Chapter Six
Greg stood tentatively behind Sara at her apartment door, not wanting to step forward in case she lashed out, but not wanting to back away from mere concern for her wellbeing. The two of them bickered lightly back and forth, as Sara fumbled with the spare key. Mostly Greg gave small offerings of assistance, and Sara snapped at him for the suggestion.
"Look, are you sure you don't want me to come in and make sure you're alright? Do you want chocolate or something?"
"No, Greg! I already told you, I only need to make a phone call," she hissed. An angry, rough sigh escaped as the door finally opened and she barged into her apartment. Greg shouted a final offer as the door slammed in his face, Sara leaning despondently against the other side.
"Sara!" he shouted, his voice stifled through the wood.
"I'll be fine!" she insisted. "Just…just tell Grissom I'm going to need a few days off."
There was silence for a moment, before Greg reluctantly agreed to do so. He began to speak again, but she cut him off.
"Greg, listen to me, alright?" She slid down the door with her back against the wood. "If you ever needed to know what went on in my life, I would tell you when I was ready."
"A detective pretty much stalking you and asking your coworkers about your family doesn't count as a need-to-know thing?" came his muffled and confused voice.
She said nothing, picking at her nails and waiting for him to leave, despite him repeating the question and calling her name. A few minutes later, he left with a goodbye and assurance he would tell Grissom about her vacation days. When he was gone, Sara finally felt comfortable and alone enough to set her head in her hands and let go of the tension and fear being held back. The tears poured as she sobbed hard and long, her own crying almost as loud as her worried thoughts.
Who knew that within 72 hours her life would be smashed so badly? There was no way to pick up those pieces, so here she was left scrambling. The DNA for one—that had come out of nowhere. Worse, she knew it was going to be hers. And worst, she couldn't think of how her blood could have ever gotten onto the murder weapon in the first place. Never could she remember even going near the knife—how could have her blood and DNA gotten onto it? It was inconceivable.
Then there was Rayfield again. A very, very strong inkling told her they were going to meet up again sometime within the next two days. When the DNA results came back, he was going to be at her door within minutes. She would get booked…put in jail… A shiver ran up her back, her shoulder shuddering as it ended, and she tried to divert from that thought. But it lingered.
Who would be there when she needed bail? Would she be forced to sit in a cell until the trial? How could anyone know to come and get her if she refused to let them know what was going on? Did she honestly think they would think so different of her if they knew her mother was a murderer? Why did she always refuse to let them know? Insisting she was okay, when it was obvious they didn't believe her? Insisting nothing was wrong when they know something was? Insisting they didn't need to worry when it was already too late? Why…?
…"I'm so sorry, honey, I'm so sorry…" Red flashes. Streams in jagged stripes along the walls. Flashing, imprinting their frightful image forever. "Baby I'm sorry…" Brown hair tangles in the red. Curly and dark with streams of color. The guilty one. Flashes of white. Red. A whimper, a cry. And a scream…
Sara woke up with a sharp gasp, her breathing erratic as she looked around at her surroundings. The cool tile she laid on was her own kitchen—her own, safe, kitchen. Then she heard the pounding knock.
"Sara? You alright?"
Catherine. Of all people.
She sighed heavily and shouted a quick yes through the door, brushing her hair out of her face and noting angrily that it was damp and flat against her face. Sara pushed herself off the ground and tried to put her hair back into place.
"May I come in?" the older woman asked apprehensively.
"Umm, yes…yes!" Sara fidgeted some more, straightening out her shirt and jeans, and grabbing a towel from the edge of her stove to wipe off her face before opening the door.
"Oh," Catherine said, taken aback slightly when Sara appeared in the doorway. "Did I catch you in the shower?"
Sara let her jaw hang, slightly dumbfounded as she stumbled over her words. Finally she managed, "Umm, yes…sorry. Just…needed to relax a little bit." She smiled falsely, then brightly said, "Come on in."
Catherine nodded politely and excused herself into the main room. She leaned against Sara's kitchen counter and looked thoughtfully around. Sara stood in front of her, wringing her hands, wondering. Did she know about Detective Rayfield? Had Greg and Warrick talked to her? What did she want to know?
"Can I, uh, get you anything?" Sara asked tentatively. She gestured in at the living area, towards the armchairs and couch. "You can sit down, if you want to…"
The other woman smiled and swept over to an armchair and sat, crossing her legs and setting her folded hands on her knee. She continued to look interestedly around at the apartment. Sara sat down on the sofa next to the chair. She pulled her legs up underneath her, setting her head between her forefinger and thumb, waiting in silence for Catherine to state her business.
"It's pretty nice here," Catherine finally said, speaking softly and tenderly, a warm smile across her face. When Sara replied with nothing but a shrug and small grin, the older woman said, "I, uh, heard about the detective. Do you want to talk about it?"
"No," Sara said without hesitation, averting her gaze down and to the side. "Who told you?"
"Warrick…and Greg. They're both worried about you. They said the guy seems to mean business." Catherine raised an interested eyebrow. "Still don't want to talk?"
Sara slapped herself mentally. She'd meant to call Max and tell him about the detective pestering her. But this was her chance. This was her chance to break the silence, let the people she knew, know she was not okay. But why couldn't she? Her mind said to say something but her mouth refused. Though if she were to speak, where to begin? Start with the murder or the investigation being held now? Start with her mother, or the detective? Her emotions or the facts?
Deciding she might as well just let herself talk, she forced her mouth to speak. "I…" A shrug. "I don't know where to start, really." And if she had to tell someone, it probably wouldn't be Catherine…but the woman had come to her, and somebody needed to know. Maybe not about the circumstances of the murder, simply the reason for the investigation.
"How do you know Detective Rayfield?" Catherine's smile was fading, replaced with a soft, sad look.
Instead, Sara cleared her throat and brought her hands together in her lap, where she fidgeted. She straightened out her shirt and began to pick at her nails, watching her hands with intense focus. "He investigated…umm, a murder. A while ago. A long time ago."
"In San Francisco?"
"No, no. Before that. Before college, even." Sara shrugged. "Somebody else was prosecuted then, but he's gone and reopened the case. That's all."
Catherine gazed at her, slightly slack-jawed as she took in the information. "How old were you?" she asked.
Sara mumbled, "Twelve…thirteen at the trial."
"And who was—"
A sudden sharp knock sounded, and the women's heads snapped to the door.
"Who—" Catherine began, but was cut off by a silencing glance from Sara.
Another knock. "Police, open up!"
Sara flung herself from the sofa, in a slight panic as her mind raced. She didn't go to the door, but instead to the kitchen counter where her message pad sat. "Do-don't come in!" she blurted out as she scribbled a number on the pad. "I just got out of the shower…let me get some clothes on!"
"Sara, we're opening this door…" Rayfield.
"Hold on!" She fled back across the room and shoved the piece of paper into Catherine's palm just as a large crunch signaled the door had been kicked down.
"The number belongs to a friend of mine, Max," she said breathlessly, even as the police officers swarmed her, dragging her hands behind her back and cuffing them. "Call him. He'll tell you everything."
"Sara—"
"Just do it, okay?" She looked at Catherine with teary eyes as the officers turned her around and began to whisk her away.
"Okay…" the woman replied quietly, tightening her grip on the number in her hand.
They shared a final long glance as the cops pushed her out. Rayfield glanced at Catherine and nodded. Angrily, she glared back at him until he stepped out of the apartment, leaving her there alone, with nothing but a phone number and the promise of answers. The commotion mere seconds before had been loud, but the silence that followed was deafening.