Chapter three
"Are you sure this place is even still lived in?" Sara asked dubiously, as she and Grissom climbed out of his SUV.
The Barton house was off a rocky back road that was so unused and overgrown it had taken them half an hour to find it, and was a crumbling, dilapidated structure, overrun with weeds and creaking unsteadily in the wind.
As they strode closer, they glimpsed weak, yellow light glowing through blinds cast over the heavy windows, and a faint path was worn through the dense grass leading directly to the decrepit front porch.
The porch creaked in protest under their added weight, and they paused a moment on the doorstep, before Sara reached forward and rapped the doorknocker.
Faint shuffling sounded on the other side, and a frail, hunched old woman who he assumed to be Sylvia Barton slowly opened the screendoor, blinking back at them curiously.
"Oh, hello. How can I help you?"
Unlike the residents they had encountered back in town, Sylvia Barton stared at them with open curiosity, and the difference in her reception struck him immediately. He cleared his throat, feeling incompetent about how to approach the situation. Vigilante investigations were really much more Catherine's forte.
"Hello. I hope we're not disturbing you", he started carefully. "I'm Gil Grissom, and this is Sara Sidle. We're… investigating something we think you might be able to help us with".
She lifted her eyebrows. "Oh, I see. What would that be about?"
"It's about Hayley Barton", Sara offered gently.
"Oh, Hayley", Sylvia said, turning her mouth down sadly. Her blue eyes glittered, but her counternance remained decidedly unmoved. "Yes. She's dead."
Sara lifted an eyebrow, unable to conceal her surprise at the woman's matter-of-fact tone. She glanced at Grissom uncertainly, obviously her attempt to ask him how she responded to such a swift reaction. "Uh, yes… she is", she confirmed hesitantly. "How did… you know that?"
Sylvia sighed patiently. "Her body was found shortly after she disappeared. It was a terrible ordeal for all of us".
Grissom frowned deeply. "Mrs. Barton… would it be all right if we came in?"
She looked genuinely perplexed, but stepped back, holding the door open feebly and allowing them to step inside. "Of course, please do. But I really don't see what I can do to help you…"
She led them into a large living area, covered in dusty, oriental rugs and a vast array of miniature figurines and ornaments. A silver cat mewled docilely, rubbing itself against Sara's legs as it passed. The room carried the distinct, mingled scent of potpourri, dust and urine.
Sara's eyes trailed over to meet his again as the woman turned to retrieve something from a polished oak table, and she couldn't help but reflect her amusement at the situation.
He gave her a small, brief smile in return, and the returning sparkle in her eyes would warm him for many days to come.
Sylvia turned around again to face them, lifting a photograph and stroking the glass lovingly as she held it up for their inspection. "Hayley was my granddaughter", she explained. "She was a beautiful girl. She lived with me after her mother passed on".
Sara lifted an eyebrow, and he too, immediately noticed that they were not following a false lead. The teenage girl in the photograph was unmistakably a brighter, healthier version of the body they had uncovered back in Vegas.
They exchanged a fleeting, subtle glance; mutely agreeing that they would not disrupt this woman's misled beliefs on her granddaughter's fate.
"Please, take a seat", she offered, and they complied, settling side by side on a soft loveseat while the old woman lowered herself into an armchair across from them.
The fire crackled low in the fireplace, lighting the room in a soft amber glow, and Sylvia stared into it distantly.
"Do you mind if we ask… what happened?" Sara asked gently, shifting in her seat beside him. Her warm arm brushed his side, and he forced himself to ignore her proximity, concentrating on the woman in front of them as she nodded, seemingly fully prepared to share her tale. It was obvious that she was lonely in her remote house, and he wondered dimly, if that was to be his fate, sometime in the future, when his work no longer consumed him and he was forced to face the interminable choice he had made for his life; to be alone.
It didn't help that perhaps his only desire to ever alter that bleak fate sat silently beside him, warming his side.
"She wasn't very happy here", Sylvia murmured. "I knew that. Ever since her mother left us… she wanted to get away. She ran away from home when she was sixteen, and she was missing for several weeks… One of the local boys found her at the side of the road. A passing stranger was responsible, the Sheriff told me. She's with God now."
She nodded, firmly, to remind herself of her faith. Grissom felt disenchanted with his own religious upbringing, but couldn't fault others for wanting to find comfort in a being higher than themselves.
Sara glanced at him, as if sensing what he was thinking, before turning back to Sylvia thoughtfully. "Where was Hayley buried, Mrs. Barton?"
Sylvia blinked. "Eildenbrook only has one cemetery, I'm afraid, dear. I would visit her, but I'm just too old to make the trip now".
Sara nodded in commiseration, conveying her natural empathy. Grissom sometimes thought she added a conscience to their group that they had previously lacked before she arrived in Vegas, a quality he now knew came from her own tumultuous past. She was a victim herself, perhaps making her even more qualified than the rest of them in understanding their cases.
"Mrs. Barton, would you mind if I used your bathroom?" Sara asked suddenly.
Sylvia smiled. "Why, of course, dear. It's down the hall on the right".
"Thank you".
She rose to her feet, lifting her eyebrows at Grissom over the old woman's shoulder. Grissom gave a barely discernable nod in response, understanding her intention.
"Would you like anything to drink, young man?" Sylvia asked kindly. "Tea, perhaps?"
"I'm fine, thank you".
He felt vaguely amused to be called a young man. He didn't feel so young anymore. He was around young, energetic colleagues like Greg and Nick everyday, hampered by their enthusiasm and an inward drive he found himself lacking more and more each day. Perhaps it was yet another reason he considered himself unworthy for Sara's affections; when there were so many more suitable alternatives out there for her.
"Where are you from, Mr. Grissom? Tonopah or Hawthorne, perhaps?"
He knew Tonopah was the closest city, and smiled, slowly shaking his head. "Las Vegas, actually".
"Ah", she looked vaguely disapproving.
He decided her cooperation depended largely on gleaning her approval, and quickly amended his response. "I'm from California, originally".
This seemed to satisfy her more, and she smiled pleasantly. "Oh, I see. What about your young lady? Is she from California as well?"
He swallowed, realising this woman assumed he and Sara were together. "Uh, yes, she is."
She nodded. "I think you make a very lovely pair. It's good to see a nice young couple these days."
He wasn't used to making idle conversation, particularly about his non-existent relationship with his pretty, young subordinate. He shifted awkwardly, knowing he wouldn't be able to distract the woman's attention for long. He hoped it would be enough time for Sara to find something interesting.
Sara strode down the narrow hall, frowning as she craned the nearest door open a fraction. The odour of many many cats was much more pungent when she realised it was the old woman's bedroom, and she closed the door again quickly.
The bathroom was on the right, and she bypassed this room, drawn to the lone door at the end of the hall. The faint murmur of voices drifted over her, and she knew she couldn't take much longer than few valuable minutes.
The room was plain, almost stripped of all colour. The floor creaked as she strode inside, and she paused, tensing fearfully. The murmur didn't stop, and she continued into the room cautiously.
Her maglite was in the folds of her jacket, and she drew it out, shining it around the four corners of the room.
A firm, steel bed stood in the centre of the room, and a low dresser table hugged one wall. A lone window occupied the wall opposite, and heavy drapes cordoned it off from any outside light.
If this was what was left of Hayley Barton's room, Sara felt incredibly uneasy. When people lost a member of their family tragically young, they were known to seal off any last reminders of their presence in the house, leaving their bedrooms as a sort of shrine. Sylvia Barton had stripped Hayley's room down to the bare essentials, and it had clearly not held much to begin with.
Striding across to the dresser, she tugged open several drawers, finding nothing inside. Sara pursed her lips, shining her torch around uncertainly. The light caught on the closet door in the corner, and she approached it, twisting the knob. The door was locked. She frowned, biting her lower lip hesitantly before crouching down and peering through the keyhole, shining the glow of the maglite through.
A few belongings were scattered on the shelves, and clothes were hanging on the racks. She saw nothing terribly interesting, and lowered her eyes to the floor in defeat.
A thin wisp of paper stuck partially out from the bottom of the door, and Sara frowned, sliding one of her gloves carefully onto her right hand, and lifting the paper to her face.
She rose to her feet to read it. MARCUS HENWAY. DELINDA'S LOUNGE.
She slid the note glibly into an evidence bag, hiding it securely in her pocket before returning to the hall, closing the door quietly behind her.
When she returned to the living room, Grissom was listening as the woman explained her past experiences in California. He was generally a very tolerant man, but there was no mistaking the relief in his eyes when he glanced up and saw her.
"Mrs. Barton, thank you for your time, but I'm afraid Sara and I should be leaving".
"Oh!" She blinked, surprised, as she glanced up to consult the old-fashioned clock on the mantel behind her. "Of course. Dear me, I didn't realise the time. It is getting late, isn't it?"
"Thank you for your help", Sara said politely, following behind Grissom as he started for the door.
Sylvia made her way with difficulty after them, smiling as they paused in front of the door.
"I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help."
They smiled in response, biding their goodbyes, feeling the woman's hawklike gaze on them all the way across the front yard.
"Is it me or is there something really weird about that house?" Sara asked through carefully clenched teeth, keeping her gaze ahead until she was certain the lady had closed the door and returned into the house.
Grissom slowly shook his head, reaching around to open the door for her. "It's not just you".
She couldn't help but glance at him, taking in the chivalry of the action, and the automatic nature in how he did it. Men her age rarely thought of exhibiting such courtesy. She shook off the thought with a sigh.
"What did you find?" he asked, pausing with his hand on the door. She resisted climbing in, turning back to regard him. His body heat warmed her in his proximity, and she cleared her throat.
"It might be nothing. A piece of paper with a name and a place. It looked like the victim's handwriting".
He frowned slightly, probably wondering how closely she would have analysed the victim's handwriting to recognise it. He didn't voice his thoughts, and she appreciated it. It would have been hypocritical for a start.
"Okay. We should probably find a motel".
"Or the motel", she corrected, smiling vaguely, ignoring the butterflies in her stomach when she realised they would be spending the night in the same place.
She sighed; wondering if getting through the night was going to be as difficult for him as it was going to be for her.
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