A/N: Thanks to all my reviewers, especially the anonymous ones I couldn't thank personally. I

I go straight home after work. I don't think I can face going out. The photograph analysis had uncovered nothing new, save for a few personal items belonging to the victim.

It's Calleigh my attention is drawn to as I sit, legs curled under me, on the couch. I wonder how she's getting on at Eric's. I told her she could call me at anytime, but I know she's in safe hands with Eric.

It's strange seeing the developments between Eric and Calleigh. I won't say I wasn't upset by it, but it wasn't a surprise either. Even when Eric and I were together, I had noticed their connection. He'd be working hard or chatting with a friend, then suddenly go and see Calleigh because he felt something 'wasn't quite right'. Their ability to have a conversation without words is strange to most, but it's something I have come to consider normal.

I knew Eric and I wouldn't last. It was a physical thing, and my pregnancy scare had been a wake up call, telling us we were moving too fast. Neither of us wanted to commit, I realise now one of Eric's reasons was his feeling for Calleigh.

I know him well enough to see a change in him around her. His voice becomes softer, his body more relaxed. It's as though she releases some sort of balm around him, soothing and comforting.

I wonder what she's told him. Despite her irritation that I forced her to tell Horatio, I know she will confide in Eric. Again, he's the one she goes to with her problems, he's the one she talks to when she's upset or annoyed. He's the one. Always.

Eric's reaction will be one of fear and worry, how he can help being the primary concern. Later, disgruntlement will follow annoyance that she didn't find him as soon as she found out. But the worry for her safety will remain paramount.

I shower and go to bed, feeling unusually tired for such an early hour. I've always been one to go to bed late and get up early; emotional turmoil seems to set me back, I can barely keep my eyes open. As I drift off, my mind manipulates the images of today, recreating the story of the unidentified victim until Calleigh's lifeless face stares back at me. I shiver unconsciously.

----

After terrible nightmares fill my sleep, I eventually give up and go into work early. I find Delko's report containing scene pictures and analysis so far. I settle down at a desk and begin to go through the evidence.

The photos are more than disturbing. Finally able to see the full scene, without any black writing, I notice more than before. The victim is face down, limbs twisted in a parody of ecstasy on the blood soaked mattress. In my job, I have seem many horrible things but this makes me feel sick. It isn't just horrific, it's perverted.

"Couldn't sleep?" Horatio's voice knocks me from my thoughts before I hear him approach.

"Yeah," I reply. "This is sick." I hold up the photograph to indicate my point.

"What are you doing with that?" he asks.

"Just needed to see if there was anything more I could do."

"You're not a CSI, Ms. Boa Vista," His tone is soft, though reprimanding.

"I just -"

"It's okay, I understand." He lowered his head, watching my silently as I close the file. He is hurting as I am; we both want to do something to make this all okay.

"Do we have a name yet?"

"No. The apartment was rented to a Peter Broadson. We're still waiting for patrol to bring him in and ID her."

"Okay." My voice is small; this case is affecting me as no other has before.

"There's some DNA for you to run, if you want to start early."

I merely nod, not trusting my voice. I slide down off the seat and pick up the evidence bags, signing the forms before taking them to the lab. I read some of the labels, one unidentified sample from under the victims fingernails; another, a saliva sample from the victims shirt. I decide to start with the victims DNA, entering it into the temporary database so I can ignore matches and focus on the unknowns.

I pull on my gloves, focusing all my energy on staying professional. Within moments, I have a name.

"Jessica Sager," I murmur to myself, needing to give the poor woman a name, her identity back. I enter her details into the database before returning to the other samples, my determination renewed.

As I work, I imagine the events. I can see his hands closing around her neck. I can see her face distorting in pain as he enters her, forcing past her defences and stealing her life. I imagine her clawing at his arms as his vice-like fingers squeeze tight around her pulse. I hear her final breath, taken staring into the eyes of pure evil.

The sterile beep tells me a match has been found.

Terrance Joseph Western's DNA was under Jessica's fingernails.

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