Here it is, the conclusion, and my apologies this has taken so long. I've been tied up the last month-and-a-half with work, a course I was taking, and helping my mom (a widow) get ready for her wedding.

Re: the note about not getting the death penalty for attempted murder – that's true, but isn't there an exception made if the person they tried to kill was in law enforcement? I thought I heard or read that somewhere. I may be making another error in this chapter as I'm not sure when a baby goes for their first immunizations. I apologize in advance.

Anyway, at long last, Part 3.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

The first thing I did when I got out of there was bolt for the men's washroom and splash my face with cold water, taking a moment to gulp several swallows from the faucet in the process.

"Grissom?" The shock of Nick's voice behind me just about plastered me into the mirror.

"Are you okay? You look kind of pale."

For a second I was thrust back into a courtroom. They'd said that to me at the trial, too. Several people – more than once.

Stop it! I took a deep breath. "I'm find, Nick."

"You sure?" Nick gave me a little grin. "Warrick didn't pass that stupid bug of his on to you too, did he?"

I managed a smile, too. Well, in the mirror it looked more like a cadaver's death grimace. Argh. Bad choice of comparisons, Gil. "No."

Nick snorted. "Consider yourself lucky." He tugged open the door. "I so owe that guy.

I followed him out and headed over to the layout room where I spent the next hour-and-a-half keeping Holly too busy looking at the evidence to notice anything about my appearance, another few hours processing a strangling victim that had been dredged up from Lake Mead, and the hour after that keeping Doc Robbins talking about the angles of the knife wounds. Finally I was out of there, home on my pathetic excuse for a couch with a mug of hot tea in one hand, a photo album in the other, and Allwyn's Lyra Angelica playing in the background.

I opened the album and smiled at the image. Dominique in my arms, the day after she was born. My mother had taken the photo.

Another photo a few weeks later, of Domi in her carseat the day I took her to the doctors for her first immunizations. One of the nice things about working graveyards was that I had almost no problems when it came to scheduling doctors' appointments. Unfortunately, that also meant I had no excuse to avoid seeing the look on my child's face that day.

1986

"Dominique Grissom?"

I looked up from where I'd been staring transfixed at the almost infitismal pink fingernails resting lightly against my palm. Six weeks as a father and they still obliterated the rest of the world from existence.

"Hello, Doctor."

Dr. Burdette returned my smile before focusing her eyes on the little angel resting in my arms. "How's she doing?"

"Ten fingers, ten toes, perfectly pitched cry, and she could pick out her papa's face and voice within her first 72 hours," I proudly replied.

The pediatrician chuckled. "Spoken like a true, objective father," she said. "And would I be correct in assuming her muscular coordination is far more advanced when compared to other babies her age?"

"You would," I confirmed, smiling back.

"Splendid. Why don't you set her down on the table and I'll listen to her heart and lungs."

"Believe me, doctor, I can attest that her lungs are in perfect working order," I told her. "And that's not just parental pride talking."

We both laughed. "Ah, she's been trying out her voicebox, has she?"

The tarantulas recovering from post traumatic stress disorder in my office would have another phrase for it, but I just answered, "Oh, yes." Nothing could have prepared me for what happened next.

Dr. Burdette finished listening to Domi's heart and lungs, then handed her back to me. Domi sat on my lap, staring wide-eyed as the doctor filled a syringe, and offered a sunny smile as she approached. The doctor grimaced. "Sorry about this, sweetheart," she said softly, as s he swabbed Dominique's little arm just below her shoulder. And sorry, Gil."

"What?" Before Dr. Burdette could answer, the most horrible sound I'd ever heard split the air. A second later, Dominique turned a pair of anguished eyes towards me and my insides reeled.

"Oh, honey, I'm so sorry," I gasped out, quickly pulling her into an embrace against my shoulder. She continued to cry, every sob feeling like a stab from a knife. Dad, you knew this was going to hurt and you let it happen to me anyway! Dr. Burdette glanced at me sympathetically.

"Feels horrible, doesn't it?"

Horrible? No, watching a killer walk due to lack of evidence feels horrible. This… I looked up at the doctor, panic-stricken. "Do you ever get used to it?"

2001

The answer was, "No." Before we left for the next time a few months later, I sat Dominique in her high chair and read her 20 pages of articles explaining the reasons for immunization and how the pain in the doctor's office would spare her from worse in later years. She accepted my explanation calmly and I drove her to the doctor's office feeling marginally better. Until the doctor pierced her arm with the spike again and Dominique again fixed me with her expression of betrayal. Once again we both walked out of the clinic in tears, and I spent a week murmuring apologies every time I looked at her.

It was around that time that a friend of mine told me his wife Catherine would be starting work at the lab and asked me to watch her back. I became a de-facto 'older brother,' surreptitiously keeping aware of which cases she was assigned to and a general watch on how she was doing.

I turned the pages of the album, and smiled. Dominique, a year old and fast asleep on my neighbor's couch. Al librarian at the university had approached me while I was doing research one evening, Domi fast asleep in her stroller next to me. As we got talking, I realized she lived in the apartment down the hall from me with her husband, a pastor. She offered to babysit and Domi spent several nights peacefully sleeping alongside their infant twins while I was working.

Age 3, smiling and singing with her grandmother on a visit to California. Because I'd signed as well as spoken to Dominique from the time she was born, she's been essentially bilingual since she first started talking. Several of her floor routines have had sign language incorporated into the choreography.

Nobody at the lab knew of any of these milestones. I'd always been a private person, but when I'd come back after Domi's birth I became a downright introvert. In hopes of getting everyone at the lab to forget and treat me normally again, I never talked about Ashleigh, Dominique, or really anything pertaining to my personal life. I came in, did my job, and left. It worked, and by the time Dominique was three my home life with my child was firmly compartmentalized from anything related to my work. Including the co-worker who'd become the closest thing I'd ever had to a sister.

Until now. And I realized that whether I liked it or not, it was time to bring at least part of these two compartments together. Taking a deep breath, I reached for the phone and dialed a number.

"Hello, Catherine? It's Gil. Listen, Dominique's going to be competing here in Las Vegas next month. I'v booked the day off to go cheer her on and I was wondering if you and Lindsey would like to come with me."

THE END