June 16

He found her in the corner booth of Mackelroy's Saloon, empty shot glasses lined up in front of her.

"Mind if I join you?"

Her eyes were bloodshot as she stared at him. "Why are you here?" Grissom stood patiently, waiting to be invited to sit. Finally, she sighed and jutted her chin toward the empty seat. He slid in.

"I thought you might need some company."

This amused her, for some reason. "You sit, you drink."

He nodded and waved the waitress over. "I'll have a scotch on the rocks, and - Sara, what are you drinking?"

She glared at him. "Vodka."

"Four more shots of vodka."

The waitress brought their drinks. Grissom threw back a shot, pushing a glass toward Sara.

"You'll have to drink the other two, my limit's thirteen."

"Lucky number?"

"Call it tradition."

He shrugged and finished off two more shots before moving to the scotch.

Sara ran her finger along the rim of her thirteenth shot. "I didn't know you were a drinker."

"Not usually. But tonight called for it."

Her gaze flickered for a moment, then she scowled. "You went into my personal files."

"Nope. As your supervisor, I'm entitled to read your emergency contact form."

"Ah." She closed her eyes and hummed. "Parent names, dates of birth, contact numbers."

".And dates of death," he finished for her. "You know, at your weight, thirteen shots ought to kill you."

"No such luck," she sighed. "Every other one was water. I can't drink like I used to."

She kept her eyes closed, giving him the rare opportunity to study her face. It was more lined than when she'd come to Vegas. Wrinkles had begun to erode the lovely façade, and somehow he found her more beautiful in her flawed state.

"Is this how you celebrate every year?"

"Fuck off," she replied sharply, her eyes opening and flashing with anger.

He blinked in surprise. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it the way it came out."

She dipped a fingertip into the vodka, then licked it delicately. "He loved vodka. Drank it straight from the bottle. They say it's odorless, but I swear, I can smell it from twenty feet away."

"Was he drinking that night?" Grissom was walking a tightrope, trying to find the right balance between supportive and intrusive.

"It wasn't nighttime." Her forehead wrinkled deeply, as though he were crazy. "It was right after lunch. I had crackers with peanut butter, and a glass of milk. Whole milk, because I was a rail at thirteen."

"What'd your dad have?"

"He had vodka. Wasn't much of an eater."

"And your mom?" Sara's eyes darkened. Her lips moved without sound, and when he tried to read them he couldn't.

"We don't have to talk about this."

She laughed, long and low. "You really think if we talk about it, it'll bother me more? It's always there, Grissom. Whether I talk or not. Whether it's been one year or twenty."

"Then tell me." He leaned forward, his glass clenched tightly in his hand.

"It was my fault." She smiled at him, appraising his reaction.

"Why do you say that?"

"He was passed out on the couch, and she came at him with the knife. I could have pulled her off. I could have called the cops. I just sat. Sat and watched."

Grissom couldn't help thinking that they shouldn't be having this conversation in the back booth of a bar. They should have gone to his house, or her apartment. "Did he deserve to die?"

She didn't answer.

"My father drank too." He cocked his head in acknowledgement when she looked up. "He drank and beat my mother. Then, when I was five, he left."

"Were you glad?"

He considered the question for a while. "I was glad that the beatings stopped. But I missed the possibility of having a good father, if that makes any sense."

"They kept telling me it wasn't my fault. The social workers, the psychiatrists, even my mom. They all said it wasn't my fault she killed him." She looked at Grissom, shaking her head over and over. "It wasn't my fault she attacked him, Griss, but it was my fault she killed him. I didn't stop her."

He counted the shot glasses again, then counted the wrinkles in her forehead. And, maybe for the first time in their relationship, he knew what Sara needed. "Yeah."

Her eyes widened. "What?"

"Yeah, it was partly your fault that your father died."

She took a shuddering breath and exhaled deeply, smiling wide as the tears cascaded down her cheeks. "God. Thank you."

"It's what I'm here for."

"What are you here for?"

He raised his glass of scotch. "To toast your father."

They clinked their glasses and emptied them in quick gulps. There were no easy answers and there were no easy choices, but between the two of them, they managed an easy silence.