Gil leaned back on the sofa in Heather's parlor and wondered what she was going to do next.

"I want you to relax," she said, lighting a scented candle. "I want you to close your eyes and go someplace peaceful in your head."

He did as she asked. He thought of Catherine's apartment, her bedroom, her bed.

"Now," she continued, "Without opening your eyes, I want you to tell me the first memory you have of your childhood."

(Flashback) A three-year-old Gil Grissom screamed hysterically, trying to break out of the locked linen closet. He could hear his father screaming. He could hear his mother's muted cries. He was frightened. He wanted to stop it, but he didn't know how. He kept banging on the door....

*******

Catherine stood in Sam Braun's opulent penthouse office, waiting for him, as the sun rose over Las Vegas. When he entered, he was smiling and cheerful, and he carried a large manila envelope.

"How you feeling, today, pumpkin?" he said, giving her a quick peck on the cheek as he walked by.

She wiped it off.

"What can I do for you?" he asked.

"I want a truce between you and Grissom," she said.

Braun, still standing behind his desk, smiled at her.

"Why should I do that?" he asked. "A truce is what happens when both sides have more to lose than they have to gain. I have nothing to lose."

"Nothing?" she asked, taking a seat. "Not even me?"

He studied her, his eyes brightening.

"You are so much like your mother," he said. Then he opened the envelope and let the video cassette slide onto his desk.

Catherine stiffened and stared at it.

"Gil knows you have that," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Braun took in the information, turning it around in his head.

"He told you about this?" he asked, holding it up.

Her mouth felt dry and her skin hot. She nodded.

"He's smarter than I give him credit for," Braun said. "I take it you haven't seen it."

"I know what's on it."

Braun Sat down, clasping his hands in front of him.

"Then you know why I have to protect you from him."

"It doesn't change the fact that you set him up. You sent Carol into that situation. And you killed her."

Braun shook his head.

"I didn't kill anyone."

"Had her killed then," Catherine argued. "Semantics."

"All he had to do was say no, Catherine," Braun said.

"But you knew he wouldn't."

He nodded.

"How did you know?"

"I told you, pumpkin, I know everything about everyone in this town."

*******

"Rape is never about sex, but about anger," Heather was saying. She watched as Gil struggled with the memories, his hands coiled up into fists.

"I want you to think about Carol. What was the first thing that attracted you to her?"

Gil took a minute to make the switch in his mind. He could clearly picture her. Petite. Blonde. Self-assured. Yet needy. She had this smile....

"Did she remind you of anyone?" Heather asked.

Gil frowned, his eyes still closed.

"No, not really," he said.

"No one at all?" she asked, again.

He shook his head.

"Whose hair does she have? Whose eyes? Who else in your life was built like her? Did she wear a familiar cologne? Did she walk a certain way?"

"What are you trying to do?" Gil asked, opening his eyes. "I already told you. She didn't remind me of anyone."

"Gil, I think Carol was a surrogate for you. I think you raped her because you were angry at someone else, someone she reminded you of, and you took it out on her."

He shook his head.

"I've never been angry at any woman," he said.

"Haven't you?" Heather asked. "Then what brought you to me?"

*******

"What do you want, Sam?" Catherine asked, feeling her hands go clammy.

Sam's smile broadened.

"I only want what's best for you, pumpkin. I love you. I always have. And I can take care of you and Lindsey." Catherine waited for the other shoe to drop. "I want you and Lindsey to move in with me. I want us to be a family," he said.

Catherine's shoulders dropped. "Or what?" she asked.

"Or this goes public," he said, tapping the tape.

He studied her as she silently weighed her options. Then something occurred to him. "He doesn't know you're here, does he?" Braun asked.

Catherine threw him a dirty look.

"You used to trust him with everything. What changed?"

"When would I have to do this?" she asked.

"I could have my boys move you in by Monday. You can have a whole wing just to yourself. It will be like old times."

"Old times?" Catherine said incredulously. "What old times, Sam? We never had old times."

"I meant, like when I was dating your mother. We had a family then...."

"You had a family! With Tony and Walt! I had an absentee father, a distraught mother, and a biological father I never knew."

"Let me make that up to you."

Gil would have a fit, she knew. She dreaded explaining this to him. "And what do I get out of it?" she asked.

"You get to save your boyfriend's ass," he said.

*******

"Were you angry at Carol?" Heather asked.

"No. Of course not," Gil said.

"Then who were you angry at when you raped Carol?"

Gil squirmed a little in his seat. His gaze drifted to the window.

"Pay attention, Gil," Heather commanded. He brought his eyes back to her. "Let's try this again," she said. "Close your eyes, and tell me about your mother."

(Flashback) She was standing at the sink doing dishes, her back to him. He was four, maybe five. Her hair looked funny, like she'd taken a kitchen knife and hacked it off. She had bruises and red marks on her arms. He was crying, calling to her, but she couldn't hear him, and she never turned around. Then he saw the blood, hemorrhaging from under her skirt, flowing down the inside of her short thin legs, onto her torn nylons, her pink slippers, the speckled linoleum floor. He was scared.

*******

Catherine walked out of Sam's office in a daze. She knew there had to be a way out, but she couldn't think of it. She drove to work without turning on the radio, and went to her office without acknowledging anyone. Then she called her aunt in Montana.

"Can you put Lindsey on?" she asked. Nothing made her happier than hearing her daughter's voice.

*******

"You used to collect dead seagulls when you were a child," Heather said. "You and your mother would walk together on the beach."

"I've always been fascinated with dead things," he said.

"Close your eyes and go to that safe place, again," she instructed.

He pictured the chintz vases and floral wallpaper He smelled the scent of Catherine's hair on the satin pillows.

"Tell me about your father."

Gil stiffened.

"You're safe, Gil. You're in your safe place. He can't hurt you, here. Relax. Describe him to me."

"I thought he was a giant," Gil said. "But I was little. I found out later he was only five foot nine."

"Go on."

"He had sharp blue eyes, and he stared at you all the time, like he could see through you, like he knew your darkest secrets."

"When you say `you,' Gil, who do you mean? Who could he see through?"

"Me."

"How old were you when he left?"

"Five."

"What is your last memory of him?"

"Mom had locked me in the linen closet. She did that whenever he came home in one of his moods. She wanted me to be safe, so she locked me in there."

"Tell me what you're hearing."

The screams, the pounding, the broken glass and turned over furniture. His father's screams.

"Whore! Goddam whore! Bitch! Worthless piece of shit!"

Gil spoke slowly to Heather, fighting the tears that threatened to spill down his face.

"Why was he so mad?" she asked.

"He knew I wasn't his."

"Gil, what happened after he beat your mother?"

"He found me, hiding in the closet. He knew I was there. I was always there," Gil explained. "I don't know why mom never hid me anywhere else."

"After he found you, what did he say? What did he do?"

Gil felt his body chill and his stomach tie up in knots.

"You're safe, Gil," Heather reminded him. "You're in your safe place."

Gil thought a minute, piecing together the last minutes he'd spent with his dad.

"He had this belt," he said. "Wide. Black. Big silver buckle. He took it off...." Gil froze up.

"It's okay. You're safe. Remember your safe place. Go back there."

Chintz vases and floral wallpaper and Catherine.

"He beat me with it. And she just laid there," he said, at last. "She never got up. She never stopped him. She never said a word."

*******

It was late in the day before Catherine got up the courage to walk into Gil's office.

"I'm taking tomorrow and Monday off," she told him.

He looked up from the large piles of backlogged paperwork.

"Oh?"

"I'm going to Montana, to get Lindsey. I'll be back sometime Monday evening."

"How is she?" he asked.

"Pretty good, actually," Catherine said. She hadn't bothered to sit down. "I'm glad she wasn't here for.... You know."

He nodded.

"Stay out of trouble, while I'm gone. Okay?" she instructed him, with a little smile. She turned to leave.

"Catherine?" He wanted to tell her not to go. He wanted her to know that he was afraid she wouldn't come back.

"Have you forgiven me, yet?"

"I'm working on it," she said.

"Have a nice trip."

She glanced back once, to find his head buried in his work. But when she turned to walk away, he looked up and his eyes followed her until she was out of sight.

He went home alone, that night. And when Friday came, he almost forgot she wasn't there, until he found himself standing in front of her office door. He went home alone Friday night, too.

*******

"Who does she remind you of?" Heather's words echoed in his memory.

Gil sat down on his slip-covered sofa and pulled out a box of old photographs. There was one of his father, taken at the office with co- workers. The rest were of his mother. She was standing on the beach, smiling. She had her hand up in a salute, shielding her eyes from the sun, looking into the horizon. He was two or three, hiding behind her skirt. The pain was too great. He closed the box and put it away.

Saturday came, and he took a drive out to the lake. He missed Catherine, so much so that he didn't want to put in overtime at work, because it meant walking past her empty office. He spent the evening by himself at the movies, blowing his diet on popcorn and soda.

Sunday came, and he glanced at the box of photos, again. He almost called Heather, but couldn't get up the strength for another session. He pulled out the box of damaged butterflies that Sara had so carefully picked up and put away. He sorted them out. He went to the hardware store and bought materials for a shadow box. He lined them up and carefully fixed them inside, then he hung them up. It was only noon. He decided to drive by Catherine's house. He knew she wasn't there, but he thought it might make him feel better. At the last minute, he changed his mind and drove downtown, instead. He went for a roller coaster ride, then supper, then started to drive home. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't direct his car away from Catherine's house.

He pulled into her driveway, and his heart sank. The house was empty. No curtains or shades hung in the windows. No mail was in the box. Getting out of his vehicle, he walked around the house, peering in all the windows. The furniture had been cleared out. All that was left of his safe place was the floral wallpaper in the bedroom. Gil found himself hyperventilating and collapsed on her front step. He was interrupted by a realtor, posting a sign.

"Where is she?" he asked, looking up.

"Excuse me?" the woman asked.

"Catherine Willows. This is her house. Where is she?"

"Are you a friend of hers?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Then, I'm afraid you'll have to ask her. We're not allowed to give out that kind of information."

"But, you don't understand, she was just here...."

"You'll have to excuse me," the realtor said. "I have clients waiting." She got into her car and left.

Gil sat on Catherine's stoop until the sun set and the chilly night air drove him home. All his fears had been realized. She had left, and she wasn't coming back.

Back in his town house, he pulled out the box of photos, again, and started going through them. In one, he was five. His mother was sitting in a chair, dressed formally. He stood timidly next to her. He had a black eye and was clinging to her arm, but she appeared to be ignoring him. No one was smiling. Another was taken the same year. It was Christmas. His mother was helping him unwrap a gift. He could see the bruises on her wrists. Gil dropped his head into his arms and wept.

She was deaf. He understood that now. She never heard his screams. She never heard him banging on the door. She never heard him crying. She never really knew what he was going through.

Gil wiped his eyes and gently touched the photo.

"I forgive you," he whispered.

Then he put it back and rummaged some more, finding a smaller version of the photo Catherine had hung up in Eckley's office, during the sting.

"I really liked that picture," she had said.

"Me, too," he told himself, staring at the two of them, their eyes locked, leaning towards each other across a cafe table, Catherine's hand resting reassuringly on his. He wondered why he had buried it so deeply in the old shoe box.

His loss hit him like a tidal wave, flooding his whole body with pain. He took the pictures out of the box and laid them in order on the table. Then he got up and pulled out a small metal case from under his desk. After a few seconds fiddling with the combination lock, he opened it and pulled out his service revolver. He carefully closed the box and put it away. He set the revolver down on the table, next to the photos. He poured himself a drink and grabbed a pad of paper and a pen. He sat down, studied the photos one more time, and tried to write. Nothing would come. Sorry didn't seem to cut it. He'd done all the confessing he was going to do. Anything he had to say to Catherine, she'd already heard and already knew.

He didn't know how long he'd been sitting there when there was a knock on his door. He didn't answer, at first, until Nick yelled through the door.

"Hey? You in there? It's cold out here! Open up!"

"Just a minute," Gil yelled, jumping up and trying to find a place to hide the gun. He wrapped it in a convenient dishtowel and stuck it on the counter, near the fridge, out of sight. Then he gathered up the photos and dumped them back into the box. One fell to the floor, unnoticed.

Someone was knocking, again.

"I'm coming. I'm coming," Gil said, finally making his way to the door.

When he opened it, he found Nick, holding a very large package wrapped in foil paper and a bow, and followed by Warrick, Sara and Greg.

"What's that?" Gil asked.

"Just a little something we thought you could use," Sara said, smiling.

Nick lowered the box onto the coffee table.

"Well," Sara urged, "aren't you going to open it up?"

She was grinning from ear to ear.

Gil shook his head and offered up a small grin. Then he began untying the bow.

"You shouldn't have done this, guys," he said.

"It was the least we could do," Warrick said.

Gil unwrapped the box to find a new stereo system, to replace the one damaged during the vandalism. He stared at it in open admiration.

"This is too much!" he said, pulling out each piece and examining it thoroughly.

Sara, wandering around and looking at odds and ends, noticed the photograph on the floor. She picked it up.

"Huh. I didn't know you had a photo of Carol," she said, holding it up.

Gil turned to stone.

"That's not Carol," he said. He took the photo from her and put it in the box. "That's my mother. I was just looking at some old pictures."

Sara nodded, understanding.

"Got anything to drink in this place?" Nick asked.

Gil nodded. "There's beer in the fridge."

Sara fetched the beer and handed them around. For awhile they talked and joked, and no one mentioned Catherine. And when they had left, and Gil went to retrieve his gun, he found that it had disappeared.

"Sara," he sighed, knowing she'd done him a favor.

-- TBC --