Grissom paced the tight confines of his cool office restlessly, his feet keeping a steady rhythm with the syncopated click-click-click of his pen. His mind raced endlessly, thoughts of Sara, of her death, and of the innumerable unanswered questions this case continued to present. Who was the killer? Had she known him? Was he watching her? Why were there no defensive wounds on her body? These thoughts ceaselessly hounded him, and his brain persistently ached in his skull.
Catherine quietly waited at the door to his office, her face a disquieting contrast from the shattered composure of the previous evening. Her eyes followed his agitated movements, and she silently prayed that he would be able to sleep, or at least get some rest, even though she knew that she could not. Last night's two hours of stolen sleep were fitful, and filled with images of her friend's body. Nightmares would plague her tonight, and every night until Sara's killer was caught. She longed to have someone to talk to. Someone to hold her until she fell asleep, and comfort her when her screams pierced the still night. Instead she would go home to her empty bed, kiss Lindsay goodnight, and try to steal even a brief moment of reprieve from the night's terrors.
Gil sensed her presence and quickly looked up. Her eyes were a deep, mesmerizing blue, and they never ceased to amaze him. But what he saw there startled him. The swift stab of need in the depths of her eyes was like a sapphire flame. For an instant her eyes were filled with hunger, and want, and it was this that interrupted his thoughts, and stole his breath. She hastily averted her eyes and fidgeted with the large manila envelope in her hands. He patiently waited for her to speak, all the while watching the way her strawberry-blonde hair framed her delicate face. She cleared her throat and looked up at him, her eyes betraying nothing.
"Preliminary reports show that there was no forced entry. Looks like the back door was unlocked."
"That's pretty unusual for Sara. She's always been extremely cautious."
"I know. That's why I checked it again myself. This guy either A: is an expert locksmith, B: used a key, or C: which is perhaps the most frightening prospect, she let him in."
"But why would she let him in? Unless she knew the guy, Sara would never do that."
"I know Gil. But maybe we should investigate Sara's friends, relatives, everyone she would have trusted enough to let into her home."
"We've got a lot of work to do."
Catherine pulled into Sara's driveway for the second time in 48 hours. It was strange, she thought, that she still expected Sara to open the door for her with that silly grin; to welcome her into her home, and to talk with her about anything and everything. She rested her head on the cool steering wheel of her Denali and took a deep breath. She tried to reassure herself that they would find the killer; but with every minute evidence disappeared, and Sara's murderer could be further and further from Vegas, and from her grasp.
She used her key to unlock the door and walked slowly into the living room. There were few pictures gracing the almost clinical white walls. What few dusty frames hung there were her diploma, and several commendations from her old job in San Francisco. No photographs showed a vibrant, happy Sara, beaming from beneath a ridiculous straw hat. No family snapshots or ex-boyfriends. Catherine tried to remember if she had ever noticed this curious lack of ornamentation before, and winced when she knew she hadn't. Had Sara's life really been this lonely, this empty? She ached to hug her one more time, and to ask her what happened to her life. Why was she alone? But that moment could never come. The realization of this fact made her dizzy with sadness and with regret.
She stepped softly across the carpeted floor into the bedroom, which still smelled of blood and death. She ignored the blatantly crimson stains that painted the walls, the floor, and the mirror, and instead went to the closet door, slightly ajar. She put on the pair of latex gloves she had placed in her pocket, then gently pushed it open the rest of the way. She pushed aside the clothes dangling from their plain wire hangers, and reached behind them for the stack of old shoeboxes that collected dust in the far corner. There were four in all, from various stores. She opened the first box and stared at a dazzling, though unfamiliar pair of shoes. They were black, sparkling stilettos, with a towering heel and slinky straps. She whistled and made a note of her discovery. The next box held a simple pair of white tennis shoes, they looked brand new and upon looking closer Catherine saw that they were a size 8; one size too small. It wasn't until the last two boxes that she found something interesting.
The first was a bright, apple red box that felt very light, almost empty. She opened it and found a collection of newspaper clippings. They were all about the murder of a young woman in southern Nevada. Apparently she had been murdered in her home. Her body was found tied to the bed with torn sheets. The similarities between this murder and Sara's were striking. But when Catherine looked at the next article, she inhaled sharply. That same auburn hair, the same coffee-colored eyes, the familiar sardonic tilt of the lips in her smile; she was the mirror-image of Sara. Audrey Le, 26, murdered in southern Nevada residence. She hurriedly skimmed the short article, then gathered the clippings together and placed them into an evidence collection bag.
The second box was larger than the others. It was black, and bore no markings on the outside as to the brand of the shoes is contained. She opened the lid and gasped in surprise for the second time that day. "Oh Sara," she murmured quietly "why didn't you tell me?"