Some of the characters and situations in this story belong to Alliance Atlantis, CBS, Anthony Zuicker and other entities, and I do not have permission to borrow them. The rest belong to me, and if you want to play with them, you have to ask me first. No infringement is intended in any way, and this story is not for profit. Any errors are mine, all mine, no you can't have any.

Spoilers: General fifth season through "Spark of Life."

This is in response to a private challenge. The story was to include a number of given phrases as well as an appearance by David, and to be G/S.

As ever, many thanks to Cincoflex, without whom this would not exist!

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Catherine looked up at the knock on her office doorframe, and smiled, surprised. "Hey, Sara, c'mon in. You're in early."

Sara shrugged and took the chair opposite Catherine's desk, glad that the older woman seemed to be in a good mood. "I wanted to catch you - I have something I need you to take a look at."

Catherine made an interested noise, and Sara opened the envelope she carried, pulling out a handful of eight-by-ten photos. They were all of the blood spatter on the passenger seat of Susan Methody's car.

"Oh, this is weird," Catherine said, taking one for a closer look. Sara nodded, and spread the rest of them out on the desk.

"It is. I can't quite figure it out. The edges are blurred because of the fabric, but the pattern doesn't seem to match any assault I can think of."

Catherine looked at all the photos in turn. "That's because it probably doesn't." She glanced up at Sara, eyes bright, and the younger woman was reminded that while Catherine could be more abrasive than Grissom, she was also a good teacher. "It's the position that's fooling you - this part." She pointed to the pattern on the back of the seat.

Sara took the photo and squinted at it a little. "Okay, I'll admit it. I don't get it."

Catherine chuckled. "Never thought I'd hear that. Okay, okay," she added at Sara's mock glare. "It's a pour pattern. In my professional opinion, this splatter was staged."

Sara looked at the photo for a long moment, eyes widening slowly. "It wasn't an attack," she said softly.

"Not one that involved blood spatter, anyway," Catherine qualified. "See where this bit goes out?" She indicated a close-up of the seat. "It's smeared, as though whoever put it there used their fingers to spread it a little before it soaked into the fabric."

She leaned back in her chair. "It's more blood than comes from a cut finger, but it's not as much as it looks like - I'll bet that if you pulled up the fabric you'd find that there isn't much depth to the stain. Somebody with a strong stomach could harvest that much blood from their own body without much more than a dizzy spell."

"Susan Methody," Sara said, still softly, but feeling the anger growing. She kept it under tight control. That was a leap - it might be Methody's blood, but she had no proof that Methody had put it there, or even that she was still alive. But intuition was coming on strong, and intuition, properly harnessed, could be as useful a tool to a CSI as a microscope or an ALS.

"Thanks, Catherine," she added, collecting the photos. "I'll go take another look at the car seat."

"This is David's case, isn't it?" Catherine asked, her smile gone, and Sara nodded.

Catherine nodded back, an oddly respectful gesture. "I hope it helps, then. He's a good kid."

"Oh, it does." Sara gave her a feral grin and left for the impound lot. She didn't have solid proof yet, but it looked like someone was trying to misdirect the investigation. And...even David aside...Sara hated that.

Their mistake.

Catherine was right. Sara made record time to the impound lot and had a blade out almost before she got the car door open. Four careful slices, and she was able to peel the fabric of the seat away from the foam rubber underneath. Just as the older woman had postulated, the depth of the stain was minimal; most of the blood had been absorbed by the fabric. This isn't anywhere near enough for a fatal injury, Sara thought, savagely pleased. And if it were a serious wound, Methody couldn't have been in the car for very long. Minutes only.

Not to mention the fingermarks.

Sara collected further samples with extreme care. I don't know if Methody is dead or alive, or who's behind this.

But I'm going to find out.

xxxx

Grissom knocked on the door of the Phillips house, hoping guiltily that Sara would forgive him for not taking her along on this visit. He'd planned to, objectivity notwithstanding, but she'd been out of the lab when he looked for her and he didn't want to make the visit any later.

'Natha opened the door after a moment, smiling hesitantly as she recognized Grissom, and he blinked a little at her presence but realized that David's family had probably pulled together around him. "Doctor Grissom, hello. Come on in."

"Thank you, Miss Phillips." Grissom stepped inside the ranch-style house. It was neither new nor expensive, but the garden and lawn outside were well-kept, and it felt welcoming, like a family home should. 'Natha escorted him into a living room populated with comfortable-looking furniture; David was sitting on the couch, and looked up as Grissom came in. The coroner looked weary beyond belief, but he smiled nonetheless and stood.

"Hello, Grissom. What can we do for you?"

Grissom smiled at the younger man, taking the chair to which David pointed him and watching the coroner sit back down. "Thank you for agreeing to talk to me. Are you certain you don't want your attorney present?"

David shrugged and patted the seat next to him; 'Natha sat down and leaned against him as though seeking comfort, and David's arm went around her shoulders. "I trust you."

Grissom sighed internally, his discomfort not alleviated, and took a moment to study the pair. David had been arraigned, barely, and released on bail late that day, and the stress had obviously taken a toll. His eyes were puffy and his mouth had new grooves; 'Natha looked pale and vulnerable.

"I have a few questions about your interactions with Susan Methody," Grissom addressed them both. "Did either of you ever drive her vehicle?"

'Natha shook her head. "I can't drive a stick shift."

"But you rode in it."

The young woman shrugged. "Sure. We'd take her car or mine somewhere, whichever was easiest."

Grissom nodded. "What about you, David?"

"I've never been in Susan's car at all." David frowned a little, obviously trying to follow Grissom's line of reasoning but knowing better than to ask.

The CSI cocked his head. "Are you positive?"

"Absolutely." David's voice was earnest.

"Did the two of you ever spend time alone together?" Grissom was thinking of Susan's diary. She hadn't mentioned such a thing, but she hadn't written about every event in her life, either.

"No…" David looked up at the ceiling, thinking. "No, not on purpose, and I can't remember it ever happening by accident."

Grissom nodded again, appreciating David's thoroughness. Before he could ask another question, a faint voice floated from another room, calling 'Natha; it was, Grissom guessed, Mrs. Phillips. 'Natha jumped up with a murmured excuse, and disappeared in the direction of the call.

Grissom was pleased; it saved him from having to make both the Phillips children uncomfortable by asking her to leave. "David…were you aware that Susan had feelings for you at one time?"

David's ears went red, making him look young again. "Kind of," he admitted softly. "I mean, she used to have a crush on me, sure. But that was a while back." He shrugged a little. "I pretended not to notice, and after a while, she stopped."

Grissom regarded him. "Did your relationship change?"

"Sure. I guess she sort of grew up." David rubbed his eyes under his glasses with one hand. "She wasn't so, um, close, any more."

And, Grissom deduced, that had been a relief to a young man whose taste evidently ran to older, workaholic women rather than younger, carefree ones. He didn't blame David in the least.

David sighed, and let his hands drop into his lap, and it was in a way the most relaxed Grissom had ever seen him, away from the professional environment of the morgue. "I'm still having a hard time believing this whole thing," he said sadly.

"The accusations made against you?" Grissom prompted, following the habit of interrogation, but also personally curious.

"Well, that, yeah, but Corey, too." David's smile was sad as well. "I mean, I trusted him. I even helped him pick out 'Natha's engagement ring. When she told me what he'd done…" He shook his head. "It's a good thing he wasn't within arms' reach, that's all."

Grissom shot him a warning look, but held his peace; this wasn't an official visit, and at this point he honestly didn't believe that David was responsible for Abel's death or Methody's disappearance.

"I'm sorry about this morning," he added awkwardly. David gave him another smile, this one almost conspiratorial.

"Don't worry about it. I know you didn't have anything to do with that."

"Sara and I watched the interrogation," Grissom said, unwilling to keep that secret from the young coroner, and David only nodded again.

"I thought you did," he said simply.

They sat in silence for a little space of time, an oddly comfortable one. Grissom's interactions with David, unlike his with Robbins, had tended to be strictly business; for one thing, the younger man was in awe of Grissom, which in turn made the CSI uneasy. But outside the lab, their regular relationship set aside, it seemed that they could find a balance.

Then 'Natha slipped back into the room, glancing from one man to the other. "David, Mom wants to talk to you for a minute."

Both men rose at the same time, Grissom demurring David's apology. "I don't have any more questions, David, go ahead."

The coroner's mouth quirked, but he obeyed. 'Natha turned to Grissom. "Would you like some coffee before you go?" she asked.

It sounded good, but Grissom had work to do. "No; thank you, though."

'Natha simply nodded, and preceded him to the front door, opening it for him. "Do you really think David could do something like this?" she asked in a low voice.

"A colleague of mine has said more than once that anyone is capable of anything," Grissom answered her, trying to choose truth out of what he knew and what he believed. "But personally, no, I don't. However, my beliefs have nothing to do with it, Miss Phillips. I follow the evidence."

"That's what David said." 'Natha toyed with the end of her long braid, which lay over her shoulder. "He has faith in you, Doctor Grissom." And he could hear the warning implicit in her grave voice.

He cocked a brow at her. "Do you?"

She regarded him calmly. "I have faith in my brother."

Grissom pursed his lips, appreciating that. "Miss Phillips, do you have any idea where Susan Methody might be?"

She let the braid's end slide through her fingers and swing free. "I told the detective all the places we used to hang out. Do you think she's dead too?"

He replied honestly. "I don't know."

As he drove back to the lab, Grissom considered the Phillips siblings. As an only child, he'd often wondered what it would be like to have a brother or sister. Their absolute, unhesitating loyalty to one another was both fascinating and foreign to him. Grissom knew very well that many siblings had no such bond, which made this one all the more impressive in his eyes.

I wonder what it's like.

xxxx

Sara documented the car seat and its evidence to a fare-thee-well, and then went looking for Grissom to collate data, but he was nowhere to be found. So she pulled out the items collected from Methody's apartment to finish examining them. Within minutes she was absorbed.

She had just spread out the sheets to isolate the stains for swabbing when she looked up at a gentle "harrumph," and found Robbins standing by her table, leaning on his crutch and watching her. The normally cheerful and avuncular medical examiner looked the worse for wear; his eyes were shadowed and his shoulders slumped, and his usual small smile was absent. Robbins had children of his own, Sara knew, but she also figured that David had to be almost like a son to him, both a protégé and something of a friend. "Hey, Doc," she said gently.

One corner of his mouth turned up, and he limped a step closer. "Hey, Sara. Grissom's not in his office; is there any chance I could get an unofficial update from you?"

It was probably against department regulations in some way, but Sara couldn't care less. She gave him a wry look. "Aside from the fact that some of our evidence seems to have been planted, I'm not making a lot of progress." Sighing, she straightened her kinking back. "Something's fishy."

Robbins' brows went up. "How so?"

Sara blew out a breath. "I don't want to get your hopes up, but…intuitively? I think someone's trying to frame David." At his startled look, she held up a hand. "It means nothing unless I find evidence to support it. So far all I've got is a faked bloodstain and this junk." Sara waved at the accumulation of evidence. "Unfortunately, this case seems to hinge on finding Susan Methody. Alive…or dead."

Robbins nodded. "Frustrating in the extreme." His gaze traveled over the array of items. "I still love this table."

Sara blinked at that, a little confused. Robbins walked slowly down the table's length. "It never ceases to amaze me what you CSIs collect at scenes. The endless variety of effluvia…"

Sara snickered, and his smile reappeared. He gestured. "I mean, here you have pink satin sheets, a toothbrush, two steak knives, an appointment book, and one of David's sweaters. Items that presumably have no relation to…what is it?"

He was staring at her. Sara wasn't surprised; she felt like every cell of her body had suddenly gone on alert. She pointed. "That sweater belongs to David? Are you sure?"

"Positive." With the skill of the knowledgeable, Robbins pulled a pen from his labcoat's breast pocket and used it to unfold the sweater and point to the inside nape. "His sister knits them for him. See, no label." He replaced the pen. "He used to wear this one whenever it rained, though I haven't seen him wear it lately."

Almost ceremonially, Sara removed her gloves and put on a fresh pair, then picked up the sweater with care. She hadn't bothered to think about the sweater's manufacture, assuming that the owner had removed the label for one reason or another. But if this is David's…and Susan was keeping it… The possibilities exploded in her brain like a firework. The sweater - put away uncleaned - could very easily have collected hairs from David, though Sara had not found any when she'd examined it earlier. And the controlled environment of the plastic sweater box could have preserved the follicular tags on those hairs, assuming there were any.

Sara ran a gloved finger along the collar of the sweater, where small loops made regular bumps. Oh yeah, these would snag hair pretty well. She could see it in her mind's eye, David pulling off the sweater, the collar ruffling his hair as it slid over his head and collecting a few strands along the way.

Reaching for her ALS, Sara laid the sweater out flat and switched off the table's light. A soft chuckle reached her ears, and she let a tiny smile rise to her lips. "Hit the lights, would you, Doc?"

Robbins took a few uneven steps, and then the room was dim. Sara shone the light on the sweater, ignoring the stains that glowed on the sheets; those were secondary now.

And, like a hidden message, two smears appeared on the sweater's front, two side-by-side blotches. As though someone had blotted their teary eyes on the soft material, leaving behind proteins for Sara to find. She sighed with pleasure and picked up a swab, hardly registering the sound of Robbins departing.

She was just dropping off the samples with Mia when her phone went off, a text message bidding her to Grissom's office. He was stripping off his jacket as she came in, and he pointed to the chair in front of his desk. "I've just been to see David," he began, hanging up the garment and giving Sara an apologetic shrug when she glared at him in surprise. "I tried to find you, but Greg said you were out."

She let out a breath and sat. "Yeah, I went over to the impound lot. Grissom, Catherine says the blood on Methody's car seat was staged."

Grissom lowered himself into his desk chair, face alight with interest. "Really. Do you have any idea who might have done it?"

"There's nothing to show who," she replied, deflating a little. "But I'm starting to think that Methody was trying to frame David. She had a sweater that belonged to him, and that could be where the hair came from that we found on Abel's collar." She lifted her hands in a frustrated gesture. "But that's not enough to counter the hairs in the car."

"Actually, it is," Grissom said, looking pleased. "Because David has never been in that car."

Sara's eyes widened. "So the hairs in there were planted too. All we need now is motive…and Methody herself."

"We may have motive too," Grissom replied, picking up a pen and fiddling with it absently. "Susan had a crush on David, but he didn't return it. In fact, he basically pretended that it didn't exist."

The words hung in the air between them for a peculiar weighty moment, as they both realized the similarities in their situations. Grissom's jaw shifted, and Sara glanced away, hunting frantically for something to say. "So a lover scorned?" she managed, trying to be professional.

"Possibly." Grissom set down the pen. "We have no compelling evidence either way, but it looks less and less as though David murdered Abel. The question is, did Methody do it?"

"Why would she?" Sara asked, trying to think the idea through. "She was sleeping with her best friend's fiancé, and got caught. The wedding was obviously off. Why kill him?"

Grissom's gaze went from avoiding to sharp. "Because he rejected her?"

That made sense. "Good enough to sleep with, but not to marry. Old story." Sara thought about it. "But it still comes down to the fact that we need to find her."

"That's up to the police," Grissom reminded her. "No one using her name has flown out of McCarran since the murder, or rented a car."

"According to O'Reilly, no one's used her credit cards either," Sara added. "She could have hitched a ride, or bought a bus ticket with cash, but if she's alive, Methody's probably still in town."

"A crime of passion," Grissom mused. "Probably not premeditated, but the murderer obviously didn't panic."

"And is Methody hiding because she's guilty, or because she's scared?" Sara sighed. "We don't have enough answers."

Grissom cocked his head. "We do have enough at this point to create reasonable doubt. David's off the hook for the moment."

"Great." It was heartfelt, but Sara still rolled her eyes. "Do you want to tell the D.A., or shall I?"

For a second she thought the imperturbable Gil Grissom was going to stick out his tongue at her, but he settled for a dry look. "I'm the lead, I'll do it. How about lunch?"

That threw her. "Sorry…lunch?"

"Food, Ms. Sidle. Customarily consumed in the middle of one's workday. My treat."

Sara shook her head, baffled. "Grissom - "

He threw her a challenging glance. "I still owe you for that stunt with my kit."

When he put it that way, it almost made sense. "I - I need to get my jacket."

Grissom stood, and grabbed his. "Here, you can wear mine." He tossed it to her, and she caught it automatically, still amazed. "Come on, let's go before something else comes in."

Sara knew there were a thousand reasons why she shouldn't, but she couldn't remember any of them at the moment. She stood up, and let him guide her out the door, wondering when she'd tripped and fallen into an alternate universe.

See Chapter 6