In their never-ending quest to find something new to print, the newspapers had finally given the bodies on Sleighberry Street some attention beyond the sketches Boyd had insisted be run. The article had been peppered with various nuggets of actual information regarding the fire nine years ago and that the family had supposedly died inside. However, it was the section toward the end which listed Sapphira by name and announced boldly that she'd been helping with the police investigation, not to mention the rather unflattering picture of her, which had irked Grace. At first the rest of the team hadn't understood why, but the second she'd pointed out the dangers they'd realized the predicament Sapphira could have been thrust into. If the rest of the Callaghans hadn't died in the house fire, and she'd been right that they'd killed her sister and friend, then they might have risked coming out of hiding to ensure Sapphira was silenced.

"Why wouldn't they have done that years ago?" Asked Spence as he drank his morning coffee and munched on one of the croissants Stella had been kind enough to bring in. "I mean, it has been almost a full decade."

"True, Spence, but her mother and brother might not have been able to find her or even known she was still alive until this article."

Stella peered up from her computer monitor. "I see your point, Grace, but she'd still be hard to track down since she has no address, and it's a lot of effort to go to when we have no actual evidence they were involved."

Clearly not entirely happy with the team's reaction, or lack thereof, Grace had mumbled her way back into her office and closed the door, leaving Stella and Spence to share a look over their desks. Wasn't like they could do anything about it anyway. Forcing a retraction would be pointless and Sapphira's photograph couldn't be unseen. That and nobody would sign off on protective custody for a girl who may or may not have been in danger from people who may or may not have still been alive. A waste of police funds and resources, that was exactly what the higher-ups would call it.

Eve entered then, didn't even pause to say hello, just made a beeline for Boyd's office and threw the door open.

"Boyd, you're going to want to see this." The brunette peered over her shoulder to the others. "You'll all want to see this."

With little more than a snap of Boyd's fingers and a shout of her name, Grace had joined the group as they donned white coats to enter the lab. On a large table Eve had numerous pictures of the stab wounds inflicted on Donovan and Mary, so many that Spence had to ponder if the word excessive described it best. She'd also set up a large screen which showed a series of diagrams pertaining to people's heights and stabbing motions.

"Okay, so I've had a look at the wounds on both our victims again, and I can now say that one hundred percent it was a kitchen knife that inflicted them thanks to a broken-off tip I found lodged in Mary's rib. The really interesting thing though is the angles themselves." The team just nodded along with her as they quietly hoped she'd dumb the point down for them. "I've been over it a few times just to make sure, but I think it happened like this." Eve grabbed a photograph of two wounds on Donovan's back and pushed it forward for the team to inspect. "I'm almost certain these were the first blows. One on the lower back at a slightly upward angle – it actually nicked a kidney – then a second from a downward angle further up his back by the T6. All the other wounds happened to the front of his body after he'd hit the ground."

"So somebody came up behind him and never even gave the guy a chance to fight back?"

"That's what it looks like, Spence." Eve confirmed.

Grace's brow furrowed. "What about Mary? You said she only had two stab wounds to her chest."

"That's right, but Mary was much smaller and easier to overpower."

"Of course she fucking was, Eve, she was only five years old!" Though they could have all done without Boyd's outbursts, they understood it came from his anger over the death of an innocent child rather than being actually aimed at them.

"Like with Donovan's torso wounds, Mary's came from above suggesting she was on her back at the time. Someone could have knocked her over or, alarmingly, she could have been asleep at the time." A muffled Jesus Christ escaped Boyd as he ran a large hand down his face. Murdering a child was one thing, but waiting for her to be asleep first was something significantly more evil. God, he hoped he got his hands on this murdering son of a bitch soon. "I've got one more thing for you. This is why I called you all in here. So, working on the angles of the stab wounds as our victims went from standing to a supine position, tossing in some math and the basic information you managed to get me on the Callaghans' physiques from Sapphira, I can tell you none of the Callaghan women committed these crimes unless she misremembered her mother's height by over a foot."

"Meaning?" Questioned Stella as she perused the gruesome photographs.

"Meaning that only Adam Callaghan is tall enough to have inflicted the wounds at the angles they were. He was twenty-one back then and six-two according to Sapphira." She paused a moment knowing she'd lost the team. "Okay, look at Boyd. You're what, six foot?" He nodded. "Right, so Boyd and Grace have a very obvious difference in height, and I can use forensics to work out the difference between a knife coming down at me from someone of Boyd's height and someone of Grace's height. Boyd, stab me." He breathed out a chuckle but didn't complain, just mimed a downward stabbing motion toward Eve. "Great. Grace, do the same." So she did. "There! See how their wrists are different? See how the knives change position?"

A clear difference was indeed evident. While Boyd's motion would bring a knife down from a rather extreme angle, Grace's appeared tiny when compared.

"All of this means Adam Callaghan is our killer then." Spence smiled. "That's a step in the right direction, yeah?"

Stella let out a long hum. "Not really. Surely that just means we're looking for a male of about six-two. Any decent lawyer would argue another person could have been in the house that night. Maybe someone associated with Donovan Padmore's drug problem."

Boyd waved her off. "The drugs thing is total bollocks, Stella. Eve confirmed there weren't any signs of illegal substances in his remains and Saph insists he never went near them." Only Grace seemed to notice he'd suddenly begun referring to their only living witness as Saph. The curse of weakness for a pretty face might have struck again. "Nah, we ignore drugs going forward; there's zero evidence for it. This has to have been a contained set of murders. Donovan was clearly the primary target, which says Mary might have been collateral damage."

"But she died at least a day later."

"Doesn't stop her being collateral damage, Spence. Maybe she saw something and they didn't want her talking; I don't know."

Sensing her moment had come, Grace jumped in to calm Boyd and got everybody back on track. If Adam Callaghan was still alive, he'd likely developed even more violent tendencies and could very easily kill again if pressured. Everyone would feel better when a definitive final answer came regarding the Callaghans status.

~X~

Late that night Boyd had literally just pulled up at his home when his cellphone rang loudly. He'd fished around in his pockets a moment until coming out triumphantly with it. In hindsight he maybe should have looked at the caller ID, because what he'd assumed to be Grace or even Spence was actually a very nervous Sapphira and 'Yeah, what?' hadn't been the most encouraging of greetings.

"… I'm – I'm really sorry to bother you, but tabloid people have been following me around all afternoon and they won't go away. I don't know what to do. I'm about to be kicked out of the shelter because of it, and I don't know where I can go where they'll leave me alone." Brown eyes flicked up to his windshield to see small droplets had started to fall, hinting at what was to come. The last thing Sapphira needed was assholes harassing her all night while it rained. "I'm sorry. It's late. I shouldn't have bothered you."

"No! No, it's all right. You stay put and I'll come deal with it. You at the Grady Street place?" A quiet voice confirmed she was. "Okay. I'll be right there. Sit tight."

Before she could say anything else, Boyd had hung up and turned his Audi around. Grady Street wasn't all that far away in the grand scheme of things and Boyd had driven a little faster than he probably should have, so it wasn't all that surprising when he'd pulled up at the shelter only fifteen minutes later. As he'd approached the main door, he'd found staff must have been able to clear most of the shady photographers and moralless journalists, but a few had refused to give up the fight, leaving Boyd to delight in flashing his warrant card so he could watch them scatter like rats leaving a sinking ship. The phrase 'arrested for harassment' did wonders when he paired it with a stern expression and slight growl.

Inside, Boyd found Sapphira on the floor with her knees under her chin and her back to the main desk, which thankfully blocked the sight of her from vultures. The shelter's manager leaned on it beside her with an expression that said he clearly had enough problems without tabloids trying to kick the back door in for some new gossip. The second Boyd's dress shoes entered her peripheral vision green eyes snapped up revealing the way tears had them glistening. In an instant she'd shot to her feet and thrown herself at him in a desperate quest for safety that Boyd couldn't rebuff. He held her for a moment, kept Sapphira wrapped up in his arms as she mentally processed that someone had actually bothered to come help her. Yet, as with most things, the moment didn't last.

"I appreciate this ain't Saph's fault, Detective." The manager sighed. "But I've got a duty o' care to everyone else in 'ere. If this is gonna keep 'appening she's gotta go."

Boyd nodded over her head; the man made a decent enough yet regrettable point. He snatched up Sapphira's ever-present backpack and handed it to her as he quickly escorted her out the building and toward his vehicle.

"Where are we going?"

"To my place," responded Boyd as he ushered her into the Audi. "You're going to stay with me for a while until something gets sorted."

She tried to protest, spoke of not wanting to cause him problems or be an inconvenience, but Boyd wouldn't hear of it. She was a charming young woman who needed help and he'd damn well help. Sapphira wasn't Luke; he knew that, but he could help her where he'd failed with his son. His home was assuredly more than big enough to offer up a bedroom for an undisclosed stretch of time.

Soon he'd pulled in passed the red gate and shut the engine off. When he'd moved in exactly hadn't been something he'd bothered remembering, but his guess was a good twenty years if not longer. A spacious enough house, maybe a little too spacious for a single man, with an expansive garden, a goal he'd hoped Luke would use when he came home, and a garage crammed full of stuff he forgot was there half the time; case and point being his remote control plane. Most of the walls had been a pale yellow since the day he'd moved in, and Boyd just hadn't ever cared enough to change things. His home didn't feel uninhabited though; he'd got framed photos of his boy scattered around and various knick-knacks, as well as a rather well-stocked set of bookshelves in the dining room. A home, just a lonely one.

"Come on in." Boyd kicked the door closed behind to banish the night air and rain, then dumped his keys in a small bluish dish by the door only to gesture into the next room. "You go sit in the living room. I'll make us some tea."

Unsure of exactly what else to do, Sapphira obeyed and slipped into the living room, where she took a seat on the couch with her zigzag backpack on the floor at her feet. Boyd didn't spare her more than a glance, just ducked into his kitchen to fill the electric kettle and get it boiling, then ascended the stairs two at a time to make up the guest room that looked out over the street. He might have owned a three-bedroom house, but that didn't mean they were used other than the master. Rain splattered heavily on the large window as he stuffed a pillow into a green case, then did the same with a duvet before rushing back downstairs just after the kettle had boiled. After dumping a little more milk into their tea than he'd intended, Boyd entered his yellow living room to find Sapphira doing her very best to take up as little of the couch as was physically possible.

"Here you are; that'll warm you up."

"Thank you, Boyd." She took it with a smile only to delight in an indulgent gulp as her hands cupped around it. "And thank you for coming to help me. I – I didn't know what else to do."

He dropped into the comfy leather armchair by the window as rain continued to pour. "You did the right thing. Those shifty little bastards wouldn't have left you alone. Eighty percent of the time they only understand threats."

"And the other twenty percent of the time?"

"Oh," he smirked over his cup. "That's good old-fashioned violence."

Why hearing Sapphira laugh felt like he'd won some kind of coveted prize, Boyd didn't fully understand, but he'd savor it as long as he could. Happiness wasn't a sound he often heard in his line of work, so, in a way, he'd become starved for it.

After a few minutes of sipping tea and warming up, Boyd had stripped off his suit jacket and banished it to the arm of his chair so he could roll his sleeves up to his elbows. Tiny silver cufflinks had been tossed on his coffee table, as would his tie had he bothered to put one on that morning. Even though he spent hours sitting in the damn thing going over paperwork and staring off blankly while thinking, Boyd didn't really like his desk chair; it became cruel to the spine after more than twenty minutes. Still, his armchair had welcomed him, and, thankfully, Sapphira had slowly relaxed enough to look less like a deer in headlights.

"I'll be out of your hair in the morning, I promise."

Boyd's brow furrowed so deeply he was momentarily reminiscent of an angry wolf. This was another display of that deep-seated need of hers to avoid being as inconvenient as possible, and he was not happy about it.

"Saph," said Boyd as he leaned forward in his seat. "You're not going anywhere. I said you could stay with me, and you're going to do just that. You're not in the way, and I'm not letting you go back to a shelter just to be constantly harassed by tabloids."

"But-"

"No! You're staying here where you're safe."

Boyd could have slapped himself. All he'd done was shout at a scared twenty-five-year-old and essentially imprison her. 'Why do I always do that?' he questioned himself with a growl. 'Now she's just going to run away in the night.' Yet, when he turned his attention from his internal grumblings to the young woman he'd begun to care about, Boyd found her expression appreciative and almost – he wanted to say tender. She didn't fear him, wasn't angry with him. Instead, she seemed to understand his snapped words had come from a place of genuine concern. Few people saw passed his shouted words, preferring to just label him a bully as though it it was his only personality trait.

"… Only if you're sure."

A small laugh escaped him as he downed the rest of his tea, a laugh that made his chocolaty eyes twinkle a little. "I'm sure."

Almost ten minutes passed with the pair of them in a comfortable silence, the sort of silence only people who'd known one another for years could sit in without awkwardness descending, before Boyd's stomach gurgled almost comically and reminded him about the steaks he'd bought for dinner. Guided by his hunger, he turned the television on for Sapphira, then gathered up the cups and returned them to the kitchen. As soon as he'd yanked the refrigerator door open he'd made a mental note to go shopping properly; other than ingredients for his planned dinner, there wasn't much else there. Boyd wasn't a student; he could cook without setting the alarm off, but with it being just him, he'd never bothered with anything all that fancy. Still, butter, milk, bread, and sugar for his coffee were necessities in his mind.

Soon he'd gotten everything on and plates warming, so poked his head into the living room where she'd become engrossed in the random documentary that had been on when he'd turned the television on; something about Ancient Egypt – not that he'd paid all that much attention.

"Hey, Saph?" Green eyes turned to him. "How do you want your steak cooked?"

That had her brow furrow a little. "Em, I – I don't know. I've never had one."

Boyd's mouth fell open slightly. "You've never had a steak?" She shook her head, and Boyd supposed it wasn't that ridiculous a statement when he took into account her years on the street and that her mother had refused to feed them. "Medium rare it is. You'll love it, I promise."

Not until he was actively plating dinner did Boyd realize he missed cooking for someone. Out of his entire team only Grace had ever been to his place and that had just been in passing, so he'd probably not cooked for anyone beyond the occasional woman he'd briefly dated since his divorce. Still, it wasn't like he'd suddenly start inviting the team to dinner parties; if he did that they'd likely assume he'd finally snapped and turned into some kind of poorly dressed Hannibal Lecter.

Normally he'd have eaten at the small dining table off from his living room, but Boyd hadn't had the heart to move Sapphira from the documentary, not when she'd seemed so interested in it. That was how he ended up eating steak on his couch beside a homeless girl at nearly midnight. What had been a long day for him and a harrowing one for her had turned into one of the most pleasant evenings Boyd had experienced in years.

Shortly after they'd finished eating and the Ancient Egypt documentary had ended, Boyd had ushered Sapphira up to one of the guest rooms with her backpack clutched to her chest and wished her a good night. Didn't matter there was a total stranger in his home, Boyd slept better that night than he had in weeks.