or tired or got injured and dropped out. Aside from the correctional officers, some watching from afar, others from the baseline, they could be in any ballpark. It felt good to be outdoors and involved again. For a few hours, his mind was free, the demons quietened.

Afterwards, back indoors, he grabbed his wash things, towel and a clean uniform and headed straight for the showers, joining the long line of dirty and sweaty men there. The mood was still upbeat, the banter flowing and happy. He told Sara that the place was like college and, in times like this, it most definitely was.

When after dinner he finally logged on to a computer, there were two emails in his inbox. The first one was from Sara who wrote, Arrived home safely. Will chat tomorrow. Sleep tight. Love, S.

Her message was very short, by her standards anyway, but he figured she was tired after all the driving. Taking a steadying breath, he clicked on the second one.

Catherine called. FBI did their magic. Traced the number for the burner back to Verizon Wireless. Burner started its life in Jackson, Mississippi. That's where the texts to Dooley's cell were sent from. But wait for it. Even though the cell is now off, it's still communicating with cell phone towers. The signal it's emitting now locks onto a Verizon tower in Port Arthur, TX.

FBI won't proceed until they get the IP address for the Hushmail account.

But we got her, Gil. We got Moneypenny.

Grissom looked up from the computer screen and sighed.

He should have rejoiced at the news, but he didn't.

He just felt incredibly sad.

Because ultimately he was responsible.