Disclaimer: I don't own them.

A/N: ...I wonder if you'll all be as happy with me after this chapter. Still, I love the reviews!

Chapter 8: Doubt

Gil's departure Wednesday afternoon had me spooked, to say the least. When I'd asked to come to the lab with him, his response had been wary… alarmed even. He didn't want me to go. He was afraid of me going. Even though I keep plenty of secrets myself, I learned pretty quick, growing up in the homes I grew up in, that if you're afraid to be seen with someone, there's rarely an honest reason why. Either there was someone at the lab he didn't want seeing me, or something at the lab that he didn't want me to see. Whatever it was, it made me uneasy.

I tried very hard to give him the benefit of the doubt. I pushed it out of my mind, walking aimlessly around the townhouse, trying to occupy myself. I ended up in the office—he had told me I was welcome to use the computer—and I figured I'd check my email, surf the web, until he got home. He had a pile of mail on top of the desk, beside the haphazard contents of his application boxes—I picked up a newly delivered forensics journal, thinking that I could easily waste an hour paging through it—and beneath it I saw two open letters. It wasn't intentional at first—but the letters "FBI" grab your attention fast, and my curiosity got the best of me.

It was recognition of the receipt of monthly payments—a year's worth on this letter, but there was no telling how long it had gone on. The amount was consistent each month—and if my guess was good, it was probably half of what he made in a month, each month. Lifting up the paper to look more closely—almost in disbelief—I realize there's another open letter beneath it—a bank statement. Monthly automatic withdrawals—half the combined amount of deposited checks from the Las Vegas Crime Lab each month…

I replaced the letters under the magazine, contemplating—I'd opened the internet automatically—and it was now open to his email, and I felt intrusive, so I went to the address bar—but for the life of me I couldn't get my mind to think of even a random address to take me out. I was stuck on the FBI thing. Was he really an FBI agent posing as a CSI? Did he have a double life? Was he paying somebody off in the FBI? No, that was stupid… his paper trail was too obvious. So it had to be something legal… but nothing had shown up to indicate FBI on his bank statements. If it hadn't been for the first letter…

His computer bee-oop-ed at me and a new message opened itself on the page in front of me. A statement from his bank—a large sum of money had been deposited within the last hour… He'd told me he was at the lab…

I got up, starting to pace the room.

Maybe it was hypocritical of me, but I couldn't stand the idea that I thought I knew this man and yet apparently I didn't. He had lied to me about where he was going, possibly about who he was—his name, his job… everything I thought I knew about him was based around our shared occupation, which might be a façade.

Maybe there was a reason that the house looked unoccupied—the fridge had held few perishables, and the only rooms that looked well-lived in were the office and the master bedroom… like he used the house only as often as absolutely necessary. Where did that leave me? And where was he, when he said he'd be at the lab, but instead was collecting large sums of money?

Bee-oop!

The damn computer again. I glance at the screen. Another message is open—another bank statement. I hesitate, but at this point I need answers. I can't possibly be so stupid as to have been thinking I would jump into a life with a man I know nothing about, apparently. I approach the screen—a purchase from a business name I don't recognize, somewhere across town… nowhere near his townhouse or the lab. It's a purchase costing just over what he makes in three months. That's it. The breaking point.

I mark both messages as unread, and I close the internet, all but running into the bedroom to repack my clothing. I don't know how I'll get home, or whether I'll be stuck until Sunday for the flight he's scheduled me, but hopefully they'll let me switch this one for a sooner one. All I know is that I can't be here anymore.

No wonder he hadn't wanted me to apply at the lab, or had been perfectly fine accepting my unwillingness to tell my secrets—I'd probably been a fucking dream come true. How could I expect him to tell me his secrets if I wouldn't tell mine? And then there were the pictures all over the house…

I hadn't noticed them, or paid them much attention, at least, on my first perusal of his townhouse. But I had noticed them little by little—a blonde woman and Gil with their arms wrapped around each other, in the little living room by the door. I had written it off—I had pictures of Michael and I in the apartment, and it hadn't meant anything.

But then I noticed pictures of this woman at different ages, spread around the house… a picture of her as a three or four year old on the nightstand in the guest bedroom, as a ten year old on a bookcase in his office, as a young teenager on his dresser… at first I thought a sister, but no, I had gone back to the first picture—you didn't hold a sister like that.

Michael still had a picture of me—one of the few I had of me as a child—and I would bet all the money I had in the world that Michael was still in love with me. Gil was still in love with this woman… you just didn't keep childhood pictures of somebody unless you were obsessively adoring of every step they'd taken in life…

And he'd told me he liked long-legged brunettes. This woman was blonde... Maybe he dated brunettes now because no blonde could live up to her…

I abandoned my packing for a moment, rushing to the living room for conformation. I pulled the picture out of its frame to read the back—"Gil and Laura, New Year's Eve 86/87."

I slip it back into the frame and walk back to his bedroom, doing the math in my head. It was the New Year's that I had first kissed Tyler. I had just turned fifteen. Gil's been in love with this woman… Laura… for eleven years. With that realization—that this is a woman I could never compete with—I go back to my packing.

I'm less frantic this time—I'm not running away anymore, I'm leaving decisively.

It's as I'm zipping up my suitcase after double and triple checking that I have everything that I hear the front door open and close.

"Sara?" he calls. I sigh, and make my way out to the kitchen just as he's moving down the stairs.

He looks excited, and it throws me off for a minute, but I'm determined. Never in my life have I allowed a man walk all over me, and I'm not starting now.

"Hey honey, I have a surprise for tonight, if you're up for it."

He hands me an envelope, a big grin on his face. I keep my face blank as I take it from him and open it—a spa package for me, for today… several hours. I look up at him in genuine surprise, but I don't give him the smile he's waiting for and his own falters. When he speaks, his voice is nervous—uncertain.

"It's uh… I thought you could spend the day relaxing, and I'd fix the townhouse up… fix dinner… have a whole romantic night ready for you, by the time you got home."

I mentally cringe at him referring to the townhouse as my home. That kind of talk is dangerous—if there were ever a man I might slip and let myself be weak for, he was standing before me with stars in his eyes. I sigh.

"I'm, uh… I'm going back to Frisco tonight, Gil."

His eyes narrow and he looks upset… confused. "But… why? Did your lab call... or… I don't understand."

"No, they didn't call. I… I can't do this, Gil."

The hurt is clear in his eyes and I turn away from it. I've believed too many lies already. "You can't… do this? This what? You can't… be with me?"

"I guess," I laugh bitterly, "this is ironic, coming from me, but… I can't take the secrets, Gil. I can't handle not knowing what it is that you don't tell me and I can't handle not really knowing who you are and… and I don't want to be made a fool of."

"A fool? Sara, where is this coming from? I… secrets? Sara, I'll tell you everything, I just… I thought we'd tell our secrets together… I thought…"

"Why do you send money to the FBI every month?"

His mouth opens, and closes, in surprise. "Sara, I…" He swallows hard, breathing deep to regain control of himself. "…Why do you have that scar?"

I'm surprised that he's countered my question with a question. A question I don't understand. What scar? So I ask, "What scar?"

"It looks like you… your…" he blushes. "Your… perineum… tore, giving birth… not like an episiotomy scar, because the stitches were jagged…"

My face pales. I'd never realized the stitching had left a scar… the day in his office, on the chaise… I hadn't been with anyone except Gil and Michael since the rape and the consequent stitches, and Michael wouldn't have said anything, of course…

I bite my bottom lip, but the hurt welling up inside me mixes with anger. He's been in love with someone else for eleven years, leads a double life, lies to me about where he's going when we haven't known each other a month, and he has the nerve to ask over such a hurtful secret?

I turn from him and move to the bedroom, picking up my bags and walking back out past him—he'd followed me to the doorway. "Sara? Sara! You… You can't leave!"

I stop in the kitchen, turning to look at him in the doorway to his hall, my bag over my arm. "No? Why not? I can't stay in Vegas, Gil. There's an opening at your very crime lab that I'd be perfect for, but you clearly don't want me to apply for it… You can't want me here that badly."

"Sara… I do want you here. There's supposed to be a day-shift opening within the next 6 months…"

"You just don't want me on the same shift, I get it. That way, you can do your own thing while I'm at work for nine hours… gives you a lot of freedom, doesn't it?" I snap.

His eyes narrow in confusion, and I avert mine again. "Freedom? No, Sara… I can't date anyone who's on my same team, it's department policy…"

"Right, okay, so you're choosing your career over me?" That isn't even the reason we're fighting, but suddenly I'm extremely mad about that too. He looks bewildered.

"No, Sara, I'm… I would choose you any day. I wasn't aware that keeping my job put us in jeopardy… Sara, you… you can put in an application, and… and I'm sure you'll get hired. But then… you have to realize that, in doing so, you're choosing your career over me. I… I don't want to hide our relationship and… I've spent my whole life working up to this point, and you, as a starting CSI, would force me to give it up for an entry level position?"

I feel guilty, and I'm softening, but then he continues. "Doesn't it… doesn't it make more sense that, since my income would be the primary income… that I would stay employed and… you would take the next opening?"

But the words "primary income" throw me back ten years, with all the force of a punch to the face, to a fight on a beach with my first love. And refusing this man in front of me becomes a matter of principle—if I allow myself to become the second-earner, the half-domesticated wife whose career takes a back seat, then I'm going back on everything I've ever believed about myself… I'm giving up everything I fought so hard all those years ago to keep.

I'm vulnerable again.

Even if this time, it makes sense… even if he isn't asking me to give up anything for him, just asking me to do the same—to not ask him to give up anything for me… I can't get over the similarities, the implications, and—of course—the secrets.

"…We can stay friends, Gil. I'll… I'll email you."

And I leave, holding back my tears until I'm out the door—my taxi pulls up with cosmic timing—and I'm leaving Las Vegas and the man I had been deluded into believing was my soul mate.