Author: Signs Of Sun
Series Title: Touched By Gravity
Genre: General/Angst (Series)
Characters: Nick and Sara. Whole team although light on Greg.
Spoilers: None for future episodes, but a few references to past seasons.
Notes: I know the length of the last chapter was kind of excessive, but I decided it worked better as one chapter than broken into two as I originally had it. A chapter that long is rare-even for me. I'll go easy this time round. This one is have the size. Really am grateful for the feedback!
Summary: Nick's investigation of a case is abruptly interrupted. It may take a little teamwork to solve the case with him out of the picture. Or is he really? Just might he still be able to provide an essential connection to the truth?
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Touched By Gravity V
The line between serenity and chaos could be a fragile one. Gil Grissom had been lingering a few last moments in the shadows examining the thought. The hospital had a backyard so to speak, a miniature city park that bordered the property. The nature there was far from native to the landscape surrounding it. Every tree, every plant had been transplanted there by design and trimmed to perfection, creating a haven where there had only been stale vacant lots before. Grissom cut his stride short, halting his progress along the narrow path. His gaze looked down in front of the tips of his shoes where a puddle had formed in a slight dip in the pathway. His attention had been captured by something there. Gil watched a delicate dark insect struggle to take flight against the weight of its tiny waterlogged wings. He squatted down and placed his hand over the edge of the water there, then submerged just the tips of his fingers and waited patiently. Eventually the little bug had floated close enough to crawl up onto Gil's index finger. He watched it move along until it reached the knuckle between his hand and fingers and then, holding his hand as steady as possible, he moved it from the puddle to the grass at the edge of the path.
"There you go. You just need a little time and a safe place to gather some strength that's all," Grissom offered as the rescued bug scurried off his hand and disappeared into the grass. Obviously not expecting any kind of response, Grissom straightened back up and headed towards the one of emergency room entrances to the hospital.
At the threshold of the ambulance bay parking area serenity departed and chaos slammed back in. The auditory mud made up of multiple voices, sirens, doors opening and closing, and a full spectrum of other noises clung to him even as proceeded through the empty space in the oversized revolving doors. On the other side he was again ambushed with the near dizzying constant motion of a busy emergency room. He studied it for a few seconds, hoping to find a pattern or order by which to make sense out of it all. It would help to reinforce the sense of calm he had relocated in himself while out in the park. He was still empty handed for that additional reassurance when he spotted the physician who had treated Nick making his way past the nurses' station toward the direction of the waiting room.
"Dr Timmons!" Gil called out, moving briskly to catch up with him. The doctor, having developed a keen ability to weed out his own name from all the other spoken words and sounds of the hospital, looked back over his shoulder. The physician slowed his pace, allowing Grissom to close the gap and walk alongside of him.
"I'm sorry. You were here for Mr. Stokes, but I never caught your name," the other man commented as they made their way along the corridor towards the waiting room.
"Grissom. Gil Grissom."
"Nice to meet you Mr. Grissom. You work with Mr. Stokes, is that correct?"
"Yes. He's part of my team. Is there further information on Nick's condition?"
"Have you been able to reach his family yet?" Dr. Timmons asked, visually focusing on what lay down the hallway instead of what was present right beside him. It was a good try, but Gil called him on the reroute around his question.
"No. Not yet. We're working on it. That you would ask that particular question right after I asked if there was an update gives me the impression that there is new information and it holds a level of urgency." After a surprised beat of dead air Dr. Timmons answered.
"You're very observant Mr. Grissom," Timmons replied and finally glanced over to meet Grissom's gaze at him. A faint respectful smile followed.
"It's a trait that runs among CSIs. We're quirky like that. But you haven't completely answered my question yet."
"I'm about to," he replied as they arrived in the waiting area. The others reacted instantaneously as they approached. Brass and Catherine who had been talking quietly by the window moved closer and the others snapped to attention in their chairs.
"I'm going to get right down to it here. I get the impression from Mr. Grissom here that you CSIs don't miss a beat so in the interest of getting to the questions that I'm sure you have I'm going to plow through what we know so far. Feel free to interrupt me." Timmons looked down at the chart, inhaled a deep breath, and dug in.
"Mr. Stokes has too many bruises and cuts to bother to count. This was a very bad fall and from what I can guess from his injuries he most likely did hit that steel pottery kiln that was present at the scene before hitting the ground. Landed on it and rolled off or possibly bounced off it then hit the ground. Or maybe just smacked his head on the edge of it on the way down. Hard to say. Although I'd place my bets on the scenario that he impacted the kiln with his upper back, neck, and head then the floor."
A collective hard swallow from the group filled in when the doctor took his next breath in and out. The feeling that there was something greater, more intense, drenched the man's demeanor. His skill at masking it was strong, well practiced, but easy to unveil to the trained eye. Flipping the page on the chart Timmons resumed.
"He has four broken ribs. Left ankle is broken. Left knee dislocated with a torn ligament and one broken bone in the knee. They've been splinted. An orthopedist will follow that and assess if surgery will be necessary. He got lucky there, doesn't look there was any arterial injury."
"Nerve damage in the knee injury?" Grissom jumped in inquiring.
"Not sure yet." To this Grissom simply nodded his acceptance and let Timmons continue.
"He's still not breathing on his own so he's hooked up to a ventilator." This time it was Brass' voice that cut in, searching for clarification.
"What's the reason for that? Why is he still not breathing on his own? Any way to tell?"
"Most likely his head injury. I'm sorry to report that Mr. Stokes has an epidural hematoma in the temporoparietal region of his brain."
"Uh. And the English translation of that would be please?" Brass pleaded. There was a tiny flicker in his eyes that he had some concept of what this meant, but no true confidence in its accuracy. Timmons looked up from the chart and explained not only to Brass but the entire group, hoping to study each of their faces as he spoke and gauge how well each understood what was happening to their friend.
"Well the brain has a tough outer covering called the dura that is in between the brain itself and the skull bone. It protects the brain and nourishes it with blood and spinal fluid. The blow Mr. Stokes received to his head caused the brain to bounce inside the cavity. And also resulted in a small fracture to the skull itself, on the left side of the back of his head. That traumatic movement caused the blood vessels surrounding the brain and dura to tear. The result is that blood accumulates within the space between the brain covering and the skull. And in reaction the brain swells."
"So he's not breathing because of the swelling?" Brass questioning in hopes of gaining the clearest grasp possible on his friend's condition.
"Because there is only so much space inside the skull when the brain swells it puts pressure on the delicate structures of the brain. They shift to accommodate, moving away from the area that has the swelling. That affects vital functions such speech, consciousness, breathing, eye movement…."
"He did open his eyes when I was with him," Sara commented, holding tightly onto the brief but intense visual connection she had made with Nick.
"Yes. He is having spontaneous eye opening. It's an involuntary action. He doesn't know what's going on around him," Timmons replied, shifting his gaze so he focused on Sara.
"He knew I was there. I could see it. He focused on me."
"I'm sorry. I hope you're right, but medically speaking it's not likely that he saw you were there."
"Well you weren't there. I was. I could tell he recognized me. He even tried to speak to me," Sara came back with confidently. Timmons looked at her empathetically and shaking his head he replied.
"Again probably involuntary movement of the facial muscles. Or even the very beginning of the seizures."
"But it's possible?" Sara proposed.
"Yes, it's possible. But medically speaking not likely."
Sara simply nodded her head in reply, restraining the pull to try to make him understand. Dr. Timmons read it on her face and addressed it in a calm but firm voice.
"I'm not trying to be argumentative. Just trying to give a realistic picture of what is happening to your friend. Right now his coma score is low."
"Low is bad, right?" Greg asked. His voice wavered just a fraction around the last word as if he wanted to confirm he understood, but not really wanting for it to be true.
"It's not what I would like to see, no. Your friend is comatose and we measure at what level of consciousness, or depth of coma you could say, the patient is at by looking for reactions. For example, responding to verbal command. Right now, unfortunately, Mr. Stokes is only having spontaneous eye opening, there's no response to verbal command or physical stimuli. However, there is another possibility there. It may not be the hematoma that is causing his lack of motor response. Mr. Stokes…"
"Nick," Sara insisted upon.
"Nick…has swelling in his upper back and neck. The good news here is that we the only damage to vertebrae themselves was to one in his upper back. But it was an incomplete fracture, meaning just the tiniest crack and, therefore, didn't break all the way through so that's very good. However, there is pressure on his spinal cord from the swelling. Most likely caused by bruising from the trauma to that area during the impact of his fall. That compression on the spinal cord could account for the lack of motor response."
"Possible paralysis?" Grissom interjected with in a sterile tone.
"We won't know until the swelling goes down and, possibly even, until he regains consciousness. Right now our top priority is what is happening to his brain. We are going to give it a chance at treating the hematoma conservatively using medications. We'll monitor the intracranial pressure, level of coma, and vitals. But if we don't see significant improvement very quickly or his condition deteriorates we'll have to perform surgery to treat the hematoma. Our top neurologist, Dr. Merrick Zuriff, is handling Mr. Stokes…Nick's…case. If surgery is necessary he will be the one to perform the procedure."
"Will we be able to see him?" Warrick asked faintly.
"Yes. We've moved him to the ICU. But I'd like to limit the number of visitors to no more than two at a time."
"Thank you, doctor," Catherine offered. Dr. Timmons flashed them a comforting smile and left the waiting room. There was less than a half minute of thought before Grissom turned to the entire group and spoke. His words to them came out a little more demanding than he had intended, but it was due to determination not harshness.
"Alright. We need to regroup and work as a team. We'll take turns being here at the hospital. The rest of us should get some sleep. We're all working on fumes. We're no use to Nick or the lab, for that matter, if we're all exhausted. So we'll rotate between being here, home, and the lab."
"I'm not going anywhere," Warrick stated, crossing his arms over his chest. His solid expression was boiling with attitude, challenging anyone to tell him different.
"Okay, you're up first Warrick. Greg, why don't you stay with him. Who wants to replace them?"
"I doubt I'll be able to sleep so I'd rather be awake here than at home. I just need to check in with Lindsey," Catherine responded.
"Sara can come back when you do. Then Brass and I can replace you two. Everyone make sure your phones are turned on."
The group seemed to dissolve away in different directions inside a single breath. There had been a strong command in Grissom's voice that on some level had been needed by each of them individually for varying reasons. Being instructed a task, or even a simple structure on how to proceed, seemed to break the hold of shocked stupor they had all been stumbling around in. As Warrick and Greg headed off to go upstairs to the intensive care unit Grissom called after them. Only Greg turned though. Warrick appeared too mentally lost to have heard so Grissom gave the instructions to the younger of the two.
"Any news at all, you call me right away. I'll pass it along to the others."
"Will do," Greg replied then about faced, rushing to catch up with the Warrick at the elevator. Spotting Dr. Timmons standing at the nurses' station making notations on another chart Gil took the opportunity to speak with him privately for a moment to see if he couldn't get a bit more detailed information about Nick's injuries from the physician. Sara passed them by on her way out of the emergency room, but didn't stop to be part of their conversation. She could tell their discussion was drowning in medical terminology and that wasn't of interest to her right then. Medical terminology wouldn't make their failure to protect Nick undone. On the opposite side of the huge central desk she stopped, weighing her options, stay or go home and try to sleep. Brass' appearance down the hallway, a new coffee in hand, sparked a third option. Abandoning the first two choices she leaned against the desk and waited until the detective was within ear shot.
"Hey Brass," Sara said, drawing his attention upward from what must have been a very hypnotizing cup of coffee.
"Yeah Sara. What's up?" he greeted her with a sudden brightness.
"You have a car here, right?"
"Yeah. I came with Gil, but Catherine is going to drop him back at the lab. Why?" he replied and nodded in the positive.
"Can I borrow you?"
"Borrow me? I'm flattered, but I pride myself on being less gullible than your average joe so my answer is…that depends. What for?"
"I need a ride back out to the Marshall crime scene. I want to get Nick's notes and any evidence he collected out of his Tahoe."
"Sure. I can give you a ride out there. Also I spoke with Nick this afternoon and gave him some additional info I dug up. I can fill you in on the way if you like."
"That would be good."
"Are you sure you don't want to go home and get some sleep? Amlyn Marshall isn't going anywhere."
"I'm not all that great at the waiting game. I can't just sit here, doing nothing, while Nick fights for his life. And I know I couldn't sleep at home. I was supposed to be helping him with that case but haven't lifted a finger yet. Time to make up for it."
"The crime scene it is then. If we can't fight for Nick we can fight for Amlyn Marshall, right?"
"Exactly. I like the way you think Brass."
"Why thank you. I'm so used to being told, especially by suspects, that I don't know what the hell I'm talking about, that it's nice to hear once in a while."
"Glad I could help," Sara responded, resulting in a faint smile from Brass.
"Shall we go catch a killer?"
"Lead the way," Sara responded. She followed him towards the exit and only once hesitated briefly just inside the doorway, a piece of her feeling like she was abandoning Nick. She managed to convince herself to keep going though, thinking that maybe right then it was the only thing within her power she could do for him. What had happened to Nick was an accident, but what happened to Amlyn wasn't. If Nick hadn't been chasing her murderer, he never would have fallen through that floor. It was time to find who was responsible.
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Gil removed his glasses and used the fingertips of his right hand to deeply massage the weary spot where they had been rested on his nose. A soft knock on the doorframe of his office drew him to drop his hand away from his face and raise his attention upward. It didn't surprise him that he had only arrived moments before and someone was already on his doorstep, most likely with more questions than he cared to answer.
"Come in!" he called out, giving in to the inevitable.
"I heard. How is he?" Doc Robbins asked, entering slowly. Letting out a breath Grissom leaned back in the chair and tossed his glasses in his left hand onto the thick stack of papers that had taken up permanent residence on his desk.
"Epidural hematoma," he stated as if it told the entire story.
"Not so good then. Level of consciousness?" Doc inquired, closing the door and blocking out the murmur of sounds from the rest of the lab.
"Comatose. Low score. He fell through a ceiling onto a stainless steel pottery kiln, his head and back taking the brunt of the impact, then fell to the floor. And was subsequently buried in debris."
"A fall like that. Low coma score. Pretty much non responsive then?"
"Yeah."
"What's the rest?"
"I didn't realize I was that transparent?" Gil responded with a hint of annoyance at himself lacing the background of it.
"Not usually. But right now I think you're too drained to hold the walls up. The fact that there is more to tell is written in your body language," Robbins answered and took a seat in the chair in front of the desk.
"I was hoping no one had taken notice."
"If you weren't hoping to be discreet about it then I think I'd be truly concerned."
"Have I become that predictable? Or am I wearing a sign on my forehead that I'm not aware of?"
"Everything is relative Gil. What's normal for one is not necessarily normal for another. For you wanting to stay emotional discreet is normal."
"Point taken."
"So?" Robbins prompted when nothing more came from the man seated across from him.
"So what?"
"Were you going to tell me the rest? Or are we going to sit here and continue to perform an autopsy on your psyche?"
"Oh right. The highlights? Bruising and swelling around T3 and T4 vertebrae, resulting from a fissure fracture of T4. As well as mildly swelling around the lower thoracic T11 and T12. No fractures there. No motor responses. Four broken ribs. Broken ankle. Dislocated knee with a torn ligament and one broken bone. He's on a ventilator. Elevated blood pressureBradycardia, heart rate hovering in the lower fifties. Series of grand mal seizures…or is it tonic clonic the term they are using these days? I lose track."
"Either is acknowledged really."
"The seizures are now under control with meds."
"Good. Well between the hematoma and the compression of the spinal cord around the very upper back and the lower lumbar region I'm not surprised there's no motor response to painful stimuli or verbal command. Between those two areas of the spinal cord that would potentially stall any messages getting to any of his limbs and, for that matter, to his torso or lower body. The big question comes with the potential for brain damage or paralysis. Or even possibly…both."
"Yeah. That's if he survives."
"Epidural hematoma is certainly survivable Gil."
"I know. Mortality rate is around twenty percent. But at what cost?"
"I'm assuming your referring to the very valid possibility that if he does survive he might not be the same Nick."
"That would be the road I was going down, yes."
"A different life, whether it's mentally or physically altered, is better than no life, right?"
"That's a matter of opinion. Don't get me wrong Doc. I hope with everything that medicine can do these days he lives, but…" Grissom began before his intellect caught up to his voice and he forcibly reigned his thoughts in. After only a beat Robbins finished for him, robbing him of any chance of finding a new acceptable ending to his own sentence.
"But you're concerned that even if you don't lose him to death, you might lose him anyway."
A defeated silence gripped the air in the office. Both men knew the answer, but the one who needed to verbalize it simply couldn't let the emotion of the answer escape the confines of his body. It went understood but unspoken. It was an incredibly selfish line of thought, to have it be so important that if Nick survived it needed to be the old Nick and not a forever changed one.
"David and I are wrapping up things here. We'll be over at the hospital in a little while," Robbins commented, standing to leave the office. Grissom didn't offer anything in the way of an immediate response so Robbins turned and began to leave. He had only made it to the doorway when Gil's voice halted him.
"Hey Doc?"
"Yes Gil?"
"We never had this little session."
"If that's your unique, albeit strange, way of saying 'thank you' then…you're welcome."
"Yes, it is."
Once again Robbins turned to leave. This time it was his own final thought that he offered the other man that stopped his progress.
"Oh and Gil."
"Yeah."
"Hiding here at the lab isn't going to fool anyone, even yourself. Physical distance can't equate emotional distance. No matter how diligent you are in the effort."
"I'll take that into consideration. Thank you Dr. Phil."
"I'll have my secretary send you the bill."
"You have a secretary?"
"David. While technically not his job title, he's a proficient typist and has a great rapport with office equipment."
"Why am I suddenly getting the idea a lot of those reports I see out of your office weren't typed up by your hands."
"Management, Gil, is all about delegating."
"Compliment David on his administrative abilities would you?"
"Sure. And we'll see you down at the hospital in a few?"
"Yes. I just have one last thing I need to do first."
Robbins nodded his understanding and departed the office, gently clicking the door closed behind him. Slightly recharged Gil scooped up his glasses from atop the mountain of paperwork and turned to his computer. The words, twenty percent mortality rate, resonated inside his thoughts. Gil held out hope that a little research would cleanse away that statistic from his mind.
"Merrick Zuriff, neurologist," his fingers typed into the search field in the database of record information on physician's he had pulled up. He needed to know whose hands the life of one of his team might very possibly rest in.
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"Hi Warrick," Sara said quietly, placing her hand on his shoulder from behind. It pulled him back from the foggy reflective mental wilderness that Warrick had been wandering through.
"Where's Greg?" she asked.
"He went to grab a bite to eat."
"Why don't you go join him. I'll take over."
"No. No. I'm alright."
"Warrick," Sara replied in a tone that made it sound like he must, on at least some remote level, see the absurdity of his own plan to never leave the chair at his friend's bedside.
"Fine. But I'm just going to grab some coffee and I'm come straight back so don't you get comfortable," he replied after a glance at her then to Nick and back.
"Up!" Sara insisted, firm but low in volume. Reluctantly, Warrick got to his feet and stepped aside.
"Ha! Mine now," Sara announced as she plopped down into the chair.
"Girl, when I get back your skinny butt better fly outta my chair," came as Warrick's final word on the matter. Sara let herself smile softly as he disappeared out into the hallway. A small spark of electricity lingered in the air. Warrick must have found something that renewed him while he sat with Nick. He had been intensely quiet and noticeably unanimated while they had been in the waiting room and it was hopeful to see a little fire back in him. Maybe he had simply needed a few moments alone at his friend's side, a moment to see for himself that Nick was still there like she had had earlier awaiting the ambulance.
Sara pushed herself up a tad straighter in the chair. Still not particularly comfortable she fidgeted from side to side then shifted a little further back. Still unrewarded, Sara stood up, glared accusingly at the chair, then glanced around and upon finding no other better replacement glared back at the chair.
"Okay, yeah, Nick you're gonna need to wake up soon because this chair…it isn't working for me," she commented aloud, accompanying it with a teasing tone for him, and then dragged the offending piece of furniture by its arm so its side was lined up with the edge of the bed. As if somehow magically by moving the chair closer to the bed it would suddenly be more comfortable to sit in, she slowly and gently sat back down. At least now with the arm of the chair parallel and right up against the side of the bed she could rest her elbow on the soft surface instead of the wooden frame of the chair.
Also she was facing the top of the bed which meant just looking straight ahead her gaze landed upon Nick's face. She only reviewed his current state briefly, taking note of the major points; the numerous intravenous lines leading away from him, the automated blood pressure cuff on his right arm, the pulse-oxy clip on his finger, and a slightly different neck brace than the one he had been wearing before. The most noticeable inanimate object was the one that made her look away. Somehow the hand held air bag, pushing air into Nick's lungs, had been less invasive than the ventilator that now automatically performed that task. Turning her attention to the item she held in her hand was less torturous than continuing to look at all the equipment, objectively working to keep him alive.
Not to mention if she looked any longer she would be forced to really see him, Nick, and not just his surroundings. Sara placed the overstuffed case folder that she had brought back with her on her lap. Without looking back at him she rested the fingertips of her left hand on his wrist, letting the sensation of his warm skin under her own remind her that he was still there with her.
"Alright, let's get down to business shall we? What do we know?" she inquired in a quiet voice and opened the cover of the file folder.
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"So how exactly are we going to get him leave?" Catherine pondered out loud as she watched Warrick pouring excessive amounts of sugar into his next cup of coffee.
"I could drug his coffee and then wheel him out of here on a stretcher. Never know what hit him and he'd be completely under my control," Greg replied and completed the ending with an maniacal laugh. Catherine looked over at him. Her expression stated she often wondered about his mental state, but her words we more diplomatic.
"That's one plan I guess," she commented.
"Or we could lure him out of here," came the next suggestion
"How are we gonna do that?"
"I'm still working on that part," Greg replied eager and confident in his ability to devise a full proof plan.
"You go right on there with your thinking, okay Greg?" Catherine replied, rising and heading over to embark on the daunting mission of convincing Warrick Brown to go home and sleep for a while.
"I'm on it!" Greg called after her.
"Glad to hear it!" she called back sarcastically.
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Sara blinked her eyes against the intense tangerine rays of sunlight shining through the window pane. The sun was right at the horizon, but she suddenly couldn't recall if it was teetering on rising or setting. There was warmth hitting her skin from the glow which made her think afternoon sun, but analyzing the possibilities for a moment she decided it was the sunrise since last she remembered it was night. A sudden noise from right behind her jerked her guard up and she spun around, away from the window sill, just as a frustrated voice cursed softly.
"Dammit!"
Sara's alarmed state instantly vanished and was replaced with confusion. Not two feet in front of her stood Nick, dressed in jeans, a soft brown t-shirt, and his CSI vest. Leaned over a stack of papers on the desk there, he was frantically trying to mop up a pool of pale pink liquid. Using a sheet of paper that looked like it had come from his clipboard he wasn't having much such success. To the right of the puddle there was a small glass bottle, three quarters empty and missing its lid. To the left of the puddle was a notebook and some assorted papers on the desk. Nick's clipboard sat on the outer edge. Whatever had been in the bottle had spilled on both things.
"Nice going Stokes," he commented, squatting beside the desk and sifting through the contents of his field kit, searching for something to use to clean up the mess he had created. He gave up, blowing out a huge breath then angrily ripped off both of his gloves, which were tainted pink. He roughly stuffed the wet gloves in a plastic bag then just stayed squatted there by the desk for a few seconds, seemingly to collect himself.
"Alright, back to work," Nick said, refocused, and snapped on a fresh pair of gloves. He put his palms on the tops of his thighs to propel himself upward, but never completed the action. Sara watched as instead his attention was caught by something and he tucked his head so it cleared the underside of the desk, leaned slightly to the right, and reached for an object on the floor in the corner. Retrieving it he emerged back out from under the desk and stood up. The color picture on the paper in his right hand was crumpled into a tight ball. There was a flash of something, something hopeful, in his eyes as he delicately unfolded and examined it.
"Well isn't that interesting. She…" he stated, but Sara never heard the rest because the sensation of a hand of her shoulder, shaking her, stole her away from his voice.
"Sara. Sara, honey, wake up. You need to get up, and let them in," a female's voice encouraged. Sara twisted her head to the left and looked up to find Catherine leaning over her. For a heartbeat she only squinted at Catherine, disoriented and speechless.
"Sara, you have to get up!' the other woman insisted once more before all the other sounds in the room finally were absorbed by her ears. The one that had caused Catherine's prompting was harsh and heartbreaking. Sara sprang up out of the chair once it registering that the sound was an alarm on one of the pieces of monitoring equipment hooked up to Nick.
"What? What's wrong!" she pleaded, her voice arriving in the air louder than planned.
"It's his blood pressure. They're going to take care of him, but we need to get out of the way. They said they can help lower it, but they need us to clear the bed." Sara let Catherine tow her by a hand on her upper arm to the edge of the room. They watched as a collection of nurses and a doctor they didn't recognize assessed and reacted to Nick's distress. Sara let her gaze drift down from Nick, hoping not looking would stop the tears threatening to arrive. Her eyes fixed on the bland floor she noticed Amlyn Marshall's case folder and its contents strewn chaotically all over the floor. It must have fallen from her lap when she jumped up from the chair. One sheet in particular, that she didn't recognize as having come to yet in the stack made her next exhale catch in her throat. There near the right leg of the chair was a hand drawn diagram of a room with a desk and a window in the southwest corner.
And on the edge of it was a pale pink stain where something had spilled on the paper.
"I was there with him," she whispered.
To Be Continued…