A/N: A new chapter...moving on with Sara's rehab!

I Keep On Loving You

Chapter 13

Sara stared at the ceiling above her bed, her gaze traveling back and forth along the shadows; back and forth, back and forth. At least there were no cracks—just flat white paint—and the shadows changed with daybreak. She did not have to check the clock on the wall to know it was several hours before sunrise. Working night shift for years had set her internal clock to recognize three AM as well as most people knew three PM.

For a while, she lay in bed, thinking. Some of her best thoughts came in the hour after she woke—always had, she thought. She knew her rehab was moving slowly; another week had been added to her stay at Red Rocks.

With a huge effort, she sat up. Rehab was paying off; six days into it and she could pull herself up, move around, swing her legs off the bed, but then she needed help. The fractured leg prevented her from supporting her weight; the arm in a cast meant she could not use crutches. Compression boots were helping her legs recover from extended immobility; she was spending four to five hours a day in rehab but her body felt as soft as the pudding on her dinner tray. For a moment, the room spun around, then stabilized—a side effect of restrictive movement for so many days.

And now her weight had become a big issue; even with high calorie milkshakes three times a day, she wasn't regaining weight. Her physicians studied her medical records, the dietitian visited daily, the nurses met; so far nothing had caused an increase in pounds. A change in medications was expected to increase her appetite—maybe it was working because she was hungry.

Reaching for the beeper, she tapped a message for an aide. Far fewer people worked the night shift in the facility than during the day—a situation she had not realized until she had a change in meds. Almost immediately, she had gone from sleeping nine or ten hours at night to her 'normal' former sleep habits. She slept three or four hours, woke for two or three hours, and then she'd sleep for two more hours.

And that's how she had gotten to know the employees of the night shift. The staff worked—charting, checking on patients, setting up schedules for the next day—but there was 'down time' when the quietness of the place led to tedious boredom.

When the night nurse and two nursing aides discovered Sara had worked the 'grave' shift for years, they immediately welcomed her as a kindred spirit. And by the second night of sitting at the nurse's station, Sara was hearing more gossip about everyone—employees and patients—than she had thought possible, which caused her to think she might find out something about the men who had died while in rehab.

Tonight, they had news for Sara.

"First, your arm cast is going to be changed for a new one—state of the art, lightweight, ventilated—I've seen photos of some, but never on anyone" the nurse announced as soon as Sara arrived at the desk.

Sara held up the cast on her arm, asking, "You mean this is gone? Will I be able to use crutches?"

The nurse shook her head, saying, "Not sure about the crutches—but this thing is supposed to be the latest thing out. And," she gestured with both hands, "Surprise! Later today, you're getting a private room!"

"Double bed," one of the aides added, "With a sofa! And—you're going to like this part—that cute hubby can spend the night with you!"

"No hanky-panky," the second aide said with an exaggerated wink. "Or at least tape a 'Do not disturb' sign on the door!" The big woman made a mock shudder, laughing as she said, "I don't want to walk in on no intimate time!"

Sara's smile showed surprise as she said, "I didn't think it would happen!"

The same aide pretended Sara's comment meant something else. She said, "We get hanky-panky all the time, honey! Half a dozen old geezers get Viagra on demand in the nursing home—and they are always prowling around for a willing woman." She narrowed her eyes as she continued, saying, "And they don't pretend to close the door! Proud of all that grunting and panting going on, they are!"

"We keep an eye on them—they are not coming into rehab on our watch! Keep their nasty old snakes in the nursing home!" This came from the second aide sitting at the desk.

Sara giggled at the narrative. "I don't think I'm in any physical shape for 'intimate time' even though," she winked and grinned, "The urge hits in the oddest moments!"

All four women laughed and snickered at the intended allusion.

"How did I get a private room?" Sara asked.

"Mrs. Richards is going back to assisted living—you should have had that room when you were admitted," One of the aides said and then mumbled, "money talks in this place."

"Watch your mouth, Bess," the nurse cautioned. "Mrs. Richards gets first choice since she's assisted living—you know that."

The aide leaned to Sara, saying, "Mrs. Richards doesn't know where she is. Her son is the one demanding his mother gets a private room and then he doesn't visit her!"

From that comment, the three employees talked for fifteen minutes about who had visitors and who didn't, who showed up when death was near, and who attended funerals.

Attempting successfully to sound innocently curious and forming an innocuous smile on her face, Sara asked, "Do many die in rehab? It seems like most of us are in pretty good shape."

"Not many," the nurse named Lacy said. "Every so often, we have one."

Sara lifted her water bottle tucked beside her in the wheelchair. She said, "According to my roommate, the water in rehab is tainted. She fills my bottle for me every morning."

The nurse chuckled, "Miss Gracie is a gossip." Waving fingers at the water dispenser near the desk, she said, "Same water."

"Well," said Bess, the smaller of the two aides, "those men did die in rehab." She dropped her voice to a whisper even though no one else was around, "The administrator was worried enough to have everything down there cleaned and cleaned again!"

"They found nothing," Lacy added. "Now you are the gossip!"

The second aide, who had remained quiet, spoke up, "My cousin is one of the techs in rehab and she says they are still worried. Can't figure out why—but I have my own idea."

The nurse turned around in her chair. "Okay, smarty-pants Carol. And what's your idea?"

"They exercise too much. Simple as that."

Sara had to bite her lip to keep a laugh from slipping out. The aide was a large woman—easily weighing over two-fifty—slow moving, slow talking. The slightest exertion had her breathing like a sump pump in a flooded basement. Yet, the woman could move Sara as if she weighed nothing.

Lacy and Bess laughed. Bess said, "Yeah, you'd know about exercise. That's what rehab is for—exercise!"

Carol chuckled along with them. "I'm still alive. Not going to get me on those machines! It's not normal—walking on a treadmill, lifting weights like that. If people would just move at their own pace—like I do—I'm just a slow mover—probably live long enough to get a 'happy birthday' from that old guy on television—Willard Scott!"

All the women were laughing. The aide slowly shifted and pushed out of the chair. "And now Sara needs a snack. She's the one who needs to gain weight." As she headed to the refrigerator, she asked, "What's your favorite? We have milkshakes, ice cream bars, dip and chips, and candy bars."

Sara started to say "fruit" but was interrupted by the nurse, "No fruit—we have orders to give you high calorie snacks."

"Dip and chips," Sara said, "and a candy bar. I've got to put on weight or I'll be a patient here forever."

At the same time, Lacy and Bess said, "Resident—not patient!" Lacy laughed as she said, "We don't have patients." Then, as she pulled a face, said, "But you certainly don't want to be a resident here for long, do you?"

Almost an hour passed as the four women talked about every subject that made nightly news. Sara could find no way to bring up the men who died in rehab sensing the three night shift employees did not know much about the deaths. When she returned to her room, helped back to bed by Carol, she noticed her phone had sent a reminder—today was the day Catherine Willows was coming to visit.

While she was in rehab and regaining something akin to a normal routine, Grissom had 'the list' as they had named the pages given to him by Rhonda and Dona. Rhonda's list had been a good beginning. Matched with Dona's information, Grissom had names and descriptive information. With Greg and Nick supplying backgrounds for eleven men, they had initially thought the process of connecting the men would be, if not easy, at least straightforward—if their deaths had been the work of one person, of a serial killer, would they be able to identify a shared trigger?

A quick study of the men found nothing in common except for their final days spent in Red Rocks Rehab. Two rode motorcycles and had been in rehab because of accidents but nothing else seemed to connect them—one a Harley rider, the other had a high speed sports bike. The men had such diverse work histories that it seemed almost impossible to find any connections between a middle-school teacher, an accountant, a construction worker, a food-service worker, a security guard, two retail workers—and an assortment of other occupations.

With two exceptions, the men had no criminal background and those were considered minor transgressions. Three of the men had never been fingerprinted. Four had been buried in Vegas; the others had been cremated or shipped to hometowns. There was nothing indicating family members had questioned any of the deaths.

Two of the men on Rhonda's list who were not included in Dona's notes had previous histories of heart problems.

Minimum financial histories were included in the background checks—and nothing popped out as unusual. No overly generous insurance policies, nothing out-of-the ordinary in banking accounts, no outstanding financial obligations. If anything, what the men had in common was the relative quiet and stable lives they had lived.

Jokingly, Nick had suggested they had all visited the same place—a coffee shop or restaurant or a brothel—and made a random connection, but then how and why did this connection lead to a rehab center? Nick and Greg had spent hours with Grissom making spreadsheets using the information they had gathered and nothing seemed to fall into a pattern.

"We need those medical records," Grissom said to himself as he sat at the dining room table. He was alone; Nick had dropped by for a while and the two men had covered every idea already discussed.

Nick had said, "Maybe we are not looking at a crime, Grissom. Maybe it's just what it is—death as a result of a blood clot—trauma. Not like a lot of those folks are making long-term plans."

Grissom grunted, saying "Yeah, but I don't think it's that simple."

"Are you making a guess?" Nick laughed.

A ghost of a grin swept across Grissom's face. "No guesses—just trying to make sense of it."

"We could look into the employees," Nick suggested.

But that idea had dissipated as they had talked about requirements for working in health care facilities—unless there was one employee who had forged a history.

Grissom glanced at his computer screen; almost sunrise and he planned to eat breakfast with Sara. He got in the shower, washed his hair, scrubbed his skin until it was pink, and stood under the shower far longer than usual. The longer he spent in the home Sara had made, the more he realized what a fool he had been. In more ways than one, he thought.

When he had met Sara, she had been the most beautiful person in the room. But it had not been beauty that held his attraction. It had been her lack of uncertainty as she had asked questions. She conveyed the impression that she was willing to provoke to get an answer. He had thought he could walk away from meeting Sara Sidle, but he had been wrong. He manufactured every reason possible to talk to her over two years—and had finally gotten her to come to Vegas.

Stepping out of the shower, he gave his body a vigorous drying, combed his hair, and carefully selected clothes. His thoughts remained on Sara as he dressed and walked through the house touching the things Sara had placed on shelves, filling a bird feeder Sara had hung on the patio, and finally, taking the two dogs into the small back yard—where she had worked long hours to make the yard into a beautiful and intimate space.

As the dogs chased each other and finished their outside business, Grissom checked his phone for messages. He was actually working on two projects—the list of names from rehab and, unknown to Sara, he had filed an appeal with her insurance company. He wanted to bring her home.

A/N: Thank you for reading! And we love getting your comments and reviews!