Twist of Fate
Summary: For most people, the threads of life form an unchanging tapestry, with the past setting the pattern for the future. Can Grissom overcome his own doubts when given the chance to weave a new life? GSR, A/U
A/N: This is a sequel to "If the Fates Allow", and I strongly suggest reading that story first to understand what's going on. Thanks to Gibby for agreeing to beta this mess. This story is already finished, but it was too long to post as a single chapter.
Rating: What's wrong with PG? Why do people always want smut? I don't do good smut. Let's call this a strong PG-13.
Disclaimer: Do you really think anyone would trust me with these characters given what I put them through? I only play with them when the mood strikes.

Rustling pages, shifting chairs, the scratch of pens on paper – Gil Grissom noted it all, for it was his nature to be aware of his surroundings. On a normal day, he'd promptly ignore the irritating background noise, but now it grated on his nerves. He concentrated on getting through his lecture, thankful that he knew the material so thoroughly.

The morning's events left him unbalanced, happy and apprehensive at the same time, enough to bother even his impressive abilities of concentration. Throbbing pain from his headache contributed to his discomfort, but it was nothing compared to the long-legged brunette furiously taking notes in the front row.

Or, more specifically, what she caused him to feel.

For most of his life, he acted on logic with his feelings closeted in the dark recesses of his mind. It served him well, as emotional understanding always seemed to elude his considerable intellect. Grissom had the ability to appropriately quote poets or philosophers in almost any situation, but he was unable to apply their wisdom to his own interactions. Life had taught him the dangers of exposing himself on a personal level, and he had learned the lessons painfully.

As a result, he avoided emotional confrontations whenever possible, relying on a dispassionate approach to life, to play it safe in matters of the heart. The tactic worked for him, in that he led a relatively safe existence, even if he was somewhat lonely. But loneliness had been his companion for most of his life, and it was easier to handle than the uncertainty of a relationship or the inevitable pain of rejection.

But now a chance encounter with a student brought a surge of sentiments that were as overwhelming as they were stimulating. While it was true that he had few real friendships, the anticipation of having Sara join that select group thrilled him. It was nothing but a casual lunch, but his whole being insisted on a deeper meaning.

The situation was odd, teasing his rational mind with absolutely irrational ideas. He'd known many beautiful women before; he'd known many intelligent people before, but never had he been so drawn to someone so quickly, so strongly. In the past, such a raw expression of feeling would have sent him retreating, but he doubted that he'd be able to run from Sara Sidle even if he wanted to.

Pausing to advance the next slide, he risked a glance in her direction, not surprised to see her urgently jotting down information. Years spent mastering his self-control spared him the public humiliation of grinning like a besotted idiot, but some long-neglected part of his soul hungered for the upcoming lunch. A sense of hope, of potential, loomed over him in a way he had never before experienced.

If his head would only stop pounding, it would probably be one of the happier days of his life.

When the time came for the morning break, he rested his elbows on the lectern and rubbed his temples, mentally willing the headache to go away. It was nothing compared to his migraines, but lingering images of things that never happened remained. Gossamer strands of pleasure and pain tugged at his psyche, upsetting his mental balance.

The more he thought about them, the less distinct they became, but they were impossible to ignore. They were meaningless and deeply profound, things that never happened but were key to his future. His internal battle to understand, to categorize these snippets of memory left him feeling unraveled and worn out.

"Hey."

Grissom looked up, the corners of his lips lifting slightly as Sara passed him a paper cup of water and held out a bottle of Tylenol.

"You look like you need these," she added when he didn't respond, pouring some of the pills into her outstretched hand.

"Thanks." After swallowing the painkillers and draining the cup, he fixed her with a steady gaze. She seemed concerned. Normally being the center of attention like this flustered him, but he liked that she cared. It was something he never knew he missed.

"Are you sure you don't want to stop by the clinic?" she asked, and her worried tone confused him until he realized that he was still staring.

"No, I'm fine," he answered, giving his head a slight shake and immediately regretting the action. Trying to lighten the mood, he asked brightly, "Do I really look that bad?"

"You just seemed … bothered," Sara answered after a moment's consideration.

His hand came up to rub his beard, and he started when he felt the smooth skin. He'd never worn a beard, yet the elusive memories, less substantial than a fading dream, whispered of a past yet to happen. There were no details, no specifics, just an odd insistency that undefined things existed.

Had existed?

Could exist.

Would exist?

Never one to pass on a learning opportunity, his mind carefully classified the conflicting sensations as the aftermath of a head injury. For someone so grounded in reality, the surreal afterimages and their emotional residue were a singularly unique experience, albeit somewhat frustrating. It was a curious feeling, and one he wouldn't mind exploring in more detail – except for the skull-splitting pain.

"My head does hurt some. I'm sure the pills will help," he finally admitted, knowing there'd be no chance of lunch if he told her what his mind was telling him. Frankly, he found the carnal nature of his thoughts about her a little embarrassing; they were too … detailed … for idle hormonal fantasy, and certainly nothing he'd ever confess to her unless he wanted to come across as a sexual predator.

She watched him for a moment, making him wonder what she was thinking. With absolute clarity, he knew little escaped her attention. The half-truth seemed to satisfy her, though, and he found himself frantically trying to think of small talk. "Do you like the lecture?"

"Yeah. I'm learning a lot."

In spite of his headache, her eager admission caused him to grin. So many people seemed bored by his talks. It was a rare treat to find someone so interested in knowledge.

Someone so perfect for him.

His grin faltered as the weight of that thought settled over him, and he cleared his throat. Luckily she mistook his actions and fetched him another cup of water, giving him a moment to compose himself. For all his desperate self-rationalizations that the upcoming lunch was just to thank Sara for her care after his accident, the truth was he wanted this to be a real date. That thought didn't bother him, and that was what bothered him. In a twist of irony, the very conviction with which he felt this was right made him question whether it was wrong.

He wanted to date a student.

Just the idea was preposterous. He was a visiting lecturer, only in town for a few days. He was old enough to be her father – at least theoretically – and a relationship was completely inappropriate on every ethical level. Grissom knew he wasn't given to flights of fancy or folly, but not only had he thought of something so absurd, he had acted on it.

And he was glad.

Logically, he knew it was silly. She was much younger than he was, and definitely very attractive. If she didn't have a boyfriend – his mind refused to consider potential lovers – then it was a temporary situation. Besides, he lived hundreds of miles away. Even if she was interested in him, it wasn't like they'd be able to go out every Friday night.

But he wanted to.

He'd given up the dream of finding someone to settle down with ages ago. Happy homes and family life were for other people, a fate not destined for him. Pain of rejection, of never understanding how things went wrong, had convinced him to remain alone when he was younger than Sara.

Now long-forgotten hopes and desires emerged from the dark crevasses of his soul, strong despite their years of isolation. A chance of a future that wasn't empty, of someone to share his life with. It appealed to him at a visceral level, too powerful to ignore.

His rational mind rebelled at the idea. There were the obvious reasons he'd already admitted to himself, but there was a deeper seed of misgiving. He knew he cared for her, that the feeling was mutual. There was no doubt that they had a future together, and it was a happy one.

The problem was there was no way he could know this.

As a scientist, he knew there were things he'd never be able to understand or explain. His own case history included victims who survived impossible circumstances, or series of improbable coincidences that bordered on the miraculous. Grissom cherished the idea that the universe held more secrets than he could possibly imagine, and he prided his ability to keep an open mind on matters of faith and belief.

But there was no room for the notion that he was suddenly psychic.

The odd thoughts, the ghost memories, had to be the result of hitting his head. For all the intellectual interest he had in the weird ideas racing in his mind, he was starting to worry that they'd cause him to do something stupid. And he really did want to become friends with Sara, not to convince her that he was a raving maniac.

The lecture hall started to fill as attendees filtered in from their various breaks, and Grissom thanked her again as she went back to her seat. Returning his focus to the audience, he easily picked up the thread of his lecture, feeling the familiar security of work.

His headache had faded to a determined annoyance by the time lunch rolled around, and he found himself anxious as they crossed campus. Sara, in turn, kept giving him a nervous grin, eventually directing him into one of the buildings that housed a small café.

"So, what do they serve here?" he asked, his hand resting lightly on her back as he escorted her towards the line. It took all his control to ignore the thoughts of what her skin felt like.

"Sandwiches mainly. Nothing fancy."

"I see, you don't think my head is that valuable," he teased.

She smirked as she crossed her arms over her midsection. "It's close enough to the lecture hall that we can actually chew the food and make it back in time. And I'm a college student. This place is a feast compared to ramen noodles."

For the first time, he paid attention to her clothes. They were very clean and neat, possibly out of fashion, but with the faded grayness that only comes with age and repeated washing. A discreetly placed piece of duct tape kept a strap attached to her backpack. Even if she had a stipend, money was most likely tight, but her eagerness for this place suggested someone who hadn't eaten a home-cooked meal in a long time.

"Don't you have any family in the area?" he asked.

"You could say that," she answered after a beat. Her voice was normal, but the tension in her posture was just noticeable thanks to the sudden sense of anxiety he felt. "I'd like a cheeseburger if that's okay with you."

"No!"

Sara wasn't the only one to turn to him, and Grissom felt the rising pain of humiliation. Unable to explain why the idea of giving her hamburger terrified him – because he didn't understand it – his mind crazily sought an explanation. It had none, at least none that were logical. The topic of her family had ignited a warning flare in his mind, but there had been a moment of pure panic over her leaving that came out of nowhere.

"I think my head is worth more than ground cow," he offered weakly, turning to the menu board. "Wouldn't you rather have a … something else?"

"It's about as fancy as it gets here," she said, eyeing him suspiciously. "Besides, I like burgers."

Shrugging, he pursed his lips as he regarded her. Hints of remembrance, not quite déjà vu, prodded his conscious. "You're not a vegetarian?"

"No," she drew out slowly, and he realized his outburst had embarrassed her as well. The familiarity of the thought troubled him.

"Are you sure?" he asked with a forced levity, hoping to cover his gaffe.

"I think I'm a lot surer of things than you are," Sara replied evenly, frowning as she stared at him. "Just how hard did you hit your head?"

"Not that bad," he said, ordering two burgers, fries and drinks as they moved to the front of the line. "You're not a vegetarian? I could have sworn you were."

"You wouldn't exactly know, would you?"

Grissom sensed her uneasiness and found that he didn't blame her. His behavior was odd. He wasn't making a great first impression. Second impression, he corrected himself; his first impression was a klutz who walked into a ladder, knocking himself out in the process.

In a lot of ways, it was turning out to be a bad day for him.

He forced a small smile and rolled his shoulders, trying to sound joking. "Except that I'm sure that we've met before. And my memory is excellent. I'm sure I'd remember if it wasn't."

Placing a handful of napkins on the plastic tray, she gave him a lopsided grin that caused his blood to flow in unexpected directions. "I don't know whether to tell you to see a doctor or to get a better pickup line."

"I wasn't using a line on you," he said, frowning in confusion when she dropped her head. Realization hit almost immediately. "I mean, I wouldn't use a line on you. I don't use lines," he said, letting out a frustrated sigh when the cashier rolled his eyes, muttering, "Lame, dude."

Sara glared at the cashier until he fetched their drinks, and Grissom felt some gratitude that she didn't share the man's opinion. Thoughts of a lasting friendship seemed like a fleeting goal, let alone the hopes he wasn't admitting to himself. When she turned to him, he made himself acknowledge, "I'm not very good at this."

"This?" she asked cautiously, but there was a gleam of amusement in her eyes. It wound through his awareness, offering a lifeline to his desires.

"Uh, yeah," he said, suddenly on uneasy ground. It was just a lunch after all. A disgusted snort from the cashier prompted him to take the tray of food and his change, following Sara as she led them to a small table near a window.

"Good ground cow," she said after a while, flashing him a brief grin before picking up her soda.

"It is." He methodically chewed a small stack of fries, feeling horrified that he'd acted on one of the impossible non-memories. But Sara was still talking with him, even if there was still a trace of wariness in her manner. "Despite evidence to the contrary, I, uh, I'm really not crazy. Or a stalker."

She regarded him carefully, slowly nodding her head. "I'm glad to hear that. Because a stalker, crazy or otherwise, would never, ever say something like that."

He peered over the top of his glasses, but his eyes twinkled. "Very true. If a stranger insists he knows you and tells you he isn't a crazy stalker, you have absolutely no reason to worry."

"I don't think I'll find that fact in any forensic journals."

"Probably not. And with good reason, I'm sure."

She gave him an amused look and returned to her burger. After finishing it, she leaned back in her chair and twirled the straw in her cup. "So, who do I remind you of?"

"You," he deadpanned, drawing some comfort that she found the situation humorous. His outburst had mortified him, but he would rather she remembered him as the butt of a joke than as an ass. "If I knew that, then I wouldn't keep thinking it was you I knew."

"Very logical. Not sure that makes sense, but it sounds logical."

"I think logic took the day off."

That statement caused her to set her drink down slowly, her head tilting slightly. "In what way?"

"Well, my mind insists on telling me that I know someone I've only just met," he said, unwilling or unable to expand on his explanation.

"Except you're wrong about me being a vegetarian," she said with a gentle tease. "Want to go for best two out of three?"

"What do I win if I get the next two right?" he asked, surprised by the how easy it was to flirt with her, especially given the rocky start to the conversation. The part of his mind still firmly grounded in reality raged at him, but Grissom knew he'd be able to stop himself from acting inappropriately.

Well, from acting too inappropriately.

"You'll have to win to find out," she said, and her answering smile caused the rebelling angel on his shoulder to sit down and shut up.

Grissom steepled his hands together and stared hard for several seconds, his face drawn in an exaggerated mask of concentration. "I'm positive you never juggled ferrets in the circus before going to college."

Sara shook her head. "If you actually know anyone who did, I'll eat my backpack."

"But I was right."

"Only on a technicality."

"Technicalities count," he insisted.

"But it comes out of your prize," she countered.

"Now you tell me. All I need is one more fact. You like animals," he said with conviction, but she laughed.

"Who doesn't?"

"Too many people."

"I don't think that's a story I want to hear," she said, the mood slightly soured.

"No." Grissom sipped his soda, feeling upset that he'd derailed the playful banter. Prolonged casual conversation wasn't his strongest suit; he had things to say, but it seemed it was never what people wanted to hear. He came to terms with it ages ago, but now it seemed to matter; he needed her to understand.

"That's a problem I have," he found himself saying softly. "The work. The hours are bad enough, but there's always lingering smells, and the things you see at work aren't the things most people want to hear about. I wasn't kidding when I said I wasn't good at this. Just talking to people," he added quickly, wondering why he felt the need to clarify.

Her gaze was serious but friendly. "You stick with the job. There must be something good about it."

"I think I was made for this line of work. It suitsme. It's an important job," he said truthfully. "Someone has to do it, and there is a certain satisfaction in knowing you're helping get dangerous people off the streets."

"But it's not always pleasant," she said.

"Very seldom."

Another pause stretched out, and Sara broke the silence. "Do you have trouble hiring people?"

"Not in Las Vegas," Grissom said.

"What? Criminalists turn into gambling addicts?" she asked jokingly.

"We have the best lab in the country. Well, next to the FBI lab, and that doesn't count. We usually get a couple thousand applications a year."

"Why doesn't it count?"

"It's the FBI," he stated as if the reason was obvious.

"Of course." Looking at her watch, she gave a shrug. "Guess it's time to head back."

She waited as he dumped the trash and escorted her back outside. "Thanks for the lunch. I haven't had a burger in a long time."

"It wasn't very much," he said, starting to ask her out to dinner before grudgingly rejecting the idea. For all his interest and willingness to get to know Sara better, his rational mind had decades of practice directing his behavior, and it overrode his desires.

One thing about which it was adamant was that he did not date his students. It was an ethical breech too wide to contemplate.

No matter if she was everything he ever wanted.

"I still appreciate it," she said, and the look she gave him was something he knew he'd always cherish.

"I liked it, too. Even if I sounded like a crazy stalker. Which I'm not, so you can trust me," he whispered conspiratorially.

A criminalist from Los Angeles took over the session immediately after lunch, giving Grissom a short break. He sat in the wings, trying to focus on his colleague, but his eyes kept drifting toward Sara. Watching her, he tried to understand the surge of feelings, or, more accurately, the memory of feelings she caused.

His head injury played a part in it, he was certain of that, but he found it impossible to dismiss the whole thing so objectively. Talking to her had been easy, easier than he remembered with anyone except his parents. There was some sort of connection, and he doubted it existed just because his brain insisted that he remembered it.

She was someone special. He only needed to figure out how she fit into his life.

His talk finished out the afternoon, and he asked if there were any questions with a sense of dread. As always, they were mundane and obvious, the hallmark of people who were required to attend the lectures but didn't really pay attention. Most of them wouldn't return for the last two days, and he started to rejoice until he realized that probably included Sara.

He was ready to dismiss the group when her hand went up. His head nodded in her direction, as the thought of never seeing her again nagged at him. There had to be a way of keeping in touch, and his mind raced to find it. Her question made him smile openly.

"What's your major?" he asked.

"Physics," she answered with a curious look.

"Really? Because you understand this better than the entomology students who had to be here," he said, launching into a detailed explanation of her question and the significance of it.

Answers led to further questions, and the audience started to trickle out. Once alone, he left the lectern to take a seat nearby to continue their discussion. For the next ninety minutes, he supplied information as eagerly as she absorbed it. Thrilled at finding someone with a similar passion for learning, he was working up the nerve to change the conversation to something more personal when she swore.

"Shit! Sorry, Dr., uh, Grissom," she said, shoving her notebook in her backpack. "I'm late for work. Thanks for taking the time to answer my questions. I didn't mean to keep you so long."

"It's okay," he said, standing up quickly, watching as she half-ran to the door. "Can I give you a ride?"

She seemed shocked by the suggestion, and he feared she had lingering doubts about his mental state. He certainly did. "It's not a problem," he added, swiftly grabbing his notes and briefcase. "I have to go out to get some dinner, and I can drop you off."

"Thanks," she finally said, and they hurried to the parking lot. Once in his rental car, she directed him into a less-than-stellar part of town, pointing to a building that looked like it was defying gravity by still standing.

"You work here?"

"Yeah. Uh, it's a dump, the beer sucks, the salads have good days and bad days, but it's the best pizza in town," she said.

"I like pizza," Grissom said, trying to convince himself that she hadn't sounded hopeful.

Giving him a parting smile, she dashed into the building, and he followed at a more leisurely pace. The rundown booths packed with families indicated the food was most likely edible, and he had to settle for a wobbly table near the back. He spotted Sara behind the bar, with a heavily tattooed man waving his arms wildly as she tried to explain why she was late. Letting out a disapproving sigh, he retrieved his notes from his briefcase.

His waitress was rude but punctual, and the pizza was excellent. Grissom ate in silence, reading over his court notes so he'd be prepared to testify when he returned to Vegas. The waitress pointedly asked him if he was ready to leave several times, but he just ordered another soda. When a plate of salad and two glasses appeared on the table, he started to protest but found himself gaping when Sara took a seat opposite him.

"Not a good day for the salad," he said, watching her dig into something he'd have thrown out of his fridge.

"That's why I didn't bring you one. This is actually one of its better days. Helps prevent scurvy," she said, and he doubted she was completely joking. "How can you concentrate in here?"

Grissom looked around in surprise and then shrugged. "You expect a pizza joint to be noisy, so it's easy to ignore. It's distracting when the hotel is noisy. I think the real question is how you can work here."

"It's not bad. The owners scream a lot, but they're all bark, and they're good about working around exam schedules. We get a free salad and sodas for our break, and the tips are a hell of a lot better here than at Chuck E. Cheese's."

Frowning, he tried to process that statement. "The place with the rat in the hat?"

"I think it's a mouse now. Trust me, it's not a place for good tips. Oh, thanks," she said when he passed her his leftover slices of pizza. "Uh, Grissom, can I ask you a question?"

His lips twitched as he lifted his glass. "I think you just did."

She gave him a perfunctory smile in return, but her tone was serious. "I meant about work. Your work."

"Sure."

"How does someone get started? I mean, is there any special certification you need, or can you apply right after graduation?"

"You want to go into forensics?" he asked, wondering why he felt hesitant to encourage her. Their discussion earlier showed she was incredibly intelligent, and the field needed more talent.

"Yes."

He looked down at his glass, apparently fascinated by the patterns its condensation made on the coaster. "Why?"

"The police asked my grad advisor to help with a case. I helped him, and I really liked the work. It's what I want to do," she answered cautiously.

"Field work is very different than lab work. You never actually see the scenes."

"I figured as much."

"A science degree helps, but it's not strictly needed," he said, continuing slowly. Even he recognized she wasn't happy with his responses. "I think you have a good educational background."

"But not the balls?"

Grissom looked up and blinked in surprise. "That has nothing to do with it," he insisted firmly.

She regarded him evenly. "But I get the impression you don't think I can do the job."

"I know you can do the job," he said, lowering his voice to speak gently. "What I don't know is for how long."

"What do you mean?"

"The burnout rate is high. Most criminalists never make it beyond eight years. It takes a special personality to deal with what we see on a daily basis."

"And you don't think I can cut it?"

"I don't know," he said honestly. "There's no way to predict who's going to burn out. I'd suggest an internship if there's one available. It's not the same as being a criminalist, but it'll give you a better idea of what it's like than lab work."

"Thanks for the advice. I'll see what I can find," she said as she started to get up.

"What time do you get off?"

Sara paused for a moment to stare at him quizzically. "Eleven."

Grissom licked his lips nervously. "I'll give you a ride home."

She continued to stare. "You don't have to do that."

"You'd have to walk back. It doesn't look like a great neighborhood."

"I walk every night I work. It's not so bad," she said. "Besides, it's only eight now. I think Suzy is going to get really pissed if you keep hogging her table all night."

He started to protest, but some sense told him not to push the issue. Had he made her angry by not encouraging her to go into forensics? There was no logical reason to dissuade her, but a strong urge to protect her overcame his normal passion for forensics. Some people were too empathic for the work; it slowly ate away at them. He had no reason to believe that she'd be one of them, but it was too big of a chance to take.

But it wasn't his chance to take. She was intelligent and capable. If it was something she wanted to try, it wasn't his business to stop her. Besides, the idea of upsetting her, even accidentally, troubled him. He fished out a business card and a pen, holding up a hand to keep her there.

"Do you want to stay in this area?" he said, hurriedly writing something on the card. "I know the supervisor of the San Francisco lab. I'll ask him if there's an internship available this summer."

"Do you think I'd have a chance at it?" she asked, her grin forgiving any transgressions he might have made.

"Oh, yeah," Grissom said. Jose Hegira owed him plenty of favors, and he'd be happy to call it even with a paid internship for a brilliant student. "I expect him to show up for the last day of the lectures. I'll ask him then. I'll be back in Vegas by Monday, but I have a court appearance in the morning. My home number is on the back. You can call me collect, and I'll let you know."

"Or you can tell me after you ask him. I'm going to all the lectures," she said, but still taking the card from him.

Sara's just being polite, he told himself, fighting down his excitement that she wanted his home phone number. She's a student who lives hundreds of miles away. It's wrong, and you know it. Nothing is going to come of this. Nothing can.

"Well, I guess I'll see you tomorrow morning," he said with a poignant smile when her break ended.

Odd dreams visited him during the night, but nothing he remembered, the embarrassing sticky residue the only indication of the nature of his visions. Rinsing out his boxers and pajama bottoms in the sink, he shook his head in disgust. Not at the mess – that was a natural condition, albeit not something he expected at his age.

He was on the verge of acting like a fool. She was a friend. Even if she was interested, it was impossible. Was he going to spend a long weekend with her once every month or two? What kind of relationship was that? It was all that was available to them, and she deserved better.

Which still left him with the nagging question of why his whole being insisted that Sara Sidle, a woman he knew less than a day, was the person with whom he wanted to spend the rest of his life. He was too old to be struck with infatuation, but grudgingly allowed that premature midlife crisis was a possibility.

He'd spent his life mastering his control. It was just two more days. Once back in Vegas, he'd be able to appreciate the friendship for what it was, and stop trying to force it into something else.

Grissom started the morning lecture with a lingering, mild headache. Sara continued to impress him with her ability, and he smiled as he answered her questions that afternoon. On the last day of the lecture, he spotted Hegira and arranged the internship before a forensic anthropologist gave the first morning talk.

Another colleague distracted him when they broke for lunch, but he finally found Sara sitting under a tree with an open book. He sat down nearby, tilting his head as he tried to read the page. "That makes about as much sense as your notes," he joked.

"I use shorthand," she said. "This is quantum mechanics."

"Well, I'm not sure how practical that will be when you're in the field," he said, waiting until she looked up in surprise. "The job is yours."

"Are you sure? Don't I have to apply?"

"Formally, yes. But I recommended you for the job, and, well, let's just say my recommendations carry some weight in forensic circles."

"Sweet!"

"Don't thank me until after you see your first decomp. You'll probably change your mind after that," he joked.

"I don't care what it's like. If it gets scum in jail, that's all that matters."

The vehemence in her tone caused him to cock his head and gaze questioningly, but she didn't offer any further explanation. Pinpricks of apprehension prodded his conscious, but he didn't press the issue.

They exchanged contact information at the end of the day, and Grissom swung by the rundown pizza parlor, hoping she was working that night. She never showed up, and he headed back to his hotel in a lonely mood.

The universe had given him a glimpse into an alluring future, but past demons refused to release his soul. There'd been too much rejection, too much pain in his life for him to so easily believe that he had a chance at happiness.

TBC