Disclaimer: Not mine.

A/N: Just a side note, I know that the Witness Protection Program isn't really under the FBI, and that they're both under the Department of Justice... however, I decided to oversimplify, for the purposes of this story. So, just fair warning, this is where that whole 'willing suspense of disbelief' thing comes in. :)

Please review! It means sooo much to me when you do!


Chapter 22: April 1993

They weren't there. I flew to Boston, an entire suitcase full of presents, for Amber's tenth birthday, and the house was empty, unlocked. The main living areas looked like they'd been ransacked—Amber's room was empty, all clothes gone, all toys gone.

I went back out to my rental car, frantic, thinking I should call the police. Instead, I drove to Laura's aunt's house. It's empty too—abandoned. Then I go to the police, explaining, filing a missing person's report, telling them everything I know about 'Jack Murphy,' which admittedly was not much. They told me they'd call me, they were going to look into the case. I couldn't believe how frustrating it was to be on the other side—to have to leave, and wait, and worry.

I wasn't going to do that, because my intuition was telling me that this was off. If they'd left in a hurry, only some of Amber's clothes would be missing. If they'd moved at a leisurely pace, even on the off chance they hadn't wanted to keep in touch with me, they would have taken the living and dining room furniture. And both families wouldn't have moved. For some reason, I felt like this had to do with Jack Murphy—he must have done something, gotten in too deep with his drug suppliers, and either Laura and Amber were in the Witness Protection Program, or he'd cared enough to tell them to move when he knew trouble was coming. Either way, it was his fault.

I called Jim Brass.

"Brass."

"Hey, Jim, it's Gil, I, uh… Do you have a minute?"

"Yeah, nothing too pressing at the moment… what do you need?"

"I, uh… I need a favor."

"Okay…?" he asked, not agreeing yet, but waiting to see what I would request.

"Do you still have that contact at the FBI?"

"Yes…"

"…So, uh, you don't know this about me, but, um… when I lived in Minnesota, I had a family."

"Okay." He responds, probably only because I paused. He's letting me do the talking.

"I wasn't married to her, but we had a son, and she had a little girl from a previous marriage. Laura and Amber Michaels, write that down, Jim."

I can hear him pull paper across his desk, so I continue.

"My son died, of SIDS, and almost a year later, Laura and Amber moved to Boston, to get away from all that, and I moved to L.A. But… Amber is like my own daughter, it doesn't matter that she isn't really mine. Do you understand that?"

His voice is gruff when he answers, like he's emotional, and I don't understand it, but in the moment I don't have the time to understand it. "Yeah, Gil… I understand that."

"I'm here in Boston, for her birthday… and they're gone. Just gone. All the living room furniture, the dinner table… it's all there, and the house looks ransacked, but all their clothing is gone, all of Amber's toys and books… Laura was dating a guy, Jack Murphy, who had gone to prison for cocaine possession. I went to Laura's aunt's home, to look for them, see if they knew anything… it was deserted too. It… It just feels like witness protection. I… Jim, I know your guy can't tell me where they are, or their new names, or anything like that… but if I could just know that they're alive, and okay, and… and safe. I need to know that she's safe."

There's a long silence on the phone, and I hear his chair squeak as he shifts in it. "Let me give him a call, Gil. I'll see what I can do…"

"Thank you, Jim. You… you have no idea. Thank you."

"Of course. I'll call you as soon as I know anything."

The line goes dead, and I go to the college restaurant, that Laura had once taken us too, because I have nowhere to be, and because it makes me think of Amber. I'm seated in a quiet area of the restaurant—perhaps the hostess senses my state of mind—away from most of the college students. There's only one other person in the entire section—a good twenty feet from me—a young girl, brunette, who flinches any time a waiter walks past her. She's bent over a stack of forms, writing meticulously, but I feel her sadness from here—perhaps because I'm so in tune with despair right now.

I order coffee, and a burger with fries—I'm not hungry, but it will keep my hands busy. I need to occupy myself until I receive the call. While I wait for my food, I watch the young girl out of the side of my eyes. I don't know whether I can't see her features because she is bent over her work so studiously, or whether it is simply that the enormity of her grief obscures all else, but all I see of her is the brown locks and the sorrow. I wonder if I look that way—whether my entire frame exudes anguish, as hers does.

The burger comes, and I eat without tasting, forcing myself to take small bites, and chew meticulously. It's well over an hour by the time I finish my plate, my phone resting, silent, in front of me. The waitress takes it, asking after dessert, but I feel sick after having eating so much when I didn't feel hungry, and so I just request the check. She walks away, and my phone rings.

Good God, it's ringing. With trembling hands, I lift it, and answer shakily.

"Jim?"

"Hey, I talked to my guy."

My heart is clenched tightly, and I'm not breathing. I wait, and he continues.

"Sounds like they are in the program, your instincts were right. They're alive, and safe. He couldn't tell me anything else about them, but it does sound like it's the boyfriend they're worried about. The woman, Laura, agreed to testify against him…" He chuckles softly. "Apparently it's in the file that the little girl, Amber… she told the program reps that her daddy made bad people go to jail, and he was going to send Jack to jail. They wrote it down, intending to see if there was a father figure they needed to protect, but they couldn't find a record of one. …Do you feel like you need any protection, Gil?"

Tears are streaming down my face. They're alive, they're safe, and my baby knows who her daddy is… she knows that I would do anything to protect her. Even if I can't see her, for her birthday, it's enough. I shake myself, wiping at the tears, forcing myself to respond.

"No… no, uh, I don't need any protection. I don't think he ever knew much about me. Listen, Jim, can… can I ask another favor?"

"I can't help you talk to them, Gil."

"No, I know… but… maybe you could just send a message or talk to the FBI? I, uh… I've been sending money, for her college fund. If Laura can't keep up with it, maybe they could ask her to release it to me, so I can keep adding to it. It would stay in Amber's name…"

He sighs. "I can talk to my guy, Gil, but I can't promise anything."

"No, I know… I know… uh, and… have them tell her that her daddy loves her, too. If you can." I swallow hard. "Thanks, Jim."

He says something, but I don't know what. I hang up, as the check arrives, and I've never felt more relieved in my whole life. I could not lose another baby. I didn't have it in me.

I pay in cash, but I use the pen in the little black folder to scrawl on a clean napkin, for my silent partner in grief. I make sure to walk by her table on my way out, and am surprised that she doesn't flinch as I set the napkin on the table and leave. Hopefully, her pain will be alleviated as quickly as mine.


Making Plans

When I arrived home, I did something very selfish—I called Michael. It had been a year and a half since we'd broken up, and I worried that he had moved on. I didn't know anyone else in town I could trust, and I couldn't be alone. Luckily, it was spring break for him too, and so he answered, despite the fact that I'd called him a little after noon.

"Hello?" I'd promised myself I wouldn't cry, but tears sprang into my eyes at the sound of his voice.

"…Michael?"

"Sara?" He was alarmed, scared, and I sniffled, trying to regain control. "Sara, honey, what's wrong? Talk to me…"

Suddenly my face was covered in tears, and I didn't know when they had fallen nor did I remember feeling them fall. "I… I don't know if… if you hate me or… or if you're with someone… but… I really need somebody I can trust, right now…"

He inhales deeply. "I could never hate you, Sara. I'll… I'll be there in five minutes? You…" he swallows, like he's sad he has to ask. "You still live in the same apartment?"

"Yeah…"

"Five minutes." He promises, and the line disconnects.

I don't answer when he knocks, because I can't force myself to stand—I'm crumpled on the floor, letting myself go for the first time since it happened. Luckily, he lets himself in, and I feel his arms around me. He holds me against his shoulder, until I can stop crying, and then pulls back slowly.

"Sara, honey, what is it?" He draws in a sharp breath when he sees my face. "What… happened to you? Sara, who did this to you?!"

And then I'm sobbing again, buried in his shoulder. He rocks me gently, and rubs my back, and soothes me. And then he leads me into the bedroom, and lays us down in my bed and holds me close, running his fingers through my hair. It's the most natural thing in the world, and I curl into him, feeling safe for the first time in so long. When we've laid there for nearly an hour, just holding each other, his gentle fingers in my hair, I speak.

"I went to… Miami… with Kelly, for… spring break." I can tell he's listening closely, because he tenses, and his fingers pause in my hair, before continuing their trek. "I… I was a little drunk… a little tipsy, not drunk… and, uh, I thought I was going to be sick, so I went away from the group, to get some cool air…" I tremble, but he holds me tightly, and I still. "I was pushed back, into the sand and… turned over. He… held my hands down, when I tried to fight back, and…" a sob escapes my lips. "It… hurt so bad." And then I'm lost in sobs again, and he's rocking me gently.

Hours later, he untangles himself, and goes out to the kitchen and heats me up soup. I'm not sick, but I appreciate the thought. We both eat a bowl in bed, in a comfortable silence. I break it when I set my empty bowl aside, on a nightstand.

"Thank you, for… coming. I… I didn't know who else to call, and… and I know you didn't have to."

His eyes are soft as they watch me. "I wouldn't have it any other way, Sara. You know that. You know you can always call me. In twenty years, if you call me, Sara, I'll still come."

I feel tears in my eyes, and I kiss him softly—impulsively. I pull back when he doesn't return the kiss, regretful, thinking he's over me, but he sees the look in my eyes and pulls me gently back, brushing his lips softly against mine.

"I'm just… I'm afraid to touch you, that way… I know what you just went through…"

I nod, drawing in a deep breath. I understand, but I want him to remove the memory of my attacker. I want my body to know the feel of loving hands again, instead of all the pain. "You can touch me, Michael. Please… touch me."

His eyes shine, and then he's sitting me up, pulling off my shirt gently, and drawing in a hissing breath as he sees the newly revealed bruises and cuts, and the wrappings around my ribs. Still, the way his eyes worship my body, I feel safer than ever, and I reach behind myself to unclasp my bra and pull it from my body. He dips his head, softly kissing each and every exposed mark, and letting his fingers trail over them, gently, as if his touch can erase my assailant's, and heal the pain. It's soothing, in the simplest of ways, and I let my eyes close to his touch.

When he's finished, he slowly slides my sweat pants down, and then gently removes my underwear. He kisses his way up my legs, stopping at each bruise, though they're fewer, here, and I draw in a shuddering breath as he reaches the apex and I slowly spread my legs, tears falling again.

His head falls to the mattress between my legs, and he groans softly. "God, Sara…" he's afraid to touch the stitches, and slides up to me instead, wrapping his arms around me. "I'm… I'm so sorry this happened to you. I can't believe anyone would touch you this way. You… you deserve so much better."

I slowly slide his clothing off, without speaking—I just need to feel his skin against mine—and then curl into him, and we sleep.

He stays with me, that whole week, and we both go back to school on Monday, but we're unofficially back together again, even though I've told him that I have to move… that I think I know who it is, and I can't stay in Boston anymore. Carrie, the CSI, called me personally during the week, to tell me that they weren't able to get any DNA from any of the evidence they collected. I cried, again, and she told me she was really sorry that they hadn't been able to prove anything. The person I had told her about—the person I suspected—his hands were the same size as the bruises on my wrists, but so were the hands of two other men in the condo—it wasn't enough, alone, to convict him. I thanked her, and hung up, and went and sat in the burning shower.

Michael had gone to pick up some groceries, and that's where he found me. He slipped his clothes off and sat behind me, holding me as the water cascaded over us and I cried. I told him, through sobs, that they couldn't prove it was him. But I knew. I knew it with certainty.

After that day was when I started planning.

I applied to transfer to all the grad schools I had been accepted to the year before, and then started talking to my professors and advisors about studying forensics and how my areas of expertise would fit into that. Carrie had done so much for me—put me so at ease—during the ordeal, and I felt like that was something I wanted to do. Not law enforcement, but… she'd said DNA analysis and trace evidence and… and that was science, right? I could easily do that. And I could be for others what she had been for me.

I went to the restaurant in which I'd spent my birthday with Michael and Kelly, when I turned nineteen, and sat alone in a booth, filling out application after application and writing out essay after essay, with nothing for fuel but black coffee and fear. A few hours in, a man who seemed as sad as me came in, was seated in my secluded section, and we each sat, isolated in our grief for over an hour. He got a phone call, just before he left, and it seemed to solve his problems. Suddenly I felt very alone—I hadn't known how much his mutual sorrow had comforted me until he was leaving.

As he passed my table, he set a napkin on the edge of the table, without pausing. I remember looking up, and slowly setting my pen down, and turning to see that he was gone, before picking up the napkin curiously. In a scrawl that would have been beautiful, if it hadn't been on a napkin and somewhat messy because of it, there was a quotation.

"Sorrow is a fruit. God does not make it grow on limbs too weak to bear it."

-Victor Hugo

Thank you for sharing in my grief. …It will get better.

I smile, softly, and feel a newfound strength that seeps deep into my very bones.

I chose Berkeley, because they had one of the best forensics programs in the country, and because California felt familiar and safe. By the time finals had finished at the end of April, I had given notice on my apartment and flown out to Berkeley to find an apartment. I rented a U-haul truck, and drove across the country, by myself, missing Michael more with every mile, but the strength stayed in my bones. I was putting it all behind me, I had finally decided on a career path, and I would soon be giving justice to people like myself. I would be finding the minute evidence that would have had Ken Fuller in a jail cell, rather than strutting around campus next year. I might not have any recourse for the wrongs against my person, but I would protect other women from this kind of injustice.