Disclaimer: I don't own them. :(

Thanks to mingsmommy for the wonderful beta and princessklutz04 for reading and nudging me along. :) All mistakes are my own.

Thank you to everyone who's been reading thus far. :)

Flying never terrified me. You're far more likely to die traveling in cars, yet nearly everyone drives one. I've only been on a handful of flights, but I never had apprehension boarding a plane.

But as the saying goes, there's a first time for everything.

The entire flight I worried about the slightest turbulence, hoping the plane wouldn't crash. With each bump, I gripped the armrests so hard, my knuckles turned white. Dying would be the worst thing I could do to Gil. He'd forgive me for leaving, but not dying.

I can't die on him.

When the plane lands, I nearly run off and head towards baggage claim to get my suitcases. I don't even know what I packed. I just shoved as many clothes into the suitcases as possible.

I hope things match.

It's weird being back in California after so many years. Physically I feel the same, but sense of comfort washes over me. While I didn't leave anything behind (besides a haunted past) when I moved to Vegas, I feel a little more complete standing here. I grew up around here. I went to school here for a short time.

I met Gil here.

I'd like to think we would move here one day. Somewhere farther north, maybe, away from the bustle of the city. We could raise a family here, possibly. I know between the two of us, we've got enough money tucked away to sustain ourselves, but I can picture Gil taking a teaching job somewhere. If we did move, I doubt I'd get another job. I could finally relax.

But Gil's still so attached to his job, and I know I'd have a hard time leaving everyone behind for real. So, for now, Vegas is our home.

Once my suitcases come around on those annoying conveyer belts, I grab it and head outside. Stepping into the California air, I can smell the salt of the ocean and feel the breeze blow through my hair and suddenly realize how much I've missed living near water. And Lake Mead doesn't count.

The sun is slowly rising higher into the morning sky and I turn and look towards the east, shielding my eyes from the powerful rays. I pray Gil's not freaking out.

He probably is.

Drawing in a deep breath, I blow it out slowly, hoping to stave off the tears burning behind my eyelids.

All my crying the past few hours has left me achy and tired. Every muscle in my body is screaming for rest. I want nothing more than to sleep—really sleep—and forget the world exists for a bit.

Hailing a cab, I realize I have no destination.

Hotels aren't an option—I've been at one too many crime scenes, and besides, I don't have my Nonoxyl-9. Motels are even worse. I have no family here, except my mother, and I'm not sure if I'm ready to cross that bridge yet.

Getting in the cab, I give the address of the one place I haven't been to in nearly twenty-five years.

"Tamales Bay, please."

Before my dad got violent, my parents co-owned a nice little Bed and Breakfast in Tamales Bay. There were ten bedrooms, three of which my family occupied. I remember being fascinated watching all the people come and go, never knowing what kind of people would show up the next day.

Mom would get up early and make breakfast, the pleasing aroma enticing the guests from their beds, and Dad would help check people in and help them to their rooms. We were on the water, and I remember spending a lot of my time on the wrap around porch when business wasn't too busy.

The ocean wasn't more than a hundred feet from the house, and I found myself constantly sitting on the porch listening to the waves crash into the shore. From my bedroom, I could hear the rhythmic symphony, but somehow watching the waters movement captured my younger self more than the sound of it.

But when the fighting started, less people came and eventually, my parents closed the business. The house fell to shambles with nobody taking the time to repair the damages. After my father…died, my brother and I were taken away; my mother was taken into police custody and eventually, the house was sold.

I haven't seen the house since, and I'm apprehensive to revisit it after so many years. There are a lot of bad memories in that house. I don't know if I'm ready to relive them; the floorboards hold secrets that only I know.

But I was never one of those people who dwelled on the past. I never threw my hands up to the sky and yelled, "Why me?" I never questioned what I could have done to anger God to the point of severely fucking up my life.

I wasn't even sure there was a God any more. At one point, I believed, but I was so young. I told Gil once I thought people just blamed God for their mistakes. It always makes people feel better to blame someone else for their shortcomings.

But I couldn't, and still don't, understand why I had to be taken, trapped under a car and left for dead. Why did she have to leave me under a car? Why did she have to leave me in the desert?

I know Natalie had a problem with me because I knew Gil. I know she thought Gil was the reason Ernie killed himself. I guess instead of blaming God, she blamed Grissom. But maybe if she knew Ernie's suicide was to protect her, maybe none of this would have happened.

After I returned home from the hospital, Gil told me that this was all his fault. Pulling him into my arms, I remember telling him there was no way he could have known I would become the next target.

I hate to admit, but for a brief moment, I blamed him for my kidnapping. Maybe if he wouldn't have gotten so involved in the miniatures, he wouldn't have gotten so tangled up in Natalie and she wouldn't have gone after me as revenge.

I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and kissed his check. "Come to bed, Gil."

I felt him physically sigh and he paused to pull off his glasses. Rubbing his eyes, he said, "I need to finish this, Sara."

An exact replica of his office sat in front of him, half finished. The miniature killer cases weighed heavily on everyone, but Gil had taken it the hardest. I knew his intentions were good, but the past several months neither of us had slept well. We went to bed tired and woke up tired.

We both needed rest.

I moved to kneel beside him and looked up at him. "It'll still be here when you wake up," I said softly.

His gaze stays with the miniature, his steady hand used an Exacto knife to cut out another section of a bookshelf. He can't even bother to look at me. "I need to do this."

"It can wait a few ho—"

Gil slammed his hand down, a section of unglued wall fell over and I jumped back in surprise. Without a word, I got up and headed towards the bedroom. From behind me came his voice, soft yet laced with irritation. "Sara."

I turned around slowly, and faced him, "Don't worry about it, Grissom. There'll be more nights when we're both off."

Maybe I wouldn't be here, over six hundred miles away from my home, going completely out of my mind.

But blaming him isn't fair. I can't even blame Ernie Dell for killing himself. Just like I can't blame my parents for fighting.

As the cab pulls up gravel road, nervousness shoots through my system and pools low in my stomach. Stepping out of the cab, the driver follows me and helps me unload my suitcases from the trunk.

I'm thankful I went to the bank this week; this trip cost me an arm and a leg. But that's what I get for taking a San Francisco cab out of city limits. With a nod and a smile, he gets back in the cab and drives off, leaving me staring at the house before me.

The sun sits high in the morning sky, and I have to shield my eyes to get a better look at the house I once called home.

It looks better than I remember. Instead of the pale yellow siding, the new owners have painted it an eggshell blue and repainted all the trim white. The fresh paint seems to have breathed new life into the house, making it look more appealing than we ever could make it look. Shutters adorn the windows, painted the same white as the trim and the roof has been reshingled.

Making my way to the porch, I climb the steps, each one creaking under my weight, and I can almost hear the voices of my past whisper in my ear. I try to shake them away as I ring the bell.

An older man, I figure early seventies, opens the door, a warm smile on his face. He ushers me in and takes both of my suitcases from my hands, introducing himself, "I'm Frank, pleasure to met you…"

"Sara," I say, offering him my hand.

He sets my luggage down and shakes my hand as he continues talking, his voice friendly. "Sara, welcome. Do you have a reservation?"

I bite my lip and shake my head. "Sorry, this is such a last minute trip and I don't really have anywhere else to go."

Frank frowns slightly and looks behind him. "Let me go talk to my wife."

He moves passed me and exits through a door that leads to the kitchen. Letting out a sigh, I try to hold back the tears. If there's no room (which I should have figured) I'd need to find somewhere to go.

I feel like a damn nomad.

A woman, at least five or ten years younger than Frank, comes into the room, a pleasant smile on her face. Her hair is slightly mussed, an apron covers her faded jeans and green tank top and her glasses are falling off her nose. Wiping her hands on the apron, she extends it forward and grasps mine. I shake back and instantly felt comforted by her presence.

Her smile widens, "Nice to meet you, Sara. I'm Mary."

I nod and offer the best smile I can manage.

"I understand you'd like to stay here." She walks behind a small desk and begins flipping through a series of day planners.

"Yes."

She flips through a couple of pages and grabs a pen. "For how long?"

I bite my lip. "I'm not sure, exactly."

Peering over her glasses, I can see the flash of sadness cross her features. I only met my maternal grandparents once, but Mary reminds me a lot of my grandmother. They both shared that softness towards others that seemed natural.

"Well," she starts, flipping through more pages, "we don't have any reservations in the room right off the stairs for about a month. But it's the smallest one." She looks back up at me. "Would you be okay with that?"

Slowly, I nod. "That would be wonderful."