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 6 - For In Much Wisdom Is Much Grief
After setting down the phone, Sara rested her elbows on the breakfast bar and dropped her head into her hands. As much as it irked her, the truth was this case was getting to her. She couldn't deny it any longer. Sara wondered if should have paid more attention to the PEAP counselor; she knew she needed to find a way to deal with this.
Talking didn't help; people only treated you differently once they knew the truth. You were "damaged goods". Grissom would never use that term, but he didn't even like the normal complications that came from social interactions. This was something he wasn't prepared to handle.
He was certainly being tenacious, though. A wry smile formed behind her fingers. She once thought his attention was something that she wanted, but not like this. His intentions were good, but Grissom had no idea what he was getting involved in.
And she didn't want his pity. "God, Grissom," she muttered sadly. "Now I don't know what to do."
With a resigned sigh, Sara pushed off from the counter and began to pace her small apartment.
Grissom probably thought he was being helpful by sending her home, but she wanted to be at the lab. It was more than a drive to solve this crime – it was her way of coping with being alone on the holidays. If she buried herself in work, she didn't have time to dwell on her isolation.
She looked at her computer; she could find a list of online vendors that sold whips. Doc suggested that the murder weapon would have been made of kangaroo leather – it was the type that was durable enough to inflict the extensive damage to the rapist. A shudder ran down her body; that wasn't something she wanted to do on Thanksgiving.
Her parents had never been traditional, often foregoing holiday celebrations, and Sara grew up wistfully dreaming of the perfect family gathering. Her fantasy could have been a scene out of a Norman Rockwell painting. There would be plenty of food and laughter and everyone would be happy.
But it never happened.
After her father died, things got worse. Mom had been unable to cope with her loss, raising two children alone and keeping the bed and breakfast operational. There hadn't been enough insurance; soon, they lost everything.
Her mother had settled with Larry, an abusive alcoholic who blamed his failures on everyone but himself. He was determined to make everyone as miserable as he was.
She'd heard him storming into the house and dashed to a small alcove behind the stove. From her hiding spot, she watched the turkey, stuffed and ready for the oven, go flying to the floor.
"Larry, that's for Thanksgiving."
"What the hell do I have to be thankful for? For you?" he sneered sarcastically. " I got to feed you and your brats! You should be thanking me for putting up with your shit, not wasting my money on a fancy meal."
"Larry, the turkey was free. It didn't cost you …"
"You took charity? You saying I don't do enough for you? You ungrateful bitch!"
"No! I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. I'm sorry."
"You will be! I'll teach you to insult me like that."
When he stopped the beating long enough to toss the turkey to the dogs outside, Sara bolted to her room. She hid under the bed, crying tears of fear and frustration.
Sara gave her head a harsh shake, marching to the kitchen where she opened the fridge. Scanning the contents didn't take long, but she kept the door ajar, letting the cool air wash over her soothingly.
When she was younger, Sara had tried volunteering at a homeless shelter. It was supposed to be therapeutic helping others who were in a worse situation. Instead, all it did was emphasis how alone she really was. Even the street people had formed families of sorts, looking out for each other in their own ways.
She was cleaning up tables when an arguably schizophrenic woman cornered her, asking Sara why she wasn't home with her family. She'd left early, near tears when the deluded woman offered to be her grandmother and tried to pull Sara to a table where her other "relatives" were waiting.
It hadn't been so bad in San Francisco. Her supervisor came from an extended family, and he made sure those working on the holidays always had a bit of a celebration. He personally organized a buffet for all the shifts, having each employee contribute something to the communal feast.
"Hey, Sidle! What's your family's traditional dish?" he'd asked innocently.
"Salmonella" she shot back, her intellect providing a cover and a laugh to the rest of the shift. She was quickly elected to provide the paper goods for the meal.
But it didn't take her boss long to notice that she never asked off on the holidays, and if she had a day off land on one, Sara always traded with someone who wanted to spend the day with their loved ones.
She vaguely answered that she didn't have any family left, and graciously turned down his offers to join his family for dinner. She'd done that a few times in college, but Sara was never able to shake the feeling that she was an outsider.
No one in Vegas had ever noticed she worked on all the holidays.
Sara shifted some half-empty containers around in the fridge. Nothing looked appetizing. Las Vegas was a true tourist's town; there'd be restaurants and carryout open, but Sara didn't want to go out or order in. Both served as painful reminders that she had no family.
Growing up, her brother had been impatient with his 'snotty' little sister, but once they went to live with Larry, he'd tried to protect her. Pete was older, but he wasn't that big. He didn't stand a chance with a direct confrontation with Larry.
Instead, Pete promised to take her away once he turned eighteen. And he tried to make life more bearable.
Sara woke in a terrified state. Someone was in her room. Only one person ever came into the tiny attic room, and he only came for one reason. She cried out in relief when Pete started handing over her clothes.
"Get dressed. Quick."
"Why?" she asked, but following her brother's directions once he turned his back.
"It's Christmas!"
"We don't have any presents."
"So? We can still have a celebration. The Spencers on the next block have a huge light display up. I got some candy."
"Larry'll get mad if we go out."
"He went to get more beer. We can run over and back before he knows we're missing. I have the ladder outside your window."
Smiling happily, little Sara hurriedly dressed. She was reaching for her shoes when they heard the swearing outside. Larry was already home, and he'd discovered the ladder. The siblings stared at each other in a frightened silence.
"Change back!" Pete urged quietly. "I'll tell him I had the ladder out because I heard some squirrels on the roof."
"Oh, yeah. That's a good one," Larry growled as he squeezed his body in the small window. "You two snots going to run away? I should let you. God knows you aren't worth bothering about."
"We weren't running away," Pete said in a shaky voice. "We were just going to see the lights."
"Don't lie to me, you little bastard. I ain't in the mood for your lip. Damn stores are closed for this stupid holiday."
The beating was quick and relatively mild, as if Larry didn't want to waste any excess energy on her brother. He shoved the boy out into the hallway, giving him a parting kick to the ribs when Pete fell to the ground.
The door to her bedroom closed ominously. Sara pulled the covers up to her chin and shivered uncontrollably as Larry walked towards her. The reek of cheap beer filled the room as he began to undo his belt.
"If you wanted a celebration, all you had to do was ask," Larry slurred, ripping the sheets from her terrified grip.
"Dammit!"
The refrigerator door slammed loudly. Sara resumed her pacing, holding herself tightly.
Detective Brass pulled off his sunglasses with his left hand when the door to the shabby apartment opened.
"You Tim Grey?" he asked, the corners of his mouth turned up into a smile that more resembled a smirk, especially with the glint in his eyes.
"Who's asking?" the man on the other side of the threshold asked suspiciously.
"Jim Brass. Homicide." Brass held out his hand uncharacteristically, squeezing Grey's hand in a manly handshake.
Grey winced slightly at the corner of one eye, but strove to remain impassive, despite the pain in his right hand.
Brass continued to grasp his hand, cocking his head slightly.
"What kind of work you do, Mr. Grey? You've got blisters all over your hand."
"I ... uh ... sometimes I do ... um ... odd jobs. You know, like yard work, cleaning garages, stuff like that. You know," he answered weakly, shrugging.
Brass let go of Grey's right hand and quickly grasped his left, turning it over.
"You only work with one hand?" he asked, his smirk becoming more pronounced.
"What's this about?" Grey snapped, pulling his hand back.
"I'm investigating a homicide."
"What's that got to do with me?"
"That's what I'm here to find out."
"You can't come in here without a warrant," Grey said fervently.
"You got something you don't want me to see?" Brass asked.
"I know my rights!"
"Yeah, yeah. Everyone knows their rights. You know my rights? I got the right to haul your ass to the station for questioning, since you don't seem to feel very sociable today."
"On what grounds?"
"I don't have to have any grounds to pull you in for questioning, other than the simple fact that you aren't being very cooperative. I can hold you for 72 hours before charging you with anything if I can think up a good enough excuse. Fortunately, I've had a lot of experience with this, so I bet I can come up with something. We might have to do a drug test or something when I bring you in. You been drinking plenty of cranberry juice?"
"I don't do drugs."
"Yeah? You look like a doper to me, and I've seen it all, brother."
"So what? What if you did do a drug test? What if I didn't pass? If I'm not in public and you don't find any dope on me, you ain't got shit. You're not going to get a search warrant based on a piss test."
"Ooh! Aren't you just full of jailhouse legal training? You can always tell the criminals from the decent folk by how much detail they know about the legal system. Only lawyers and cops know as much about it as the common street thug."
"Buzz off, Brass. I got nothing to say to you," Grey said snidely, starting to shut the door.
"You're a man with options, my friend. You can talk to me here, now. You can come with me to the station. Those are just talking. Or, you can be difficult, piss me off, and I'll get a warrant for your arrest, even if I have to make something up. Once we arrest you and run a drug screen, we get a warrant to search the premises. See how unpleasant it can get when you decide to be a prick?"
"Fuck you, Brass," Grey said bitterly.
"You're not my type. Besides, I'm not getting any younger and I've got a date tomorrow night. Gotta save my strength. Now, tell me ... we gonna talk like a couple of gentlemen? Or do I have to go all badass on you?"
Grey exhaled loudly through his nose, trying to decide whether it appeared more innocent to talk or to continue to protest his rights as a citizen.
"What do you want to talk about? I don't know anything about any homicide."
"Okay, let's start at the basics. You're Zoe Grey's father, right?"
"Yeah. Why? What's she got to do with this?"
"Everything, my friend. You know this man?" Brass asked, holding up the photo of the cleaned up corpse, taken just prior to his autopsy.
"Damn," Grey murmured, shaking his head vehemently. "Who is it? I've never seen a dead person before. Damn."
"It's the man who attacked Zoe," Brass answered simply.
"Then death's too good for that sorry sack of shit," Grey spat out.
"Funny, your ex-wife was telling us the same thing."
"Heather?"
"How many ex-wives you got?"
"Just the one. Uh, what did she say?"
Brass kept his face passive as he shifted his weight. Grey's eagerness to know Lady Heather's reaction was telling. It added weight to her suspicion. He'd already pulled Grey's record; the guy was on the tail-end of a downward spiral. No wonder his kid was ready to give up on him.
"Lady Heather? She wasn't impressed. Said the killer was an amateur," Brass answered smoothly, noting Grey's sudden change in demeanor. "And she said that she would have preferred for him to suffer the rest of his life than to die so quickly."
Grey tried to shrug off his obvious disappointment.
"She must have been mad when she said that. She's not really the type to hold a grudge."
"Well, having your kid hurt like that will bring out the worst in just about anybody, right?"
"I guess. How did he die?"
"Beaten to death. Actually, whipped to death."
"You think my ex-wife did that?"
"What do you think?"
"She might have, but I don't think so. Maybe that young stud that works for her did it. He's always hanging around them."
"Which stud? She's got several young men working for her," Brass prodded.
"That guy with the pansy name. What was it? Armand? No. Andre? Yeah, Andre. I'd bet you a week's wages that's not his real name."
"When was the last time you earned a week's wages?" Brass asked pointedly.
"That's not the point. The point is that he lives there like he's the cock of the walk. He acts like he's the man of the house."
"Heather said he was like a son to her."
"Son. Yeah. Sure. Right," Grey scoffed.
"Well, I'll check on all the leads I get. But, you know, you're not out of the woods yet."
"Huh?"
"We still need to exclude you as a suspect."
"How? I didn't do anything."
"Where were you last night?"
"Here at my apartment. Watching TV."
"Any witnesses?"
"No. I was by myself."
"Hmm. We'll have to think of another way," Brass said warmly, as though he was trying his best to help Grey. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, furrowing his brows in thought.
"Oh! Wait! I've got it. Give me a sample of your DNA. It's easy. All I have to do is rub this long Q-tip on the inside of your cheek. When we get warrants to search all the suspects' houses and find the whip, we'll compare everyone's DNA to what's on the whip handle. No problem."
"Uh, okay, I guess," Grey said, uneasily. His mind had been racing to find a way to gracefully decline the DNA sample, and he knew it couldn't be compelled without a warrant. But he also knew that refusing would make him look suspicious to Brass, and considering his lifestyle, having the police snooping around was the last thing he wanted.
Brass dramatically pulled on a pair of latex gloves and smiled as he took the sample, closing the cap on it and sliding it into his jacket pocket.
"There. That should do it for now, Mr. Grey. Sorry for disturbing you, but I've got to cover all the bases, you know?"
"I understand, Detective Brass. You're just doing your job," Grey said, forcing a smile.
Plopping down into the seat of his car, Brass chuckled to himself. "God, I'm good."
Handing the DNA sample over to Grissom at the Crime Lab, Brass took a moment to fill out a Chain of Custody form, then handed it over to Grissom to sign. He recounted the high points of the conversation with Grey to Grissom.
"Jim, are you sure it was wise to tell him you were going to get a warrant to search the suspects' houses? Didn't you just tip your hand?"
"You know, Gil, you're really smart at all this science stuff, but you still don't know all the tricks of the trade. Look, it's several days until next trash pickup, right? If he's got that whip in his house, he's gonna want to get rid of it real bad now. No way he's going to let it stay in the house until next pickup. I've planted a bug in him that's gonna gnaw at him until he gets rid of it."
"So what's to keep him from ditching it anywhere?"
"Nothing. Nothing at all. I hope he does. I've got surveillance on him 'round the clock. If he leaves, it's only going to be to ditch the whip or buy drugs. Either one, he's busted."
"I thought you liked Lady Heather for the murder," Grissom said.
"Nah, not really. I just like to push her buttons. She's got moxie."
"Moxie? How film noir of you, Brass."
"Well, as soon as I laid my eyes on this Grey, I knew he was hinky. And he tried like hell to throw that kid Andre under the bus. Sounded real jealous of the boy."
"So, what's next?" Grissom asked.
"You know how the cop business works. It's all hurry up and wait. Now we wait. If he's our guy, I bet he makes a move within 24 hours. We grab him and hope we find the whip. After that, it's all up to you. You can get DNA from the whip, right?"
"I can get DNA from air," Greg said confidently as he passed the two men. It was true that he wanted to be in the field as a CSI, but he still wanted to be respected for his years of work as a DNA Analyst. He had been the top DNA Analyst in the top local Crime Lab in the nation. He didn't want to abandon that as much as he wanted to build on it.
"The leather will soak up sweat and blood like a sponge. Greg won't have any problem getting DNA from both ends, unless the perp goes to extraordinary measures, like soaking it in pure bleach or burning it."
"I don't think this guy's got that much criminal experience under his belt, other than drugs and petty burglaries, maybe."
"Let's hope you're right," Grissom exhaled. "That whip is the only thing tying the perp to the crime.
"What about the ligatures? Isn't there any DNA on them?" Brass asked.
"Probably, if our perp didn't wear gloves. Greg's processing them now. But even if they match Grey, at most that proves his tied the guy down. He could say it was for a little kinky sex. We still wouldn't be able to prove he actually delivered the mortal blows unless we can link him to the weapon."
"He had motive. The ligatures would put him at the crime scene. The DA might decide to run with that, even if we can't produce the weapon," Brass said hopefully. "Hell, Scott Peterson just got the death penalty with no forensic evidence at all. Nothing but circumstantial evidence and innuendo."
"When juries don't have facts to consider, they use their emotions, like in the Peterson case. Here we have a man we'd be saying killed his daughter's rapist, not some guy accused of murdering his pregnant wife. I don't think the DA would want to try to push it without some evidence. We've got a lot of evidence in the works. Let's see what we come up with before we try to talk the DA into anything. "
"Let the evidence do the talking, right?" Brass asked.
"It has a story to tell. We just have to be willing to shut up and listen," Grissom agreed.
Grissom was moving down the lab hallway rapidly. Rounding the corner, he saw Sara approaching him with equal speed, but there was a strained air around her. He'd hoped she'd use her time off to rest, but Sara looked like she hadn't slept at all.
He motioned to her before stepping into the Layout Room. Before he could ask how she was, she pulled out a report. "Jacqui got several hits from the prints we lifted at the motel room. Tim Grey's were all over the place," Sara said.
"And Brass just called. The cops caught him throwing away a blood-stained whip."
"I'll grab my kit," she said, glancing briefly when Grissom fell in beside her. She smiled ruefully. "Guess we should be glad that criminals are stupid."
Grissom's head nodded to one side briefly. "If Heather was correct in his motivations, the whip represents his proving himself as a good father and protector. He wouldn't have been thinking about the legal complications of keeping the murder weapon."
"Or he's just a dumb ass."
"The two don't have to be mutually exclusive."
Sara raised an eyebrow in quiet confirmation. They moved with silent efficiency as they gathered their supplies and headed out in a Denali. While they waited at a traffic light, Grissom turned to face her. Sara's chin rested on her hand as she stared out the side window.
"Are you okay?"
"Huh? Oh, yeah. Just thinking."
"About anything in particular?"
"Zoe."
"And?"
"I feel so sorry for her. And please don't start lecturing me on not feeling for the victims. I'm really not in the mood for it."
Grissom didn't respond, but resumed their trek to the station. His eyes darted to the side when he heard the long sigh coming from the seat beside him. Sara had turned around to regard him tensely.
"After all she went through, now she's going to lose her father. If he'd killed the guy while he was attacking Zoe, Grey could probably walk. A jury would buy a father protecting his daughter. But this was a sadistic killing, planned after the fact. He's toast. Zoe's going to suffer again."
"She has her mother. They seem to be very close," Grissom noted.
"I know," Sara admitted, giving a brief shrug as if she found that fact hard to believe. "That's probably what's keeping her going."
"The love between a parent and a child is universal."
His head snapped when she snorted disdainfully.
"How many murders do we deal with where one family member kills another one?" she asked pointedly.
"A lot," he conceded.
"How many cases do we deal with where a parent is abusing a child?"
"Too many."
"And you really think that parental love is universal?"
"We always deal with people at the low points of their lives. It's a distorted view of reality," he said softly. "Most people don't kill someone. Most people don't abuse their children."
"But it's enough," Sara replied with equal faintness. "Don't assume, Grissom. It's what you always warn us about. Don't fall for it yourself."
Grissom's brow knitted as his fingers began a staccato beat on the steering wheel. Nick's large family was no secret, and Warrick often spoke about the grandmother who raised him. He knew more than he ever wanted to know about Catherine's personal life. Even Greg brought up his Papa Olaf on occasion.
But in all the years he knew Sara, both in Vegas and before, she'd only made one passing reference to her family. The drumming stopped as his free hand wiped the cold sweat from his brow.
"Are you speaking from experience?" he finally asked, hoping that she'd laugh off that as well.
He glanced to the side in time to see her brief head movement before Sara wrapped her arms around herself and focused on the passing lights.
"Heather, Zoe," Grissom said in greeting as he and Sara approached the interrogation room. "What are you doing here?"
"Tim called Zoe when he was arrested. I've arranged to have my lawyer represent Tim."
"Let me guess. You have a lawyer on retainer as well as a doctor," Sara said.
"Of course," Heather replied, shrugging nonchalantly. "Some clients like to try exert control that extends beyond the games we play. I have a lawyer to remind them that I am the ruler of my domain, not them."
"Don't you ever get tired of being in control?" Sara asked, her brow furrowing when a sudden insight into herself flitted across her consciousness.
"I don't try to control the people I care about," Heather answered, looking towards her daughter. "And my job isn't to control others, but to get them to have an epiphany about the whole notion of controlling or being controlled. It's all an illusion."
"They aren't going to let you see your ex-husband until he's in jail or released," Grissom cautioned, more to fill the empty air that fell between them than to impart any information.
"I know, but Zoe wanted to come support her father. I support Zoe."
"I think I'll look for the vending machines," Zoe said abruptly.
"I can show you where they are," Sara offered.
"I think I can find them. That is, unless I'm required to have some sort of official escort here."
"No. Just trying to be helpful," Sara answered.
"Save it for someone who needs your help," Zoe shot back, turning on her heel to leave the others standing in the hallway.
"She's a little miffed at me for putting you on her father's trail," Heather said with a sigh.
"What would she have done in the same circumstance?" Grissom asked, genuinely curious.
"Oh, I imagine she'd have done the same thing," Heather answered with a lifeless chuckle. "But that doesn't make it any easier. She's been through a lot these past few days. She needs to vent."
"You don't deserve that," Grissom offered.
"Quite the contrary, I hope. You see, Mr. Grissom, the fact that she feels comfortable being angry with me is reassuring. Our relationship is still solid, despite all that has occurred. She feels safe expressing her feelings with me. She trusts that I'll understand, and that I'll love and support her, even if she's being what you might consider unfair."
"That's an unusual way of looking at it," Sara admitted.
"Unusual for you, perhaps. I would imagine that you didn't have the same luxury of expressing yourself when you were very young."
"What makes you think that?" Sara asked defensively.
"You give off the aura of one who has a lot going on in the inside, but you hold back letting it out. That usually stems from not being allowed to express yourself when you were a child. Or even if you did, it wasn't honored and valued."
"Are you a psychologist ... or a sadist?" Sara asked in a clipped tone.
"They aren't mutually exclusive, judging from my clientele," Heather laughed.
"I think I'll go back to the lab," Sara said, turning to Grissom, who had been taking in the conversation, trying to fit the pieces into the jigsaw puzzle that he was constructing in his mind. In the completed center of the imaginary puzzle was an image of Sara, but he was missing the majority of the pieces that surrounded her, that would put her in context.
"Is the truth so horrible that you have to run any time anyone gets close to it?" Heather asked, halting Sara in her tracks.
Sara dipped her head for a moment, her back to Heather and Grissom. She took a deep breath and held it several seconds, both trying to calm herself and to decide whether to reply or simply walk away. Her instincts were actually more intense: run or explode.
"Let's run away, Sara. Let's get out of here before he kills one of us," her brother whispered in the night. Larry was passed out on the couch, snoring loudly. It was a comforting sound to them.
"What about Mom?" Sara asked.
"She won't go. I don't know why, but she won't. Maybe it'll make it better for her if we leave. That way, we won't be making Larry mad all the time."
"I didn't think of that. Maybe he'd be nice to Mom if we weren't around."
They plotted and planned for the day that never came. Children's services picked them up before they could put their plan into motion.
"You know nothing about my past, my truth. Save your armchair psychoanalysis for your clients."
"I don't need to know the specifics. I've seen it time and again. How do you think a business like mine survives, much less thrives?"
"I have no idea. The whole idea of it is abhorrent."
"You disgust me! You and both of those little bastards of yours! I don't know why I even put up with your shit. All three of you would be living in a box and starving to death if it wasn't for me. All I ask for is a little respect, but instead I get attitude."
The memory suddenly ceased with the familiar sound, between a thud and a slap, of him backhanding her mother.
"Is it? Is it really? You have years, probably decades, of anger in you. Hatred, perhaps. It's eating at you bit by bit. Your ability to hide it from yourself and everyone else is starting to slip. Your ability to cope with it grows weaker by the day."
"Shut up," Sara growled, turning to face Heather.
"You hate him. You know you do. You hate what he did to you. You hate him for what he took from you. He disrespected you. He devalued you. You were an object, not a human being," Heather continued.
"Shut up!" Sara snapped.
"Shut up!" she yelled, holding her small hands over her ears. Some primal part of her had reasoned that the yelling led to the beatings, and that she could prevent them if she could stop the yelling.
"What did you say to me, you little bitch?" he said, turning to face her with pure cruelty hardening his eyes.
"No more yelling!"
"Don't you ever tell me what to do! I'll show you who's boss around here!"
"Heather, that's enough!" Grissom interjected, physically moving between the two women.
"I'm not saying this to hurt her. The anger and pain she's showing were already there," Heather said calmly, but firmly, looking Grissom squarely in the eye.
"She doesn't want your so-called help," Grissom said, taking Sara by the arm, not surprised to find her trembling in his grasp.
"What she wants and what she needs are miles apart."
"Come on, I'll drive you home," Grissom said, leaning over towards Sara. He took a step, but she was unsteady, and he stopped to let her take another deep breath to gather strength.
"You have choices, Ms. Sidle. You can come to my domain, free of charge of course, and act out your anger and hatred. You'd be pleasantly surprised at how much better you'd feel afterward."
It was always a little better after someone got beaten – at least for a little while. The rage that built up in him, fueled by the alcohol, had been spent for a time.
"I kill myself before I'd do something that disgusting," Sara murmured.
"Or you can try to continue to ignore it. But you've already seen the demon grows larger every day. It's only going to get bigger unless you exorcise it."
"You feel steady now?" Grissom asked, anxious to get her away from the dominatrix.
Sara nodded shakily, and Grissom began to lead her down the hall, away from her tormenter.
"Or, you could make the demon shrink by letting it out, a bit at a time, with someone you trust. Talking takes longer than my services would, but it also builds a connection with someone else. A bond of trust. Do you trust anyone, Ms. Sidle? I doubt it. But if you could, that would be your only other option. Let the demon out before it kills you," she said with a firm, loud voice, though not shouting, which would be unseemly for person of culture.
The school nurse pulled up Sara's tee shirt, exposing her back.
"Who did this to you?"
"Nobody. I fell down."
"Sara, I'm a nurse. I can tell the difference between a beating and falling down."
A torturous silence filled the air.
"You can trust me. Tell me who did this to you, and I can make it stop."
"Larry."
"Who's Larry?"
"The man we live with. My mother's boyfriend."
"You don't have to worry about anything like this ever again. Larry will never do this to anyone again," the nurse said confidently.
Grissom led Sara down the hallway, pushing open the door that revealed something they didn't often see, the harsh light of the Nevada day. Each of them automatically slipped on their ubiquitous sunglasses, like creatures of the night protecting themselves from the searing sunlight.
Between the heat and the brightness of the sun, especially in summer, it was a frequent joke around the lab that the night shift were all vampires who would likely burst into flames if they ever ventured out except under the cloak of darkness.
"Come on, I'll drive you home," Grissom said lowly, steering Sara towards his SUV.
"No, I'm fine," she demurred.
"Less than two minutes ago you couldn't even walk steadily. I'm not letting you drive like that."
"It was just the adrenaline. I'm fine now. Really. I'll see you tonight," she said distractedly, looking over Grissom's should at Zoe Grey, who was leaning against her mother's car.
"Has anyone ever told you that you have a stubborn streak?" Grissom asked in a tone that mixed humor with an equal measure of exasperation.
"Once. Maybe twice," she answered, smiling at him, though not the grin he might have hoped for.
"Sara, I know you don't need my help. Anybody's help. But you don't have to do everything on your own. 'A burden shared is a burden halved'."
"I know. But I'm fine. Really. I want to say goodbye to Zoe, then I'm heading straight home. I promise."
Grissom watched her move lankily towards the young woman, satisfying himself that she was steadier now. He felt torn in half. One part of him wanted to demand that she quit being so stubborn and allow him to help her. The other part wanted to respect her wishes and be proud of her courage.
He tentatively opened the door to his SUV and climbed inside. He waited and watched a moment after he started the engine, just in case she changed her mind, though he knew on a rational level that she wouldn't. Knowing he couldn't gracefully delay any longer, Grissom left, a plan beginning to coalesce in his consciousness.
"Hey," Sara called out to Zoe.
"Hello."
"I'm sorry about everything that's happened."
"Why are you sorry? You didn't do anything."
"Funny, I said those exact words to someone not long ago. About pretty much the same thing."
"Oh really? Where you beaten and raped? Had your family torn apart? Had one of your parents arrested?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact," Sara answered heavily.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. I'm glad you have your mother to rely on. I didn't have anyone like that in my life."
"Sucks to be you," Zoe said, though she felt a twinge of remorse for directing her anger at Sara.
"Yeah, it does sometimes."
"To be honest, I don't know how well I would have dealt with all of this if I didn't have my mother's strength to draw on."
"She's, yeah, strong," Sara agreed.
"You probably don't like her," Zoe hazarded.
"It seems to be mutual. She just gave me an earful in the station."
"She's not one to hold back. Not anymore anyway. You probably don't know much about her, other than what you can see or the innuendo you've heard."
"No, I can't say I really know your mother at all. I know what she does for a living, and that's about it."
"You wouldn't believe her childhood. Unbelievable abuse of every kind. She's never spoken of it, but my dad has told me a lot about it. He knew her back when they were kids living on the same block."
"I guess that explains a lot."
"Don't judge my mother," Zoe snapped. "She suffered even more than she had to because of the self-righteous attitudes that surrounded her. Her family put on airs like they were the salt of the earth, but they were the biggest hypocrites you could imagine."
"I wasn't judging her. I just meant that I guess her abuse is what led her into her profession. Sort of like a catharsis."
"You're just looking at the surface, like most people. Sure, some people never get any deeper into the philosophy, and they're there to get or give humiliation, or to try to control. But others come to understand after a while that it's all about what you think about yourself. No one can control you. No one can humiliate you. No one can take anything from you. You have to let them."
"I can tell you that I damn sure never let anyone do anything to me!" Sara spouted.
"I don't mean you control the actions. I mean you control the effects. Someone can take your body, but they can't take your spirit. Unless you give it to them."
"I think I understand what you're saying," Sara admitted.
"My mother wants people to get to the point where they understand that. I was lucky. I was raised that way. Other people have to learn it the hard way. Like you. But you survived. Don't you see that? You survived. You won."
"Doesn't feel like I won."
"But you did. Life crammed all the shit it could down your throat, but you survived. You aren't some ax-murderer roaming the streets, blaming your upbringing or society for your own evil. You turned out all right."
"Thank you. That might be the nicest thing anyone has said to me in a long time," Sara said with a mirthless chuckle.
"And I'll be all right. It's nice to have family and friends to be able to lean on, but I know that in the end I'm the one who has to make all of this count for something positive in my life."
"I believe you can do it," Sara said confidently.
"I know I can do it. My mother was already an excellent role model, and now I know two women who beat the odds."
"In my wildest imaginings, I never thought I'd have anything in common with Lady Heather!" Sara laughed.
"You don't. Not with Lady Heather. But with Heather Grey, you do. I think you might like my mom, if you got to know her."
"Every time I get around her, it's like an intervention," Sara quipped.
"Then she must really like you. If she didn't, she wouldn't bother. Not for free," Zoe said with a laugh.
"You plan on going back to Harvard?" Sara asked.
"Yeah, I'm leaving in a couple of days. I know I'll be a little homesick for a while, but once I get back with my friends at school, I'll settle in."
"You going to tell them what happened to you?"
"Some of them, sure. They're my friends. They'd know something was up. You've got to trust the people you care about."
"Yeah," Sara said, nodding her agreement, though it didn't ring completely true in her heart.
"I better go back in before my mom thinks I've run away from home," Zoe said, pushing herself up off the car. "I've been sort of snitty with her about my dad. But I know she did the right thing. My dad was trying, but given the chance, he almost always makes the wrong decision. But he's my dad and I love him."
"If I don't see you before you leave for school, it was an honor meeting you," Sara said genuinely.
"Same here. Gotta run!" Zoe said, her youthful exuberance returning as she strode quickly towards the doors to the police station.
"You've got to trust the people you care about." That's true, Zoe, but what do you do when the people you care about, that you want to trust, have let you down? Do you trust them again? Or do you pull the armor on tighter, vowing to never be betrayed again?
Sara walked slowly over to her own SUV, pulling herself tiredly up into the leather seat. She breathed out and laid her head back onto the headrest, willing her thoughts to stop swimming wildly in her mind.
The picture of Heather Grey given to her by Zoe was in stark contrast to the picture she had formed in her mind. She was having a hard time reconciling the two, yet it gave her an insight into how Grissom might have found her alluring.
It seemed to Sara that everything she ever knew about life was really upside-down and backwards from reality. It was like she woke up one day to find that the language she had always spoken was a totally different language than others spoke. Only other people with similar backgrounds understood her native tongue.
As a child, she had been told she was stupid and lazy, so she tried with all the energy she could muster to prove Larry wrong. But he'd always been wrong.
When he blamed her for "enticing" him, she quit trying to look pretty, though she couldn't hide her natural beauty.
She'd been blamed for the beatings, being told she'd been bad. From that point on, she'd made it a point to be good, and dreamed of working to help others. Only recently, in therapy, did she see that she'd never done anything to deserve Larry's wrath.
She had a hard time receiving praise, and found it almost impossible to praise herself. She'd never reached the pinnacle of perfection that would make her world safe, so she never felt deserving of accolades.
She had difficulty expressing the softer emotions, fearing it would expose weaknesses that others could exploit. You cannot be betrayed by anyone you don't trust or care about. But now she could see the strength created by the love and trust between Zoe and Heather.
Sara wondered if her entire life had been a dream – or, rather, a nightmare – that she was just waking up from. Everything seemed different now. No, not completely different, but at least potentially different.
Before, she hadn't held out much hope that any day would be any better than the day before it. If anything, it might be worse. But now, she wasn't so sure.
Sara wanted to explore these new thoughts more, but certainly not in an SUV sitting in a police station parking lot. She began to think about a long, hot bath by candlelight, with soothing music wafting from the CD player on the vanity.
She would sooth her body, her mind, and her soul. She resolved that today would be the day she would let go of the past and begin to live again.
TBC