Roses in December
Chapter 5
We spend the evening quietly, watching sitcoms and avoiding eye contact. Grissom finally leaves for work when I'm getting ready for bed.
Every other night, I've read more of the diary before falling asleep. This, of course, leads to muddled dreams, where I can't figure out what's memory and what's imagination.
I don't let myself read any more tonight, but even so, when I finally fall asleep my dreams are confusing. Grissom and I are throwing my diary back and forth between us, and every time he catches it, a page falls out. I'm annoyed, but he seems pleased, and I can't stop playing his game. Finally all the pages have all fallen out, littering the ground around him. He looks at me, crestfallen, as if to ask whether we should stop throwing the empty jacket. "It's your call, babe," I say, and thick tears drop from his eyes, black as ink.
The ring of the doorbell awakens me in the morning, and I make my way sleepily to the front door. In another life, I probably checked the peephole before opening the door, or at least kept the chain on. But in this life, it's not the outsiders who are scaring me.
"Oh, damn, I woke you up." It's Warrick, sheepishly noting my pajamas.
"It's okay, I don't normally sleep this late," I tell him, flashing him a smile. "It's good to see you. Come on in." He sits down on the couch. He won't stop looking at me, his eyes stunned and glassy. "What's going on?"
He shakes his head. "I, uh. I had to process your car today."
"My car?" And then I remember. "Oh, right. The accident."
"Right." He looks down, and so do I, and I notice that his shirt is buttoned all the way up. For some reason, this worries me more than anything.
"So is it salvageable?"
"What?" There's a rim of red around his green irises, and I think of Christmas.
"The car, is it salvageable?"
He opens his mouth and shuts it, over and over. "Sara, I can hardly believe you got out alive. That car was flattened."
Well, that explains his expression. "I'm fine, Warrick," I say softly, and he lets out a breath, nodding. "What caused the accident, anyway? No one ever told me."
"That's kind of what I'm trying to find out," he says, frowning. "We got a warrant for the truck that you collided with, and I went over the whole thing. Didn't find anything out of the ordinary. Truck driver's tox screen came back clean. Then your car was towed in today, and I finally got to process it."
"Why'd it take so long?" I ask with a frown. "Wasn't the accident weeks ago?"
"It happened on I-15 North, in Sloan," he says, grimacing. "Benjamin Palmer's turf."
I shake my head, not understanding.
"He's Sloan's police chief. A couple years back, Palmer and Ecklie got into it over a case. A serial killer dumped bodies in Vegas and Sloan around the same time, and they both wanted control of the investigation. Ecklie won out, and Palmer was pissed. So he took his sweet time releasing your car to us. I just had to be patient and wait him out."
There's a quiet to Warrick that I love. His sharp eyes don't miss a thing, but that doesn't mean he chooses to reveal all that he knows. Must be the gambler in him, not wanting to show his hand.
After reading the diary, I have to say, he's the only one who is just as Sara described him. Grissom and Catherine are warmer than she thinks, Nick and Greg are more aloof. But Warrick's smile is just as genuine as she says, and I'm glad he's the one working my case.
Wait. Case?
"Warrick, why are you investigating the accident? Was there a crime committed?"
"Got me," he shrugs. "Ecklie requested that swing shift look into it, and I took the case." He cocks his head, sighing. "I should probably let you know. last year, you were almost charged with a DUI. I had to go through your file, and it was in there."
"Yeah, I know about that," I say, and he grins apologetically.
"I'm thinking Ecklie may have suspected you were drinking and driving, and that it caused the accident." There's no judgment in his gaze.
I lick my lips, afraid to ask. "Was I?"
"No," he says quickly. "Blood alcohol content was 0.00, no signs of liquor in the car, and no trace of alcohol in your stomach contents."
"They pumped my stomach?"
"Nah, you did it for them." The idea that Warrick analyzed my vomit strikes me as funny, somehow, and I start to laugh. I'm bent over, holding my stomach, and he probably thinks I'm going to throw up on him and give him more evidence to work with. But he's laughing too, when I peek at him.
"Oh, I almost forgot." He's still smiling when he pulls a cell phone out of his pocket and hands it to me. "Ecklie cleared me to give this back to you. I recovered it from the car. Still in one piece, just like you."
I turn it over in my hand, feeling the unfamiliar weight. "It's not evidence?"
"We got all we could off of it, and there was nothing useful." His face grows serious. "I gotta tell you, Sar. It's a good thing you were on the phone with Grissom when the accident happened. He was able to get rescue crews to the scene in minutes, and believe me, every second counted."
Warrick keeps talking, but the blood is rushing to my ears and I can't hear him. Moving lips, gesturing hands, and it's getting hard to breathe.
"Can you tell me any details about the crash?" I ask shakily, interrupting him. "Was I on the job at the time? Coming back from a crime scene?"
"No," he replies, surprised. "You were finishing up a week's vacation."
My eyes narrow. I read that diary, five years' worth. Sara doesn't vacation. "Where'd I go?"
"Judging by the receipts I found in the car, San Francisco. You had a duffel bag in the backseat with enough clothing to last you about a week, and a garment bag with a suit in it."
"I, uh." I can't help it, my mind's racing furiously, trying to fit it all together. "I'm really tired. Do you think we could talk about this another time, maybe?"
He nods and stands, but makes no move toward the door.
"Warrick? What's the matter?"
"Can. Can I just - " The thought is never finished as he puts his arms around me gently, pulling me in. He's so tall, and his chin rests on the top of my head. "I'm just so glad you're okay, Sara," he sighs. "Seeing that smashed car did a number on me. Knowing I could've lost such a good friend. I'm telling you, someone up there was looking out for you."
I wonder if Sara believed in God.
Warrick leaves, and I can't help it, I'm picking up the diary. My hands are shaking, and I skim the pages impatiently until I find what I'm looking for.
This morning I sat in my apartment and cried, for what, the millionth time? And suddenly I was just. done. Done with the awkwardness between us, done with wondering whether he's attracted to Sofia, done with watching my career stagnate in this hellhole. I called Steven in San Francisco. We're going to meet up next week.
I keep reading, my eyes wide. This can't be right.
The sound of the key in the lock reaches my ears, and I don't bother to hide the diary. Grissom shuffles in. A greeting freezes on his lips as he catches sight of the book in my lap.
"There was a suit in my car," I say, quiet and desperately hoping I'm wrong.
"Yeah." He's still standing by the door.
"The kind of suit I'd go on an interview wearing."
His shoulders slump. "Yeah."
I look down at the diary, rereading the last lines in muted disbelief. Steven's got an opening in the lab, and I have to wonder what it would be like to work for him again, to reclaim the simple relationship of boss and subordinate that I never had here. The interview is just a formality, he assures me, and if I want the job it's mine. I think about the prospect of life without Grissom, and it's at once liberating and debilitating. Like I'm a bird with clipped wings who's being set free.
Hesitantly meeting his gaze, I notice his eyes are wet. "I was leaving you."
"Yeah." His voice cracks, and he looks away.
I want to say something, anything to fill the deafening silence, but the ball's in his court. Finally he straightens up, looking resigned. "I think we need to talk."