A/N: A huge thank you to my newfound beta, Marlou. She was an enormous help with this chapter. So, if my writing is improved (hopefully!), it's all her doing! Any errors still contained herein are mine and mine alone.
Another quick reminder. I know it's been several months now (yeah, yeah, I need to stop being such a slacker, blah, blah, blah! :-)), but keep in mind that this story is set prior to the beginning of season 5. So think summer of 2004, though the exact time has never really been pinpointed. I do mention a couple of dates, and I didn't want there to be any confusion.
Spoilers: "Chaos Theory"
Disclaimer: Man, after "Snakes," I wish even more that CSI: belonged to me. Come on, CBS, just a little piece? No? Aw, man! :-)
Chapter 18: The Truth Will Set You FreeGrissom breathed a sigh of relief as he pushed open the metallic door that led into the parking lot. It had been a long day and, while they had made a great deal of progress, it wasn't enough to satisfy him. And it wouldn't be enough until they had the sick individual who had threatened Sara safely behind bars – for good.
Without conscious thought, he pressed his hand more tightly against Sara's lower back, and she bit her lip to suppress the sigh that threatened to escape. He unlocked the Denali's door with the remote device and pulled open the passenger door, his hand automatically moving to her arm to help her inside. She opened her mouth to thank him, but he had already moved away, shutting the door after ensuring she was safely inside.
She kept her eyes on him as he crossed in front of the truck, his eyes busily scanning the partially full lot, hungrily searching for any sign of danger. After climbing inside and fastening his seat belt, he looked at her and visibly relaxed, and something about the sight warmed her all the way to her toes. She couldn't have stopped her smile if someone had held a gun to her head. He really does care. And, this time, she couldn't stop the sigh that poured forth from her very soul – a deep, contented sound that carried a wealth of emotions in its robust tone.
Hearing it, Grissom shot her a curious glance as he started the engine. "What?"
She smiled as she closed her eyes and rested her head back against the seat. "Nothing. Just glad to be going home." The remark intentionally contained multiple layers of meaning, but she was secure in the knowledge that he would never delve beyond the superficial.
"Me, too," he agreed, and she heard the smile in his voice.
"Mmm," she purred, her body slipping further into relaxation as the rhythmic vibrations of the truck's powerful engine were transmitted through the headrest directly her aching neck muscles. "Missed me that much, huh?" she teased.
He didn't even hesitate. "Yes."
Sara's eyes popped open, and she jerked her head up to fix him with an incredulous stare. "What?"
He glanced over at her, smirking a little at her stunned expression. "Does that surprise you?"
She narrowed her eyes in confusion. "Well…" She paused, unsure of the correct response. Finally deciding that honesty really is the best policy, she quietly replied, "Yeah, a little."
A sad expression crossed his face, and he drew in a slow breath before answering. "And that doesn't surprise me." As they slowed to a stop at a red light, he turned his head to meet her gaze before he spoke his next words. "But I guess I've gotten used to having you around. And I miss you when you're not there."
Terrified of her reaction and even more ashamed of his own fear of it, he turned back to the road almost immediately – but not before Sara saw the emotions in his eyes. Feeling overwhelmingly satisfied with his admission, she watched in fascination as his ears tinged pink and the muscles in his jaw twitched sporadically. One corner of her mouth turned upward into a tiny smile, and she responded in a voice that was barely audible over the engine's hum. "I missed you, too."
The only indication that he heard her quiet statement was the slight upward curvature of the corner of his mouth, but it was enough, and Sara leaned back against the headrest with a soft smile on her own lips. She toyed with the perfect crease in her nylon slacks, wondering absently if she could have ironed the pants herself with the same mathematical precision that her dry cleaner apparently possessed.
Grissom glanced over at her shyly before turning onto the entrance ramp for the interstate, and it didn't surprise him that he was completely unsure of what his next words should be. He was fully aware of the significance of the moment that had just passed between them, but he had no idea how to pursue the conversation – or even whether he should. For all he knew, an in-depth discussion of their relationship was more than either of them could handle at the moment. What do I do now? Tightening his grip on the steering wheel, he mentally berated himself for his glaring deficiencies in even the most basic of human interactions.
But Sara saved him, the cool fluidity of her voice a welcome oasis in the vast desert of his self-deprecation. "Oh, hey, I almost forgot to tell you." She reached down for the case file lying on the floorboard beside her feet as she continued, "We found the other case."
The shift in conversation was a little too sudden for Grissom. He looked at her in confusion for a moment, and she added, "The case I worked. The one the perp mentioned in the note. Remember?"
The additional details cleared the cobwebs from his brain, and he nodded at her with wide eyes before returning his gaze to the road, nonverbally encouraging her to elaborate.
She sighed. "I screwed up, Grissom. Serial killers usually kill within a certain gender and ethnic group, and they rarely deviate from their chosen type of victim. The two that we knew about were both Caucasian women, and I assumed that our perp was following the same mold." Her tone was apologetic, and he glanced at her in puzzlement. She smiled humorlessly and clarified, "When I told you about my unsolved cases, I only mentioned the women."
The light of understanding dawned in his eyes, and he raised an eyebrow as he looked over at her quickly. She shook her head, her anger at herself evident in her posture. "I can't believe I didn't pick up on it immediately. What kind of an investigator am I?"
"A human one?" he ventured, desperately wanting to ease her mind but having no idea how best to accomplish that in his currently uninformed state. He sighed when she fixed him with an icy glare. OK, so apparently that wasn't the right way. "Sara," he tried again. "Why don't you fill me in so that both of us are in the know?"
Her face softened, and she offered him a sad smile of contrition as she nodded. "Yeah." She ran slender fingers across the cool manila covering of the file, drawing courage from its familiarity as she braced herself for a conversation she had no desire to begin.
She took a deep breath and stared out the front windshield at some distant point straight ahead, forcing herself to emotionlessly relate case particulars she had long ago memorized. "Javier Ruiz, age 56. Found in his estranged wife's home in November 2003. Cause of death: Cardiac arrest due to injection of potassium chloride through the femoral vein. Loose restraints around his wrists. Just like our other victims," she added, her voice dropping to finish in a quiet whisper.
At the last statement, she bowed her head in defeat. Voicing the details aloud made it that much more obvious. She hated to fail – had always hated it – but doing so in front of Grissom exponentially magnified the offense. She closed her own eyes, knowing the anguish of seeing the inevitable disappointment in his would be more than she could bear, and she waited for him to voice what they were both thinking. Why didn't you see this before?
When the words didn't come, she finally looked at him, surprised to see only compassion in his gaze when it momentarily flickered away from the highway and settled on her. He sighed as he turned back to face the road, and his voice was gentle as he spoke. "Sara, you're too hard on yourself."
She turned to look out the passenger side window, leaning her chin into her hand propped on the door handle and seeing more of a blur of passing scenery than any real detail. After a moment, she mumbled, "I ruled out evidence based on a faulty assumption."
"No, you didn't." Desperation to make her understand roughened his voice, and it came out harsher than he'd intended. He sighed when she stiffened noticeably and deliberately softened his words when he spoke again. "Your assumption was perfectly rational. It was even prudent. Sara, when we work a case, we don't chase every single person who might have had the opportunity to commit the crime. We don't have the time or the resources, so we have to make some assumptions about the most likely scenarios and start there. If that doesn't pan out, then we move on to the unlikely. Do you remember Paige Rycoff?"
She paused in her study of fuzzy vegetation long enough to lift one shoulder in silent acknowledgement of his question. Grissom had no idea whether the gesture was an affirmative response or a negative one, so he plunged ahead in his discourse. "Well, when she turned up missing, we started with suspects who lived near her or who knew her well – her dorm mates, the professor she was involved with – because they were the most likely culprits. Then, we moved on to her being the victim of a hit-and-run. When that didn't pan out, we considered what had actually happened: She leaned over the side of a dumpster that was clipped by a Jeep at exactly that moment, fatally injuring her. It was a highly improbable scenario, and we would never have logically begun there. Why would we? It was a million-to-one shot."
If he expected a verbal response, he was sorely disappointed. She simply continued to stare out the window, but he could tell by the gradual relaxation of her shoulders that he was reaching her. "See, that's the way science works, and you do it every day. This is no different. You started with a rational assumption that turned out to be incorrect. When you realized that, you discarded it. Do you really think I'd expect you to just spontaneously recall minute details of some case that happened nearly a year ago simply on the off-chance that it might be related? Wouldn't that have been unreasonable of me?" When she didn't respond, he pressed quietly, "So why would you expect it of yourself?"
His gentle question brought her out of her reverie, and she turned her head slowly to face him. He glanced at her, conveying his concern with his eyes. Her face held an expression of mingled sadness, surprise, and gratitude and, after a long moment, she simply said, "Thanks."
He nodded, returning his attention to the interstate and noting that they were now only five exits from their destination. Sometimes he wondered why he had bought a place so far from work. On a good day, it took 45 minutes to reach the lab and, if there was any traffic at all, the drive stretched over an hour. But his townhouse was spacious and comfortable, the complex was secluded without being inconvenient, and his neighbors were quiet professionals who kept to themselves and allowed him to do the same. The view from his back patio was beautiful at worst and, on a crisp, clear winter morning, it was absolutely breathtaking. It was worth the drive. And the best part is that I have somebody to share it with now...
He shook his head a little to refocus his thoughts on something else, anything else. Something to keep his mind off of how much he enjoyed having Sara in his home. Anything that would make him forget how much he would miss her when she left. He cleared his throat and, in a steady voice that belied his true feelings, he requested, "So tell me more about the restraints."
She grinned in anticipation of his reaction to her next words. "Made of leather. Like those used in executions."
Grissom snapped his head toward her, and the hand that gripped the steering wheel mimicked the motion, causing him to veer slightly toward the right. Realizing his error, he rapidly returned his eyes to the road and corrected the vehicle's trajectory before looking over at her sheepishly. "Sorry." At her understanding nod, he continued, "Did you say executions?"
"Yes. And that's especially fascinating in light of the fact that Ruiz had retired from the Nevada Department of Corrections, where he worked for thirty years, including the last six as an executioner. Those restraints and the potassium injection are consistent with our theory that the killer's signature says something about his knowledge of the victim."
He nodded, lost in thought as his mind raced with possibilities. Three victims, one distinctive signature, and a killer with some sort of connection to Sara. He didn't like the way this equation was adding up. He looked up as they passed the exit to Woodrow Avenue and mentally recalculated. Four exits. Then she'd be home and safe. He barely noticed the ringing of her cell phone.
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Brass guffawed loudly as O'Riley related a colorful description of his latest run-in with Sheila, the aging hooker who was more the department pet than a real troublemaker. The crew-cut-sporting cop shook his head as he blew on a steaming mug of coffee. "She just doesn't know when to quit."
His fellow detective nodded with a grin. "Ain't it the truth. She shoulda gotten out of the business a long time ago. But," he continued with a sigh, "I guess it's the only life she knows. Hard to leave that."
"True," O'Riley replied. "We just gotta keep an eye on Rocky, keep him from slapping her around." He drained the last of his java and looked around for their waitress, beckoning with his cup when he caught Doris' eye at the far end of the mostly empty diner.
She shot him a glare and snapped in a nasal voice that carried easily across the restaurant. "Keep your pants on, Buzz. I'll get to ya when I can."
Both men chuckled at that, and Brass turned to call out, "Aw, come on, Doris. We're some of Vegas' finest, ya know."
She snorted as she scooped up the full pot and carried it toward their table to fill their cups. "Oh, I know, honey. Why do you think I stay up-to-date with my practice at the shooting range?"
The two cops chortled, and Brass dramatically lifted one hand to his chest. "Oh, that hurt. You can't m-" His retort was interrupted by the sharp chirp of his phone. Pulling it from his coat pocket, he glanced at the caller ID hastily while Doris grabbed their check and began scribbling on the back. Recognizing the number immediately, he gestured with the phone and smirked as he told her, "Duty calls. I think I'll quit while you're ahead."
Her sarcastic response belied the fake smile she wore. "Wouldn't be the first time a man quit before I was satisfied."
His eyebrows rose so high they nearly met his receding hairline, and O'Riley choked on his coffee. The saucy waitress slapped the burly detective hard on the back before dropping their check on the table and stalking away to attend to a pair of beat cops seated nearby. Shaking his head and composing himself quickly, Brass pressed a button on the phone and brought it to his ear. "Hey, Gil."
"Jim. You busy?"
Brass glanced across the table at his flushed companion, who was busily mopping his sweaty face with a napkin. "Not really. Me and Ray were just finishing up some breakfast at the diner. In between getting abused by the help, that is," he added more loudly, cocking an eyebrow at Doris as she sauntered past. He grinned when she scowled over her shoulder, skillfully balancing three heaping plates and a pot of coffee as she muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "You haven't seen abuse."
"Ah," Grissom replied knowingly. "Doris is treating you well then?"
"Like you wouldn't believe."
The scientist chuckled. "You know, I think she's smitten with you."
"Sure, Gil," Brass retorted patronizingly. "I swear, you're the only friggin' person I know that uses the word 'smitten.' Look, did you have a reason for calling, or were you just hoping to add insult to injury?"
"Why can't I do both?" Grissom questioned with a laugh. At Brass' growl, he chuckled and told him, "Sara just spoke with Allison Shea's mother. She's willing to meet with us today. But she has to be at work at noon."
The cop frowned as he glanced at his watch. "That's only three hours from now."
"That would be the down side, yes."
Brass sighed as he glanced at O'Riley with an apologetic smile. "Fine. I'm leaving now, and I'll meet you there. What's the address?" After jotting down the information, the veteran detective grinned slyly and asked, "Sara coming with you?"
"Um, of course," the CSI replied slowly, and the confusion evident in his voice made Brass smile.
He stood to shrug into his coat, dropping some bills on the table and shifting the phone to his left hand before replying. "Good. I'm curious to find out whether double the smitten people doubles the fun. See ya in a few." He chuckled as he pressed the "End" button on Grissom's incensed stammering, and it grew into a full laugh at the sight of his companion coughing once more as he set his coffee cup down on the table. He reached over to lightly shove O'Riley's water in his direction. "Maybe you should stick to water, Ray. The hard stuff isn't agreeing with you this morning."
He waved as he headed for the door, grinning at the rude gesture his comment had earned.
XXXXXXXXX
Sara was surprised when Brass waved at them as they slowed to a stop in front of Miranda Shea's home. "How did he beat us here? We were only ten miles away."
Grissom followed her gaze to the veteran detective and politely raised a hand in greeting. He shrugged as he unbuckled his seat belt and pulled the key from the ignition. "He was at the diner. It's only seven miles."
She fixed his back with a disbelieving stare as he climbed down out of the SUV, but she quickly recovered her composure. She shook her head as she disengaged her own seat belt and descended from the vehicle. It really shouldn't still surprise me that he knows random stuff like that.
She leisurely strolled up the driveway toward the house and away from her colleagues, giving the two of them time to complete a somewhat animated conversation and allowing herself adequate space to thoroughly survey her surroundings. The neighborhood itself was much like any other – rather quieter than some, perhaps a little older than others. The Spanish influence on the architecture was unmistakable, and Sara's eyes settled on the stucco structure that had once been home to Allison Shea. A red roof crowned the tiny abode, and the spiky leaves of a yucca plant rose from the ground on the left side of the small porch. All in all, the house was older but obviously tidy and well-kept, and she instinctively felt that it reflected its owner.
As she drew nearer, the front door suddenly opened to reveal the object of her speculation. At first blush, Miranda Shea was ordinary. A middle-aged woman of average height and slightly above average girth, limp brown hair that had been pulled into a messy ponytail, and glasses that were far from stylish. But Sara could see beyond the surface mediocrity to the extraordinary that was visible underneath. There was something about Miranda's eyes. This woman had been through it all – and had survived.
And Sara admired her instantly. She took a deep breath and, after checking to be sure that her companions were advancing, she gestured toward them and began the introductions. "Hi, Mrs. Shea. I'm Sara Sidle from the crime lab. And these guys are Gil Grissom and Detective Jim Brass."
The woman flashed an exhausted half-smile and said, "Pleased to meet all of you. I've been waiting for you. Won't you come in?" She said the last as she retreated slightly into the house, holding the front door open for them to follow her inside. "Oh, and it's Miranda. Makes me feel old to have a title."
Once inside the comfortable living room, Miranda gestured toward the furniture with a shaky hand. "Please. Sit." Brass and Sara complied with the request, arranging themselves carefully on the overstuffed sofa. Grissom, on the other hand, moved to stand beside the mantle, leaning casually against it as he unabashedly surveyed the pictures that nested there. When it became obvious that he would remain rooted to that spot, Shea sighed and dropped into the only remaining seat, a worn cloth recliner, and asked the question that had obviously been on her mind. "Have there been any new developments in Kimmy's case?"
From his perch by the mantle, Grissom met Sara's shocked gaze, and Miranda picked up on it right away. Her brow furrowed in confusion, and her voice trembled slightly when she asked, "What is it?"
Brass watched the interchange, a cold sweat trickling slowly down his back at the mention of the name "Kimmy." There was no way it was a coincidence that this victim's name was Kimmy, and their killer had signed the note "Kim." But it would do none of them any good to panic a grieving mother. He took a deep breath and partially articulated his concern. "Um, ma'am, we were under the impression that your daughter's name was Allison."
The older woman visibly relaxed and even ventured a tiny smile. "Oh, I'm sorry. She'll always be Kimmy to me." Seeing Sara's befuddled expression, she explained further. "Her name was Kimberly Allison Shea, and I called her Kimmy ever since she was a little girl. When she got to high school, she decided it was too little-girl-like and told everybody her name was Kim. But we all still called her Kimmy. She hated it."
Chuckling slightly at the memory, she continued, "She just looked like a Kimmy, I guess. She didn't understand why we all had such a hard time calling her something else. When she went to UNLV, she decided to make a clean break and just call herself by her middle name. But her old friends from high school were there, and the new people just learned from them. Finally, when she left to go to California, she officially changed her name to just Allison Shea. And the people there didn't know her as Kimmy, so she was Ally to them. But she's always Kimmy to me."
Sara didn't comment on Miranda's use of the present tense. The grief was self-evident but utterly understandable. She chose instead to redirect it. "Do you know anyone who might have wanted to harm Kimmy?"
Miranda eyed the young CSI closely for a long moment, as if trying to discern the motivation behind the question. Apparently satisfied with what she found, she sighed and said, "I've already told the police a million times. Everybody loved her. I don't know anybody who would have wanted to kill her." Her voice cracked at the end, but she drew in a deep breath and stared at her hands in a Herculean effort to compose herself.
Grissom watched the interaction between the two women and marveled at the instant bond that seemed to form. When he saw the telltale sympathy on Sara's face, he spoke, directing himself in a compassionate voice to Miranda Shea. "Mrs. Shea, could you tell me about these pictures?" He had no idea whether his main motivation was to familiarize himself with as many of Ally Shea's acquaintances as possible or to distract Sara from the horrors of this case. And he was no longer sure there was a difference.
Sara looked up at him then, and the sight of the glittering tears in her eyes shot straight to his heart and forced him to look away. Miranda smiled bitterly and rose to come stand beside him. Taking the gold-framed photo from his hand, she chuckled at the picture, gesturing for Sara and Brass to come and see.
They obliged and were rewarded with a photograph of two smiling girls flanking a wiry teenaged boy in thick glasses. Oversized sunglasses were perched atop his head, and the girls were each kissing one of his reddened cheeks. They were obviously at some amusement park, and Sara grinned at the flustered look on the boy's face. She was absolutely certain it was the same expression a teenaged Grissom would have worn in a similar situation. The idea made her giggle.
Pleased at her reaction, Miranda smiled. "That's Kimmy on the right. The other two were her best friends in high school, Courtney and Byron." Her face grew wistful as she continued, "I haven't seen either one of them in years. Courtney moved out east somewhere. Byron went to UNLV with Kimmy, but he hasn't come around for a long time."
Sara could sense the hurt in the older woman, and she touched her lightly on the arm, just a small gesture of support to let her know she wasn't alone. Miranda shook her head and replaced the picture on the shelf, quickly reaching for another. She smiled as she held it out so that the group could see. "Kimmy and her sorority sisters."
Sara smiled widely at the picture of a group of young women in T-shirts and shorts surrounded by automobiles. Many of them held buckets or hoses, and it was apparent they were having a car wash. Everyone was smiling, and the good humor in the photo was pervasive. Even Grissom smirked as he stared at it.
Miranda reached for one more photo from the mantle, staring longingly at it for a moment before sighing and turning to face her audience. After shooting Sara a sad smile, she held out the picture. "Kimmy and Jeremy."
The young CSI nodded and took the proffered snapshot, studying it thoughtfully for a moment before questioning, "Did you like Jeremy?"
The older woman met her eyes quickly, seeming to know what she was getting at. She nodded. "Yes." The statement was emphatic in its simplicity. "He loved my daughter, and that was enough for me." She looked back down at the photo, taking it gently from Sara's grasp. "He calls every now and then just to see how I'm doing. He hasn't forgotten her."
Sara studied her for a long moment before she came to a decision. "Miranda, thank you for speaking with us. I can promise you that we will do everything in our power to find the person responsible for this. And I am so sorry for your loss." Surprised, Grissom raised one eyebrow but didn't argue. The older woman had responded well to Sara, and he found it hard to question the results. They would be leaving with much more insight into their killer than they had when they walked in.
Miranda nodded and, after replacing the picture lovingly back in its place of honor on the mantle, she led the way to the door. Sara held back, motioning for Grissom and Brass to precede her out the door. But, halfway outside, Grissom turned and cocked his head to one side. "Miranda, did Kimmy have any friends who worked at Desert Palm?"
The woman blinked in surprise for a second before her brow wrinkled in concentration. After a long moment, she replied, "I don't think so. Why?"
Not wanting to raise her hopes with evidence that had not been put into context, he shook his head with a sad smile. "Just trying to explore every avenue."
He didn't expect her to accept it, but she seemed to understand. She nodded and turned to Sara. Her voice was warm when she told her, "Thank you. For everything."
The younger woman, a little taken aback, could only nod. Awkwardly, she clasped Miranda's hand and repeated her earlier promise. "We'll do everything we can."
She heard the door shut behind her, and she walked to the Denali without looking back. Brass told them he was heading home, but she hardly heard him, barely even acknowledged the sound of his engine roaring to life as she climbed into the truck. She heard Grissom settle into the seat, and suddenly an overwhelming fatigue was upon her. She wanted to go home. Grissom's home. Her home. They were one and the same now. And that realization scared her a little. More than a little.
She suddenly became aware that they were no longer moving, and she glanced out the windshield to find that they were in a park. Obviously still in the same neighborhood because there was stucco everywhere. And Grissom was staring at her. Finally, she rolled her eyes to look at him. "What?"
He shook his head but kept his eyes fixed on her. "Just wanted to make sure you're OK."
She smiled but only slightly. "Yeah. Just zoned out for a minute. Thinking." Unable to tolerate the continued scrutiny, she stared out through the windshield. Searching for something, anything, that she could use as a conversation starter. Anything that would take his eyes away from her. "I have never understood why anyone in their right mind would buy a house made of stucco."
And that did it. The disdainful comment was met with utter silence, and an uncomfortable realization grew in her with each passing second. In her peripheral vision, she could see that he was staring straight ahead, jaw set harshly in a rigid line of tightly clenched muscles. After a seemingly interminable period, she at last screwed up the courage to venture cautiously, "Oh, God. You grew up in a stucco house, didn't you?" She forced herself to face him, despite the hot blush that had flared on her cheeks.
"No." She watched in surprise as the jaw muscles slowly relaxed into a grin that spread across his face and, when it reached its widest point, he turned his head in her direction. "But I had you going, didn't I?"
She stared at him, speechless. He had joked with her more in the last three days than in the previous three years, and she wasn't quite sure what to make of it. She definitely enjoyed this side of him, but she wasn't absolutely convinced that she trusted it. She narrowed her eyes as she looked at him, contemplating her own thoughts – and his. What's going on in that head of yours, Gil Grissom?
When her prolonged silence began to make him uncomfortable, he feared the worst, shooting her a nervous glance as the grin rapidly faded. Finally, unable to bear the quiet any longer, he asked, "What?"
"I'm just wondering who you are and what you've done with my supervisor."
He wanted to laugh, but her voice was deadly serious, and the underlying question came through loud and clear. He sighed, debating how he could best answer her. She deserved the truth, but their complicated past demanded that he tread gently – for both their sakes. Small doses of honesty were about as much as he could mete out. "I didn't like him much. Decided that he probably shouldn't come back."
He had no idea what her response to that would be, but it was the best he had to offer at present. He hoped against hope for her understanding. What he got was even better. Complete acceptance. "I liked him. Why didn't you?"
He stared at her, incredulous. "You liked that cantankerous old fool?"
She rounded on him, angry and ready to defend the man she loved. Until it occurred to her that she would be defending him to the man she loved. Her face softened into a tender smile, and she responded gently, "Yeah, I liked him. I mean, I like you, too, but he was…"
Her voice trailed off, and he watched in amazement as a host of emotions flitted across her face in rapid succession. She stared into space somewhere over his right shoulder for a fleeting moment before her eyes refocused on him. "I just knew what to expect from him. Maybe he wasn't all that sensitive, or even very consistent, but at least he was consistently inconsistent, you know?" She laughed at her own absurdity. "Maybe I'm not making any sense. I don't know…" She paused and drew in a deep breath before continuing, her gaze locked on his. "But I definitely liked him. From the moment we met."
Grissom drank deeply from her eyes and wondered vaguely if it were possible to read a woman's mind simply by paying attention when she opened her eyes to you. If so, he could surely read Sara's. She was as unguarded as he'd ever seen her, and he felt compelled to reciprocate. He stared into the chocolate depths, willing her to understand what he couldn't bring himself to say. His fear, his cowardice, his desperation, his loneliness, his vulnerability. And his love. Mostly his love. If she only understood one thought he'd ever had, he wanted it be that one.
TBC…