"So, really: how are your family doing?"

Nick let his head roll lazily from the window he was looking out. "Hmm...?"

She shook her head and grinned at him. "Your family...? They were texting you before I came to get your shirt. How are they?"

He nodded once, and took a deep breath to dispel the heavy weight that seemed to stay lodged in his chest whenever he thought about home. "They're okay. You know, as can be expected... I think I'm going to have to take some time off after this, though. Go and see them..."

She nodded vigorously. "Oh, absolutely! That's a given. You should go."

"You in a hurry to get rid of me, Sidle?" He inclined his head slightly to the side.

"Of course not."

"Alrighty, then. Just making sure."

She blushed, and shook her head in insincere annoyance. Like he knew she would.

But then, the job was upon them, as they rounded the corner and came right into the materials lab. Where Greg seemed to be pouring over a long line of papers, all attached by perforation. Nick glanced over at Sara, who was tracing the paper line with her eyes, and growing moderately impatient-looking. He sighed, and tried to remind himself that long and arduous tasks were sometimes just all there was to it.

Provided that it was an arduous task he was performing... But the only way to know that would be to ask. "What's up, G?"

Greg glanced up, and smiled in answer before speaking it. "I did some more blood work." And then he dived right in. "The stain in the carpet? From the original scene...? It belongs to a Geraldine Samekey."

"Then, what's with the spreading mountain of papers?" demanded Sara, apparently unable to hold herself any longer.

As per her usual impatience, Nick thought to himself. He tried not to smile from beside her; he was sure it was beginning to make him look like an idiot. But he also had to close his eyes, and press his lips together for a moment. Hoping to suppress any inappropriately-timed laughter...

Greg did not sound perturbed by her attitude, however. "Well, that's for my second finding. The curling iron, stuffed down the victim's throat..."

Nick's eyes popped open, and his face rearranged itself into a grimace of disgust. He'd forgotten about that...

"It had multiple contributions on it. Three of them, actually. The first, exactly what it sounded like: Hector Halsen."

"'Hector Halsen'?" repeated Sara. "How did you find an I.D.? We've checked all the usual systems!"

A smugness took over Greg's features. "Did you try DNA comparison?"

A frustrating feeling came over Nick. And he guessed that Sara felt the same by the look she shot at him from behind her trimmed hair.

But all traces of emotional inspiration vanished quite suddenly from Greg's expression. In its place, there was a kind of grim anticipation. "I looked and looked, but I didn't see any DNA comparisons between Hector Halsen and Brandon. Whose last name I actually couldn't find..."

A very quieted snort of satisfaction sounded from Sara, right by Nick's shoulder. This time, he had to clench his fist for laughter control...

But then Greg's eyes landed directly on him. "I didn't find any alleles in common, Nick. He lied to you about being related to the victim."

It was both embarrassing and angering... being lied to by a suspect that he'd thought better of. But there it was. And since it had obviously done no good to blow up – either during this case, or the hundreds of others he'd worked on – he settled for a curt nod, and dug his fingernails into his palms. Hard enough that he would be surprised if he didn't find that he'd made himself bleed later on...

"I'm sorry, Nick. He really did seem like a nice kid," Sara offered, though her head was down, and her tone was less-than personal.

He inhaled deeply. "Yeah... Yeah. Well, how many times has that screwed us? I'm still waiting for the big I.D. reveal."

Sara didn't seem hesitant to let it go. But Greg did; he made an odd movement with his head, before pressing on. "So, what I did find was that Hector's DNA matched an unconfirmed suspect's from a case in Philadelphia, something like fifteen years ago. It was heavily masked, so it took a while for the computer to undo the security measures. I made a phone call, and it turns out the case was never solved because the suspect was never caught. Until now, it appears...

"But what happened was: two officers accidentally uncovered a break-in-turned-permanent. This Hector guy apparently just barged in to a woman's house that summer, and never left. He posed as the father to her child after killing her real husband, and kept a tight leash on all of her activities, and drank himself completely stupid all the time. Before he left, he killed the kid... and the mother was in a mental house after that."

There was a permeating silence on the room. All the muscles in Nick's body had gone too weak to do anything other than keep him standing. Sara had leaned against his arm, and her forehead rocked from side to side as she digested this. Greg had looked down sullenly at the keyboard of the laptop he'd just been using.

But the spotlight was still on him, even through the grimness, so he continued with a sigh. "I've asked for any of the evidence left over from their case they can spare. Not necessarily for helping us with ours, just... because I need to be able to sleep at night. So, it's coming... but, in the meantime, we don't even know if Hector Halsen is his real name. It was the one he gave them on his driver's license when they first questioned him, but they never could prove anything until after they couldn't find him anymore. About then, the old and slow methods of crime scene processing caught up, and then they had their unsubstantiated answers."

Funny how some things never disappeared with time, or age. Like how obviously shaken Greg was. Even though there had probably been worse cases – it seemed like there always were – and he'd been doing the job for a while, these kinds of thing still bothered him. And if there was one thing Nick had learned to not take pride in sharing with Grissom, it was the latter's reaction to the human element.

Sara couldn't have missed it, either; she rounded the table between them and Greg, and placed one hand on his shoulder, and the other on his forearm. "Greg..."

Greg wasn't above stuffing it down, though; something nobody could really claim to be above in CSI work. He gave her hand a dismissive pet, and smiled halfway. "It's okay. Just, you know, take a look at what they send, and..." He shrugged. "There you go. In the meantime, I did find the other two DNA contributors in our system. So, here..."

He reached out and pressed several keys on the laptop harder than it probably needed. The two windows came up, each with their different assigned candidates. The first one seemed hardly a shock to Nick, either.

"Mrs. Samekey," Sara read off. "How was she on it?"

"Looks like a hair survived," Nick answered. He pointed at the top right corner. "Stuck on the rubber."

"Probably her iron, I'm guessing," said Greg. "It's a common household item, and it was in her house, so..."

Good guess," Nick commented dryly. "Question is: did she touch it because she was stuffing it down his throat? Or just using it?"

"I think just using it," Greg kept on. "Because the third contributor was much more intimate."

He indicated the second results list on screen. And then Nick saw it. And his eyes narrowed.

"I knew it..." he growled.

It was Madame Challal.

"Alright..." He pulled the chair up with one hand, and sat right down in it... coming to rest with both hands on the table, and an unshakable glare aimed at the high-class woman, who was staring back. "That'll be enough of your attitude. We've got you on an incriminating piece of evidence, now. I want some answers, and I want them now, or there will be a full arrest."

Madame Challal did not seem too impressed. And it drove him up absolutely up the wall.

He flung the sheet out at her. "That's you. Just enough of your fingerprints on the edge of that handle to pop up in our system. And that, right down there, is your name. Your face. Your everything. All wrapped up in one neat, evident little package."

Her eyes, and her eyes alone, turned down to view the paper. Her arms remained clasped around herself, and her posture didn't change from its deceptively-proper form.

"And this is supposed to tell me what? That I killed your victim?" she spat, with a small, derisive laugh following. "I think not. I don't even know where you found this, or how I am supposed to be associated with it."

Having expected this, Nick waved a silencing hand across the table. Enjoying very much the red rush of fury that came across her face. "I think you know exactly where it came from. We found this down the throat of our dead man. And somehow, it's got your fingerprints on it. Fingerprints can hang on for a long time, but it just doesn't happen like this. No jury is going to believe that you sold this to someone, and that it somehow, miraculously ended up in our victim's place of residence. You were involved in this." He jabbed the paper between them. "You know something you aren't telling. Now spit it out."

She lifted her eyebrows, and a savage smile came out on her face. "Or...?"

"Or we'll find it," he replied, shortly. "We're already going to look through your house and back offices. That's a done deal. But if you don't want it to be everything else in your life, you'll start talkin'. Now."

Her blush this time was more one of a unassuming shock. "How dare you...?! You can't just root around in my life! That's a complete invasion of my privacy!"

"It's a legal, court-approved action in accordance with the policies and procedures of crime investigations. Don't give me any of this bullshit. I want to know what's up. Start explaining."

"Court-approved or not, it's still wrong, Mr. Stokes. How would you feel?" She diverted her gaze, and seemed to consider the wall for a few moments. And when she turned back, she let her eyes roam over him for a moment or two more. "You do not seem like an unintelligent man. Why don't you give me your theory? Tell me how I am magically connected to a murder."

"I think you were there," he shot back with no hesitation. "I think you were there, and for reasons you're gonna tell me, you participated in the murder. That, or some kind of an elaborate torture scenario... Either way, you know more than you're letting on. What's your beef?"

She rolled her eyes. "Typical middle-aged male tripe... My 'beef'... Perhaps not so intelligent, after all..."

It was Nick's turn to roll his eyes. "Uh huh. Spit it out," he repeated.

Suddenly, she seemed to decide to lose it. She exhaled sharply, and indignantly. "Jesus...! I won't! You'll just have to see what you can find! I told you: I'm not going to make this easy on you!"

And her whole demeanor changed. Nick squinted, and tried to use different eyes. She was very fidgety, and uncomfortable. She wasn't sitting very close to the table... as if she were afraid to touch it. Her legs were crossed tightly, and her knuckles were white with the effort of squeezing her own thin biceps. Even the way she was dressed seemed to denote secrecy and withdrawal.

He sighed. And decided to try something else. "Madame Challal... It wouldn't be necessary to go digging if you would just tell the truth. The truth will corroborate with the evidence, and if there's really nothing to hide, then you won't have anything to fear. Just give me something, anything that's honest to work with. I can do a lot for you with just a little bit."

"But you won't," she replied immediately, clearly unswayed. "I am not your interest. Your case is. Go ahead. Look through my life." A tear left her eye, and her voice, though shrill, shook a little bit. "You just see what you can find of me. I guarantee, you will never find it all."

At the sound of the approaching footsteps, Sara lifted her head. Half-hoping to see Nick back with an energizing discovery. But it was Morgan who came rolling through the door.

"I think I've got some movement on the missing evidence. We're going to want to check the Jaffel's storage unit. Richard and Clara both said to look for 'other plant spuds' there."

Sara laughed. "Ah... I see. 'Other' plants, huh?" And she smiled down at the tools she was processing.

"Yeah. According to them, this plant was a messy mix of two seeds Clara's mom used to mess with." Morgan flopped the swab she had used for Mr. Jaffel's pant leg down on the table, and flung herself onto the stool nearest. "She died because she drove her car into a lake."

Sara's head shot back up. "What?"

"Yeah," said Morgan. "Clara's mom killed herself by driving into a lake."

Behind them, Greg turned from the deer trophy. "Did they say why?" he asked through a frown of puzzle.

"Nope," answered Morgan. "Just that she was depressed, they thought, and so she killed herself by driving into a lake."

Sara bobbed her head forward, and let it hang on her chest for a moment. "I am so tired of human weirdness..."

"Likewise," said Morgan. "But what have we got on this end?"

"Nothing too shocking with the tools," Sara sighed. "The blood is single-owned: Brandon. It appears there was some self-infliction going on, too. The skin molecules are his, as well." She ran her hands over her face and back through her hair wearily, and then looked over her shoulder. "Greg?"

"This is more interesting," he said. "This trophy has a plaque on it. But hidden beneath the synthetic fur."

Both Sara and Morgan came to join him. "What?" asked the latter.

"It's like someone tried to hide it. I peeled off the fur, and found this message hidden under it."

Sara leaned a little closer, till her chin came to rest on Greg's arm. The light he was shining on it reflected well in the lab's larger lights, and she could see, with a moment or two of focus, exactly what it was.

"'Brandon x Will forever'," read Morgan. "...'Will'...? Who the hell's 'Will'...?"

"Don't know that yet. But under the plaque, there's a small hole. And inside, I found this."

When Sara took a look at the deer head again, she realized it was missing almost a whole side. She blinked, and scrunched her face together in surprise.

But then, Greg's latest came to rest on the small tray beside her. "A camera," he stated. "A small, disposable one."

And it was. A small, yellow, disposable camera with smudged printing and dried dirt all over its exterior. Sara reached for a set of gloves, and applied them quickly before picking the small, moment-capturing device gingerly up. Morgan and Greg's faces were suddenly in her peripheral, staring as intently at it as if it had been their very first solo find back in the academy.

"We'll be lucky if we can get anything off this. It looks old. Look at the date on it," she said.

It was Morgan who read it out loud. "'1999'."

"That's right," confirmed Sara. "So this is before digital development. We'd better get started on this one now, before anymore degradation sets in. Who wants it?"

"What? Why don't you take it?" insisted Morgan.

"Because I need to report all this to Nick. And if you think you know where the missing evidence is, he and I should probably go find it."

Morgan and Greg exchanged looks, probably thinking themselves just outside her line of vision.

She instantly decided to disillusion them of that idea. "What?"

"Why don't I go with him for that? I'm the one who got the tip off..."

"He asked me to help him with this," Sara stated bluntly, as if that ended any doubts.

"I think he asked all of us to help him," Greg tried. "Given that he's brought us all in on the case... It's kind of an all-around, unspoken help fest."

There was a flash of annoyance welling up. She'd kind of thought Greg would get it. And she came so close to saying what she really thought of him for that.

But she didn't. "I suppose we'll have to ask when he gets back, then," she settled on, through measured breaths. "In the meantime, fine: I'll take the camera."

In the window's reflection, she could see Greg and Morgan looking at each other as she left for the next room. But soon, her mind left them as far behind her as her feet. The slow, but scientifically-exact process of developing old photographs was as mesmerizing as it was boring. The way the pictures began to form into coherent images was somewhat fascinating to her. But it was a long process... and she couldn't quite make out the shadowy nature of the scenes she was revealing until after she had left the dark inside of the photo room.

When she did, Nick caught up with her. "I hear you're going back to school."

She blinked a little against the brighter lighting outside the development room. "What?"

"A 1990 disposable camera..." he said, indicating its depleted remains. "That's a throwback..."

"Oh. Yeah..." She giggled. "Yeah, Greg found it in the deer head."

"So I hear, too." He smiled at her handiwork for a moment. "What did you..."

As his voice faded, she looked over at him in confusion. "What did I find, you mean?"

"Oh, that's just gross," was all he answered with, flicking a hand out to the photos.

"What is?" And she followed his finger back to the pictures.

Where what was in them seemed to realize itself in her brain. She blinked, and tried to swallow her entire throat... and brushed some of her hair out of her eyes, as if to take a closer look. See if she was really seeing it...

It was disgusting. It started with a young, pale, masked male in his underwear, posing for the photographer in a few suggestive poses. From there, it progressed into a dual act, with their alcoholic victim – booze bottle in one hand – engaging in a variety of filthy behaviors with whoever the other person was.

"Oh, my God..." Sara groaned, and turned to the leave the room as the feeling of vomit started to build in her stomach.

She found a vending machine a couple of halls down, and deposited $1.25 worth of quarters in it hastily for a bottle of cool water. As the sound of the bottle clanging its way down hit her ears, where they were pressed against the transparent plastic covering the items on display, she closed her eyes and willed several happier pictures into her head. And as soon as she had one solid enough, she tore the water out of the dispensary, and tore off its lid to greedily drink down some of its refreshing liquid.

Nick caught up after she had drained half the bottle. "Hey, hey, hey," he said. "Don't choke yourself, now."

She gave him a thumbs up before pulling the bottle from her lips and twisting its cap on tightly. "I'm sorry..." she gasped. "I didn't mean to rush off without securing the evidence. I just really needed to get away for a second..."

He scratched his chin through his semi-thick beard. "I understand. I just can't afford to lose the help."

His smile belayed his sarcasm. She rubbed her eyes on the side of her long robe's sleeves. And the hum of the machine reminded her of how angry she had been with him the last time she had heard the sound. To look at him then, she did not know how she would have handled this without him.

"Nick..." she tried.

"Yes?"

And there were so many things she wanted to say. So many memories from brighter days and better times. From easier cases, and less confusing past feelings. But what she settled for was a grin.

And a quip. "Nice shirt."

She could see that he tried not laugh. Just like how he had tried with Greg, he tried with her. So serious all the time, for some reason she just could not fathom anymore.

But he let it go when their arms came around each other. And she began to wonder how on Earth she was going to tell him that she didn't want to end up at home by herself, for a second night in a row.