It was hard, at first, to tell himself whose face looked funniest. Greg was fingering the edge of the folder with Ecklie's old case files on Brandon, with eyes wider than saucers, and a bottom lip on the floor. Sara, on the other hand, had contracted most of her features in an attempt to avoid that exact look. The result being that she had adapted a blank-looking stare he'd often associated with her trying too hard to figure something out on the unemotional side of things. Kind of like what she'd been wearing during her recounting of Brandon's maternal grandparents' – Mr. and Mrs. Barre – tale. The look he was sure he'd be wearing, too. If not for his bemusement...

He leaned forward on the desk, hands rubbing together once or twice almost of their own accord, and affixed them with a very telling glare. "Here's the deal, you guys," he muttered. "I'd like for us to keep as close together as we can. I want this wrapped up soon. So let's get what we've got processed, and when the others arrive, we'll go over it all with them."

He paused... and considered not adding what he was thinking of adding... but decided he'd better, for the sake of honesty. "I'm a little... fed up... with all the extras. I'm not saying they don't do their jobs, but if we could make this quick, and between us, I'd feel a lot better. You get what I mean?"

It didn't surprise him so much that Sara nodded at once. Greg didn't seem to be able to resist putting a little drama into it, though; he leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and stuck his lip out to show his agreement.

Nevertheless, Nick chuckled. "Come on, then."

And they separated down the hall, into their own corners of the materials lab.

Nick took the plant molecules, the plant they came from, and the various shoe prints, which all looked a lot better under the microscope than they had at face value. He felt he'd done pretty well, but there was still no way to associate the shoe, or shoes, with whoever might have been wearing them. Even tests for leftover DNA or fingerprints came back negative... All he could conclude was that they were the same prints, down to the last computer-read striation. It had taken a lot of time, and that was frustrating enough to him, without Sara and Greg prancing in just before he could get started on the plant studies.

"Well..." Greg began. "Somebody was not happy with Madame Challal."

"I don't blame them," Nick murmured, not a lick of kidding in his voice. "I hate that bitch like a horse hates a fly."

Sara seemed to find this amusing. She laughed, anyway, and slapped him on his shoulder. "Texas talk, Nicky?"

His spirits brightened a little. She was often the most somber about their work; she must have found something good to take such a heavy statement so lightly. And if she had...

"We can call it that, sure." He set his glasses down on the table, and straightened up. "Anything...?"

As expected, Sara swept forward and presented him with the file she held, like she used to do with Grissom. The correlation – observed privately by Nick – brought his spirits up a little further, still.

"It's that girl," Greg explained, as Nick began to read. "The receptionist as Madame Challal's warehouse... Sara says she showed you all to the vault."

And the picture by the printouts was, indeed, that of the young woman who Nick had noticed when first meeting Madame Challal. And the one that had directed him to Sara and Morgan in the vault.

"Jane Thorton," he read. "Previously imprisoned for blatant prostitution, huh?"

Sara folded her arms and lit up her face with a self-satisfied smirk. "I know. What a reputable receptionist Madame Challal's got, there..."

Nick's lips turned up. And a slight chuckle – just in one exhale – left them. "What a secret she had to hide..."

"I doubt that's the big bombshell," Greg said. "It's not even related to Madame Challal, necessarily. It just tells us who defecated all over her house."

"Mmm," Nick agreed wordlessly. "I don't know that that has a lot to do with Madame Challal's crimes, though. She might just be a bad boss. And that would be one hell of a way to turn in a resignation to a bad boss... Especially one like Madame Challal."

He could tell from her restrained expression that Sara thought this to be a bit of a stretch. But she didn't argue, much to his relief. So he turned to Greg, who was carrying the bagged construction materials from the aforementioned bitch's living room.

"And you, Greggo?"

Greg stopped looking between them with so much interest, and flung the materials on the empty space of the table. "Yeah... These must've been sitting somewhere for a very long time. They're covered in Will Rice's prints. And they're very well preserved."

Nick looked again to Sara, who nodded in agreement to his surprise, and gestured to Greg to continue.

"I don't know how they got to Madame Challal's, but they're not hers. As if we needed an examination to prove that... I can't see her touching anything made of this sort of material. No, these are Will Rice's. Or at least somebody who knew him very well, like–"

"–Brandon," Nick filled in.

"That's what I'm thinking, too," said Greg. "So, what we need is a link between Brandon and at least most of these crimes. Because it looks like... whatever's going on, here... Brandon's at the center of it."

Sara's gaze had wandered off thoughtfully, but she spoke with all the presence of the ground they were on. "Definitely... His fake uncle abused him while imprisoning him and his grandmother in their own house. He took it out on some of his schoolmates and one of the janitors there, that we know of..."

In the small silence that fell, Nick let his eyes roam from her to the plant he was about to tear into. "But if we find anything of him, here... will that do it?"

"I don't know," answered Sara. "Let's find out."

Greg seemed to fade away from the proceedings for a moment. Nick and Sara disassembled the plant piece by piece, and took it in turns to run it under the microscope and the materials analyzers. They passed each other during their well-worn pace around the lab with the utmost of contentment on their faces. Several grins were exchanged. A high five or two were passed around. It all seemed to be coming together spectacularly, when...

They were done. "Phew," Nick sighed in exaggeration.

Sara flicked her goggles across the table. "Uh huh. Plant stuff..."

Greg had taken a seat in one of the stools, by the back computer. Nick caught the slightest glimpse of the Solitaire window closing before he came to join them.

"Well...? Is there anything?"

Nick shook his head. "No. We just know that these molecules came from this plant."

"Which is most likely Clara's mom's," finished Sara.

There were resolute nods, and resigned glances shared amongst them.

Then Greg asked the obvious. "But how do we prove that?"

"I don't suppose we do," answered Sara, eyes tentatively on Nick. "We didn't find any connections to Brandon."

"Yeah," confirmed Nick, pulling his own goggles off over his eyes. "We need to dig more... This stuff is incidental. At least, for now."

"But sometimes there's no evidence like incidental evidence."

They looked up at the sound of this new voice, and were a little disappointed – or, at least, Nick was – to find the entire crew marching back in. Loads of evidence in the boxes they were carrying... Russell, who had spoken, heaved his up beside the plants with a little more effort than necessary. Morgan, eyes darting everywhere, giggled loudly at something their trainee was telling her, on his way in behind her.

"I think we've got something, sir," Pip chimed in. "Something good from Brandon's warehouse."

"Where, by the way, he hasn't made many friends," added Morgan. "We've got a couple of good dishes on him..."

"And, at his house... or, sort of house... we got a connection!" the trainee shouted.

Nick waved a hand for silence over the chattering crowd. It took a couple of them, but eventually, it took effect. "This all sounds great. But can I get it one at a time? Russell...?"

Russell looked as if he were about to ask why him, but didn't seem to think it important enough to push. So he overturned the box he'd been carrying carefully.

"Computer disks," he stated, with an enthusiastic cheer in his tone. "Not even well-hidden... We'll be lucky if most of it isn't porn, but we're pretty sure one of them isn't."

"And why's that?" said Nick.

"We looked on the computer he had there, and our student, here, uncovered a coded email in it. To one Clara Jaffel," explained Russell.

"Huh?" Morgan piped up from the back. "Really...? We found something to Clara, too!"

Nick followed the line of conversation from Russell to Morgan with his eyes, but then suddenly over to Greg.

"It didn't happen to confirm that her mother used to screw with plants, did it?"

"Not really," replied Morgan. "Why?"

"'Cause it looks like the plant thing is a dead end," clarified Sara. "Unless we find something else..."

"You took apart the plant?" demanded the trainee. "I really wanted to be there for that..."

Nick began to tune them out. He addressed Russell, instead, who was regarding him with an unfathomable expression.

"Anything on Madame Challal?"

"Not on our end. Sorry, Nick," said Russell.

"That's fine," Nick said back. "We're one less bell to answer without her in the mix."

"Spoken like a true professional," interjected Russell.

It seemed to Nick that there were a few ways he could take that. But then wasn't the time to push it, regardless, so he continued. "If you could steer the room in the general direction of processing what remains, I'll go and see where Brass is on interrogating Brandon."

"Sounds like a job for Sara," said Russell.

Nick blinked. "For Sara...?"

"Your chosen assistant supervisor, right?"

There was something increasingly infuriating about Russell's laid back tactics. But it worked. Nick eyed Sara, and it occurred to him that he'd probably have another fight on his hands if he didn't involve her more than that.

"Actually..." he began.

A million thoughts ran through his head. What would she have wanted? If she had been chosen to run shift, where would she send herself? If what she told everyone was to be believed, almost anywhere would do. But if how she behaved was any indicator...

"I think Sara can come with me."

Again – albeit with less of an obnoxious quality – Russell smiled. "Now, that sounds like a good idea..."

"Great," offered Nick. "Then, we'll see you in fifteen or twenty...? Sara?"

His voice had picked up, and his hand beckoned in the direction of the latter with a single wave. Whatever she'd been saying to Greg, she dropped it midway, and came to the door with an expectant expression written in bold all over her.

"Yes?"

"Let's go check in with Jim. We've been stumbling around long enough, I think."

Brandon was far from being the same person they had seen what felt like ages ago. There were no tears running down his cheeks, and he was propped up in his chair with his arms crossed, and a sour look that had been passionately adorned. His hair was falling loosely, and his eyes were narrowed over their dark circles. Brass was outside the interrogation room, cradling a cup of something hot almost enviously as they approached.

"Anything?" Nick almost demanded.

"No," replied Brass automatically. "I haven't gone in yet. I figured you'd want to get here..."

"Sorry," said Sara. "Long search..."

"Yeah. I'm with you..." And Brass downed his scorching-looking drink in one gulp. "Well, what do we have to work with?"

"We know he's lying."

Even to himself, Nick's voice sounded faltered. He couldn't decide, even as he looked on, now, how to feel about this young man. It had seemed so real... so genuine, all the distress he'd first seen. To think that he was manipulating the situation on such a large level was completely possible; Nick had seen many more surprising things before. But as he leaned on the see-through end of the two-way glass, he couldn't quite suppress the thought that this wasn't the case, this time... How to proceed without giving that away...? Well, maybe it was best he had brought Sara...

"He doesn't work for the warehouse," Nick carried on. "And he knew Clara Jaffel, though that's... really more her lie..."

"He also knew Will Rice," said Sara. "And it sounds like Martin Trem."

Nick shook his head, and rubbed his eyes with two fingers. "That's right. I forgot that one..."

There was a pause, and he imagined the two of them looking at each other in the kind of concern he had grown to usually ignore.

Then Sara poked the back of his shoulder. "Are you okay?"

He lifted his eyes from behind his fingers and was overcome with an urge of honesty. "I don't know... But I think, uh... I think you'd better do this one alone. Or, well..." He indicated Brass, watching them with faint interest. "The two of you, if Jim wants in."

Brass raised two hands in surrender, and made a dismissive shrug. "I think Sara's got this one."

"Yeah," agreed Nick. His lips felt as if they were widening themselves. "Yeah, so do I."

She took a disingenuous bow. "Thank you. Thank you... But, Nick... are you sure?"

There was a rather different attitude behind her, now. Less accusatory... It steeled his resolve like a punch to the gut.

"I am," he stated. "I think I'm going to have... rather a lot to answer for when you come out of that room. It'll be easier to answer to if I'm nowhere near the fall out."

"So, leave it for me, then..." she said, sounding as steeled as he felt.

But he was tired of that put-upon implication. And it came out as a weary reprimand. "Don't take that view of it, Sara. I wish I could say I hate to ask you to be strong, but we all know you're too good at it. And you enjoy it too much. That's the real reason you came back."

It was a sudden shift of implication, but it was exactly the last thing he'd wanted to say hours ago. So, of course, it was the perfect thing to say right then...

And rather than flare up, she smiled. "You know me so well." And she sighed, "Well... Okay. Alright... Take notes, then, boys."

And she strode unbrokenly into the room beyond the glass.

There was both satisfaction and empowerment behind her when she dropped into the chair opposite their suspect. Something strange about feeling watched, in a way that was more enticing than unnerving, put a drive beneath her go.

But if Brandon noticed it, he did not act on it. "Where's Nick at?" he snapped at once.

But she'd been ready. "Nick's busy," she shot. "You've left us a real mess, and Nick's stuck cleaning it up."

"I have...?" demanded Brandon. "How me?"

Having averted her gaze to disguise some of the impatience, Sara flicked her eyes back just as quickly to deliver the command with them. "That's exactly what you're going to tell me, now, Brandon. And I expect honest, evidence-supported answers. We have enough to land you in prison for a very long time, so if you care about avoiding that anymore, then you'll be honest. And you'd better have good explanations for anything contradictory."

Then the tears started. Or, one of them, at least... But it was different from the ones before. Silent... and decorating a cold face instead of a distraught one.

"If you've got all the evidence, then you already know what happened," the suspect retorted. "You know that my 'uncle' was abusing me. You know I went to school with things under my existence that none of my other classmates could have possibly imagined..."

"I also know you took it out on some of them." Sara leaned back, and folded her hands over her lap. Her tone was unaltered. "I know you were after your janitor friend, Jason Veran. I know you were very sick in the head, and that what you were doing to others was not acceptable, even if there were real horrors behind it."

"That's easy for you to say," he brushed off. "But there was no one really there for me. My grandma couldn't do anything. My school didn't know. My parents were gone..."

"Your parents were screwed up, too, Brandon." And she didn't know what had caused her to say that. "I doubt they would have helped you if they could have..."

She knew it had been the right thing to say, though. His eyes shot up, and they narrowed in an anger that could not have come from a conscious source.

"How do you know that?!" he shrieked. "Your evidence can only carry you so far!"

"You know your grandparents," she answered, composedly. "Your mother's mother and father... You know they tried to help you. And you know about Martin Trem."

Brandon waved one hand, but clutched at the edge of his suit's front opening with the other. "Fuck Trem."

Even though she hadn't held the high view point of him that Nick had, such a sudden outburst of vulgarity took her by surprise. She inclined her head downward a little, and affixed him with a new look of sternness.

"Tell me about that, then."

"He was just my uncle's favorite toy on the block. He had a thing for older guys, and he liked them drunk. There was no better candidate than that disgusting pile of human garbage calling himself my father's brother. But being a drunk didn't kill all his self-preservation; Trem's such a nympho that all it took were some light threats of cutting him off to get him to do what Hector wanted. And me...?" He snorted. "I had a lot more to hold over his head after Hector died."

"You mean, after you killed him," corrected Sara.

"No," said Brandon. And there was a new shakiness to his voice. "No, I may not have been entirely innocent, but I did not kill that piece of shit." More than one angry tear accompanied this insistence. "I wish I had years ago, but I never could do it..."

"Right..." said Sara. As close as she'd been to telling him that she didn't buy it, her sudden loss for conviction stunned her.

"Look... I only found my mom's parents because... I knew somebody. Somebody with a girlfriend who had a thing for ancestry. She looked them up for me one day, and that was that. But that didn't make any difference, either. Sure, they might have tried to help me, but it didn't do any good. If they'd been serious, they would have known that I wouldn't have cared what happened to me anymore. They'd have shot me, themselves. But they didn't, so when I took my friend and his girlfriend over to their house, I got him to do a little... reconstruction on the ceiling. No big deal, you know? Had to do what I had to do."

"And that was trying to kill them?" exclaimed Sara. "Because they couldn't break you out, either!?"

"Of course!" he shouted. "What else was I supposed to do?! When I finally left home, there was nothing else for it! I couldn't have... My grandma was stuck..."

He fell silent for a moment. An understanding for what Nick had been thinking began to sink in to Sara's mind. This was a pathetic young man. But it was to the core. And she knew what he was about to say, and how it would sicken her.

He lifted his head, and his face had turned red. "He let me go, and I don't know why, but maybe he'd just given up. He didn't even threaten to kill her. My grandma... He left her be. He wouldn't leave her house... but he let her be. At least, that's what she tried to tell me, when–"

There was another pause. Another moment when Brandon looked down at his own hands. And she took that opportunity to glance over at the glass. Where the other two were watching, stuck because their entering the room would spoil the confession.

"She had to die, Miss Sidle," he finished. His head came up, and unbelievably, incredulously... he looked like he was pleading for understanding. "I had to save her. No one had saved me... Jason had tried. He tried to save me, too, when he heard us in the old building... But I couldn't let him. He wasn't really saving us. We fought, but... he wasn't as strong as my uncle."

She rubbed each cheek with the corresponding hand. She closed her eyes, and willed that she wouldn't cry, herself. Either with pity or exhaustion, as she realized how Brandon's grandmother had surely died...

But she couldn't linger on that, right then. "Brandon... how does Madame Challal come into this?"

She had to try. Had to get the answers that would soon be unreachable if he continued on in his present state.

Brandon gave another snort. "What...?"

"We found that someone had tried to break into her vault," Sara pressed. "Martin Trem's fingerprints were all over the tools used. You said you were calling the shots with him. What did you want from her?"

"I didn't want anything," Brandon replied. "He did. I thought it best not to push it, so I didn't. Martin was cooperating, so I let that go. I didn't give a damn what the bitch was into that Martin was interested in. Said she owed him something... That's all I know on that."

"Fine," Sara gave in at once. She figured it made sense that the Madame Challal thing wouldn't be that easy. "What about Clara Jaffel? She found you the morning after she slept with Hector Halsen, grossly, all over the house. What did you say to her?"

"I told her to fuck off and mind her own fucking business, that's what!" screamed Brandon. "The bitch... She knew what was going on! Knew it since school! She used to come to our house and babble on and on about her mom screwing with plants. She gave me so many as 'gifts' that I started dropping them out the window! Then she got that job at the store her dad owns, and my grandma just fell in love with her. 'Cause the one thing she didn't have to lose after my asshole grandpa died was all the jewelry he'd left her. She started squirreling money away... Told me she was saving for a special piece she'd been eyeing most of that store's life. Started pressuring me to hook up with Clara. Seemed to think dear, old 'uncle' would be all good with it. Didn't seem to cross her mind that it was because he was a disgusting pervert, and a drunk. He just wanted her. And I wasn't about to get in the middle of that. Who'd she think he'd take it out on? Me!

"But that wasn't all. Clara wanted him, too! When she turned seventeen, she started coming around all the time! She brought my grandma a few cheap pieces, and her clothes got skimpier and skimpier... They both just loved her! But she didn't talk to me, much. And I liked it that way. It was how I finally got out of the house."

"What do you mean by that, Brandon?" asked Sara, reservedly.

"I mean, when the bitch finally came and got what she wanted, I got what I wanted: the hell out of there!" He was full-tilt bellowing, now. "So I left the miserable hellhole behind, and went to find Jason! But he was doing so well, I just left it alone! Told him I was better, and went to buy a place!"

His tone dropped quickly, and she was reminded briefly of her case working with Grissom in a mental institution.

"Trashed it up real quick with no one else there, and started smuggling files home from work. When they caught me, they fired me. Big whoop..."

"And what did you want files for?" she inquired, softly.

And that was it. He dissolved into the teary, broken state he had been during all their previous encounters with him.

"I just... wanted to tell my story to somebody..." He wiped at his eyes with his palms. "I've had enough, Miss Sidle... I don't want another job. I don't want a prison sentence. I don't want to know what else happened with my family. I just want out of this whole thing... This whole... This– No more life..."

She knew there'd be nothing out of him from then on. And she considered touching his hands while he melted down to the table, but did not, and stood up, instead.

"There can't be... nothing, Brandon," she tried. "But I want you to know, for all the good it's worth to you, I'm sorry."

If it had mattered to him, he didn't indicate, in any way. She left the room with nothing else to give, and nothing else to gain. Their questions were answered, and she was good enough with that to keep herself together when she passed the threshold back out into the hall.