THE DAY WE MEET AGAIN Part one.

This is the song that started it all…

Thank you for sticking around to the end. It was great to get such encouraging reviews! I thought this would be the final chapter, but it grew and grew and now it's a two-parter.

Note: The case mentioned by Sara is based on one of the cases described in the book "Proclaimed in Blood" by Hugh Miller.

Spoiler: The accused is entitled

The Day We Meet Again
(The song is by The Moody Blues)

Warrick was growing impatient; the case was going nowhere and his only hope was that Sara would get some results. But when he entered the lab, instead of results he found her still working on the nasty contents of the DB's stomach. She was listening to a song he'd never heard before.

The day we meet again

I'll be waiting there

I'll be waiting there for you

Cos the years have been so lonely-

"What is this, oldies night?" mumbled Warrick, checking out the CD box.

Sara merely smiled. She had discovered that some songs really said it all. Plus, when she listened to this CD she felt closer to Grissom. She knew it was one of his favorites.

"You haven't finished yet?" Warrick glared and immediately regretted the tone he'd used. He knew he shouldn't take his frustrations out on her, and he expected her to tell him so. To his surprise, she simply said 'no' and continued doing her work.

"Why are you so happy?" he asked, a little peeved by her sunny attitude. "You like this stink?"

"It's not that bad." She said without lifting her gaze. Warrick scoffed and sat beside her to help.

Sara really couldn't help smiling; she had just read a very upbeat message from Grissom. He had enclosed pictures for the first time and he looked happy, standing behind his uncle and aunt. Herb and Emmy were old but sturdy people, and they seemed overjoyed to have their nephew back with them. Grissom had been with them for almost a week, and they had done all the things they had only dreamed about for years.

'We borrowed a boat and went fishing…' he wrote 'Emmy is very intrigued by you-'

His message did turn melancholic at one point: 'I wasted forty years and I can't tell them why. All I can do is apologize to them. But they insist they understand, so we're not dwelling too much on the past.' And later he added, 'Did I apologize to you for wasting eight years, Sara? If I didn't, I promise it's the first thing I'll do when we meet again.'

Sara was glad his e-mails were becoming more and more optimistic. His messages had been a bit dark at first: 'I used to interview criminals and wonder what made us different, if anything. Too often, I've managed to solve a case by putting myself in the killer's place. It's scary.'

But no matter what he wrote, the one message that she knew by heart was the first he'd sent.

'I'm afraid you'll gag, Sara. I've been singing an old song that goes like this:

Though we have to say goodbye for the summer

Darling, I promise you this, I'll send you all my love

Every day in a letter… sealed with a kiss'

She didn't gag.

She noticed that while their e-mails were long and chatty, their phone conversations were somewhat strained. Sometimes Sara didn't even know what name to use when they talked.

"Hey, Grissom- Gil, I mean-" she would always say, following that with, "How are you, baby?" She didn't know that the word made Grissom cringe. He wasn't a 'baby' for God's sake. Still, it was Sara's term of endearment and he silently promised to get used to it.

They had talked the other night, and Sara mentally reviewed that conversation.

"-my father phoned me once from San Diego." Grissom had said, "He invited me to come over but I never did. I hadn't seen him in years, and I didn't want to disturb my new found balance-"

"And you already had a surrogate father." Sara commented, thinking of Phillip Gerard. Then she added as an afterthought, "You don't respect Gerard that much now, do you? Not after the tricks he used during Tom Havilland's trial. "

"I was disappointed," he admitted, "But I understand why he did it, Sara. Private consultations are the fastest way to make a buck and he needs the money; he's twice divorced. But to tell you the truth, this that wasn't the first time we had a disagreement." He said, "There was another, years ago. It was over you."

"Over me?" she frowned. "Why?"

"I told him all about you right after I met you at the Seminar." He explained ruefully, "He immediately said I shouldn't allow any distractions in my life."

"This, from a twice-divorced man?" she asked incredulously.

"Uh, huh. He failed to see the irony." He said, "When he found out that you were working with me, he said I was making a mistake."

Sara was silent for a moment.

"He was smiling when he mentioned Hank." She remembered, "He enjoyed telling you, didn't he?"

"He thought I'd crumble, yes." He admitted, "But he forgot that he had trained me too well; I'd never let my personal life interfere with a case."

"That's because unlike him, you have integrity." She said firmly. Then she added sheepishly, "I hope I'm up to your standards, Grissom –I mean, Gil. Oh, and by the way-" She said in a lighter tone, "-if you visit him, tell him that I said-"

"Hey, no swearing on the phone!" he interrupted with a laugh, "No, I won't see him." He said, "He saved my life once and I'll always be grateful, but I'll keep my distance.'

Later, when she said "Grissom, I mean, Gil" for the third time, he quietly said

"Call me Grissom, I don't mind."

"Really? Doesn't it feel impersonal to you?"

"It's how you say it, that counts."

And just in case you're wondering

Will it really be the same?

You know we're only living for

The day we meet again

By the end of his second week in Chicago, Grissom began to make plans to see his aunt and uncle again.

"You could visit, you know." he said as he cleaned a fish, "There's more to Vegas than casinos, you'd have a great time."

"Wouldn't we get in the way?" asked Emmy. "You must be awfully busy."

"I'll find a way." He said, smiling at her.

And Grissom realized for the first time that he had already decided to go back to Las Vegas. He knew he'd feel uncomfortable at first, as if he were the new guy at the lab, but he could handle it. His friends were there, after all. Sara was there.

"You smile while you gut the fish," Emmy teased, "That's sweet."

Grissom smiled back. At moments like these, he felt he could do anything he put his mind to. He'd go back to Las Vegas, but he'd keep in touch- maybe he'd even find a way of getting these old people to move to a sunnier place-

He stopped right there. It was nice to make plans, but before he involved other people in his llife, there was something he needed to solve first.

He had already put it off for too long.

That night he called Brass and asked him to locate someone for him.

"Donald Jones," Grissom said, "He should be about seventy years old now; he worked as a cop forty-five years ago," he added, mentioning the name of the cities Jones had worked in.

Brass didn't ask Grissom why he needed the information; he simply set out to work.

It wasn't easy at first because small town police files were notoriously deficient. Then, acting on a hunch, Brass stopped looking for Donald Jones 'the cop' and looked for Donald Jones 'the convicted felon'. Bull's eye. Brass immediately called his friend.

"I think I've got 'your' guy." He said, "There's a Donald Jones who worked in law enforcement in Santa Monica until 1964. He worked in several cities-" Brass skipped a few paragraphs and then he added, "He was charged with indecent behavior, assault, and sexual offences several times, but the charges never stuck. Being a cop helped, I guess. He simply moved on to the next city-" He paused. He read the rest of the page in order to give Grissom a short version. "Apparently, this guy wormed his way into single mothers' homes and did a Jekyll and Hyde act. Nice husband and great stepfather, until wifey didn't cook his favorite dish or kiddie did too much noise… He was charged with sexual assault on kids a couple of times, too-"

"But he ended up in jail-" Grissom said as if to reassure himself.

"Yeah. Miami wasn't as lenient as the other cities he'd lived in. He was sentenced to do life." He read on, "But he's not in jail anymore; he was beaten up so many times, he was moved to a hospital for inmates-" Brass mentioned the name of the hospital. "-And he's still there, unless this file hasn't been updated. I'll find out if you want."

"No." he said quickly, "No, thanks, I can do that. Where is this hospital?"

"Santa Barbara." Brass answered, "Who is this guy, Gil?"

"Nobody." He answered evasively, "I'm just doing a favor to a friend."

"Oh. Well, I'm glad to help. I hope this investigation means you're missing your job." Brass added.

Grissom mumbled his thanks to Brass and hung up. He remained motionless for a long time. He was staring at the phone in his hands.

He hadn't killed Jones, thank God.

On the other hand, Donald Jones was alive.

He was still thinking about this, when the phone vibrated with another call.

"Hey, baby!" it was Sara.

Grissom forced himself to answer with enthusiasm but she gradually noticed that he seemed distracted; his answers were mere monosyllables- clearly, his heart just wasn't in it. Suddenly, a tiny seed of worry found a fertile place in her mind. Had something happened? What if being with his family made him reconsider his career options? What if he decided to stay in Chicago? What if he didn't want her anymore-? She told her active and highly insecure mind to stop it, and decided to draw Grissom's attention the only way she knew: Telling him of the case she was currently investigating.

It was horrific. A couple had been assaulted in their own home the night before; first, the husband had been savagely attacked with a knife and killed, and then the wife had been raped, beaten up, and left for dead.

"Mrs. Rowe's injuries are severe, specially her head's." Sara said, her voice faltering a little, "She was repeatedly smashed against a wall until she lost consciousness, and then she was raped." She gulped, "She was able to see her assailant though-"

"There was only one assailant?" Grissom interrupted.

"Yes. She identified him as a friend of her husband's-"

"Did she?" he frowned. He was becoming interested despite himself, "Any description she gives so soon after the attack might not be really helpful-" He said, "Head injuries usually leave a person disoriented-"

"Well, she gave us a full description-"

"And what do you know about this suspect?"

"His name is Andrew Fowles. He had been at their house before, so he knew his way around. And he had two motives according to Mrs. Rowe: this guy and her husband were friends but rivals in business too. He had been losing clients to Mr. Rowe and was bitter about it. Plus, Mrs. Rowe had rejected his sexual advances, and he was angry at her too. Brass is on his way to pick him up."

Grissom was silent for a moment.

"Sara, ask the doctors to determine the location of her head injuries -"

"-All right," she said with some hesitation.

"- that will help establish whether you can trust her recollections-"

"Grissom?" she interrupted firmly, "She's not a suspect. She was raped, she was brutalized-she is the victim here"

"I know she is," he said gently. "And if the evidence supports her statements, you'll be able to make a case, but if there is any doubt-"

"So far the evidence has supported her recollections, Grissom-" she said. She hated it when he acted as if she didn't know how to do her job. She sighed. "Griss, please don't worry. Nick and I have everything under control- we're working in harmony by the way," she added, "We're being supportive of each other."

She sounded very pleased with herself and that made Grissom pause. What did she mean by 'being supportive'? He waited for her to continue.

"I've been thinking-" she said, "Maybe he has the right idea, Grissom. Maybe we shouldn't concentrate so much on the evidence, but care about the victim too-"

"Sara, the evidence-" he sighed, "-the evidence it's what we are there for. Caring about the victim is for Social Services."

Sara's silence told him he had said the wrong thing.

"We're working on the evidence too, Grissom." She said slowly, "What I meant is that maybe we shouldn't be suspicious of all people, all the time."

"Sara, I'm not suspicious; I just don't have any expectations from people-" he cringed instantly. Now that was definitely the wrong thing to say. He heard her sigh.

"Grissom," she said softly, "I just… I just feel that being in love has made me start to have a little faith in others." She only wanted to show him how being in love had transformed her, but Grissom's silence seemed eloquent enough to her: He just didn't understand.

"I'll keep you posted, ok?" she said before hanging up.

Grissom let the phone drop from his hand. This was what he had been afraid of all along: That their differences would start to show. She was questioning everything he believed in -the evidence. What she didn't realize was that by questioning this, she was questioning everything he was, in fact.

And Grissom knew that he couldn't change his own beliefs, not for anyone- not even for her.

What did that song say? 'We're fire and ice, the dream won't come true-'?

After a moment, Grissom picked up his phone again. He needed to make a reservation for a flight to Santa Barbara.

Santa Barbara Health Care for Seniors was a pretty name given to a hospital that housed prison inmates too sick or too old to be with the general population. Terrence Pitt had worked there for so long that by now he had a sort of sixth sense about visitors. One glance was enough to know what their intentions were. People who visited Donald Jones were either victims or victims' relatives, and they came either to harm him or to talk. He pitied the ones in the last group the most. All they wanted from Jones was an apology; they simply wanted to hear him say, 'I'm sorry' or 'I did something awful to you and you didn't deserve it;' just the sort of insincere thing prisoners say when they are up for parole. But Jones denied them even that little consolation. He didn't deny the harm he had caused them; he simply denied having done anything wrong.

And as for the ones who came to harm Jones… they were invariably disappointed; all of them came hoping to face the evil guy who had tortured them in the past – only to encounter a decrepit old man. Very few of them dared to hit him. Some had, in the past.

In his opinion, Gil Grissom looked like all of Jones' victims: He had the haunted blue eyes, the hair that was graying but had once been light brown, and the age: late forties to early fifties. According to Pitt's experience, this guy was one of the talkers –completely harmless. Still, rules were rules, and Pitt took Grissom's cell phone, belt, pens, keys and anything that might be used as a weapon.

"You can go in, sir." Pitt said then, "He's in the garden, beyond that wall over there. There'll be a guard nearby." He warned.

Grissom walked down the path. He was about to face Donald Jones and he still didn't know what he was going to say or do. He was only aware of a coming migraine, and of his heart pounding wildly in his chest. That would be the biggest irony, he thought suddenly: Him, being struck down by a heart attack while the boogey man lived on.

An old guard let him pass to the garden. 'Garden' was actually too grand a name for it. It was just a small square of dirt and little patches of grass surrounded by tall brick walls. There were a few trees here and there, providing shade and leaves that someone had raked and left to rot.

There was a picnic table in the middle of this ruin, and a man sitting next to it.

Grissom stopped a few feet away. He asked himself whether he had to do this. Couldn't he just keep all those memories in a dark corner of his mind? Or learn to forget and pretend that nothing bad had ever happened? He had done it for so long-

He could invent new memories, forgive and forget-

No way, he told himself firmly, forcing himself to go on.

As he approached Jones, Grissom noticed several things. There was an old wheelchair a few feet away from Jones, who was sitting on a hard wood chair. Someone had placed a glass of water, newspapers, and a book on the table, but well out of Jones' reach. Someone liked to keep this guy frustrated.

Grissom looked closely at the man in front of him. He hadn't expected to see the young cop who had conquered his mother's heart only to break it, but this… this was just an old man who needed a wheelchair to move around. He had not only been beaten up, but maimed further by whoever had set his broken bones: someone had purposefully done a bad job on him. Jones had to stare all day long at his misshapen legs too, since nobody bothered to cover them up. Grissom regarded all this cooly, as if from a greater distance than the few feet that separated them right now. Eventually he took a seat on the other side of the table and waited until Jones acknowledged him.

The old man glanced up and then away.

"Hello, Don." Grissom said calmly.

The quiet tone reassured Jones. Virgil sounded like a guy who wanted to talk, and Jones liked talkers. He looked appraisingly at Grissom. He still remembered the curly haired boy who used to keep his nose in a book all the time- But forty years hadn't passed in vain.

"You look like your father." He said in a disappointed tone.

Grissom frowned. He couldn't remember his father's face. He couldn't, despite the photo albums that he had kept all these years. He glanced up and noticed that Jones was closely watching his reactions. Grissom reminded himself to thread carefully. He needed to act as if Jones was just another criminal/monster he had to interview and not let his feelings get in the way. With that thought in mind, he looked back at Jones.

"What do you want?" Jones asked after a moment. "Do you want money? I have nothing left." he said. And then he snorted, "And if you want to get me more years in prison-"

When Grissom didn't say anything, Jones looked appraisingly at him, giving the younger man the unnerving feeling that his thoughts were out in the open for Jones to read.

"Oh, I know what this is," Jones said softly, "Someone's been seeing a shrink." He said mockingly. "Right? Someone's been getting therapy and now needs 'closure'."

Grissom didn't contradict him.

"Is that what you're here for?" Jones demanded.

Grissom shook his head.

"You know," Grissom said calmly. "for years I thought I'd killed you."

"You almost did." Jones admitted, and he chuckled. "It was a nice shot, Virgil. I taught you well, after all."

Grissom thought it was interesting that Jones actually wanted to take the credit for the shooting. He watched Jones with some curiosity now; he had always liked to observe criminals and learn from them. It helped him understand their minds and their motives. This was a chance he didn't want to miss. Jones on the other hand, couldn't stand the silence.

"So," he said, "Are you ready to talk about the past Virgil?" he briefly paused, and then he added, "Can you deal with feelings?" he said mockingly. "Feelings, Virgil; you know which ones I'm talking about: shame, guilt, resentment; the therapists' triumvirate." He said and waited. Grissom stared back blankly and Jones went on, "I know all about it; I've been in therapy too. Court-ordered." He spread his arms, in a grand fashion, "Doctors love me here, did you know that? I'm one of their successes. According to them I'm 'cured'; as if I'd been sick." He smiled, "Do you think I was sick, Virgil?" He challenged. He seemed intent on getting some reaction from Grissom – any kind of reaction. "I wasn't. I'm not. I'm simply different from them. A different breed-"

Grissom held back any comment he might have had.

"The shrinks taught me to deal with my actions and forgive myself." Jones said, and he was glad to see a brief reaction from Grissom –a mere blinking of the eyes, but just enough to reassure himself that Virgil wasn't in control here. "They've helped me understand myself" he added, "I'm a victim, Virgil. I have a weakness. I was allowed to act on my desires. If others had said 'no'," and he paused meaningfully, "I wouldn't be here." He looked at Grissom, "You never said no-"

"Not after you promised to break every bone in my mother's body." Grissom replied before he could stop himself. He knew Jones was gratified; his taunting had provoked a reaction.

"Ah, yes. Mommy." Jones smiled longingly, "Sweet, silent, deaf mommy. I remember her every night, you know. Her skin- so smooth; like a child's." he sighed, "Yeah, I remember how happy I made her… How happy we were. Remember? We were a happy family. You two never complained-"

"No," Grissom admitted. "I just shot you."

Jones briefly narrowed his eyes. He was angry now but he got a hold of himself.

"You ruined everything, you know." He said softly "And all for what? Do you think mommy was grateful to you for destroying the best relationship she ever had? Do you think she appreciated having to take the rap for ya?" Grissom's expression of disbelief made him laugh. "You didn't know?" he leant a little, "You don't know everything, do you." he snorted, "Well, in case you don't remember, let me tell you what you did: You made mommy cry and you made her turn against me. Even as the ER doctors worked on my wounds, she was there, waving her hands in the air, telling me not to involve you! She was even making threats, the bitch!" he said, getting agitated, "She told everybody that she had shot me by accident, and the dumb cops believed her-"

"And you couldn't tell the truth either," Grissom said quietly, "you couldn't afford your friends to know. Cops would have asked me a lot of questions."

"I thought so, at the time." He admitted. He had regained his composure, "But she wouldn't have let you talk to anybody, Virgil. Mommy loved denial, didn't she? She simply thought you'd forget." he scoffed "But I always knew you'd remember. I knew that you would come. I know everything, Virgil." Donald boasted "I remember every thing I've ever done. I remember every word, every scream, everything. People see this," he said, glancing down, "and they pity me. But they don't know that I have power. You wouldn't believe how powerful and important I am! I'm your biggest secret." He smiled when he saw the deep blush on Grissom's face, "All of you come to me, asking for absolution; asking me to free them from the guilt they feel - asking me to please get out of their dreams so you can move on-"

Years of dealing with criminals had taught Grissom to keep his reactions under control, but this time it was difficult for him to just listen.

"You destroyed people's lives-" Grissom said softly

"No." he whispered, "I liberated their true selves. Don't you see? All you have to do is bow to me and accept the way things are, Virgil. Then the conflict will end." he looked into Grissom's eyes, "All you need to do is to accept that I'm a part of your life; I've lived in your dreams-"

"I shot you in each one of my nightmares-" Grissom said as calmly as he could.

"Yes!" Jones said, gratified, "And that's why you're here! You're afraid, aren't you?" he leant on the table and spoke slowly, "You're afraid of IT. You know what I'm talking about. You've probably slapped your wife a couple of times and you're afraid you're losing control. Or maybe you've been a little too free with your fists every time people mess up." He lowered his voice, "Maybe- maybe you punished your kids and wondered if you overdid it. All these years, you've been wondering if you're you… or me." He paused, "But there's no conflict here, Virgil." He said reassuringly, "All you have to do is embrace IT." He said softly, "You are like me."

Grissom stared at Jones for a long time.

"You know, Don." Grissom said tonelessly, "Maybe you're right. Maybe I should embrace it. I could start by stuffing your filthy socks in your mouth. You know, to shut you up while I break every bone in your body."

Donald Jones looked up, wide eyed.

"You wouldn't dare to kill me-"

"I'm not talking about killing you," Grissom said calmly; "I'm talking about breaking your bones until they juggle like marbles in that old sack you call a body. It is easy to do it –you told me so many times-"

"The guard won't let you-" he threatened feebly.

"I don't think he'll hear anything" Grissom said conversationally, "He's old. Maybe he's a little deaf -" He smiled, "That would be ironic, don't you think? You'd be the one screaming and nobody would hear you-" He lowered his voice, "Sounds familiar, doesn't it?"

Jones tried to keep a poker face, but he was breathing hard and his eyes were bulging. Grissom watched him closely, enjoying the feeling of power that the old man's fear gave him. He could almost taste his revenge. He could see it happening too. He'd kick Jones - he visualized his foot breaking the misshapen bones – arms, legs, face; he'd break one bone for each bruise he had ever had to invent an excuse for (until his teachers thought he was the clumsiest kid in the world); one for each of the nightmares he'd ever suffered; and he'd crush Jones for turning him into a man who suspected everybody and didn't know how to love-

Grissom grimly realized there weren't enough bones in Jones' body; he'd kick Jones to death and it still wouldn't be enough.

He'd kill Jones but nothing would change. He realized suddenly. He'd only destroy the life he had built up these past years.

Grissom's anger slowly gave way to frustration; at that moment he almost hated himself for having the capacity to think of consequences, but the fact was that he just couldn't do this. He was not that kind of person. He'd never know what kind of man he would have been, if Jones hadn't come to his life, but Grissom knew who he was now. He had his integrity, his job, everything he had fought so hard to have.

Grissom felt as if he had just woken up from a nightmare; when he looked down he realized he had been gripping the table so harshly that his knuckles were white and his fingers hurt. The bittersweet taste of revenge made him nauseous now; he had to take several deep breaths until he calmed down. When he felt he could face Jones again, he looked up and had the chilling feeling that the look on Jones face wasn't one of fear but anticipation.

It was. Jones wanted Grissom to hit him; he was counting on it. Grissom saw things clearly for the first time: The guard would intervene even before Grissom did much damage. Grissom could imagine the rest: Jones wouldn't be badly hurt, but just in enough bad shape to get some privileges at the infirmary: Good food, books and papers within his reach; and on Sundays he'd be there as the rest of the inmates got visits from their children and grandchildren…

And Grissom's life would be ruined.

Grissom took a hard look at himself. He had spent decades punishing himself for shooting Donald Jones, but he had not killed him. His life had been out of control, but now it was in his own hands.

It took him a while, but eventually he pushed his chair back.

"Goodbye, old man." He mumbled.

"What? That's it?" Donald whined, opening his eyes wide "That's all you intend to do, you wimp?" he spat. He desperately tried to grab Grissom's arm, but he was just too far away. "What are you, a coward? Do you think you can just leave?"

Grissom took a last look at the monster before turning his back on him.

"I don't appreciate this!" screamed Jones, "You've destroyed the memory I had of you! You were so small and beautiful, and now that image is ruined-"

Grissom swallowed hard. That was some consolation; at least he wasn't feeding this freak's dreams anymore. But his hands were trembling and he needed to get out of this place.

Pitt looked up. Uh, oh. Dr. Grissom looked like he was barely holding it together. Most of the 'talkers' usually went to the john after talking to Jones. They all threw up, as if that man had poisoned them. Maybe he had.

"Are you all right, Mr. Grissom?" he said kindly

"What? Yes." He said evasively.

"That's a nasty guy." Pitt said. Grissom didn't look up. "Manipulative, too." Pitt added, "He gets all teary eyed at will. But if you look carefully, you see something in his eyes… and your blood freezes."

Grissom didn't comment; he simply signed his name and handed back his Visitor ID.

"He recites entire passages from the Bible," Pitt said, "he says things like, 'I didn't find Jesus; Jesus found me' and the Sunday preachers love him" he rolled his eyes, "And the guys from social services –guys who have worked in prisons for years and should know better- they believe his act too. It's crazy, you know? But it's helped me understand-"

"Understand what?" Grissom, asked impatiently.

The old guard shrugged.

"Well," Pitt shrugged, "He fools people who have worked here all their lives. Can you imagine how easy it was for him to fool lonely women and kids, who had never encountered evil before?"

He handed Grissom his ID and his cell phone.

Grissom looked up. He understood at last.

"You're right." He said, "It wasn't their fault."

Grissom walked to the parking lot without turning back.

He drove fast. He didn't know exactly where he was going, he only wanted to put some distance between himself and that hospital. But eventually, he decided to stop. The migraine that had been shyly tapping his forehead hadn't bloomed, but he didn't want to take any chances. Plus, it looked like it was going to rain.

He found a parking space at a mall. He searched for the migraine medicine he took everywhere with him and chewed a couple of pills. He sat back and watched as the rain started to fall. His hands were trembling and he had to grab the steering wheel to calm down.

After a while, Grissom rolled down his window and let the rain wash away his tears.

I promise, the happy ending is near…