Thank you for your kind reviews, they are very much appreciated. This story might not have a large following, but those who are reading and sharing your thoughts, make up for that with the generosity and scope of your comments. Sadly, the 'Poseidon' exists only in my dreams. Thank you and take care, and happy reading, I hope! Cathy

"I don't know, man," Warrick Brown was saying, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. "Something just doesn't sit right about this case." His steady, green-eyed gaze fixed on Nick Stokes, seated across the table.

Nick scooped a handful of popcorn, chewing it thoughtftully, while his own dark eyes regarded the other CSI. Finally, he inclined his head in deference to the other man's suspicions. "Yeah. It's just a little too pat. And then there's their reactions, the husband and the wife. I mean, they seem to be saying all the right things..." Nick's voice trailed off.

Warrick nodded. "Yeah. But have you seen the way they look at one another sometimes, when they think no one is looking?"

"Almost disdainful. Angry, sort of." Nick offered the popcorn to Warrick, who dipped into the bag.

The previous night, the pair had been called out to an attempted break and enter. The homeowners had found an armed intruder in the main level of their house. There had been an ensuing confrontation during which the husband, Jake Hatcher, had shot and killed the burglar. Jake Hatcher was one of the partners at Evans-Hatcher Incorporated, a local building and architectural firm. The couple lived in the prestigious Lakes area. The home's security system had been disabled the night of the incident, and it wasn't until Emily Hatcher's 911 call that police had been alerted to the scene.

The intruder had received three gunshot wounds, the second of which penetrated the heart and was the official cause of death. The deceased was identified from his prints as Len Rushton, a small time local crook, who was known to Las Vegas police.

Jake Hatcher's 9mm was registered and legal. Hatcher claimed that he had feared for his safety, and the life of his wife and had shot Rushton in self-defense. On the surface, it seemed an open and shut case, and at this point, according to Vega, the detective working the case, the D.A. did not seem inclined to press charges against the homeowner.

"And then there's that security system," Warrick continued. "Some pretty high tech stuff to circumvent for a small player like Rushton."

"I agree, there's nothing in his rap sheet to indicate he had those kinds of skills. But who knows, thanks to the wonder of the internet these days, it wouldn't surprise me if he downloaded the way to disable the security system off some website." Nick shook his head.

"Good evening, gentlemen," a cheery voice interrupted their conversation, as swing shift supervisor Helen Chang breezed into the breakroom. A perpetual smile beamed from her lovely Asian features.

"You're working late," Warrick remarked.

Helen bent before the small fridge, removing a can of diet Coke. Leaning back against the bank of cupboards, she popped the tab and took a grateful swig before replying. "Yes. Jennifer was pretty ticked. She said she's beginning to forget what I look like." Helen sighed. "Oh, hey, I just wanted to say that I'm sorry to hear that Sara's leaving. That came as a bit of a surprise. She's a good CSI, she'll be missed."

The two men exchanged a puzzled glance. "Say what?" Nick queried, swivelling in his chair to face Helen.

She looked at him in confusion. She had learned of Sara Sidle's resignation from Sheriff Mobley himself. Was it possible that Stokes and Brown were not aware yet that Sara had quit? Helen averted her eyes. "I'm sorry. Maybe I've misunderstood," she mumbled, though she knew she hadn't.

"What have you heard about Sara?" Warrick pressed, sitting forward in his chair, and resting his elbows on the table.

Nick studied Helen with interest. He couldn't imagine Grissom firing Sara, though he did recall uneasily the incident with Catherine and Cecilia Laval, and knowing the writer's connection to the mayor, worried that perhaps Sara had gone too far, though Cecilia didn't seem the type to tattle. He couldn't envision Sara quitting either, though obviously something had been eating her. Surely if she planned to leave, she would have said something to the rest of the team.

Warrick wanted to believe that Helen Chang had indeed misunderstood whatever she was implying about Sara, but he knew that she hadn't. Something was up. "Helen?" he prodded.

"Look, I'm really sorry I said anything, I'm obviously speaking out of turn," the swing supervisor said in embarassment. She glanced at the men apologetically then retreated from the room.

"What the hell is going on?" Nick voiced his consternation as he watched Helen Chang hurry down the hall. "Has Sara said anything to you, Rick, anything at all...?"

Warrick shook his head. "No, man, I'm just as in the dark on this as you." Then he remembered Sara almost running into him in the hall last week. How flustered and upset she had been.

"Where is she now?" Nick asked.

"She was running over to PD to see O'Reilly about a case, but said she wouldn't be long," Warrick answered. Sara had been quiet. Withdrawn. But nothing that was unprecedented behaviour for Sara. "You think we should say something to her?"

"Hell, yeah!" Nick answered, dark brows knitted with concern.

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When Sara looked up to see Nick and Warrick enter the computer lab, she realized instantly that they knew. There was a mixture of speculation and disappointment on their individually handsome features. She swallowed hard, and resisted the urge the bow her head in avoidance of the inevitable.

"Talk to us," Warrick said, firmly, though his voice was laced with concern, his extraordinary green eyes filled with compassion.

Sara tried to smile, though it came out more as a grimace. "I guess you guys heard."

"What exactly did we hear, Sara?" Nick demanded. "What's going on?" He stood to the left of Warrick and a half step behind, his hands planted on his hips.

There was no easy way to say it. "I quit," she said simply, expelling the two words in nervous gush. Two words. Five little letters. With the power to alter her future in ways that she couldn't imagine and had so far refused to contemplate. Five little letters that caused her heart to ache with each pounding beat, and her stomache to twist and her intestines to coil. Five little letters that meant that most final of good byes, and a separation from the colleagues who had come to be her friends.

"Why?" Warrick asked quietly.

"When are you going? Where are you going?" Nick questioned bleakly at the same time.

Sara sighed and compressed her lips to stop the trembling that threatened. She shrugged her shoulders and blinked her lashes rapidly, horrified to feel the moisture building up beneath them. Her throat felt too tight, as though someone had slipped an invisible garrotte around it, and the power of speech seemed denied to her. Sara continued to look at the two men, taking in the familiar square set of Nick's jaw, and the dimple that she had always thought was so cute, and the smooth, mocha surface of Warrick's attractive features beneath those amazing, soulful eyes. Wanting to imprint their images on her brain's hard drive, protecting them from ever being erased.

"I, uh..." Sara managed to croak out a couple of words. She continued to struggle, determined not to be done in by the weakness of emotion. "It was just...something I...I had to do." She swallowed hard, her nostrils flaring as she sought for air. "I'm here for a month," she answered Nick's question. "I...I'm still exploring my options. I've, uh, got a...a couple things on the go." The last part was a lie. She didn't really have any leads yet, but she didn't want them to know how desperate she was to get away, that she had recklessly given her resignation before she had secured new employment.

It had something to do with Grissom. Warrick would have bet his life savings on that, if he'd been a betting man anymore. He looked at Sara helplessly, wondering what he could have done differently. How he could have helped her. Feeling guilty that he hadn't seen how serious the situation was and hadn't done something to prevent the awful finality of this step Sara had felt she had no other choice but to take.

"Is there anything we can do to change your mind?" Nick asked hopefully, though the dullness in his eyes mirrored his understanding of the truth.

"Nope," Sara said. She sat rigidly in her chair. This wasn't the first time she'd changed jobs, or uprooted herself from the familiar. She had done it coming from San Francisco. Left behind the co-workers that she enjoyed, and the beautiful city that had been home. People did it all of the time, and it was seen as something positive. And it had been a great learning experience coming to Las Vegas. She had grown so much, professionally. It was a gold star on her resume, having been a criminalist with this lab. She was just taking the next step in her career development.

So why was there none of that eager anticipation that Sara had felt when she had boxed up her meager belongings, sold off her furniture, and flown from California to Nevada? Sara knew damn well why. Because when she had first come here to Las Vegas, she hadn't been coming just for a job. She had been coming here for a man. For Grissom. And now, years later, she was having to admit to herself that she had been orchestrating her life under false pretenses. Oh there was a job here for her, certainly, if she wanted it. But when she had arrived with dreams of love, they had been unattainable from the onset. And now Sara wasn't merely moving on. She was running away, broken and empty. Jobless. Having failed miserably at finding stability. Having failed miserably at finding love. It was time to grind those rose-coloured glasses beneath her heel, accept her failure, and move on with what little pride there was left to muster.

But oh, how Sara would miss them, these two, she thought, as she gazed at the pair. She couldn't imagine not hearing Nick's charming Texas drawl anymore, or Warrick's low, sensuous tones, or observing the friendly professional rivalry the two men shared. Another screw tightened on her heart. Sara knew that despite all of the things she wanted to say to them, the feelings she wanted to share about how much she had grown to respect and care for them, that she wouldn't...couldn't.

"What does Grissom have to say about all of this?" Nick wanted to know.. He couldn't imagine Gil letting Sara just walk away.

Sara's eyes glinted and she gave a hollow laugh. "What can he say really? What would he say?" And indeed, except for chastizing her about her unprofessionalism, and expressing frustration at having to be going through the hiring process, clearly Gil had been unaffected by the announcement of her leaving. He had flown off to Reno without another word to her.

Her phone had rung once, yesterday morning, while she had lain in bed, tossing and turning, trying to find the sleep that might be a haven from her pain. Sara had snatched it up, flipping it open. There had been only that single ring though. Her call display had alerted her to the fact that the incoming call had been from Grissom's phone. Except...he hadn't completed it. Either changing his mind and deciding that he had nothing to say to her afterall, or realizing he had misdialled and rather than apologizing for his error and having to have an unintentional and clearly unwanted exchange with her, Gil had simply hung up.

"If there's anything I can do..." Warrick offered, his voice trailing off.

"Me too," Nick added. "Anything. You gotta know..."

Sara nodded, touched by the offers. "I do know," she interjected, cutting Nick off. She knew she wouldn't be able to handle it if Nick said anything even remotely sentimental. "And thanks guys. Really." Sara dug her nails into her palms, concentrating on the pricking of pain, willing her two co-workers to leave her while she still managed to cling precariously to her composure.

"See you later then," Warrick told her, sensing how on edge Sara was and that she wanted to be alone. When he turned and left, with Nick in tow, Sara sighed her relief.

In her haste to distance herself from Grissom, to put an end to her obsession and to reclaim her soul, Sara hadn't given much thought to all of the other things she would be sacrificing. Nick and Warrick. Catherine...with whom, despite the tumultuous history of their relationship, she felt an indefinable link. Brass, who always had her back in the field, and who had always been a paternal voice of reason. Greg and Bobby in the lab, Greg with his enthusiasm and energy and Bobby with his quiet charm and subtle humour. Doc Robbins with his professional wisdom. David, sweet David, who had admitted his crush on her, maintaining his pride and his dignity, and whose bravery in taking a chance and risking rejection, Sara had never credited before. All of them...so special to her in their own way, such an integral part of her life, somehow managing to worm their way through her defenses over the years, without Sara even realizing it until now that it was far too late.

It was only a few moments afterwards, when Warrick had headed off to Trace, that Nick remembered that he had left his notes on the Hatcher case back in the computer lab before break. When he stepped into the room, he was halted by the sight of Sara, bent over her computer keyboard. Her face was buried in the palms of her cupped hands, her dark hair falling over them. The slender shoulders beneath her thin, cotton t-shirt shook, her body wracked by silent sobs.

Nick stood there, shocked. His first inclination was to go to Sara, to put his arms around her. To comfort her. His empathetic heart ached for the depth of her sorrow. But then Nick understood that while such a move might make him feel better, that Sara would be appalled. She would be mortified to know that Nick had witnessed her crying. Especially in public. Especially at work. And for Sara, the shame of that vulnerability would be worse than whatever had precipitated her tears.

And so Nick backed out of the room, his face crumpled with the weight of his compassion, his steps heavy with the knowledge that he couldn't ease her pain.

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She could hardly believe that he had been gone a month already. Amy Martens wandered through the darkened house that she and Denny had lived in for the last eleven years. She knew these rooms well enough not to need more than the diffused rays of moonlight that slanted through the curtains, to navigate them. She walked with her arms hugged close to her chest, as though to ward off a chill that only she could feel in the sultry August desert night.

Oh, Denny.

It was the nights that she missed her husband the most. When the queen-sized bed seem far too big for just one. There was no one to hog the coverlet, and no one to poke in the ribs to silence rumbling snores. There was no one to hold her in the circle of his arms, sharing dreams or their passion.

He was in a better place, Amy knew, cradled in the embrace of the Father. Free from pain and disappointment. Never again knowing want or sin. Re-united with the loved ones who had gone before. His warm smile was lighting the celestial skies now. His happy laughter was the current that lifted the wings of angels. One day, when God deemed it time, she would join her Denny again. Amy Martens believed that with every fibre of her being. And she knew, she just knew that Denny was watching over she and Christian still. His love enveloping and protecting them as it always had...just differently.

But oh, Lord help her selfish heart, even though Denny's earthly suffering was at an end and he had ascended to the throne, Amy couldn't help but miss him desperately. And sometimes...sometimes late at night, she would cry hot tears of bitterness and anger, and darkness would grip her soul. She would get on her knees then, and pray. Pray that in her small-minded humanity, unable to grasp the grand design of the Lord, God would reach His hand down to comfort her.

Tonight, though prayer had helped, Amy was still restless and on edge. She had wandered the halls, pausing in the open doorway of Christian's room, where he slumbered on his stomache, his dear face sunk into the pillow, one arm trailing over the side of his twin bed. He was getting so tall, outgrowing the bed, Amy realized. She'd have to see about getting him a new one. A double, probably, since the room wouldn't hold anything bigger without appearing too crowded.

Amy continued her silent march, no real destination in mind, and soon found herself poised at the doorway of Denny's office. Since the funeral, she had been making an effort to sort all of Denny's things. Her brother, Glen, thought it was too soon. But Amy believed that it would help her to accept the reality and the finality of her loss. She wasn't purging Denny from her life. Heaven knew she could never do that. But she found a comfort of sorts, going through his closets. Keeping a favourite tie, or pair of slippers, for a memory trunk. Donating those other items that still had wear, to the men's shelter, and to the church.

Amy crossed the room, and seated herself on the high-backed office chair. Swivelling it, she reached across Denny's desk, and turned on the banker's lamp, which cast its yellow light. She ran her fingers over the surface of the desk, picking up the painted, clay paperweight that Chris had made for Denny for Father's Day when he was in the first grade. Denny had been so delighted with the gift, so effusive with his praise, that Amy had almost thought Christian's proud grin would split his lightly freckled cheeks.

Chris's six year old hands had turned the lump of clay into a more than passable representation of a turtle, it's shell painted a very unturtle-like orange and purple. How Denny had cherished the paperweight. He'd even taken it into work, to grace his desk at the station. When one of the cleaners had accidentally knocked it to the floor, breaking off one of the legs, Denny had wrapped his treasure in a silk handkerchief and brought it home for repairs. After that, it had remained here, safe on his desk at home.

Amy brushed at the tears that had dropped onto the turtle's shell. How many times had she come into this room, to observe Denny just sitting in this very chair, holding the little turtle in one hand, his thumb absently rubbing its shell? It was his good luck turtle, his thinking turtle, he would tell she and Christian.

As she set the paperweight back on the desk, her gaze travelled to the small safe tucked in the far corner of the room, beneath a potted jade plant. Amy had already dealt with all of their important papers they had kept in their joint security deposit box at the bank. She had forgotten about this small safe in Denny's office though. She didn't even know what he kept in there.

Rising to her feet, Amy went to kneel down by the safe. She knew the combination, though she had never opened this safe before. Deftly her fingers turned the black knob, and in moments the fireproof door was swinging open. There was only a few papers, and they were denoted as copies, from the active cases Denny had been working on at the time of his death. Amy imagined that they could probably be destroyed in the shredder, but she would take them to the station, just in case there was anything important there. At the bottom of the pile was a folded piece of handwritten parchment.

Amy unfolded the letter, noting that it was not dated. Dear Detective Martens, it began. She read through it twice, puzzled. What did it mean? Why had Denny kept it? And more importantly, why hadn't he shared it with her? They hadn't had any secrets from one another...or so Amy Martens had thought. While the letter's import was lost on her, obviously it had meant something to Denny. Enough for him to not only hold onto it, but to keep it in his safe.

She knew that Denny's death was an accident. She had accepted that readily. So why the small hairs at the back of her neck should stand up now, and why Amy's eyes would dart nervously to the window, while her mind sought to recall whether or not she had locked all of the doors, was a mystery to her. There was nothing overtly threatening in this letter, nothing to account for the chill that worked its way up her spine.

Perhaps...perhaps she should take this letter to the precinct with her, with the other papers. Or maybe...maybe she should take it to Jim Brass. He was the one who had investigated the hit and run. Jim would set her mind at ease that there was nothing menacing about the letter, and that it had no connection to what had happened to Denny. Of course, how could it?