"Brass, I need your ass down here now," Grissom yelled into his cell phone, "Nick, was the scene cleared . . . really cleared . . . when you went with the body back to the morgue?"

It was a stupid question . . . I would have never left Sara here if I thought something like this would happen.

"Yes, the scene was clear. Do I come off as some kind of moron?" I yelled back defensively . . . I knew what he was thinking . . . Holly Gribbs. That name hung over the lab like a black cloud . . . always managing to rear its ugly head some how . . . it was a curse . . . it made people hold guns to my head . . . people steal Sara. There wasn't a question in my mind . . . she was taken . . . she wouldn't run . . . not from what we were building. It hurt to think that she would . . . I pushed that possibility out of my head . . . the evidence . . . it would lead us in the right direction.

"Nick, go home," Grissom yelled back . . . I couldn't remember the last time I saw him lose his cool . . . this very well could have been the first time. The veins in his neck bulged . . . his skin turning an ugly red . . . his hands shaking . . . four years of emotion.

"I'm staying," I replied . . . I opened my kit . . . pulled on my latex gloves . . . popped the cartridge out of Sara's gun. All the bullets were accounted for . . . I put them into an evidence bag . . . put the gun into another. The floor was clean . . . Sara was meticulous . . . she never left a morsel of evidence behind. She had a good eye.

"Gil, what the hell is going on?" Catherine said . . . as she trudged up the stairs . . . her kit in hand.

"Sara's gone. Brass left her at the scene alone," I replied before Grissom could get any of the words out of his mouth.

"Jesus. Let's get this area roped off. What do you have?" Catherine replied . . . she set her kit down . . . pulled on her latex gloves . . . joined me on the floor.

"I have nothing . . . it's been picked clean. It's all in evidence bags," I replied . . . trying my hardest to focus . . . I was keenly aware that this was probably the only way that I could help her now . . . the evidence. Science never lies.

"Well, it's good that there hasn't been high traffic through this area. What do you need me to do?" Catherine replied . . . looking between Grissom and I . . . not knowing who to listen to . . . the boyfriend or the boss.

"Help Nick. I'm going to go look into surveillance cameras," Grissom said . . . he walked away silently . . . never making eye contact with me . . . caught in his silent rage.

"Are you okay to do this, Nicky?" Catherine asked as she got her camera out . . . she was the least close to Sara . . . she was perfect to head up the investigation.

"Yeah, I don't want to have to go home alone this morning," I replied . . . she tried to smile . . . it was that 'poor guy' smile . . . I got that from people a lot. Sara didn't do that . . . she would say something ridiculous . . . make me laugh before she would give in to any desire to treat me as a 'pity case.'

I wanted her back.


"This is going to be our bedroom. What do you think? I painted it brick red . . . it's the same shade as in your apartment," the guy rambled . . . he lead me around the house . . . I was hand cuffed and shackled . . . I was a damn prisoner.

He obviously put a lot of time into stalking me . . . the paint . . . the linens on the bed . . . right down to pictures of me. Candid . . . photojournalistic . . . in any other circumstance, I would have been impressed. We were still in Vegas . . . that I was sure of . . . the ride was too short . . . a short thirty minutes from the housing project . . . we weren't any further than a suburb. The house was new . . . I could smell the damp, chemical scent of new carpet . . . its distinct aroma permeating my nasal passages . . . imprinting itself on my brain.

"It's nice . . . you know my name . . . could you tell me yours?" I asked . . . my voice audibly shaky . . . it was the first time that I had spoken to him since he forced me to leave the crime scene in his SUV.

"Glen. Sara, I want to make you breakfast . . . you must be hungry after working so hard. It must have been a rotten shift . . . with the gangster and all," Glen replied . . . as he guided me to the living room . . . laying me on the couch . . . propping me up.

"Could you uncuff me . . . I promise I won't run," I said . . . trying to be rational . . . trying to sound calm. His conversation was eerie . . . he talked like we had been married for years . . . for him it was easy . . . for me . . . it made me nauseated. I wondered how . . . and I wondered why.

"I can't, love. Not until you learn the rules . . . I will take care of you until you learn the rules," Glen replied . . . cupping my cheek in his hand . . . kissing my lower lip. My lip was trembling . . . the tears falling from my eyes . . . there was no way in hell that I was going to be able to get myself out of this one. I hoped Glen left something at the scene . . . any telltale sign.

I thought about Nick . . . I could picture him in the break room . . . my cell phone had rung at least eight times on the way here. Glen took it from my pocket . . . put it into his. My only means of communication was lost . . . it was stolen. Nick . . . I said his name in my head a million times . . . praying that he could hear me. I wasn't a woman of much faith . . . I tended to place most of my faith in science . . . science didn't lie, but I prayed for a miracle . . . that he could hear me. I prayed that he was looking for me . . . I wanted him to take me home. I will do anything if you let Nick find me . . . I will give up anything . . . I will go to church . . . I will call my parents more often . . . I'll do anything.

I imagined us at home . . . me tearing my clothes off . . . eagerly hopping into be to see if my 'abduction' made the morning new . . . I would make some sarcastic comment about it. Nick would pretend to be hurt, but he would jump into bed with me . . . I would sleep with my head on his chest . . . we did that every morning. I prayed that somehow . . . this morning could be the same.

"Nick, please take me home," I whispered . . . hoping Glen didn't hear me . . . he was in the kitchen making pancakes . . . I could smell the batter . . . it nauseated me . . . the possibilities of what the day would bring nauseated me . . . I threw up on the carpet in front of me.

"Please take me home," I whispered again as I began to gag.