Tortured Reasoning
Authors: Mossley and Burked
Summary: It's a Thanksgiving to remember when an investigation into a brutal serial rapist becomes personal for Sara and Grissom.
A/N: Potential spoilers through the current episode. Thanks to Marlou for her beta services and support. Any remaining mistakes aren't her fault.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: We pooled our resources, and we still don't have enough to buy CSI, so we're just going to borrow some of their characters for a bit.
Chapter 5 – I Am The Least In My Family
Sara sat at her workstation, engrossed in reading the preliminary report Jacqui had given her. The dead man's fingerprints matched the prints taken from the steering wheel of Zoe's car. They weren't in AFIS, but they were in the local database because he'd been arrested on a bench warrant for outstanding traffic tickets.
"It's the little things that trip you up," she murmured, chuckling quietly.
Looking at the dates of his incarceration in the Clark County jail, they matched perfectly with the rapist's "silent" period, when the rapes had temporarily stopped.
"Hey! Thanks!" Sara called out to Jacqui as she trudged tiredly down the hall towards the break room.
"I hate you," Jacqui called back without turning her head. "With every fiber of my being."
"Think of it as job security," Sara proffered.
"Two hundred fifty-seven print cards?" Jacqui countered, shaking her head in disbelief.
"It was a motel room," Sara answered, shrugging weakly in apology.
"Remind me to never stay in that motel."
"They said the maid was deported."
"When? In 1975?" Jacqui asked, turning to face Sara. Her eyes were wide and red-rimmed.
"Be glad you're doing the prints. You wouldn't believe how much ... uh ... DNA I collected."
"Ew," Jacqui intoned, turning back to her journey towards the prize of hot coffee and a soft couch. Her back was hurting from leaning over the stack of print cards. "I'm going to take a break and plot your murder."
"Just don't leave any DNA," Greg said, meeting up with her in the hall. "I'm a little backed up right now," he added, looking accusingly at Sara.
"You're breaking my heart," Jacqui hissed. "Unless you have two hundred and fifty-seven samples, I've got you beat."
"Yeah, well you don't have to process the crappy samples. You just throw them to the side. I won't know what's good and what's not until I process them."
"Why isn't the new girl doing it?" Jacqui asked.
"You mean the poster girl for Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder? It could take her years to process all that stuff by herself."
The volume of the one-upmanship tapered off as the pair veered into the break room. Sara turned back to the boxes sitting next to her. She needed to process the items seized from Lady Heather's domain, but every time she thought about it, her mind would search feverishly for something else that needed to be done first. She recognized that she was avoiding it, and now she'd run out of excuses.
Setting the last box down on the table in the layout room, Sara flipped on the overhead lights and began to unpack. She pulled out the first bagged whip, her face a mask of disgust at the thought of how it had been used.
Cries of pain, begging for it to end. Wild promises made to fix transgressions that never existed in the first place.
Sara fought down a wave of nausea, trying to concentrate on work. She grabbed the next bag, taking a ragged breath as the memories crept back.
First came the yelling, then the desperate pleading. That was followed by the sound of flesh pounding weaker flesh. The distinctive sound bone made when broken. The hopelessness of not being able to do anything to make it stop. Being reduced to hiding, hoping and praying that it would end soon.
The fear of knowing that once it did end, he'd come looking for her.
"Need some help?" Grissom asked kindly as he came up beside Sara.
"I think I can handle it," she said, snapping her head around.
Grissom frowned as an uncomfortable knot formed in his stomach. It was clear he had startled her, but why was she pale? "I'll rephrase. Want some help?"
"Same answer."
"Want some company?" he offered hopefully.
Sara breathed out in mock-frustration. "I sense that this isn't going to stop until I give the correct answer. And my razor-sharp intellect deduces that the correct answer is 'Yes'. Am I right?"
"On both counts," Grissom answered.
"Fine. You can help me unpack all these ... things."
"Are these all the whips in Lady Heather's house?" he asked, seeing that there were four boxes to unpack.
"From the house and the pool house."
"This could put a real dent in her business."
"That's just too damned bad," Sara snapped.
"Sara, I understood when you called them 'freaks'. Most people would probably think that way. But this runs deeper than that, doesn't it?" he asked, turning to watch her reaction.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she answered, angrily slapping each individually bagged whip onto the table.
"Why are you so angry?"
"I'm not angry. I'm disturbed. She's disturbing. This whole thing is disturbing."
"In what way?" Grissom asked gently, lowering the volume and tone of his voice instinctively.
Sara slammed the last bag onto the table, closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She held it a few seconds, then grabbed the edge of the table. Whether it was for support or to occupy her hands, Grissom couldn't tell.
"It's disturbing when people get off on inflicting pain on someone else," Sara finally answered, each word spoken deliberately.
"In general, I agree."
"In general? In general?" Sara asked, turning to look at him incredulously.
"Sara, this isn't happening to unsuspecting victims. It's consensual."
"The only thing I find more difficult to understand than enjoying hurting someone is someone else enjoying being hurt."
"It is hard to understand," Grissom agreed. "But, like I said, it's consensual. No one is being victimized."
"If nothing else, it perpetuates violence against other human beings."
"Maybe it prevents violence against other human beings," Grissom offered. "It gives those people an outlet for their feelings."
"You sound like Lady Heather. It's a justification for cruelty."
"Sara, you're shaking," Grissom said, moving closer to her. "Are you okay?"
"Yes. No. I don't know," she said, turning her face from him.
"I'll finish this. Take the rest of the night off. It's Thanksgiving," Grissom said with a weak smile.
"I've got to do this. Face this," Sara said, standing straight, obviously steeling herself.
"Face what ... exactly?" Grissom asked, leaning over to be able to look at her face.
"Everyone's got their demons," she said icily.
"You want to talk about it?" Grissom asked uncertainly.
"With you?"
"With me. With Dr. Kane. Your PEAP counselor. With whomever you feel comfortable."
The flashback began with her dressing out for PE class with her back to her peers. The other girls laughed with each other, but had long since quit trying to pull Sara into their group. She wanted so badly to join them, to feel a sense of comfortable belonging, but she didn't dare.
"What happen to your back?" The voice of her PE teacher was firm enough that she was startled, getting unwanted attention from the girls. Thirty sets of eyes were trained on her and the room fell quiet.
"Um, nothing. I fell down."
"Sara, you can talk to me. Or to the nurse, or the counselor. We can't help you if you don't talk to us."
"I'm fine. I just fell down."
"Looks like you've been beaten with a belt. Tell me. Let me help you. We can make it stop."
"I told you I'm fine. I've got to hurry or I'll be late to class."
Then the day came when she did talk about it and her world forever changed, but not all for the better.
"I don't feel comfortable talking about it at all," she allowed as she emptied the last box onto the table.
Seeing that she was determined to process all the various whips, sjamboks, quirts, cats and other tools of Heather's trade, Grissom followed her lead, taking a swab dipped into distilled water and running it along the length of each surface, then placing a drop of hydrogen peroxide and a drop of phenolphthalein on each swab, looking for the bright pink that would indicate the presence of blood.
An hour later, each was processing their last sample. Sara stood with her hands on her hips, her brow furrowed in consternation.
"Not one sign of blood. Not one. How do they clean them that well? You'd think leather would absorb some of the blood, no matter how well they were cleaned."
"It would," Grissom agreed. "There's no blood because none of them has ever drawn blood."
Sara turned to look at Grissom, obviously confused.
"Heather once told me, years ago, that her domain was like the theater."
"You'll have to explain that to me."
"It's more symbolic than truly sadistic or masochistic. Look at this," Grissom said, holding up a flogger with at least a couple of dozen tails. "These are wide and made of soft leather, like gloves. I'm not sure you could even raise a welt with it, much less draw blood."
"Then what the hell is their point?" Sara asked, obviously exasperated.
"It's about control. People who have no control go there to feel like they do have control. Or people who have to be in control all the time go to be able to let someone else control them. It's about domination, submission, and sometimes humiliation. But it's not always really about pain. No one there is really trying to injure anyone."
"I'll take your word for it. And I won't even ask what makes you such an expert on S&M," Sara added, with a hint of bitterness in her voice.
"It's certainly not from any personal experience, I can assure you," Grissom countered quickly.
"That's not what I heard."
"Don't believe everything that you hear," Grissom said with more than a little resignation and sadness.
"It's none of my business, anyway," Sara said, beginning to repack all of Heather's belongings back into the boxes to return to her.
"That doesn't stop you from choosing to believe the worst," Grissom said as he joined in the repacking. He needed to do something to distract himself somewhat from the admixture of his own shame and Sara's obvious displeasure.
"I never would have believed it," Sara said quietly. "You risked your job to have a relationship with a suspect."
Grissom paused, his heart heavy as a flash of insight hit him. Sara understood why he had never acted on their mutual feelings. But he took the same risk to have a fling with a woman he barely knew. That had to be painful for Sara. His fingers ran over a whip remorsefully. And Heather's occupation only made his indiscretion worse in her eyes.
"It wasn't a relationship and she wasn't a suspect at the time. I had one – just one – encounter with Heather, and as soon as she became a suspect, I had nothing else to do with her that wasn't strictly professional."
"She's still a dominatrix. Didn't that still seem like a risk to your career?"
"At the moment, that wasn't what I was thinking."
"You mean, at the moment, you weren't thinking at all."
"I supposed you're right," Grissom admitted. "She came on very strong, making me feel attractive and interesting. I'm not accustomed to that kind of attention. At least not anymore."
"I guess I can relate," Sara said sadly. She had long ago recognized that Hank's interest in her didn't make her feel love for him as much as she felt something more akin to gratitude for him validating that she was still desirable.
After packing the last of the leather implements, Grissom silently faced Sara. He considered his next step. While he regretted the hurt he caused her, an apology didn't seem right; Sara was already involved with the paramedic when he had his encounter with Heather.
"I'll take this stuff back to Lady Heather's. You take the rest of the night off," he directed kindly.
"Flowers and a bottle of decent wine would make a nice apology to her."
"For bringing all this in as evidence?" Grissom asked, confused.
"No. For dumping her."
"I think it's a little late for apologies. She probably doesn't think a thing about it now."
"No one likes to be dumped."
"It wasn't a long-term relationship, Sara."
"Sleeping with someone is a commitment in my world, Grissom. A commitment is a commitment. If you can't honor the commitment, the least you can do is be honorable about breaking it."
He huffed out a breath slowly and gave his head a half-shake. No matter what he said, it seemed to be the wrong thing. Did Sara now think he treated relationships as disposable?
"I doubt she has exactly the same world-view you have."
"You never know. Maybe she'll be impressed and take you back."
"I don't want her to take me back," Grissom said defensively.
"Don't you want someone to care for you?"
"Sure, I guess."
Sara watched him for a long moment. "Don't you want someone to care for?"
"I guess."
"You know, Grissom," Sara chuckled, "about ninety-nine percent of the sane population would have answered 'yes' to both of those questions. Probably most of the insane population as well."
"Which population do you put me in?" he asked with a grin.
"I take the fifth. Amendment, that is," she added quickly.
"Speaking of fifth, how's your PEAP counseling going?"
"Oh, that was a smooth transition. I hope you aren't considering going into psychology. You suck at it," she laughed, though there was no joy in it.
But the humor began to lighten the uncomfortable pall that had fallen between them.
"I never was a people person," Grissom admitted, shrugging.
"No! Really?" Sara teased.
"You have no room to talk," he shot back, mock-seriously.
"We're all products of our pasts," she said through a smile that seemed forced.
"That we are," Grissom agreed. "Some day I'll regale you with the saga of my bittersweet youth."
"At least there was some sweet to it."
"I imagine you were a precocious little angel that the family doted on," Grissom said, smiling at the visual he'd created of a dark-eyed cherub with pig-tails and rosy cheeks.
"Now look what you've done! You've made Larry mad and we're all going to catch hell!"
"I'm sorry Mommy! I didn't mean to. I didn't mean to. I'll be a good girl. I promise. I promise!"
"All you care about is yourself! Don't you realize that he's putting a roof over our heads and food on the table?"
"I'm sorry, Mommy," Sara sobbed over and over in her mind. The fear that was originally attached to the memory had long ago been replaced by anger at those who should have protected her.
"Hardly," she said curtly, picking up a box. "Here, I'll help you load these up."
The sudden change in her demeanor caught Grissom off-guard. He felt like he should say something to bring back the comfort they had just begun to feel, but he wasn't sure what to say. He felt he was walking through a minefield blindfolded.
"Sara ... I'm sorry. I don't know what I said wrong, but whatever it was, I apologize."
"It's not your place to apologize. You didn't do anything wrong," she said, making her way into the hallway to cut off any further probing from Grissom. He quickly stacked the remaining two boxes and followed her out to his Denali. After they put them into the back, she started to walk smartly back towards the lab.
Grissom's first reaction was to follow her, to try everything he could think of to change her mood. He exhaled and dropped his chin to his chest, realizing that there was probably little he could do. Whatever the problem was went a lot deeper than a bad mood.
"What happened to you, Sara?" he asked himself, though he wasn't sure he really wanted to know.
"Back again so soon, Mr. Grissom?" Lady Heather asked, a practiced smile of greeting on her face. "And a Happy Thanksgiving to you."
"I hope I'm not interrupting your preparations?"
"My preparations? No. I have the meal catered. My employees have very healthy appetites."
"I can imagine."
Heather's smile never wavered, but her eyes hardened. "You are, however, interrupting my time with my daughter."
"Then the sooner we start, the quicker you can get back to Zoe. May I?"
"Where's your chaperone?" Lady Heather asked mockingly as she led him to her office.
"I'm a big boy. I don't need a chaperone," Grissom retorted, attempting to come across as relaxed and humorous, though he felt like neither.
"Yes, I recall that," Lady Heather quipped, immediately taking the forced smile from Grissom's face.
He cleared his throat before taking a seat. "I brought your equipment back. I'll leave it in the pool house, if you'd like."
"That would be fine. I appreciate it being returned so expeditiously."
"I was also hoping that we could go back over the statement you made to me and Captain Brass."
"I have nothing to add. I told you I had nothing to do with it. I was here at the time."
"Any witnesses?"
"Of course. I'm not one of those managers who stays hidden away in an office. I'm more what you'd call a 'hands-on' kind of manager, no pun intended."
"Yes, I recall that," Grissom retorted.
"Of course you would," she replied simply.
"Heather, I'm not trying to hurt you, but someone killed Zoe's rapist. It was done in a method that obviously points in your direction. Could one of your employees have gotten … overzealous?"
"I don't willingly hire killers. Chloe Samms was an aberration. Almost everyone in my employ could fit into a church social without raising suspicion – as long as they didn't wear their work attire," she added in wry amusement.
"Do you have any enemies?"
A finely groomed eyebrow rose meaningfully. "I help people explore their sexuality through means that society finds unusual. Because of that, there are people who are repulsed by me. Even more fear me. But enemies? I don't think so."
"Which leads us back to who would do this."
Lady Heather remained silent for a long moment, thoughtfully examining one of the masks decorating her walls. "You know, Mr. Grissom, something popped into my mind after we spoke last time."
"Tell me. Anything at all could prove helpful."
"Have you, by any chance, spoken to Zoe's father?" she asked cautiously.
"No. I didn't really give it any thought. Does he live in Vegas?"
"Yes, to the best of my knowledge. I don't have anything to do with him, but Zoe hears from him from time to time. Generally whenever he's completely broke," she said distastefully.
"Would you give me his name and contact information?"
"I can give you his name. I'll ask Zoe for the rest. As I said, I never initiate any contact with him."
"Acrimonious divorce?" Grissom hazarded.
"No, not really. He doesn't have the balls for an acrimonious divorce."
Grissom raised an eyebrow in surprise. Heather noticed the gesture and shrugged half-heartedly.
"I don't know what I ever saw in him, but in my own defense, he changed a lot when he got involved with drugs."
"That's a frequent side-effect."
"I have no respect for anyone with so little self-esteem or self-control."
Grissom nodded. Drug abusers lost their control to their addictions. It was easy to see that Heather would have no patience with such a person. But could it influence her thoughts about her ex?
"Do you have any reason to suspect that he's involved?" he asked directly.
"No. Nothing tangible," she admitted. "I know that Zoe called him when we got home. He came by and I directed him to the guesthouse, where she's been staying since she got back into town. He was very agitated, as you'd expect."
"That's natural."
"Yes, it is. But what isn't natural is what I saw the day after that. I heard a car drive back behind the house, so I looked out the window. I saw Tim heading to the door of the guesthouse. He was different. He'd cleaned up a little. But what was really odd was how he carried himself. He walked with determination. Like he had a purpose now. I don't know how to describe it, but it's very unusual for him."
"So you think your ex-husband killed Zoe's attacker?"
"I wouldn't put it past him. Not that he's normally the killer type. Far from it. It would be too much like work for him to actually plan and execute a murder," she said flatly.
"But?"
"But even Zoe was getting tired of his shenanigans. I think he may have done something to 'prove' himself. Maybe he wants us to think he's not such a loser, that's he's a strong man and a good father."
"What makes you think that?" Grissom asked.
"He's been trying to contact me off and on for just over a year. Cards on my birthday and Christmas. Last Valentine's Day there was a box of cheap chocolates on the doorstep."
"You're a diabetic," he said in confusion.
"Very good, Mr. Grissom. At least you're more attentive than Tim. He's tried to call a few times, but I don't pick up. He's left a message once or twice, saying he was just checking on how I was."
"You think he wants to reconcile?"
"I try not to think of him at all," Heather scoffed.
"But you see these as overtures?"
"Probably. But I believe in letting the past be the past."
Grissom gave her a sagacious nod. "That's probably a healthy outlook."
Lady Heather leaned back in her chair, regarding him carefully. "It is as long as you've dealt with it first. You can't bury the past."
Grissom nodded slowly, wondering where the conversation was heading.
"Don't worry, I'm not talking about you," Lady Heather offered with a smile. "We've already gone over that subject."
"I'll have Brass check him out ..." Grissom began, glad that he wasn't going to be the center of the conversation.
"Ms. Sidle works for you, doesn't she?"
"Yes, she does," he answered somewhat stiffly. An odd feeling of conflict rose up in him.
"She's pretty tightly wound."
Grissom's unease grew. Heather's earlier perceptions of Sara had torn him apart, making him wonder if he'd spent years overlooking or ignoring clues about Sara's past. That led him to question every aspect of their relationship over the last several years, to see his actions in a new light. It had been … unpleasant. Sara's mood when he'd left the lab had done nothing to quell his growing unease.
Part of him wanted to leave quickly, afraid that she would offer new insights that would further shake his emotional foundations. But he was also unwilling to leave. Some part of his demanded to solve the mystery of Sara Sidle.
"She's very energetic," Grissom offered.
"Is she now?" Lady Heather asked with a knowing smile.
"She works hard," Grissom amended.
"Indeed. Maybe too hard."
"I would think that you'd admire her work ethic."
"I do. If that's what's behind it."
Grissom tilted his head questioningly, but didn't put words to his thoughts.
"There's a lot of pain in that woman, Mr. Grissom. Old wounds that have never healed properly. It's like a deep infection. All may look fine on the surface, but underneath there's a rot that will eventually spread if it isn't excised."
"I really wouldn't know," Grissom offered weakly. "I'm not one to involve myself in my employees' personal lives."
"If she doesn't do something about it, soon it'll be too late. If you cared anything about her, you'd intervene."
"That would be inappropriate. We have departmental resources at her disposal."
Lady Heather regarded him coolly. "So she's just some random employee and you don't give a damn whether she falls to pieces or not?"
"I didn't say that. Of course I'm interested in the welfare of all of my employees."
"You are being entirely too vague, Mr. Grissom. That tells me more than you think. You do care about her. I can see how uncomfortable you are, talking about her with me."
"I'd feel uncomfortable talking about anyone behind their back."
She got out of her chair, moving to the mantle over the fireplace. There, she picked up one of the baubles heralding her trade, adjusting its position before facing Grissom again.
"Not this uncomfortable. No. There's more to it. And that makes it all the more unbelievable that you don't do anything to help her."
"Her life is her own, Heather," he sighed. "I can't just interject myself into it. I don't have the right."
"You have the right to be a friend, don't you? You have the right to push a little on that wall of hers. It wouldn't take much at this point for it to crumble. And when it does, someone needs to be there that she trusts. Does she trust you?"
Grissom looked away. He closed his eyes for a moment, realizing his body language had just provided Heather with more information than he wanted to reveal. How could he answer that question? He had no idea how Sara felt about him anymore, if he ever did.
"I wouldn't know. You'd have to ask her that."
"Another telling answer. Have you given her reason to not trust you? Were you ever involved?"
"No, of course not!"
"Her choice or yours?"
"Lady Heather, I didn't come here to discuss my personal life, or that of one of my employees," he barked.
She smiled at him as she slunk by his chair on the way to the other side of her desk.
"Once you walk through those doors, you're in my domain. What you came here for and what you end up getting may be two entirely different things."
"Yes, I recall that as well," Grissom conceded reluctantly.
"Does she know that you and I were once intimate?"
"It's not something that I generally tell people. But, yes, she's aware of it."
"Is that why she doesn't trust you?"
"I didn't say she didn't trust me," Grissom shot back in frustration. "I said you'd have to ask her."
"What do you imagine she thinks of it? Does she assume that it was personal or professional in nature?" Heather asked, sitting on the edge of her desk before him, crossing her legs in a slow, smooth motion.
Grissom remained silent.
"Would she believe you'd pay for sex? Would she think you got the full treatment, with bondage and domination? Would she assume you were dominant? Would she assume you were submissive? What do you think she'd think?"
"I don't know what she thinks," he answered weakly, swallowing ineffectively at the lump that painfully blocked his throat. "We didn't discuss it in intimate detail."
"Would it be easier for her to believe I would fit into your world, or that you'd fit into in mine?"
"I told you I don't know. And I have to insist that you not discuss my private life with anyone else."
"In this case, Mr. Grissom, it involves my private life as well. And I can damn well discuss my private life with whomever I wish."
"Heather ..." Grissom began, almost pleadingly.
"Stop that! I have to listen to whining and begging all the time! Say what you want with confidence."
"Don't play your mind games with me or Sara anymore!"
"See," Lady Heather purred. "That wasn't so difficult. The alpha male that had intrigued me years ago is finally showing through again."
"I couldn't care less if I intrigue you or not," Grissom said haughtily as he turned to make his way to the less oppressive air of the world outside of the domain.
"All the more intriguing," she purred behind him.
Having placed Heather's equipment in the pool house as promised, Grissom sat for a moment in his SUV, trying to calm himself. Snippets of his conversation with Sara interwove with bits of Heather's wisdom. Other things Sara had said or done over the years began to pop unbidden into his thoughts, taking on a different significance now that he looked at them with new eyes.
He pulled out his cell phone and pressed the speed dial button for Sara's home number.
"Hey, just checking to see if you're home," he said.
"You sent me home," she answered.
"That doesn't always work," he countered, trying to sound light-hearted.
"I'm under a lot of departmental scrutiny now. I can't afford to add insubordination to public intoxication. Everything seems to go into my personnel file now."
"I'm not the bad guy," Grissom said in his own defense.
"I'm just stating the facts."
"I didn't have much choice. I was looking out for you."
"Really." Sara said it more like a doubt than a question.
"You had to know that everyone in the Sheriff's Department would find out about you being picked up. If we documented the incident so that it didn't get blown out of proportion, and also that you completed your PEAP counseling, it shows that you addressed the situation. The slate may not be spotless, but it's a lot better than trying to sweep it under the rug."
"You mixed your metaphors."
"What?"
"You mixed your metaphors. First it was a slate, then a rug. That's not like you."
"I'm tired and I'm ...," Grissom shook his head slightly and took a breath to give himself time to find what he wanted to say amongst all the thoughts coursing through his mind. "I'm a little worried."
"About the case? The rape was solved ... with a little unwelcome help. And we're processing the evidence from the murder. I feel confident."
"Not about the case. About you."
"What about me?" Sara asked uneasily. "This isn't still about the drinking thing, is it? When are you going to let that go?"
"No, it's not about drinking. At least not entirely. Something's wrong, and I think this case is making it worse for you."
"And I already explained that it doesn't concern you. If there was something wrong," she added unconvincingly.
Sitting at a traffic light, Grissom licked his lips fretfully. Any doubts he had that Sara was hiding something from him had long passed. Whatever haunted her was getting harder for her to control. It pained him to admit it, but Heather was right. Sara needed to deal with her demons.
But his years of putting distance between them had worked too well. Now that Sara needed his help, he had no way to reach her.
"I don't know what to do," he finally said softly.
"So what else is new?" Sara quipped, trying to force the conversation back on a light track.
"Not knowing what to do isn't the same as not caring."
"Grissom…"
He waited anxiously for her to continue, convinced he'd heard a partially-stifled sob. When she did speak again, Sara's voice was firm.
"Tell you what. After you figure out what to do, call me then. Not before."
Hearing the click coming from the other end, Grissom slammed his hand on the steering wheel as he put his phone away. "Dammit, Sara. Let me help."
TBC