Author's Notes: Happy Thanksgiving, all. I watched the parade, had some turkey, and fought with my mother. It's officially the holidays! Thanks for taking the time out of your life to read my little story. Trust me, it's appreciated. Take care until next time.
Letting Go
by Kristen Elizabeth
Wish I could hold you and know you still want me
To be the only one on Earth you need
Just to make your dreams come true like I once did
I'd give anything to be your everything again
- Tracy Lawrence
Dear Sara,
Don't be mad at the boys; I got your mailing address from IFFS. By the way, if anyone offers you condolences on the untimely death of your dear Aunt Edna, just play along.
It seems trite to ask how Bosnia is, so I'll just say, I hope you're safe and all that. We're all okay here. Lindsey started eighth grade this week and now her only goal in life is to make the cheerleading squad, God help me. Greg's learning Bosnian, God help us all. Nick's been on a few dates with, get this, the same woman. I don't exactly hear wedding bells yet, but he seems happy. Warrick, as always, is Warrick.
Before I forget, Ecklie wants to do an article on you for this quarter's newsletter. I'm holding him off for now, but you know Ecklie when he gets his mind on something. Let me know if this idea is completely out of the question, or just a mild annoyance you could live with.
It's no exaggeration or stretch of the truth to say that your absence is pretty heavily felt around the lab. I don't know if I'll be helping or hurting if I tell you that ever since you left, a certain entomologist has been a different man.
Scarecrow, he misses you most of all.
And while were on uncomfortable subjects, I just thought you should know, Callie Lamb's defense has won another continuance. The trial probably won't start until after the new year. No word yet on whether you'll be subpoenaed by the D.A.
I'm enclosing a copy of that picture I took of you, Nick, Warrick and Greg at your party. It came out really great. Remember Sara, you've got friends back here. Take care of yourself.
Best wishes, Catherine
"I've got you beat. I've got you beat!" Anthony, or the Dick as everyone had taken to calling him behind his back, waved his arms in the air to distract the group away from the laughter that lingered after Doc Ashe's answer to the fireside question, 'what's the craziest thing you've seen on the job?'
Once he felt he had everyone's attention, the Dick launched into a long and fairly boring tale that involved the discovery of an unidentified Confederate soldier in Kentucky. Sara only half-listened. They were all doing their part to keep the after-dinner conversation light and humorous after a day that had seen the unearthing of five skeletons, two of them obviously under the age of ten, but Sara had never been able to set the job down after a bad day. She wasn't likely to start any time soon.
"That's nothing!" Sara was jolted back into the conversation by Jan's loud declaration. Jack was everyone's friend that night. "My professor in college had pictures of an Indian burial ground where they found the skeleton of a young mother…and the fully formed skeleton of an infant between her hip bones. She died when she was eight or nine months pregnant and they let the baby die with her."
"I thought that was an urban anthropology legend," Doc Ashe said, amused.
"God's truth," Jan swore. "I wouldn't lie to you guys."
There was much laughter at this; even Sara cracked a smile. And she kept it until Simon called out, "What about you, Vegas?"
"Weirdest case?" Sara took a sip from her liberally spiked coffee, stalling. But all eyes were on her; she wasn't getting out of this one. "Okay. About two years ago, I was part of a team called out on a 419. Murder. I wasn't actively involved in the case; I just mapped out the perimeter of the house and some peripheral rooms. So I didn't see the body for a day or two. And when I finally had to print her toes, no one prepared me for..." She took a breath. "The victim could have been my long lost twin sister."
"Freaky," Jan whistled. "How'd you deal?"
"I pretended like I didn't even notice. Which really threw off my co-worker, Catherine. That was just gravy; usually nothing shocks that woman." Sara shrugged, almost too casually. "The whole case was weird from then on."
Simon's eyes never wavered from her. "Was an arrest ever made?"
"I'm not at liberty to say," she replied, a bit coolly. "It's an on-going investigation."
"Two years later?" he pressed on. "Shouldn't it be a cold case by now?"
Her voice dropped to a whisper. "My supervisor is keeping it open. There are…complications."
"What kind of complications?"
"Simon." Slightly more sober now, Jan shook her head. "Leave her alone."
"I can't help it." He grinned. "I'm an idiot around beautiful, interesting women."
"You're just an idiot," Jan countered, but not without a fair amount of affection.
Doc Ashe cleared his throat. "Who wants to hear what I found in the rectal cavity of a dead prostitute back in the swinging sixties?" he asked, effectively changing the subject, much to Sara's relief.
Later, in the privacy of her tent, Sara couldn't stop thinking about the case. Why had she even brought it up? Why hadn't she told them about the gorilla carcass dropped into the desert, or the woman who got off on clowns? Bringing up Debbie Marlin only stirred up memories better forgotten.
But since her mind was already on it…she reached under her cot, into her duffel bag, and pulled out the one book she'd brought with her from Las Vegas. Grissom's entomology textbook. She opened to the chapter on beetles and the picture tucked between the pages.
It wasn't a great photo of him; he was mostly hidden behind Warrick, on purpose, she had no doubt. But she could still see most of his familiar figure in the snapshot from a past Christmas gathering. It was all of Grissom that she'd allowed herself to bring to Bosnia.
"Vegas?" Simon's voice was muffled by the wind outside her tent. "Vegas, you in there?"
Two weeks experience with him told her he wouldn't go away until she responded. "What do you want, Simon?"
"Can I come in?"
If she told him no, she'd just end up staring for hours at the part of Grissom's face not obscured by Warrick's hair. And that couldn't be healthy.
"Yeah," she said, closing the photo back up in the book and slipping the book under the cot. "Why not?"
She unzipped the door flap and Simon ducked inside, rubbing his hands together for warmth. "The temperature's dropping out there," he commented. "And I didn't think that was possible."
"Far cry from southern California." Sara gestured to the ground. "Sit wherever."
"Okay." He sat next to her on the cot, his hip pressed up against hers. "Thanks." Looking around, Simon pointed to the picture taped up to the tent wall. "One of them your boyfriend back home?"
She smiled; the picture in question was the one Catherine had just sent her, of Sara surrounded by Nick, Warrick and Greg. "Just friends. Good friends."
"Even the one with his arms around your waist?"
"Greg's very physical." Her chest ached all of the sudden for wanting to hear his laugh. "He's a hugger."
"And you're not?"
"I can be."
He shook his hair out of his eyes. "Under what circumstances would you hug, say, me?"
Sara thought for a second. "On pain of death?"
"Hey, that's something. We can build on that," Simon grinned.
"Has there ever been a woman who's bought into your cocky act?" she wondered.
"Are you asking if I have a girlfriend, wife, significant other?" He put his arm around her shoulders. "Vegas…I knew you cared deep down."
The look she gave him was enough to put his arm back where it belonged. "I just like to see the interrogator get interrogated."
"Ah. Well, the answer is no. Not currently. But I'm always accepting applications." Simon raised his eyebrows at her in invitation. She hid a smile as she shook her head. He nodded and turned his attention back to the picture on display. "So if one of those guys isn't lucky enough to call himself yours, is there someone else who is?"
Sara folded her arms over her stomach. "I don't know." She looked away. "It's a complicated situation."
"Only if the guy's an idiot."
"Do you have an off-switch and if so, where is it?"
Simon leaned back and shrugged casually. "I say what I feel when I feel it. Life's too short to do anything else. You should know that better than anyone else."
"Because of my job," she agreed.
"Your job and…you know. The stuff that's happened to you on the job."
Sara's stomach flipped. "What?" She looked over at him, but he refused to meet her eyes. "Just how much research have you done on me?"
To his credit, he seemed more uncomfortable than she'd seen him ever before. "I'm a journalist out of L.A. Big news stories from Las Vegas usually make it into our paper. The kidnapping and attempted murder of a CSI…that's big news."
Anger started to bubble up, hot and acidic. "You've known all of that about me…all this time?"
"And I've admired you even more for having gone through hell without giving upand becoming a CPA," Simon quickly added.
"You might think that you're just doing your job," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "But the press pass in your pocket does not mean you havethe right todig aroundin my life. I am entitled to my privacy."
"I didn't run a background check on you, Vegas. I read a few articles off the AP wire before I even knew you. I just have a knack for names and I remembed yours."
Sara's hands shook. "No one was supposed to know. I wasn't going to be a victim here."
"It's not like that," Simon insisted. "Vegas…Sara. I have no intention of ever telling anyone…"
He tried reaching for her hand but she yanked it away. "Until your article comes out, right?" Sara chuckled bitterly. "I can just see it now. 'The traumatized CSI traveled around the world to escape her demons, to find the peace for others that she can't find for herself'."
"Good line." His tone grew more serious. "But you are so wrong."
"Am I?" she countered. "So you haven't been aiming to use me as Pulitzer fodder since we met? I know your type; I deal with reporters all the time. The only thing that matters is getting the scoop. People's feelings, people's privacy, basic human decency...nothing stands in the way of the all-mighty story."
Simon frowned. "Maybe it was like that at first. But somewhere between the cold shoulder and the mild insults you've thrown my way, I started liking you." He stood up. "Don't worry, though. It might not last long."
When he was gone, Sara zipped her tent back up, taking her frustration out on the nylon. She kicked off her boots, turned off her battery-powered lamp and crawled under the wool blanket on her cot without even bothering to remove her top layer of clothing. She pulled the heavy fabric over her head and closed her eyes.
For some reason, she didn't feel as good about getting rid of Simon as she thought she would.
The atlas had found a permanent home on Grissom's kitchen table. It lay open, held in place by two paperweights on either side, perpetually displaying a detailed map of Eastern Europe. His daily routine had been altered slightly to include several minutes of sitting in front of the book, tracing the borders with his index finger. Sarajevo, the capital, the Sava River, Mostar, Banja Luka…he knew the country by heart. It was Sara's corner of the world. And Gil Grissom was rapidly becoming a geographical expert on a place he'd never even seen.
Was this how dangerous stalkers got started? With a pile of scribbled notes that included phrases like, "larch bark beetle native to area—get message to S. to be on the lookout—specimen desired" and "landmines havekilled 300 since cease-fire—is S. in area that's been cleared?" He was tempted to shred them all and chuck the atlas out with the garbage. But he couldn't do it. They were links to her, forged from missing her more than he ever could have imagined he'd miss anything. Losing a limb would have been easier; limbs were replaceable. You could learn to live without a limb.
He was learning, a little too late, that he couldn't live very well without Sara.
That night, during his usual session with the atlas, Grissom suddenly pushed aside all of notes and reached for a clean sheet of paper. He stared at the empty lines for a lifetime before he started to write.
Dear Sara…
To Be Continued