……………And brainstorming lasted for a year. What can I say? I instantly got lost on where to proceed with this story. At first I had an idea of where I was going to go; then I lost it. I'm working on three other stories at the moment; one being a novel and the other two being stories on here. My updates are going to be very sporadic and probably not close together. I can only apologize for this.

Calliegh is gazing out of the SUV into the heated glare of the Miami sun. She doesn't want to talk, she doesn't want to look at me. Though I have never been very close to the southern belle nor the rest of the CSI's, save for Horatio, I can feel a silent urge within myself to reach out to her and to ask her if she could use a few words of wisdom; if she could use a friend. However, whenever I think I've gathered up enough courage to ask her, she glances over at me and the blueness in her eyes becomes so fragile, clear, and glassy that I lose my nerve.

I can identify with how she must have been feeling over the death of Tim Speedle. While parts of me still anguish and cry at the thoughts of my own husband's death, I've found my strength in learning to live with his absence, no matter how much it hurts. It took me several years before I was able to fully bounce back.

For a while I had also played the tough outer shell game, and like Calliegh, I had been masterful at it. The only problem was realizing that the more I suppressed the sick feelings, the late nights lying awake staring into the ceiling, the cold mornings alone, spooning soggy cereal into my mouth and sipping tiny bits of orange juice… I was slowly making myself a ghost. Maybe in some unwitting way, I was trying to make myself closer to Raymond by slowly pulling myself out of existence.

"So, how was that party last night?" Calliegh asks, her voice direct and strong, completely opposite from the distance in her face.

It takes me a moment to think of what I actually did last night. "Oh, yes. It was alright, I suppose." I say after a moment, turning the car onto a small street filled with small doppelganger condominiums. My eyes scan the mailbox numbers as the Hummer rolls along slowly. "Same old, same old really. I go there to get away from work and lo and behold, I get stuck in a conversation with a fellow detective for over an hour."Despite her sidetracked look, Calliegh manages a smile. "I gave up on co-worker invite-parties long ago." Her posture straightens in her seat and her eyes widen a little. "There's the house. 461."

I pull the vehicle over behind a little red Mazda sports car in the driveway and scan the exterior of the home. It's neat, clean, and blends in with the other houses on the block. Turning off the engine, I climb out of the car and take a moment to smooth a crease in my grey suit. A police car pulls up behind us and two officers exit just as Calliegh is sliding out of her seat. According to the file we received from Detective Tripp before we left, the suspect, Benjamin Wilcox, was unmarried but lived with a long time girlfriend, Julia Taberesky. By the looks of it, only one of them is home today. Judging by the model of the car, I'll take a guess that its ninety percent Wilcox's.

Calliegh and I approach the door and I strike the knocker twice. Calleigh's face has become a stone cold etching of alabaster; unmoving, unresponsive, and unfeeling. Despite everything that I myself have endured and all of the coldness I've maintained, there is something so deep and disturbing about Calleigh's thick-skinned expression. Maybe it is because I have never seen someone bury themselves that deeply in their own work. Maybe it is because I have never seen anyone try to hide themselves so well after someone close to them has died.

The wiggle of the doorknob snaps me back to reality and the red door opens carefully. Instead of Wilcox, a young brunette appears with a dishtowel in her hands. She's made up pretty, sports a fair amount of makeup and dresses in a pair of capris and a light blue silk blouse. Her hair is short and wild, her eyes a strange shade of amethyst. "Hello." she greets, confusion plainly written on her brows.

"Are you Julia Taberesky?" I ask.

She frowns. "Yes. Is there something wrong?"

"Miss Taberesky, I'm Detective Salas of Miami Dade Police and this is Calleigh Duquesne from the crime lab. We are looking for your boyfriend, Benjamin Wilcox."

She smiled shyly, shaking her head. "You missed him. He was just here for lunch but left about a half and hour ago to go back to work."

I slide a pad of paper and a pen into my hands from my back pocket as Calleigh asks, "Where is he currently employed?"

"He actually has his own practice. He's a doctor."

Calleigh and I turn our heads to one another in unison as Julia continues to speak. "The name of it is Sweet Shores Medicine. It's on-"

"Sweet Shores Medicine was closed four months ago, Miss Taberesky." Calliegh interrupted.

The woman did a double take. "Excuse me?"

I chimed in. "Your boyfriend's license to practice was lifted months ago. Are you telling us that you didn't know that?"

She shook her head, a smile coming to her face. "There must be some mistake. Ben goes to work everyday. He comes home at the same time everyday. He would have told me if something had happened."

The classic boy meets girl, girl trusts boy too much, and boy lies to girlfriend and sells drugs on the streets. I've heard this story too many times for my own good. "Regardless of whether he told you or not, Ms. Taberesky, we're going to need contact information for Benjamin. Do you have a cell phone number at which we can reach him or a work number?" I respond carefully, my eyes locked on hers.

Her own eyes are on the grass. Now the mailbox. Now the car. Scatter-brained. Can't seem to keep her focus on one thought; one question. This is tough. It could be the difference between conscious concealment and panicky disillusionment. I can see water in her eyes.

"Ms. Taberesky?" Calliegh asks from beside me, an inch of concern in her tone.

She meets my gaze and wipes a stray bunch of hair from in front of her eyes. "He has a cell phone." Reaching into her pocket, she pulls out her own and accesses the contacts list. She hands the phone to me. As I begin to copy down the number, she continues talking. "He told me the phones were down at work. Something about the entire system needing to be rewired. I should have figured that something was going on. I've never been able to get through to anyone."

I look up slowly. She's looking down at her feet, doing her best to hold back tears. Buried beneath her initial sadness, I can tell that there is a certain self-hatred as well as some saved for Wilcox as well.

I figure I'll bite. "Are you acquainted with a Philip Gendron?"

Her face is blank. She shakes her head. "No. I'm sorry."

Calliegh steps forward and hands her a card. "This is our number at Miami Dade. If you can think of anything else that seems out of the ordinary, give us a call."

Julie takes the card numbly and only nods.

"Thank you for your time. We'll talk again soon." I add.

Another nod. As we turn our backs, she heads back inside, closing the door quietly behind her.

Now only one simple thing to do. We'd trace the phone number, find out where it was operating out of. If we can find Wilcox, we'll be one step closer to finding out who shot Gendron. I say all of this to Calliegh as we buckle our seatbelts in the Hummer and slowly pull out of the drive back onto the road. When I'm finished, she's looking out the window again, thousands of miles away on her own train of thought.