Chapter Three

Sara held a hand over her mouth to hide a yawn so large the hand did absolutely nothing to conceal it.

Greg laughed as he entered the room. "Looks like you really need this, huh?"

He held a cup of coffee out to her, and Sara gazed up at him unblinkingly. "I love you."

"You only say that when you want something," Greg joked, but could feel his face flush. He coughed. "What do you have?"

Sara held up a hand as she took a drink from the paper cup. She made a face. "This is horrible."

"I'm not in the lab as much as I used to be," Greg responded defensively.

She handed him back the cup. "You need to teach these lab rats a thing or two about how we like our coffee around here."

Greg sighed and held out the cup he'd planned on keeping for himself.

Sara eyed him and took a sip. She smiled accusingly. "You've been holding out on me, Sanders."

Greg shrugged. "Field work doesn't pay as much as DNA."

Sara laughed. "And I'm supposed to believe that affects your coffee purchasing?"

"How's the case coming?"

Sara and Greg both turned to the doorway. Grissom had his eyebrows raised, and the question had been asked very pointedly.

"It's coming," Sara said, making a move for the files spread out in front of her.

Grissom stared at them for a moment longer before moving down the hall.

Sara and Greg looked at each other and laughed.

Grissom's head reappeared in the doorway. Thinking that it was because of them, they quickly stifled their laughter and made to apologize, but Grissom stepped in and shut the door.

"What's up?" Sara asked, taking another sip from Greg's cup, slapping his hand as he tried to grab it away from her.

Grissom sat on the edge of the table and stared at his hands. "I have to tell you guys something."

"What's going on?" Greg asked anxiously.

Grissom looked up, his face a perfect image of its stoic normalcy. The only thing giving him away was the faraway look in his eyes. "Nigel Crane was released this week."

Sara sat back as if physically struck by the words. "Released?"

"I didn't even know that was a possibility," Greg said.

Grissom shook his head. "I knew there was a possibility as soon as the judge sent him to that center instead the prison cell he deserved. The doctors there tell me that Crane has been cured and is no longer a threat to society." It was obvious he didn't believe a word he was saying.

"Does Nick know?" Sara asked.

Grissom nodded. "Yeah."

"Wow. How did he take it?" Greg couldn't believe the horrible timing of this. Nick was finally getting settled in to the routine of things, was finally getting back to being Nick again…and now here was something else throwing his life askew.

Grissom paused, and his eyes once again gave him away. "Not very well. I don't think he wants to worry us, though, so I don't expect him to really say anything about it. Just keep an eye on him, will you?"

Greg nodded. "Sure."

"Of course," Sara said. "Do they know where he is?"

Grissom shook his head. "Crane's a free man. As long as he shows up for his counseling every week, and doesn't cause any trouble, no one's going to be looking for him."

Nick stood outside the doorway of the break room, listening to others' speak so candidly about his affairs, and leaned his head back against the wall.

So that was it. That was all that the son of a bitch had to go through. Counseling? Hell, counseling wasn't even a punishment. It was help. This man was getting help for killing two innocent people. Not to mention everything that had happened to him.

Don't let this get to you, Nick told himself. There was always the possibility the doctors were right. The possibility Nigel really had been…not cured, but helped. Maybe he had no interest whatsoever in Nick anymore. Grissom had said that it hadn't really been about him anyways. Maslow's hierarchy of needs…biology and physiology, safety, belongingness and love, esteem…all pit stops on the road to self-actualization. Nick had taken Psych 101 in college, and all due respect to Grissom, but he didn't buy into that at all.

The guy had been in his house. Reading his emails, intercepting his snail mail. Watching him for God only knows how long. Nick sure didn't want to know.

He felt sick, and forced himself to stop thinking about it. Dwelling on the past, especially his past, was not going to get him anywhere.

The first step to getting past this would definitely be to not let them see him slumped against a wall eavesdropping on their conversation with what Nick was sure was a very pathetic expression on his face.

He pulled himself away and went through the motions for the rest of the shift. Warrick did very well in his role as the best friend and kept people away from him, in a polite, discreet way. Nick knew that he was doing it, though, and appreciated it greatly, however silently.

When he pulled into his driveway the next morning after shift, he found himself sitting there in the truck, hands gripping the wheel, reluctant to remove his key from the ignition.

"This is insane," he told himself, aloud. In the car, alone. Which was also insane. Grow up.

Nick hopped out of his vehicle and went first to the end of his driveway to the mailbox. The mail was late. Great. No Sports Illustrated magazine to distract him. Upon entering his house, he stopped in the doorway for just a moment. He sighed and shook his head, tossing his keys on the side table by the couch. He went into the small kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. Tipping his head back to take a long drink, he found himself frozen in the middle of the room, staring up at the ceiling.

Don't do it, he told himself. But even as he thought it, he knew it was going to get the best of him. Whatever it was. Curiosity? Anxiety?

Fear?

Whatever it was, it beat him, just as he knew it would.

Nick set the bottle on the counter and pulled open a drawer to his left. Rummaging through the plethora of items that make a junk drawer what it is, his hand eventually grasped the spare flashlight kept there.

Nick stood there, chewing on his lip. He really, really didn't want to do this. If he could keep himself from going into the spare bedroom and pulling down the steps that led up to the attic, if he could keep himself from giving in to that unnamed and undefined "it"…then Crane wouldn't win.

But Crane just seemed to keep winning.

Nick went into the extra room, the one that was never used and was dusty yet clean, reached up and pulled the handle on the door in the ceiling. The steps creaked down and he clicked on the flashlight, shining it expertly up into the small opening.

Hearing and seeing nothing, although what was he hoping to see in the dark, Nick placed a hesitant foot on the bottom step, once again eliciting a creak as the board held his weight. He kept the flashlight pointing upward into the inky black darkness. Shaking his head, disappointed in himself, he moved up the steps quickly, with purpose. Once his head poked out of the opening, he swung the light around the small space. Despite the chill outside, the air in the attic was hot and thick, not a combination Nick was necessarily fond of.

The attic looked just as Nick knew it would: empty, but for a few boxes. He rotated his body on the steps to check the smaller space behind him, a twinge running through him when he saw the four-year-old replacement boards in the floor over the living room, lighter in color and standing out in stark contrast, even in the dark.

No one had been up there.

Nick sighed, causing dust to rise around him, and lowered himself back down the stairs. He went back into the kitchen, tossing the flashlight none too gently onto the counter and it rolled to a sudden, loud, metallic stop against the microwave.

Nick stood humiliated, alone in his own kitchen. His head pounded from the stress of the day and he slowly rotated his neck, hoping to release the tense muscles there. Instead, his neck felt even more strained, his headache intensified.

No, he told himself, don't you dare do this. He was not going to slip back into being anxious and paranoid, a walking mess of stress twenty-four hours a day.

Nick's thoughts went almost immediately to the pills in his medicine cabinet. Just one was enough to help him relax.

Two would ensure some sleep.

A man couldn't rely on attic access forever. People got smart. They remembered. After years and years, they still remembered.

Well, he remembered, too. He remembered betrayal. He remembered being stabbed in the back by someone he thought was a friend.

Doctor Kendall was cool about it, or as cool as a doctor could be, he supposed.

"I really believe in you, Nigel."

He'd heard that one over and over again. That skinny, pale kid in a white lab coat hadn't known anything. He'd listened to the lies he was being fed, swallowing them like a tidy spoonful of Jell-O, nodding along and holding his chin like he was really listening.

But he wasn't a good friend. There weren't too many of those out there anymore.

He looked over the small space, not too far from where his so-called friend still lived. It was a short walk, and he'd made it several times over already. He couldn't risk staying too close for too long, though, which was the reason the attic was out. The attic was obvious. He knew Nick was smart, and he would figure that out eventually.

Here, he could still watch. He was a technician.

Nigel looked over the small space, and small it was. Not too small, though. Just right. Not above, this time. Below. He smiled at the irony. He'd caught up on Nick's life.

And that ordeal had been nothing.

Greg cracked his knuckles nervously and the front desk receptionist shot him a warning glance. He swallowed and crossed his arms across his chest. He was horribly uncomfortable, and wasn't exactly sure what he was doing there. When Catherine asked him if he wanted to go for a ride, he'd figured they were heading out to a scene. Not hunting down Nigel Crane.

Truth be told, he figured Warrick would be the one to go looking for the man, not Catherine. But Greg must not have been the only one to think that, because Grissom had made sure that the other man had plenty to do around the lab, keeping too busy to even think about sneaking out. You had to give Grissom his due credit; he was smart. He knew what he was doing. And he always seemed to know what his team was doing. Whether or not he understood their methods and actions was another question all together.

Greg shifted from foot to foot, waiting outside of Jim Brass's office. On the other side of the frosted glass door, he could hear the heated conversation taking place between the CSI and detective. Despite the rising volume and the tone with which both were speaking, he knew they weren't yelling at each other, but with each other.

Greg was catching snippets of the conversation, enough to get the point that Catherine was trying to get an address out of Brass. And he thought he heard the words "restraining order."

A pair of officers walked past, slowing slightly as they, too heard the voices coming from the other side of the door.

Greg gave them a cheesy grin. "Yeah, I wouldn't wanna be Brass right now, huh?" he asked with a nervous laugh.

The officers gave each other a 'who is this guy?' look and continued down the hall, resuming their conversation.

Greg leaned his head back against the door and then banged it once, hoping to draw the attention of those in the room. "People are starting to stare," he gritted out, loudly enough for them to hear but not at a volume to draw any more looks. The door opened behind him and Greg took a stumbling step back into the office. He regained his footing and dignity and tugged on the lapels of his jacket.

"Thank you," he told Catherine, who was holding the door open, an amused expression on her face.

He looked across the room at Jim Brass, holding the phone receiver to his ear. "Just give me an address, Chuck. No, we don't have probable cause, but we're not trying to arrest the man." He threw his head back in frustration. "If he was in the phone book, I would look it up…can't you just give me the address? Thank you." He sounded more pissed than grateful.

Brass looked up to see both Greg and Catherine watching him. "I'm on hold," he explained with a small Jim Brass smirk. "Hey, Sanders."

Greg raised a hand and gave a small smile. Catherine swung the door shut and practically collapsed in the chair next to where Greg was standing. She seemed exhausted, with dark circles under her eyes that weren't necessarily unattractive, but certainly out of place on a woman who never let her hectic life get the better of her.

"Yeah," Brass said into the phone, and again spoke with whoever was on the other end of the line.

Taking advantage of Brass's distraction, Greg knelt next to Catherine. "Why am I here?" he asked her in a hushed tone.

She slowly turned her head to face him, and she didn't need to answer. He knew.

She turned to face him, and answered his question with the desperate look in her eyes. He was there because she didn't want to be alone. Greg had probably been the first one she'd seen. If he'd made it to the bathroom, his initial destination, it may very well have been Sara here with her. Though he wasn't exactly serving a specific purpose, Greg suddenly felt useful.

"Uh huh, uh huh…"

Greg looked up at Brass, scribbling furiously on a pad of paper.

"No black and whites, I promise. We're just talking, here." Brass straightened. "You've been a big help." He hung up and ripped the sheet of paper off of the pad. He held it out to Catherine.

"I hope you know what you're doing," he said as she rose to take it.

Catherine stared at the paper in her hand. "I just have to see him, Jim."

Brass nodded. "I know."

Greg felt like an outsider in the room. He'd been no more than a lowly lab tech when Nigel Crane had come crashing into the lives of the CSIs. He hadn't experienced any of it first-hand, just through Sara's and Warrick's stories and what he had caught from others' conversations in the lab. But what he did know was enough.

"Don't get any funny ideas," Brass said in a warning tone.

Catherine held up her hands. "I swear."

Brass shot Greg a quick look he immediately understood; he was supposed to make sure Catherine heeded his words. Greg gave a small nod.

Brass settled back in his chair. "I'd go with you myself, but I've got to work on some things for the sheriff."

Catherine didn't say anything, nodded. Greg knew she was eager to get going now that she had what she wanted.

Two pills really did do the trick. Usually a light sleeper, it took the shrill ring of his phone to wake Nick that afternoon. His home phone, of course. He still hadn't gotten the new cell number into full circulation yet.

The call was a friendly, much too chipper reminder of the court appearance he had the next day for a case he'd worked a few months earlier with Warrick. Court days were not his favorite. He hated sitting up on the stand in front of a room full of people staring at him, but even more than that he hated wearing a suit and tie; it just wasn't him.

Nick dragged himself out of bed and shuffled over to his closet. He only had a few suits, and none of them seemed ready to worn in public at the moment. He had a tendency toward laziness after a day in court and usually just hung the suit back up, wrinkles be damned. This seemed to the day he'd been wishing would never happen, the day when every suit was rehung and wrinkly, in dire need of laundering. He was going to have to make a pit stop to the dry cleaners on the way into the lab.

Nick made it all the way into the kitchen and started a pot of coffee before the news he'd received the night before managed to creep back into the forefront of his mind. He saw the flashlight still resting on the counter next to the microwave and shook his head. He couldn't believe how paranoid he'd been.

If Crane was still a threat, they wouldn't have let him out. They were doctors, and a medical degree had to at least mean something. Crane would have been treated and evaluated and put through tests and Nick was just trying to put himself at ease and it wasn't really working.

Really, he just wanted to get out of the house.

Nick knew what would work. Work. Throwing himself into his work had always kept his mind too busy to dwell on or overthink other things. And there were a lot of things trying to get him to overthink them. He didn't mind going in early and given the circumstances, knew that no one was going to say anything about it.

He brought his coffee cup up to take a sip when a loud thud at the front door made him jump. The cup slipped from his fingers and crashed into the sink.

"Damn it," Nick said, annoyed with his clumsiness. He wouldn't normally jump so easily. Despite his best efforts, this was really getting to him.

Shaking his head at the sight of the porcelain shards now littering the stainless steel sink, he moved to the door, wondering about the sound.

Nick opened the door and found the day's paper on the stoop. Lately it had been coming around noon, and the kid had taken to chucking it at doors instead of tossing it in driveways. It never fazed him, he'd actually gotten used to the sound. Which meant that he was simply jumpy.

Nick picked up the paper and threw it onto the couch. He wanted out of the house more than ever now.

He mopped up the coffee now spilled on the counter and sink, threw away the pieces of the cup, took a quick shower, grabbed the suit and was out the door.

Greg rocked back on his heels while Catherine knocked on the door a second, more forceful, time. She let out an exasperated sigh.

"Maybe he's not home," Greg offered. Or maybe he saw the police department issue truck in the street, he added in his head, not daring to speak the words at the risk of adding to Catherine's already tense mood.

Catherine knocked once more and after another moment of silence, took a step back to survey the area.

The address Brass had gotten had led them to an apartment on the second floor of a three-story unit. Not in the best part of town but not in the worst, the apartment building was small, and dark. Greg supposed that after not working for four years, it was the best Crane could do. He was slightly disgusted at the thought the center had probably gotten the place for him, or at least the money for somewhere to stay.

Catherine took a few steps to the left and leaned forward, looking in the window.

"I don't think he's here," Greg said, sticking his hands in his jacket pockets and looking around. If someone saw them standing outside the door, peering in the window, it would look fairly suspicious.

He tried to change the mood, maybe get Catherine to drop this idea and get the hell out of there. "What are you getting Nick for his birthday?" he asked.

Catherine shot him a look and turned her attention back to the window. She brought her hands up to shield the glare of the afternoon sun and peered in.

"Catherine," he started in as much of a warning tone as he dared.

She glanced up. "I'm just looking."

His curiosity getting the best of him, Greg moved to her side and leaned forward as well. Through a gap in the dark curtains, Greg could make out what appeared to be a couch and lamp, and further on in the background, the counter of a small kitchen.

"I don't get it," Catherine said softly, probably to herself.

Greg glanced sideways at her as she bit her lip and shook her head.

"His living conditions are different from the last time."

Greg straightened. "How do you mean?"

Catherine also stood and placed her hands on her hips. "Back then it was nothing but a computer and a chair. Everything was in the attic." She gestured to the window. "This is fully furnished."

She took a step back and looked up. "And he's on the second floor of a three-story building, so there's no attic." She didn't sound too happy about any of their observations. This new way of living suggested that the past four years really had changed Nigel Crane.

While this had the potential to be a good thing for Nick, it also meant that he wasn't in prison, and if he really was doing this much better, wasn't going to be again any time soon.

To be continued...