Disclaimers, acknowledgements, and notes: see Chapter 1
The rich smell of coffee teased her nose. Sara rolled over and blinked blearily at the clock. Six-fourteen?? She hadn't slept so long in months.
Sitting up, she eased out of bed, stretching muscles stiff with long travel and long sleep, and padded into the bathroom. It was still faintly steamy, and a comb lay askew on the side of the sink. Returning to her room, she scrambled into clothes slightly wrinkled from her bag, and mustered her courage to go find Grissom.
He was standing at the patio door at the back of the living room, staring out into the sunrise. He turned at her entrance, and while she could still see grief and weariness marking his face, he was standing straighter than yesterday, and some of the defeated look was gone. "Morning," he said calmly. "Coffee's in the kitchen." He already held a mug in his good hand.
Sara blinked. She had expected coldness, or even anger, but he seemed perfectly casual. "Thanks," she said, and went to fill a cup, pausing to get a better look at some of the landscape photos on one wall.
"Did you sleep well?" Grissom asked, following her into the kitchen and sitting down at the table.
"Very," Sara admitted, wondering if his question was a lead-in to the previous night, but he just nodded.
"Good." He took a sip of coffee. "There's cereal in the cupboard to the right of the sink, and the leftovers from last night, but if you want something else we'll have to make it or get it."
"Cereal's fine." Sara pulled out the box and raised a brow at the cartoon character on its side. "Your mother ate--"
She cut off the sentence, biting her lip and cursing silently, but Grissom only quirked his mouth in a sad smile. "Yep. Spoons in that drawer--" he pointed-- "and bowls over the sink."
Sara opened the cupboard door. "You want some?"
"If you don't mind."
She portioned out the sugar cereal and the milk, and they ate in a silence that was surprisingly comfortable. Sara shot a glance at Grissom, who was freshly washed to judge by his still-damp hair, and decided finally that he must not remember the previous night's incident. Maybe he thinks it was a dream.
When they had finished, Grissom stacked his half-empty bowl in hers and took them both to the sink. "I have to go see my aunt this morning," he said matter-of-factly. "She's basically housebound." He ran some water into the bowls, then turned and leaned against the counter. "The arrangements are pretty straightforward; the funeral will be the day after tomorrow."
Sara folded her arms and regarded him. "Okay."
Grissom rubbed his face, looking uneasy for the first time that day. "Do you mind staying?" he asked abruptly.
Sara let her mouth curve a little. "Not at all. You're going to need a driver anyway."
"I can get by with taxis."
"I offered, Grissom." She cut him off before he could talk himself into sending her back. "It's not a problem."
He exhaled. "...Thanks."
Sara braked to a stop in front of the rambling, one-level house, which had a ramp instead of front steps. Grissom shifted in his seat, and Sara reached over to release his seatbelt. "Look, Grissom, I have some errands I need to run if we're going to be here a few days," she began, hoping to save him the awkwardness of introducing her into a family in mourning. "Why don't I go do them, and you call me when you're ready to go?"
He looked over, one brow arched. "You don't want to come in?"
She hesitated, taken aback. "I don't...want to intrude."
Grissom shook his head. "You wouldn't be. But you'd probably be bored; my aunt will want to talk about people you've never met." He opened the car door and got out. "Go ahead; I'll call you."
"You need anything?"
He shook his head again, offering her a faint smile in place of thanks, and shut the door. A tall young man was waiting at the door to the house, and he waved as Grissom turned.
The first thing Sara did was return to Mrs. Grissom's house. Grissom had given her the spare key as they were leaving that morning, not bothering with explanations that weren't needed, so Sara let herself in and began investigating the kitchen. It was fairly well-stocked, but she took note of a few staples the two of them could use, and made a list. Before heading back out, however, she took a turn around the living room, curious.
Here too were paintings, though of landscapes and people. There wasn't much room to maneuver with the sofabed still open, but Sara slid past it to run her eyes over the books and ornaments on the shelves along one wall. There were a lot of books--mostly mysteries, but with a scattering of other titles. Metal sculptures and framed photographs broke up the lines of volumes, and Sara smiled over one that showed a sturdy little boy laughing up at his mother, both sets of hands raised in precise form. It took Sara a moment to realize where she'd seen those hand positions before.
Ohhhh. That explains it. Revelation poured over her, and she took the photo from its place to examine it more closely, seeing a message that she could not read. All the clues were falling into place. His mother was deaf.
She stood for a long moment, reevaluating the changes she'd seen in him over time. Many things were clearer. He must have gotten some kind of treatment--he hasn't had any hearing problems for months-- She shook her head, hurt that he hadn't said anything. But then...why should he?
Sara sighed, and returned the frame to its shelf. Moving on, she found a long row of photo albums, and with a slightly guilty feeling she pulled one from the middle, and sat down on the edge of the sofabed to open it.
Graduation photos. Sara bent over the page, looking into the past at the beaming woman standing next to her gowned son, pride showing in every line of the woman's body. Sara slid the photo from the page and flipped it over; the date told her it was high school graduation, and she replaced the picture. Mrs. Grissom had barely reached her son's shoulder, even then; Sara guessed that Grissom had almost finished growing up, but his rangy form had not yet filled out with a man's heavier musculature. Here he was grinning at the camera, eyes alight, one hand holding the mortarboard and diploma both, the other arm slung around his mother's shoulders. Sara smiled back, wistful, wondering at the openness of his face. It had been a long time since she had seen him so free of care.
And then she laughed ruefully at the realization that at the time the photo had been taken, she had been a toddler.
She paged randomly through the album, seeing Grissom on the beach, in the living room; his mother was shown less frequently, but there were three pages of her in an art gallery in the middle, and Sara figured that she had either been a collector--which would explain the variety of artwork in the house--or an artist herself.
Putting the album back, Sara pulled out another, and then another, and gradually realized that the stocky blond man shown holding the infant Grissom in the first album and tossing him a ball in the second was nowhere to be seen thereafter.
Sighing, she replaced the last album and stood up. The whole exercise felt like eavesdropping, in a sense, and if she wanted to get her errands done she had to get moving. A thought struck her as she found her purse, and she pulled out her phone, glancing at her watch. She'll be in bed...but I can leave her a voice mail message. Dialing Catherine's number once more, she smiled into the phone. "Cath, it's Sara. I need a favor..."
"I never thought I would outlive her," the elderly woman said, her voice wistful rather than complaining, and Grissom made a soft sound of agreement.
"I don't think she did either, An'Marie," he said, using his old nickname for her and feeling a small pulse of pleasure as she smiled. "But you know it's how she would have wanted to go."
His aunt sighed. "You're right, Gil." She ran a hand over the arm of her wheelchair, a constant in her life for the last fifteen years or so. "She never would have had the patience to put up with this kind of thing."
Grissom nodded, sitting back on the couch. His visit with his aunt had not been as upsetting as he'd feared; the two of them hadn't communicated much since he'd moved to Las Vegas, but shared sorrow had somehow eased them into a closeness Grissom hadn't experienced since he was a teenager.
A knock at the door had him rising. "That should be Sara," he said. "I'll get it, Ted."
His aunt's grandson nodded and disappeared back into the study, and Grissom walked to the front door. Sure enough, Sara stood on the other side, looking a little apprehensive. The sight of her warmed his insides more than usual; her presence gave him a sense of stability, the reminder that his life still waited for him in Nevada outside this slow whirlpool of pain and bewilderment.
"My aunt would like to invite you to stay for lunch," he said quietly, stepping aside so she could enter.
He half-expected her to refuse, but Sara surprised him. "I'd like that," she said, equally quietly. "If it's all right with you."
He blinked. "Of course it is."
At that moment, his aunt came rolling into the front hall, and he turned. "Marie, I'd like you to meet my colleague Sara Sidle," he said, feeling a sudden rush of affection for both women. "Sara, my aunt, Mrs. Marie Braxton."
Sara stepped forward to put her hand in the wrinkled one held out to her, and Marie smiled up at her, pleased. "It's good to meet you, Sara. Gil speaks very highly of you."
Sara's shoulders stiffened a little, but she smiled back. "It's a pleasure, Mrs. Braxton."
Grissom watched them all in turn as they sat around the dining room table for vegetable soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. Ted, tall and silent, kept shooting shy admiring glances Sara's way, his twenty-something ego too tender yet to do more. Marie engaged Sara easily in talking about her work, teasing Grissom a little about working nightshift, and Grissom could see that she liked Sara. Not a surprise, to him; Sara might not be a people person, but she could be warm and generous when she put her mind to it.
Sara herself was obviously going cautiously, feeling out the invisible relationships that stretched back into the past. She told a couple of stories about working in San Francisco and then set to work drawing Ted out of his shyness with casual questions. The young man blushed, but grew easier, and Grissom ate the last of his soup, amused. And was startled to realize that despite a lack of appetite, he had finished his lunch.
Marie only let them go when Grissom promised to keep in touch, and to his eyes Sara seemed more relaxed as she settled into the driver's seat. "Where to?" she asked.
"The funeral home," Grissom replied, and gave her directions. Again, she followed him inside, as though unwilling to leave him on his own, and again, Grissom was grateful. Having someone familiar nearby made the necessity easier somehow, though he did wonder why she kept bending over to peer into the coffins as though searching for evidence.
"What was all that about?" he asked when they were back in the car.
Sara straightened from fastening his seatbelt. "What was what about?"
"You were checking out those coffins. Are you in the market for one?"
He wasn't sure if she would understand the mild tease, but she shot him a mock-glare and turned on the engine. "Nope. I'm going to be cremated."
"So?"
Sara pulled out of the parking space. "Um, I'm not sure you want to know, Grissom."
All her ease had disappeared, and he was sorry. "Death's an awkward thing, Sara, but I won't be offended, I promise."
She blew out her breath, and her lips curled up a little, reluctantly. "There was a case a few years back where somebody found a naked corpse in a Dumpster, wrapped in plastic."
Grissom ran back over the case files in his head, but it didn't ring any bells. "I don't recall that one."
Sara shrugged. "I don't think you had anything to do with it. Anyway, turns out the funeral director was digging up fresh graves so he could reuse the coffins. Not too smart; if he'd had any brains he would have just reburied the bodies. I figured it out when I found hairs from at least four different people in one of the coffins on display."
Grissom had to smile. "You were checking to make sure this one was honest?"
"Yeah, kinda." Sara chuckled a little. "Suspicious mind."
The whole thing was very weird, Sara thought, and getting weirder by the minute. After visiting the funeral home, Grissom had directed Sara to a rather stony, secluded beach, and had politely requested that she let him walk for a while by himself. Sara acquiesced, dug out the paperback she'd bought that morning, and found a rock to sit on, but found herself unable to concentrate on her book. Instead she sat, alternately watching the waves roll in and fade out, and turning her head to find Grissom's slow-moving form as he wandered along the beach. The sun was hanging over the water, but a haze kept it from being too bright, and Sara realized that at home she wouldn't even be awake yet if she were lucky enough to sleep. Late afternoons in the open air had become foreign to her.
Truth to tell, she didn't really know what to expect from Grissom right now. It's not exactly a situation that's come up before. What surprised her, given their recent coolness towards one another, was the fact that aside from last night's plan to send her home, he had accepted her help without cavil or embarrassment--as though she were exactly the person he would have chosen to come along. Though I know I'm not.
Maybe he was just making the best of a difficult situation. Sara dropped her book onto the shingle and set her chin in her hand, letting her eyes lose focus as she stared out to sea. Her thoughts returned, inevitably, to the night before, and she wondered again if Grissom even remembered what had happened. She'd gotten pretty good at telling when he was upset with her, even when he didn't want to show it, and as far as Sara could tell he wasn't. Maybe he's hoping that if he doesn't bring it up, I won't.
Well, she wouldn't. Even without the embarrassment factor, that hour seemed an intensely private thing as well as an intimate one, something that words might spoil. Just let it go. She blinked at the setting sun. It happened; it's over. Let it go.
"Not a good book?" asked a voice next to her shoulder, and Sara started, drawing in a surprised breath. Grissom sat down next to her. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."
"Geez, Grissom." Sara shook her head and picked up the paperback. "How'd you manage to sneak up to me on rocks?"
"It's a gift," Grissom replied nonchalantly, looking out over the ocean. After a minute he added, "This was one of my favorite places to come as a teenager."
"It is beautiful," Sara agreed, "but isn't it a bit rocky for swimming?"
He made a noise that might have been a chuckle. "I wasn't interested in beauty...yet," he said, and her jaw dropped. "No, I came here because it was a great place to find washed-up animals. The current offshore brings a lot of them in with the tide."
Sara closed her mouth. It had been a long time since he'd offered her a double entendre, and she decided that this one was probably a fluke. "Let me guess. Dissection?"
"Uh-huh." Grissom was still watching the water, looking almost dreamy. "Mom let me have the back shed for my experiments, rather than having them smell up my bedroom. I found a lot of interesting specimens here. Once I picked up a two-headed dog shark."
"Wow," Sara said, a little charmed at the word-picture he was painting. "Do you still have that one?"
Grissom shook his head. "The jar broke years ago, and the shark was too damaged to be worth keeping."
He fell silent, and for a while they just sat, watching the sun sinking into the horizon and the spread of impossibly delicate color across the sky and water. The thought passed through Sara's mind that she had often wished to be in just such a situation with Grissom, though with more romance and without the sorrow. But for the moment, they were at peace, and it was enough.
Dusk coalesced around them, and Grissom finally sighed, stretching out his legs in front of him. "Hungry?" he asked.
"I could eat," Sara admitted.
Grissom rose and surprised her again by holding out his good hand. Normally. back in their usual environment of strain and hurt, Sara would have ignored the gesture, but here and now, it seemed natural to put her hand in his and let him pull her to her feet. "There's a very good seafood place about a ten-minute walk from here," he said. "Or would you rather drive?"
"Walk," Sara said immediately. The last two days had been emotionally rough, but she was used to getting more physical exercise. She retrieved her purse from the car and tossed the book into the back seat. "Lead on."
Grissom looked at her a bit uncertainly. "Is that okay?" he asked. "I mean, there are other places to go if you'd rather have something else."
Sara grinned a little. "Seafood's fine, Griss. I do eat fish."
His face was still drawn with grief, but his small smile lightened it a little. "Okay."
With nothing urgent awaiting them, they spent a long time over dinner, comfortable silences interspersed with discussions about recent cases or Grissom's stories about the area. He didn't mention the reason they were there, but Sara could see it returning to the surface of his mind from time to time; his eyes would darken and his mouth would draw down, and she would pretend to not notice.
"Finish your fish, or no dessert for you," Grissom finally said, pointing to her plate. Sara arched a brow at him.
"That fillet was huge, Grissom. And you haven't finished yours either." She'd been pleased when he had actually eaten lunch, but his appetite seemed to have vanished again, and half of his dinner still remained on his plate.
He glanced down and shrugged. "I'll finish mine if you finish yours."
"You're on." She grinned at him again. The food was, as promised, excellent; she simply wasn't used to eating big meals. Carefully casual, she matched him bite for bite, and was satisfied when most of his meal was gone.
"No dessert," she demurred, when the waiter came back around, and Grissom shook his head as well. Sara looked around at the small restaurant, laughing softly.
"What?" Grissom asked, cocking his head to regard her.
"It's too quiet in here," she explained, amused. "No slot machines."
He didn't smile, but his eyes crinkled with humor. "One can grow accustomed to the strangest things."
When the waiter brought the check, Sara reached for her purse, but Grissom shook his head. "I've got it."
"Grissom--" she protested, but he cut her off.
"Sara, please. You're doing me a huge favor by being here. The least I can do is buy you dinner."
A strange pain welled up in her at his words; the circumstances were all wrong again, with things she had dreamed of happening for all the wrong reasons. But she masked the hurt with flippancy. "Well, since you put it that way."
Grissom shot her an odd look, but didn't dispute her words.
He drew in on himself as they returned to his mother's house, turning silent again. Sara wasn't sleepy, but she retreated to the guest room nonetheless so that Grissom could go to bed. She could see how tired he was.
The book she'd ignored that afternoon absorbed her for a couple of hours, until her eyes were heavy enough for her to shut off the light. To her dismay, Sara found herself listening for the low sound that had woken her the night before. But it didn't come, and eventually sleep caught up with her.
See Chapter 4