Nick hadn't slept.

He'd been sitting on the couch all night since coming home from the hospital, flicking channels over and over… and over.

Kara had been taken to the precinct. There had been a dozen police, an ambulance ride. Interviews. Everything had flicked by like it was on fast forward. Two way glass, round the clock surveillance, still hooked up to IV's. She was the last surviving direct witness to the senator's murder, and he was now afraid how much longer she would be a survivor.

But, no matter which way he tried to justify his actions, he was disgusted with himself,

He lied.

He had LIED!

He had to talk to Grissom.

He had to come clean.

His thoughts were sharply focused on the consequences as he leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling. God, what was wrong with him? The scene kept replaying over and over in his head. He'd killed someone, and then lied about what really happened. He was nauseous. She was still a victim.

But, she was also something else.

A killer.

Whether he had seen the cop about to fire at her or not, he'd lied to protect her. Why? What was wrong with him? Was he hoping he could get inside her head? Find all the answers to the questions nobody seemed to be able to answer? Get closer than nobody could?

Even so, she was a mystery now more than ever.

He had to get a look at the details of of DeMonte's murder and touch base with the others. Grissom and Warrick had gone to the mansion again last night; he was intensely interested in speaking with them as well, to get more pieces to a puzzle that was getting ghastly unrecognizable as it unfolded.

But Grissom had told him to stay home, and if he came clean, he would never set foot in the lab again.

A large sigh let out gradually.

He turned off the tv and tossed the clicker on the floor, rolling from the couch.

Letting the steam roll, he took his time as if trying to stretch out the time. He was not looking forward to telling Grissom the truth. The consequences weren't weighing the heaviest on his mind, it was the look of disappointment from someone he respected in the utmost degree.

Fingers slid through his hair in a hot shower. He couldn't get the smell from the hospital off: sterile plastic, linoleum and gauze. It lingered as the memory did, seeming to permeate his nostrils; the smell of her blood in the mix was stuck in his head along with…

…the feel of her skin under his fingers.

He clenched his teeth as if he'd been blindsided, rubbing the heels of his hands over his eyes.

It was beginning to become painfully clear. He barely knew her. Was defending this woman worth his career?

Looking at his hands, he rubbed his fingers together a moment before turning off the knobs and stepping out to dry. Throwing on a pair of jeans and a tee shirt, he padded barefoot into the kitchen, making something to eat and sitting silently, staring at his food.

The fork pushed it around, never making it anywhere else but to the other side of the plate before he tossed it into the sink, turned on the water and fired up the garbage disposal. He drew a slow breath, a metaphor for his career.

Pulling on a sweater and shoes, he grabbed his keys and moved out to the garage. A truck pulled in behind his as he opened the garage door.

"How're you doing?" A door slammed.

"Hi Gris," he said. "I was just about to come in," his breath billowed in the outside air as he tucked his hands into his pockets.

Grissom watched his face carefully, the aversion of his eyes. He knew immediately something was wrong.

"Good, everything ran fine. You shouldn't be coming in today." He held up a folder for him, another in his fingers. "That's the point of a day off, but I still thought you'd want to see this. I brought it over to make sure you were staying home, which I can see you aren't, so mission accomplished."

Nick took the folder and flipped it open. He was silent a moment while he read it.

"Ballistics had no hit on the original bullet that killed the senator, after the incident at the hospital Sara decided to have them compared. They match." Grissom said.

"The original shooter meant to kill Kara?" Nick asked. "Is this match definitive?"

Grissom's brow rose at the first name basis again as he nodded.

"The senator was never the target, the shooter missed," Nick pursed his lips, his brow lowering as he stared at Grissom. "Theoretically."

"The plot thickens…" Grissom grinned gently, studying Nick's expressions.

"Someone had it out for her and was relying on DeMonte to do the job. She's seen or knows something she's not supposed to. We're looking at an organized hit here. I would give a thousand bucks to find out what their original fight was about that sent her through that glass door."

"She's still not divulging any interesting details. There are several men in custody for Mr. DeMonte's death, we're getting nowhere with them either," Grissom was still watching him carefully; Nick was really bothered.

"Several?" he looked up.

Grissom nodded slowly. "We had to release him from custody, he didn't make it home. Warrick and I couldn't find enough to hold him." He paused, "Nicky, are you really okay?"

He flashed a quick smile, closing the folder, "Fine, why?"

"Because yesterday you killed someone. You talk about how your gun gets you the ladies, but you and I both know it scares you to death,"

"I've never told you that," he scoffed slightly. "Well, maybe the part about the girls but…"

"C'mon Nick. That's why I gave you the day off; everyone deals with things in different ways. You need to stop a moment and take in how your brain is reacting to the stress."

"I'm not stressed," Nick sighed tightly; he rested his knuckles on his truck. "I'm absolutely fine."

Grissom's face went neutral. "Then you won't mind staying home today." He held his hand out for the folder back.

Nick gave it to him as Grissom handed him the other, watching his expression as he realized what it was. Nick scanned the contents, swallowing slightly as the smile disappeared from his face.

"I also had some questions for you about this," Grissom asked.

"This is my report from last night," Nick half smiled. "Couldn't you have just called?"

"I wanted to see you in person," he brushed off his question, going straight for his point. "I noticed some anomalies. It was not your usual attention to detail. I also wanted to ask you about something Warrick mentioned. Fingerprints? You went to the hospital to get her fingerprints? That was your hunch?"

"Look, I studied every bit of glass from that scene. No fingerprints. I thought that was weird, I followed my gut. What did you find at the house?"

"No fingerprints, but Mrs. DeMonte is an obsessive compulsive, and Mr. DeMonte leaves the toilet seat up," he noticed Nick's change of subject from the report.

"Obsessive compulsive?"

"A psychological disease described in thematic categories, her category is order; objects laid out according to exact space and width. She would also have an obsessive trigger that tries to mask the anxiety of her compulsive behavior. That might be important if we can find out what it is."

"So Warrick was right, she is loony."

"Not necessarily, quite a common disorder; much like… being a perfectionist…"

"Or being obsessed with bugs…" Nick quipped.

"Or counting…" Grissom bypassed his bug comment, as if he'd had an epiphany. He could see her lips moving again in his mind's eye, the words finally coming together in his brain. "…or repetitive words or sayings."

Nick thought a moment. "Symptom of abuse?"

"Among other things, there is a laundry list of causes," he was looking over the first file he had taken back from Nick, lost in deep thought, a melody from a master composer now forming in his head as he followed the movement of her lips in his memory. "She was singing," he said under his breath, his lips pursing. "Counting herself off to sing…"

She had been counting with the words, as if she was rehearsing along with a performer. Merely singing a song to lessen the situation? He wasn't sure. Insight into a history? He would check into it.

"Did you dust the gun from the hospital?" the question was out of the blue.

Grissom nodded, looking up, snapping back to the moment.

"One pair of prints, the assailants. Where you going with this Nick?"

"What do you mean there were no other prints?" Nick said.

"There are no other prints," Grissom repeated. "One shooter, one pair of prints, the man who was going to kill Mrs. DeMonte. Four shots fired. Your bullets match the one that killed the assailant; his bullet matches the one that killed the cop and went through the window and ended up in a parking garage wall. The laceration on his head is from the IV pole. He is yet, to be identified." He spoke slowly, articulating each word from Nick's report as if he'd memorized it.

Nick sighed tightly.

"What were you expecting to find on the gun?" Grissom inquired. "Is this another hunch you're chasing?"

Dark eyes softened slightly.

Grissom nodded calmly, "Nick… Nicky, what did you do?"

Nick looked distressed, slapping the folder down on the hood of his truck, his fingers to his temples. "Have you ever done what you thought was the right thing at the time, only to figure out later it was the worst thing you could have done?"

Grissom thought carefully, staying calm. "We're only human, we can only do the best we can with what we're given."

Nick looked as if he was about to cry.

"Nicky, did you lie on this report?" Grissom swallowed slowly.

Nick was looking at everything other than Grissom's face, his eyes finally coming to rest on the floor before closing tightly.

"Yes."

He was hoping that wasn't the case. He was hoping Nick had just been bothered enough to be vague. This was a nightmare.

"What happened?" Grissom asked gently.

"She fired the shot at the cop," Nick said quickly, running his hands over his face.

"She killed the cop?" Grissom's eyebrow rose as he closed the folder and pushed his glasses onto his head. "Self defense, bad aim?" he was fishing.

"No… no, I don't think the aim was a problem." Nick's fingers went to his hair, one hand on his hip as he rifled it forward then back, a nervous habit. "I don't know what I was thinking, it was so fast, I was so confused at what happened."

"Nick…" Grissom set the file down on the hood of the truck and blinked slowly, rubbing between his eyes. "You've committed a felony because a pretty girl told you too. Have you lost your mind?" his fingers went to his temples, feeling a migraine welling.

"Look, I was coming in to fix things!" he was suddenly angry, but his fear leached through. "She's not what she seems. Gil, I saw her clock a guy in the head! The tears turned on and off like a high school play. One minute she was shooting the cop in the forehead, the next minute she was crying and holding on to me. I didn't know what to do, I thought it was the right thing at the time."

Grissom set his fingertips on the closed file, then picked them up, holding them in both hands.

"The first time we processed, when I followed her up to her room to get her suit coat, she became a different person. She was cold, calculated, not at all the distracted beaten wife we all saw. I knew something was up."

"You should have said something… Nick."

"I'm going straight to Ecklie," his eyes were hurt. "I know. I screwed up."

Grissom was silent for a long, long time.

"Say something… please."

"Nicky…" he started. "You really screwed up,"

Nick looked stricken. "I'm sorry… All I'm asking for is a second chance; I'm trying to make this right. I was coming in to talk to you to make this right."

"I don't know if I can make this right." Grissom's look was sad as he took the folders and moved back to his truck without another word.

Nick walked out after him, distraught.

"He wasn't a cop," Nick said quietly. "I'm positive he wasn't a cop, please just check into it."

Grissom stopped, still not speaking. He opened his door finally, looking over his shoulder before he got in. "We have to remember the victim Nick. We cannot make personal decisions as to who deserves the most justice, especially when those who aren't still alive don't get a second chance."

"If we don't help her she won't be alive for long."

"Not following protocol is never the answer Nick."

The glare was sharp as he crunched his keys in his hand and moved back inside. "Maybe we'll finally be able to help her when she's dead, since that seems to be the only victims we can help."

"Nicky," Grissom's voice was soft, troubled. "Stay here, please? I'll call you."

"You got it," his voice was short, slamming the door behind him.