A/N: Veronica, your right. Interagations are great for angst. I love reviews. They inspire me. Warning, more language then usual in this chapter. Wes has a potty mouth.

Chapter 5

"Don't know what you're talking about. Wasn't anywhere near Oak Street

yesterday."

Wes O' Shannon appeared to be a man perfectly at ease in an interrogation room. He was leaning back in the chair, legs spread out wide and thumbs stuck in his belt loops of his ragged jeans. A faded black t-shirt and leather jacket completed the look. When he spoke, he looked like he was having a conversation with a friend. Brass was not amused.

"You're only making it worse for yourself by lying. We have a witness."

"If you're talking about my old lady, you can't trust a word she says. Woman's a liar."

"So she, what, lied about her arm being broken? And those bruises are probably a figment of my imagination." Brass couldn't believe the gall of the man.

"Probably. I was at the bar all night last night, ask my buddies." He smirked at Brass.

"Two problems with that. First of all, I wouldn't believe a word they said. They'd have to be pretty stupid, considering they chose to hang out with you. More importantly, crime didn't happen last night. Happened yesterday morning." Take that, scumbag.

"Whatever. Still wasn't me."

Sara grew more and more agitated with each denial Wes made. She stood in the observation room as promised, separated by only a thin piece of glass from Brass's interrogation. Every muscle in her body was tensed, like a female lion guarding her cub, ready to strike at any moment. One hand pressed against the glass, and if force of will was enough she would have pressed through the glass and be in the room. What she would do once there, she wasn't sure. In one small corner of her mind, she wondered if perhaps Grissom had been right in refusing her access to the interrogation room. Willfully, she pushed the thought aside.

"For the last time, I didn't go to see Debra yesterday. Haven't seen her or the little bastard she claims is my daughter since I got out two weeks ago." Wes spoke petulantly, more like a teenager then a man of almost thirty.

That was the last straw for Sara. She couldn't hold herself back any longer. Within seconds of Wes's words she flew out of the observation room and into the hallway, intent on letting Wes know her wrath. Her hand was on the doorknob when another hand covered hers and pulled her back.

"You can't go in there."

"The hell I can't." So intent on getting to Wes, she didn't even take in who was restraining her. Didn't care. All that mattered was getting into that room and forcing the lying sack of shit to tell the truth. She had to make sure he paid for what he did. She made a promise. Again she reached to open the door, and again she was pulled away. Whirling around, Sara balled up her fists, prepared to battle whoever stood in her way.

"Sara, it's being taken care of. He's not going to get away." Grissom had a solemn look on his face as he watched her.

"Did you hear him?" she demanded. "He's sitting in there, calm as could be, denying what he did. And he called Maggie a..." she couldn't say it out loud. The word tasted like ashes in her mouth.

"He can lie all he wants. We have Debra's statement, plus the evidence Nick collected at the house." His tone was calm, his words logical. Someone who didn't know better would think that he was unaffected by the case. Sara knew, and the banked anger in his eyes was the only thing that kept her from lashing out against his collected exterior.

"He makes me so angry. How can a man like that share half of the same DNA as someone like Maggie?" She was still upset, but her muscles no longer quivered with the rage of a few minutes ago. Grissom wished that they were away from the lab, if even for a moment. He wanted the chance to be her lover and hold her until her store of anger was depleted. As her boss, he had to settle for a gentle squeeze of her upper arm. All hell broke loose a moment later.

The door to the interrogation room opened, and a police officer stepped out followed by Wes O' Shannon. He wore silver handcuffs on his wrists, but he was swaggering.

"I'll be out of here in no time. You'll see." Wes aimed the comment at Brass, who had joined the crowd in the hallway, but swept his head to include all onlookers.

"The only place you'll be going is back to prison." Sara couldn't stop herself from speaking.

"I don't think so, bitch."

Sara took offense to that remark. She took a step towards him, and was perversely pleased when his automatic reaction was to take a step back. "That's right. You like to bully defenseless women and little children. You're not so tough when faced with people who can defend themselves, are you Wes?"

Wes's eyes narrowed as he stepped forward to recover his lost ground and then some. He stood less then a foot away from Sara now. "What I think, bitch, is that if you had someone to show you the back of their fist a little more often you would know your place. Stay the fuck out of my business."

Sara lunged at him, but Grissom beat her to it. Grabbing the lapel of Wes's leather jacket, Grissom shoved him against the glass hallway wall.

"You don't speak to her like that," he growled. "Listen to me, and listen close. In addition to a sworn statement from your ex-wife, we have your epithelials recovered from her body, a footprint from outside the house that I'm sure will match you, and your police record, which shows a tendency towards violent behavior. To add to that, there is a whole hallway full of witnesses who just saw you threaten an officer." In disgust, Grissom released Wes and

stepped back.

"Take him to booking," Brass instructed the uniformed officer before turning to face his friend.

"You don't let go very often, but when you do it sure is a good show. Feeling any better?" he asked.

Grissom didn't answer. He looked over his shoulder to the spot where Sara had stood, and found it empty. Out of the corner of his eye he could see her disappearing around the corner, heading down a hall that would lead to the lab's exit.

"Damn it."

She couldn't breath. The air refused to enter her lungs. Sara stood in the hallway, completely paralyzed except for the rapid beating of her heart. Wes's voice echoed in her head, growing in volume until it was no longer distinguishable as being his voice.

...show you the back of their fist

...back of their fist

...fist.

The image of a fist, large and meaty with scabbed knuckles, filled her mind. She flinched, and stumbled backwards. Catching herself against the wall, Sara turned her head to look down the hallway, first to one side and then the other. Her only conscious thought was to find the quickest way out of the building. She had to get away. He would find her. No, he wouldn't. He was dead. It didn't matter, she still had to flee. Needed to find a safe place to hide. Not even noticing Grissom's assault on Wes or the mixed reactions from the spectators in the hallway, Sara ran down the hall until she reached the back door.

Collapsing on the ground just outside the door, Sara took a deep breath. Better. Her heart was still beating a thousand times a minute, but at least she was able to breath. She sat in the fenced in storage area behind the lab, not noticing that it was this exact spot that she had shared with Grissom just two months after she had moved to Vegas. As she rocked her body back and forth she lectured herself.

"Your safe, Sara. He's gone, can't hurt you anymore." It wasn't working. She could still see that hand, growing larger as it came closer to her. It had always seemed so huge, on those rare occasions when her father tired of taking out his anger on her mother and turned to her instead.

Standing up, Sara began to pace the area like a caged animal. She continued to speak to herself in a low tone. It was a habit she had picked up as a teenager, floating from foster home to foster home. She had had no one to rely on, so when she was upset or in need of reassurance she talked to herself, and when she was happy she sang.

Coming to a stop in front of the dumpster, Sara released some of her emotions in the form of kicking the hard metal. Each time she kicked, the empty dumpster echoed back a resounding thump.

"Your a grown woman, (thump) trained in marksmanship (thump) and weaponless defense. (thump) He has no power over you."

"He does if you left him have power over you."

Sara, surprised by the sudden appearance of Grissom in the lot, kicked the dumpster with more force then she meant to.

"Fuck." She fell to the ground and grabbed her foot with her hand. Pain shot up from her toe, causing her to grimace in reaction. Grissom was beside her in an instant, reaching to pull off her shoe and examine her foot. Sara pulled her foot away from him, but quickly regretted her movement when another wave of pain assaulted her.

"Its fine, Grissom. Leave it alone." Careful to keep all of her weight on the other foot, Sara stood up and limped to the door, leaving a hurt and slightly bewildered Grissom sitting on the ground behind her.

It wasn't fine. Once Sara limped into the break room and lowered herself to the couch, she removed her shoe and sock. Her big toe was already swelling, and was now a color toes did not naturally turn. Great. This was just perfect. Picking up her phone, Sara hit the speed dial number that would connect her to Catherine. Since she had the night off, Catherine had volunteered to watch Maggie during the interview. It looked like Sara was going to need her help a little longer.

She had just hung up the phone when Nick walked into the room. He took one look at her bare foot propped up on the table and the expression on her face, and decided that his first question 'did you finally kick Ecklie' was better left unasked. He settled on the simplest statement. "That looks like it hurts."

Sara shot him a look, which he correctly interpreted to mean 'no shit, Sherlock.' "Can you give me a ride to the emergency room? I think I broke it, or at least sprained it."

"Sure thing. What did you do?" he asked, before walking over to help her off the couch.

"Not going to talk about it," she informed him before releasing his grasp and limping out of the room ahead of him.