Author's Note: I'm pretty far ahead of myself, enough to update probably every day now... I'm happy with the way this is turning out. And... I didn't really stick to the not-using-so-much profanity thing, mainly because it was cruscial that I used it. It's rated M, I got nothing to fear.

Also, faithful question-askers, specifically necira... Wonderful things to be wondering about. And very, very key.

Grissom saw Greg standing by the pay phone in front of the Flamingo. He was pale, but other than that he looked unharmed. Grissom pulled up next to the curb and rolled down the window on the passenger's side. "Get in," he said.

Greg gratefully obliged without a word and Grissom turned into the parking lot of the Flamingo. "What are you doing?" Greg asked, anxiously.

Grissom gave him a blank look. "You woke up here, right?"

"Sort of," said Greg. "I mean, yeah. So?"

"So if it was someone trying to dump you," Grissom said, "there might be evidence."

"There is no evidence," Greg said, a little too hastily. "Just, can I go home now?"

Grissom parked the car and looked at Greg long and hard. "Greg, are you OK? What do you remember?"

Greg buried his face in his hands. "Ugh, nothing, nothing, and that's what's bothering me."

"Where did you wake up exactly?" Grissom asked.

"Um…" Greg closed his eyes tight and opened them again. "At the phone booth?"

"So your kidnapper dropped you by a phone, next to a busy road, in front of a popular casino?"

Greg stared out the window, his brow furrowed as he tried to sort through the muddled mess that was his memories. "I don't remember another person…" he muttered, more to himself then to Grissom.

"What do you mean?" Grissom asked.

"I mean I don't remember getting kidnapped at all," Greg answered, turning to look at his boss. "I remember going upstairs to get Sara's kit, and then I remember calling her on the phone. Point A to point B, I just don't know what route I took to get there."

"Wait," Grissom said. "You don't remember waking up?"

"No," Greg said. "I just remember making that phone call."

"You didn't ditch the scene to go gambling, Greg," Grissom said, shaking his head.

"Didn't I?" Greg asked. He looked scared, and more than he probably should have. There was something he wasn't telling Grissom, either because he couldn't remember, or because he felt guilty about something.

"Greg," said Grissom, "you do a lot of stupid things, but that's not one of them."

Greg seemed to decide something. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a wad of money. "I found this in my pocket when I was looking for a quarter to call Sara. I don't know where it came from."

Grissom noted the paper that bound the bills. "That's the Flamingo's logo…" he said, then looked up at Greg. "OK. I'll take you to Brass."

"Thank you," said Greg, sounding relieved as he leaned back in the seat. As Grissom drove down the strip, Greg stared out the window at the bright neon colors and lights that made Las Vegas so famous. His mind was like a Playboy magazine with all the naked girls cut out of it. He could remember every mundane detail about the crime scene but he couldn't remember shit about the important things. Something very important happened in the three hours that he had disappeared from the scene, but all he could remember was going to get Sara's kit, then calling her on the pay phone. It was like he was watching his favorite TV show and someone switched the channel on him. But for the life of him, he couldn't figure out who pressed the button or why.

"You're awfully quiet," Grissom noted.

"Don't have much to say," Greg answered honestly.

"You always have something to say," Grissom replied.

"Not tonight," said Greg with a shrug. "I'm just trying to piece things together."

Grissom glanced at Greg out of the corner of his eye. "Greg Sanders has nothing to say. Better pack your ice skates because it's going to be a cold night in hell."

"No kidding," said Greg as he rubbed his arms. "It's freezing in here, could you turn up the heat?"

Grissom glanced at the digital thermometer. "Greg, it's 85 degrees in here."

"Please?" Greg asked.

Grissom tossed him one of the Forensics jackets and Greg put it on. "So… what do you guys know about the Samson murders?"

"We have a suspect in custody," said Grissom. "But we're not sure. We're waiting for teeth impressions, and Sara to ID him."

"ID him for what?" Greg asked, suddenly very interested.

Grissom bit his lip. "She was attacked, Greg."

"Is she OK?" Greg said, nervously. "What happened to her? Did he hurt her? Can we hurt him?"

"She's fine," said Grissom. "She's anxious to get a look at Matthew Samson, but the doctors are trying to keep her off her feet."

"Can I see her?" Greg asked, his voice quiet.

Grissom smiled. "Sure," he said. "After we sort things out back at the lab."

"Of course," Greg said. "But I don't know what I can do."

"People are just glad you're OK," Grissom said. "Which reminds me, call Nick." He tossed his cell phone to Greg.

Greg looked at Grissom's phone curiously. "Do you know where my phone is?"

"In evidence," Grissom replied. "Nick thought that if someone ripped it away from you, there might be prints."

"No," said Greg. "I think I just dropped it."

"You can probably get it back when we get there," Grissom said.

"Why am I calling Nick?" Greg asked, holding the phone to his ear.

"He's just worried about you, that's all," Grissom replied.

Nick answered the phone on the third ring. "Hey, Grissom, you were right. The writing's on the wall, and from the looks of it in Katerina Samson's blood. It says 'He is not to blame,' whatever that means."

"Hi, Nick," Greg said.

There was a moment of silence. "Greggo?"

"Damn straight."

Nick laughed. "Aw, man, it's good to hear your voice."

"Hey, you too," Greg answered. "What did you say about the wall?"

Grissom looked over at Greg curiously. "Nick has some evidence for me?" he asked.

Greg nodded. "Why don't you tell Grissom about it?" he said, and handed the phone over.

Something about the words chilled Greg and he didn't know why. The black hole in his memory wouldn't diminish, no matter how hard he tried. Not even a fuzzy image came to mind. He had lost himself somewhere in those three hours and he couldn't find himself again.

Why find yourself when you can be found by someone far more interesting, he thought to himself as he strolled into the Flamingo Casino. He had ditched his work vest and jacket for the sleek secret agent look, the kind where he dressed all in black and wore sunglasses indoors. It drove the girls crazy, and helped him keep his poker face.

He strolled up to the table like he owned the place and sat down, making sure to lower his glasses and wink at the security cameras. Someone had to know he had been here.

"You in?" the dealer asked.

"Hell yeah," he replied with a slick grin. "Deal me in, Sparky."

He lost a few rounds to make it look legit. He was a son of a bitch who knew how to cheat, and cheat damn well. Soon enough, he'd earned the attention of several gamblers, plenty of them sexy young things whose favorite game of luck was lust and they were dying to play with him.

There was one he was particularly fond of: Amber with the cinnamon hair. He told her that it was unexpected, to meet a girl named Amber who wasn't a bubbly redhead. He also told her that he'd always had a thing for brunettes. They bantered and flirted and did more than flirting as he swung her around and played her the fool. They discussed and they drank, they dreamed and they danced to the vocal stylings of Barry Manilow.

She wanted to go up to her room. He wanted to do her right there on the craps table. They compromised on a public bathroom.

By two o'clock his stamina began to fail him and he tossed the girl his winning smile before he turned his back on her forever.

Brass slammed the results Warrick handed him on the table.

"You might want to call your lawyer," he said sinisterly to Matthew Samson, who looked up at him like a scared little puppy dog.

"But why?" Matthew said. "I really don't understand, I've never hurt anything in my life. I can't even kill a spider when Abby gets scared. Aaron and Adam take care of that for me. They always…" Matthew trailed off suddenly, as though he just remembered they were dead. He snapped back into the moment and looked directly into Brass's eyes. "I did not kill my family."

"I highly suggest calling your lawyer," Brass said. "Or else you're fresh meat for the inmates over at the state prison. The results came back on the dental impression you gave us. They match the bites on your children."

Matthew looked terrified as he shrank into his chair, every pigment of color fleeing from his face. "I'll give you my DNA," he said quickly. "I'll let you check my teeth again, please, there has to be some mistake I would never in my life do anything to hurt my family, please."

Brass took a seat across from Matthew and stared at him long and hard. It was his job to fish out the liars from the honestly innocent, and this man was making his job really tough. He refused a lawyer. He even offered up his DNA before they even asked for it. And yet all the evidence they had pointed to him, so he had to be lying. Something in Brass's gut told him they were missing some very vital information. "Did I mention," Brass said icily, "that your dental impression also match the wound on Sara Sidle's shoulder?"

Matthew was utterly perplexed. "I don't even know who that is!" he exclaimed.

"She's the CSI you mauled," Brass said sharply.

"Look, I didn't maul anyone," Matthew snapped, finally getting angry. "Your evidence is lying to you, I went to the store to by my precious baby girl some marshmallows for her hot cocoa because that's the way she likes it. It's a small kindness I wish I'd never thought to do as if I hadn't left that house, my family might still be alive!"

"Evidence doesn't lie," Brass said firmly, glad that Matthew was getting angry. Matthew Samson's fear and bafflement had been a sign of ignorance, but his anger was something Brass could work with. "People lie, Mr. Samson. You clawed and bit your children to death and then you strung up your wife by her wrists and neck which sliced into her like a knife into butter and—"

"Please!" Matthew yelled, his knees up by his chest and his hands over his ears as he shut his eyes as tight as he could. Tears streamed out of the corners of his eyes. "Please…" he begged, quietly. "Please, just don't talk about them that way. You can't talk about them that way."

Brass wasn't sure if he should be apologetic or furious, which was a major dilemma for him, and one that came rarely. It was his job to read people, but Matthew Samson was a book written in a different language. Frustrated, he slammed the table and left the room, where Catherine was waiting for him.

"It's an act," she said firmly. "He can't be serious."

"I'm getting conflicting signals here," Brass said. "I don't know what to believe. There are times when I am convinced he's lying and times when I just can't help but believe him."

"He's playing you, Brass," Catherine said. "The dental evidence isn't all we have, but it's definitely all we need to go to trial. Not to mention Sara's ID, which I'm sure will be a positive one, and his prints all over the knife."

"It's his knife though," Brass pointed out. "So of course his prints are on them. His wife's prints are on them, hell his seven-year-old son's prints are on them. And lets not count out chickens, Sara might not peg Samson as her attacker."

"His bite marks were on her shoulder," Catherine hissed.

"And what about Greg?" Brass added. "I don't know, Samson just didn't have enough time to drop him off at the strip and come back, and why the hell would he anyway?"

"OK, so he didn't take Greg," Catherine said. "He might have an accomplice. A mistress, maybe, maybe even the one pulling his strings. Greg ran into her at the crime scene and she panicked while Samson attacked Sara, who found him in the basement."

"It's a sound theory," Brass said, "if we had any evidence that this was a two person job. There's no foreign DNA or prints at the scene. They all belong to the Samson family."

"Maybe the accomplice is smarter than Samson," Catherine suggested.

"There's a huge piece of this puzzle that we're missing," Brass said.

"Nick said Grissom called," Catherine said. "He's found Greg and is bringing him in as we speak."

"Good," Brass said. "Maybe Greg can give us something to go on. A second suspect, for example."

"By the way Grissom sounded on the phone," Catherine said. "I doubt Greg will be any help at all."

Though he had been fine on his way back to the station, Greg felt disoriented and nauseous as Grissom walked with him down the hall of the CSI lab. All of a sudden, he'd rather have been just about anywhere else. He stumbled and grabbed Grissom's arm for support.

"You OK, Greg?" Grissom asked for the seventh time. He was ashen and shaken up, but there was something behind his eyes that lied to him.

"I'll be OK in an hour or two." Somehow, Greg knew it wasn't a lie. "Can I get my phone back?"

"Sure…" Grissom said. "I asked Warrick to get it out for you. There were no alien prints on it."

"And then can I see Sara?" Greg asked anxiously.

"After you talk to Brass," Grissom reminded him.

"I've got nothing to say to Brass…" Greg muttered. "Hell, I had barely anything to say to you. Can't you tell him?"

"You know that you have to do that," Grissom replied.

Greg sighed. "Fine, I'll talk, but you know I know as much as you guys do. I was at the house, and then I wasn't, and all of a sudden three hours had passed. What time is it?"

" 3:00," Grissom replied. "You could have been drugged. We'll need to take a blood sample."

"No!" Greg said, pulling away from Grissom.

They stopped walking. Grissom looked at him quizzically. "Greg…?"

Greg closed his eyes and calmed down. "I'm sorry," he said. "I just don't want any needles sticking into me."

"Greg," Grissom began slowly, "you know this is for your own good."

"I just don't want to, alright?" Greg snapped.

"See, that right there tells me we need to do it," Grissom said forcefully.

"Then get a fucking warrant!" Greg yelled. His demeanor changed suddenly and he looked scared. "I… wow, Grissom, I'm sorry. I don't know why I said that. Sure. Sure, you can take my blood, I don't care."

Greg tried to shrug off his outburst like it wasn't unusual but Grissom knew better. Whatever had happened to Greg in those three hours had changed something in him and Grissom was going to find out what it was if it was the last thing he did.

"Greg," Warrick said with a grin as he saw him at the end of the hall. He jogged over to the two of them. "Hey. I got your phone."

"Thanks," Greg said with a weak smile as he took it. "Can I see Sara now?"

"Brass," Grissom said firmly.

"I don't want to talk to Brass," Greg said. "I want to see Sara."

"You could really help Brass out," Warrick said. "Not to mention the rest of us. We really want to catch the bastard that did this to you."

Greg was frustrated. "I don't… I mean, I can't… I don't know anything! I don't have anything to say!"

Warrick was confused. "You wanna at least look at the suspect—"

"I don't want to look at anyone, alright?" Greg interrupted. Warrick was stunned into silence. Greg calmed down. "The only person I want to see is Sara. Would you take me to her please?"

Grissom was quiet for a long time as both Greg and Warrick looked at him expectantly. All of a sudden, Grissom lashed out and grabbed Greg by the arm and began to drag him down the hall.

"What the fuck Grissom?!" Greg screamed.

"Grissom?" Warrick said the name without purpose.

"You're talking to Brass," Grissom insisted as Greg continued to fight against his grip. "And we're getting that blood sample now."

They surprised Catherine with their entrance as Greg was still struggling against Grissom's grip and screaming.

"Grissom!" Catherine cried out, reproachfully. "Let go of him!"

Grissom through Greg into the room and closed the door behind him. His gaze was ice cold. "When Brass is done with Samson, he's talking to you," Grissom said flatly.

Greg looked up at him furiously. "You can't tell me what to do," he spat like a feral dog.

"You're not yourself," Grissom replied.

A twisted sneer curled Greg's lips as he slowly rose to his feet. "Oh, I'm feeling more myself than I ever have before."

"Greg, calm down," Catherine said. "Grissom, what's this about?"

"Don't try talking to him, Catherine," Grissom said, his eyes never leaving Greg. "He's sick."

"Sick?" Catherine said. "What kind of sick?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Grissom," Greg said calmly.

Grissom knocked on the door to the interrogation room. Soon enough, Brass came out.

"What's this about?" Brass asked, then he saw Greg. "Ah."

Greg and Grissom seemed to be having some sort of staring match. "Jim," Grissom said. "Greg has something he wants to talk to you about."

Slowly, Greg's eyes still on Grissom, he obediently walked over to Brass. He was right in front of him before his tore his gaze away from Grissom and looked at Brass. "Grissom thinks I'm hiding something," he said with a goofy smile. "You don't think that, do you Jimmy?"

Brass's eyes narrowed. "Come in here, Greg."

"I'm not a suspect," Greg said. "I don't want to be interrogated."

"I just want to talk to you."

"So talk here," Greg said with a shrug. "What's the difference?"

Brass nodded. "You're right. What's the difference."

It was Grissom who asked the first question "Where have you been, Greg?"

Greg closed his eyes and breathed a big sigh. His shoulders seemed to slump and his smile disappeared. "Grissom, I'm really tired… can I go to sleep?"

"Please answer the question, Greg." Grissom said.

Greg looked at him a moment, confused. "Uh, could you repeat it please?"

"Where have you been?" Grissom said.

"I told you," Greg said. "I have no idea. I was at the scene, and then I as at the flamingo. End of story."

"Why were you being so hostile just now?" Grissom asked.

Greg looked frustrated. "I wasn't being hostile," he said. "I'm… I'm just scared, alright? I'm sorry."

Catherine gave him a warm smile and rubbed Greg's shoulder. "It's OK, Greg. You're OK now."

Greg returned the smile. "Thanks, Catherine," he said. He looked at Brass. "Anything else? I want to help you guys. I really do."

Brass looked at Grissom. "Do you remember anything at all?"

"I remember calling Sara on the pay phone," Greg replied. "That's the extent of my memory. And…" he glanced fleetingly at Grissom before reaching into his back pocket. He handed Brass the wad of bills. "This."

"Where'd you get this?" Brass asked.

"It was in my pocket when I… woke up." Greg used the term reluctantly.

"You won this at the Flamingo?" Brass asked.

"Somebody did," Greg replied.

"Let's check up on that," Brass said to Grissom, who nodded.

"I'll do it," Catherine said, taking the money.

"Take Sofia with you," Brass suggested.

Greg turned to Grissom anxiously. "Can I see Sara now?"

"We'll stop off by the lab," said Grissom, "get a blood sample."

"And then can I see Sara?" Greg asked.

Grissom hesitated, but only for a moment. "Of course."