Title: Shoebox
By: Verisimilitude
Pairing: Nick/Greg
Rating: PG-13
Author's note: This isn't a very typical Nick and Greg story. They don't even show up for a while, and it's not going to be heavy on the Nick/Greg aspect. However, since I can no longer vision them being apart, they are together in the fic and I swear they will show up eventually.
Summary: A mystery is uncovered while cleaning.

***

Setting down the last of the three boxes at the top of the stairs I stand up and stretch, cracking the bones in my back as I do so. I love doing that; it's so refreshing. Looking around the attic I so rarely frequent I see an alarming number of boxes crammed in, all carefully labelled in my mother's carefully written script. I try to find a space on the shelves for my three boxes, full of childhood toys. I'm 14 years old now; it's time to do away with such things. Actually, I'd of put them away ages ago if not for dad's obsessive idea about a yard sale-I didn't want to haul them up the stairs only to haul them back down. But since he'd grounded me until I cleaned my room, this was it, they had to go.

Blinking in the harsh light of the single, uncovered light bulb illuminating the attic I tried to find a spot for my three boxes. Maybe I should just leave them there at the top of the stairs so the next time dad comes up he can put them away, or maybe realize that there's just no more room up here anymore so he'd better get on with that damn yard sale. Above the shelves of Christmas ornaments I find a small space, too close to the ceiling to do anyone much good, but it should do for me, my boxes are longer than they are tall.

I lift one box and bring it over, stretching it above my head with my arms and slide it on to the shelf. I manage to push it halfway back before it wouldn't move anymore. Growling, I pull my box back down to remove the offending obstacle-I'm already feeling possessive about my hard-won space and want to remove the offender immediately. Unfortunately I can't reach, not even on my tiptoes with a hand on the box marked "˜garlands' for support. I'm going to have to get something to stand on. Looking around I see my mother's clothes trunk only a few feet away. She tends to store things in it that she thinks she'll need again one day but in reality are already horribly out of style, hopefully never to come back "˜in.'

I sneeze at the dust I kick up dragging the trunk. I step up on it and find an old, unlabelled shoebox. I went through all that for a pair of lousy shoes. I climb back down and then use the trunk as a stepping stool to make it easier to put up my boxes. Once finished, I try to put the shoebox back in a space-any space so I can get out of the dusty attic. I've breathed in enough dust to practically taste it on my tongue. It is so time to get out of here.

I find a bit of a space big enough for the shoebox to the right of my boxes near the box for the inflatable Santa mom insists on putting up in our front yard in the middle of November. But as I'm placing the box there I pause. I'm not sure why, I just do. Maybe because the box had been out of the light of the bulb so it seemed mysterious, maybe because it was the only unlabelled item in the attic, or maybe because from the weight of it in my hand I could feel that it wasn't shoes. For all of those reasons, or none of them, I pull the box back out and quickly sit cross-legged on the trunk, ignoring the grime getting on my khakis.

I place the box in my lap, savouring the moment of anticipation before I open it. I feel like a kid again, playing pirates and finding lost treasure. As soon as I have that thought my desire to open the box vanishes. I'm 14 years old, not 12! I shouldn't be prying into something that is not mine while pretending that it's something that it's not. I'm too old for this. It's probably just Christmas cars that didn't get labelled. It was by the Christmas decorations, and who would label Christmas cards? I decidedly ignored the thought that yes, my mother would label a shoebox full of Christmas cards as I put the shoebox on the shelf and turned around toward the stairs, flicking my long, blonde hair over my shoulder as I do so. But my hand hovers over the light switch.

I slowly turn to look back. I know that I will feel stupid if I open it up and find nothing of importance. I will feel so stupid at finding a whole bunch of Christmas cards from the "˜80s or something that I'll never want to do something so stupid again. Opening the box and confirming my suspicions will be like taking my medicine, or eating my broccoli. It will be good for me to see how ridiculous I'm being over a silly little box full of Christmas cards. It will prove that my initial decision not to open it was the right one.

I gently bite my bottom lip as I inch closer to the shelf. I slowly reach out and lift the box; it feels heavy in my hands, heavier than before. I take it closer to the bulb, setting it down on a box of old doorknobs, according to the label. I pry off the lid and find papers, not Christmas cards. A shoebox full of papers, jammed in to fit the maximum number possible. I pull out one from the middle with difficulty, they are really in there tight, and probably for a while too.

It's an old report card, a good one too, except for the A minus in English. The teacher had written that if the student had read the material assigned it would have been an A. It's from my high school, but it's old, maybe it's my dad's. The name in the corner is G. Sanders. I don't know a G. Sanders. My dad's name is Alexander and he didn't have any siblings.

I pull more things out of the box, pausing over a lock of hair in a plastic bag and a baby bracelet with "˜G. Sanders' on it. Then I find it: a picture of a boy about my age at the beach with his parents. He's in the foreground with brown hair, brown eyes and a green swimsuit. The mother over his right shoulder and the father is over his left. They look happy...wait. Could it be? I bring the picture closer to the light and look over the boy's left shoulder. A much younger version of my father looks back at me.

He must be a cousin that I don't know about. Dad spent a day at the beach with this woman and her son. We have the box in the attic because he is our cousin and my parents never throw anything away. Maybe he'll want it someday, this G. Sanders. That's why it's still here. Maybe it was just forgotten in that dusty, dark old corner. I'll ask dad about it at dinner, explaining how I came upon the box by accident and...he'll know I was rummaging through his things. Well, I knocked it over by accident, yeah, putting my boxes up-cleaning the room like he told me to. He can't get mad at me for doing what he told me to.
Yet, over dinner I'm silent. I had spent the rest of the day ignoring the box, determined to bring the matter up at dinner. But when we all sit down together, the three of us, I can't. I don't know why. It just didn't feel right somehow.

That night, lying in my bed staring at my ceiling as I try to sleep, I can see the eyes of the boy from the picture staring back at me through the attic floor.

***

As soon as I get home from school I run up to my bedroom. On the way I tell my dad that I have a paper to research in order to keep him out of my hair for the next few hours while I finish looking through the shoebox. All day yesterday when I wasn't in school I had been reading and looking at everything in there. After that first restless night haunted by that boy I just couldn't leave it alone. I had gotten up early the next morning to take the box down from the attic and hide it in my bedroom.

I throw my book bag down on the floor and open my hope chest. I had placed the shoebox there last night when I simply couldn't read anymore. I had been too excited about finding G. Sanders' name: Greg. It had been finger-painted on the bottom of a picture of a sailboat -clearly something Greg had done while he was in preschool. At least, I think it's Greg. The smudges of the painting make it a little difficult to figure out. But it looks like "˜Greg.' Sort of.

I think my favorite are the pictures-there aren't very many of them, but when I come across one he always looks so happy. There are a couple with my dad in them and a few with that woman who must be his mom, but I haven't found a picture with his dad in it yet. Maybe it's closer to the bottom of the box.

Maybe this is one. I take the newly discovered picture with my right hand and flip it around so I can see the front. Greg is there-I can recognize him instantly regardless of his age in the pictures-with another boy. They are both about sixteen. Wait a minute, that looks like Mr. O'Sullivan, my chemistry teacher! But it can't possibly...well, maybe it can. From the date on the report card I figured out that Greg is about thirty now, but in none of the pictures is he older than about sixteen. He and Mr. O'Sullivan could have been friends in high school.

If Mr. O'Sullivan was friends with Greg in high school, maybe he knows where Greg is now. There's no harm in asking him about my cousin, right? I can say that I just want to know where he is, what happened to him, why he's never come to our annual family picnics, stuff like that. I stuff the picture in my bookbag and walk quickly to the end of the hallway to go down the stairs. Then I remember that the contents of the shoebox are littered around my room. Inwardly cursing at the lost time I rush back, quickly shove everything back into the box and secure it in my hope chest, underneath the quilt.

"Bye Dad, I'm going to the library to get some books for my paper!" I shout as I rush out the door too quickly for him to respond. I run back to the high school, hoping that Mr. O'Sullivan is there grading papers or something. After knocking on all the teacher's lounges and group offices I finally find him in the chemistry lab, looking thoughtfully at a set of beakers with some weird green substance in them. I knock on the door, suddenly a little shy.

"Why hello there Miss Sanders, what can I do for you?" he asks jovially, waving me in to the classroom.

I enter, set down my bookbag and pull out the picture as I explain, "I was in my attic at home when I came across a shoebox full of old papers, pictures...and this."

As I hand him the picture of his younger self with my cousin his eyes go wide and he raises his eyebrows-he is truly shocked. Why would he be so shocked over this picture? Then I notice that his eyes have gotten a little misty, his lips are pressed tightly together and he's swallowing as he furrows his brow. The more I realize how emotionally moved he is by this picture the more I regret bringing it to him. I try to justify myself with a halting explanation:

"I was just hoping, well wondering really who he is and why he's never come to anything, like family things and stuff. I know his name is Greg Sanders and he's my cousin but, I've never, um, heard of him before and I was hoping you could... maybe, fill me in?"

"Close the door" he says. I comply. Then he begins, his eyes flickering between me and the picture, "Yes, his name is Greg Sanders. But no, he is not your cousin. I knew Greg in high school; we were...close, very close. Good friends. The best of friends. We were inseparable until we turned 16. His mother got cancer and died. Then quite unexpectedly he moved away. We fought over it. I thought he was coming back, just needed a little space to get over his mother's death, but I never saw nor heard from him again after her funeral. He just packed up and left. Moved in with his grandfather, I think."

"Mr. O'Sullivan," I began carefully, "if he isn't my cousin, who is he?"

"He's your brother. Well, half brother, on your father's side, from his first marriage."

"No, that's not true. My dad was never married before. He would have told me if he had another child. He's always..."

"When Lydia died and Greg left your father was heartbroken. But more than that, some say he went a little mad, denying that Greg and Lydia ever existed. I don't know if I believe that, all I know is he did some odd stuff for about a year and then turned himself around. But I don't think he's mentioned either of them since. It's surprising that he has any keepsakes of them left, he was burning them all in his backyard. Damn near set fire to the house, according to my dad, he was a volunteer fire fighter at the time."

"He must have been so sad, all alone like that." Pity for my father threatens to overwhelm me. No wonder he doesn't talk about it. The poor man loses his wife to cancer and then his son goes and abandons him. All this time I'd been getting to know Greg through his pictures and I had no idea how absolutely evil he was. How could he hurt my dad like that! He doesn't deserve to have a dad like mine!

"You can keep that, if you want," I say as I break out my thoughts and come back to reality, startling Mr. O'Sullivan from his trip down memory lane in the process. I zip up the open pouch on my bookbag and get ready to leave the classroom.

"Thanks, I appreciate it." He says, then adding, "I wouldn't go stirring up old memories for your dad by mentioning this, he's had it hard enough as it is."

"Don't worry, I won't. And thank you for telling me the truth." I smile as I leave the classroom. But I don't feel it on the inside. Inside I'm confused. A brother? Where is he? Does he know about me? Does he know and just not care?

Greg must have been so upset about his mother dying that he went away for a while. After that he probably couldn't figure out a good time to come back home. He kept wondering, aching to come home but never finding the right opportunity. Maybe he ran out of money and had to live on the street. He's probably hopelessly in need right now.

Poor Dad. He misses Greg, I can tell. It's like the missing link in his life, leaving him feeling incomplete and empty as a person. He needs Greg back. And since he won't help himself I'm just going to have to find Greg. Find him and convince him to return home for both their sakes. They need one another and I'm going to be the one to bring them together.

***

Life is wonderful. I have a mission that will save my dad; revitalize him after years of loneliness and misery. Although, he wasn't too miserable-he does have me and mom. I can't believe he was married before and we didn't know. She couldn't have known and not told me about it, right? I wonder what happened to Greg? Where is he now? Why did he leave?

All of a sudden it hit me. Hit me like a cloud opening up and suddenly the light shines forth. My steps slow to a stop and I stand there on the sidewalk staring ahead of me. That picture. Greg's arm was around Mr. O'Sullivan's neck and they smiling and pressed up rather close. Mr. O'Sullivan said they were the best of friends and fought when Greg left. Could they...? Could they have been dating? Could they really?

As my thoughts increase in speed so does my pace. I start walking again and pretty soon I am moving along at quite a pace, thinking and muttering to myself about this new development. That has to be why Greg left. He didn't want to disappoint dad. He gave up everything he knew so that he wouldn't disillusion his father. What a noble gesture!

But, dad has never shown any sign of having a problem with homosexuality-not that I can think of. Maybe he does, we've never discussed it. Or maybe he used to and then Greg left and he figured it out and regretted, repented and changed his ways hoping against hope that his son would come back to him? I should test him. Find out what he feels so that when I find Greg I know exactly why he left and can use it to convince him to come back.

I arrive home with a plan and am absolutely convinced that it is the best possible tactic to broach the subject. I smile as I put my book bag down in the hall and take off my shoes.
"I'm home!" I call out to my parents.

"It's about time too," my mom yells back from the kitchen, "dinner's almost ready. Go wash up and then set the table."

I wash up and then go into the kitchen to grab the knives, forks and plates, eagerly sniffing the lasagna that my mom is taking out of the oven.

We sit down to dinner-my dad at the head of the table with me on his left and mom on his right. They chatter about their day at work, what clients they have and what legal processes they're going to have to do. Mom has been dad's secretary at his law firm for a long time. I open my mouth to put my plan into action when my dad interrupts and does it for me:

"Did you get good books at the library, sweetie? What's your project about?"

"Homosexuality throughout history. Did you know it used to be a crime? People were persecuted and incarcerated for their love. Can you believe anyone could be so hateful toward same-sex couples?" I lied emphatically, staring into his eyes so I could catch any flicker of a reaction; any deep-seated emotions buried in his heart about his gay son. But I'm not finding any.

"Yes, I did know that honey. It's sad what people do to each other over misconceived notions of normalcy and...

"Alexander, I don't think this is a proper discussion for the dinner table." Interjects my mother, interrupting my father and then turning to me, "It sounds like a good project for you dear but it is not polite dinner conversation. I will not have this kind of talk over the lasagna I worked so hard to prepare for you two."

Dad and I stop talking and both look down at our plates of lasagna instead of meeting her blue eyes. I'm shocked. Dad didn't show any signs while Mom...this is a strange development. Dad tries to sooth things over with Mom by complimenting her cooking skills, then I suddenly come up with a plan to salvage the situation and say:

"You make incredibly good lasagna, Mom. In fact, you're a really great cook. Have you ever thought about having any other kids so they can enjoy your cooking too?"

My mom looks taken aback, but the compliment helped slide the question in. She takes a moment to arrange her thoughts and get over her surprise, and answers with a simple "No, no I haven't honey. But, thank you."

"What about you dad?" I forge ahead, "Have you ever thought about having other kids? What about a son to carry on the Sanders name?"

"Alexandra," Dad addressed me earnestly, "You are my namesake. You are my very own and I don't need nor want any other child but you."

I smile back and we finish eating dinner in silence.

***

Lying on my bed after dinner under the pretense of working on my project I think about the conversation we had. It's worse than I thought. I gave dad the perfect opportunity to tell me about Greg and he didn't even hint. Maybe he really is heartbroken that Greg left and has decided never to speak of him again. I need a plan to find Greg and get those two back together. But how? I don't even know where he lives. He may not even be in the country. Mr. O'Sullivan mentioned something about him moving in with his grandfather, but where would that be?

Well, what do I do when I want to find a person...look them up in the phone book, I guess. That won't work-they're city specific and I don't know the city. Maybe, the internet? Ok. I get up off my bed, sit down at my computer and open up Google. Typing in "˜Greg Sanders' I already feel that this method is going to be a dead end. There's too much stuff on the internet to find someone by just their name. Maybe if I had a middle name it would narrow things down but as is, this is going to be tough.

I groan when I see the thousands of hits. I open up the first one and read for a bit. Dud. I open up the second one and repeat the process. Dud. I continue for about a half hour before I become fed up. What I need is a picture. I switch to Google images and type in "˜Greg Sanders'-still a lot of hits, but I should be able to recognize him a lot faster than I would from simply text. I continue searching.

There, there it is. That has to be him. I've been searching for an hour and a half now and I've finally gotten some luck. I open the picture to its original website. It's a newspaper article from the Las Vegas Sun. It's not too old either, only about two years. I read:


Crime won a small victory today when the Las Vegas Crime Lab, at the heart of the city's crime fighting unit, was damaged in an explosion from within. The source of the explosion is as yet unknown, but terrorism has not been ruled out.

Robert Covello, Director of the Las Vegas Crime Lab, has issued a statement that investigations are underway as to the source of the explosion and the amount of damage done to the criminal investigations going on in the lab.

Thirteen different criminal cases were being analysed in the DNA lab when it blew up-irreparably damaging the evidence. Will criminals be set free because of the explosion? Covello says that it is too early to tell.

Many were injured, but only one, Gregory Sanders, was taken for serious treatment at the Desert Palms hospital's burn unit. Sanders, the nightshift DNA tech for the lab, was standing closest to the explosion when it occurred early this morning. Sources say that he has suffered second and third degree burns to his back and neck and that treatment is underway.


Wow. He was in a lab explosion. I lean back in my chair as I mull over this new information. I wonder if dad knows? Probably, he probably kept tabs on where Greg went and what he did and stuff. Maybe he even hired a private investigator.

So, Greg is in Las Vegas. Well, he was in Las Vegas. He might not be there anymore. I really should confirm that he's there before I go and confront him. I guess I should call or something.

"Alexandra, it's time to go to bed." I hear my mother yell from the bottom of the stairs.

"Ok Mom" I yell back, annoyed that my plans have to be suspended yet again because of my parents.

Laying in bed after I get changed I think about Greg. He must be really smart to be a DNA tech. How do I call the crime lab? I guess I could find the number online and just...ask if he's there? Ok, that sounds ok.

After school, before my parents get home from work I sit in front of the telephone with the number for the crime lab in my hand, putting the finishing touches on what I'm going to say. I looked up the number during my lunch break in the computer lab at school and now I'm ready. I dial the numbers and wait.

"Las Vegas Crime Lab, how may I help you?" A female secretary says professionally into the phone.

"Hi, uh, I'm looking for Greg Sanders. Is he there?" I ask nervously, the butterflies in my stomach making it hard to sound as professional as the woman on the other line does.

"Yeah, he's just walking by the front desk right now, hang on a sec...GREG! PHONE!" she replies.

Oh God, what do I do now? What do I say? I never planned on him actually being there. It's not like this is a good thing to discuss over the phone. Ah, hey, this is your sister; did you know about me? How's life been since you abandoned our father? Would you like to come home? Talk about impersonal. He'd think I was a prank caller or something.

"Hello, you've got Greg Sanders." I hear a male voice say into the phone.

"Um...hello?" I whimper out, not knowing what to do and freaking out big time.

"What can I help you with?" He asks.

"Uh...nothing?" I smack my forehead with the heel of my hand. How stupid can I get?

"Look honey," he starts jokingly, laughing a bit as he continues, "I don't know who you are or why you've called, but unless it's something important, like work-related, I just don't have time to go into phone sex right now."

"...uh..." My eyes go wide and I'm speechless. This is not how I was expecting my first conversation with my brother to go.

"That was supposed to make you laugh, break the ice, so to speak. That way we can get to your point sometime today. What..."

I hang up the phone in the middle of his sentence. Oh God did I just hang up on him? I just hung up on him! I cover my face in my hands; I'm mortified. Why did I do that? That was so stupid! He's going to hate me. Or worse, think I'm a child. What am I going to do now?

After a few minutes go by I calm down and begin to see the glimmer of success in that phone call. Yes, I acted like an idiot. But, I found out where he is and I've confirmed that he's a living, breathing person. Now all I have to do is figure out how I'm going to get to Las Vegas.

***

Standing outside of the Las Vegas Crime Lab in the early morning light I find myself experiencing second thoughts. After how horribly the phone call with Greg went three weeks ago I've been thinking about what to say to him face to face. I practiced on the bus all the way down here from San Francisco. Well, I practiced for some of it. Fifteen hours on a bus is a long time to spend practicing-I ended up sleeping for a lot of it.

I'm not so sure I have my script right. But my parent's unexpected business trip to New York made it so now was the time to go. I took a bus instead of a plane so I wouldn't be so easily tracked if they came home early or something. It was also cheaper and I only have so much allowance money.

I take a deep breath as the wind blows by me, stirring my blond hair off my shoulders. I decided to leave my hair down for this. I think it makes me look more mature. Now if only I can stick to the script I'll be just fine and it won't go anything like that phone call. It'll be fine, Greg will come home and dad will be so happy. I'm doing this for dad, so I'd better just do it already.

I make my way up the stairs and enter the building. Good. Step one is complete. Now I need to find a receptionist. There's a desk with a woman with blond curly hair answering a phone. I walk over to her. Oh no, what if she's the woman who took my phone call and she remembers me?

"Hello, how can I help you?" she asks cheerily.

"Hi, umm...I'm looking for Greg Sanders. It's a family matter." I answer with my prepared line.

"Hey Nick," she calls over my shoulder to a man walking by, "this girl's here for Greg. Says she's family."

The man had stopped at being called, and now he's just staring at me with a look of disbelief on his face. He slowly crosses the hallway to where I am standing at the receptionist's counter, eyes still wide.

"Hello," he says with a Southern twang, extending his hand in a proper greeting, "I'm Nick Stokes, I'm a friend of Greg's. Who are you?"

"I'm Alexandra Sanders." I reply, shaking his hand, though he clearly looks uncomfortable.

"I'll sign her in Judy," he says to the receptionist, "better get her a visitor's pass."

"Sure thing, Nick." she replies.

We fill out the necessary paperwork to admit me to the lab under Nick's supervision. He keeps staring at me. It's making me uncomfortable. I follow his lead after I get my pass and we walk a ways into the lab, till he stops abruptly, turns to me and in a low whisper hesitantly asks, "You're not...his daughter or anything, are you?"

"What? No," I reply hastily, also in a hushed tone, "I'm his sister. I'm 14 years old, I can't be his daughter."

"Oh," Nick visibly relaxed, and began to smile, "ok then, I just thought I'd clear that one up straight away. Wait a sec, Greg doesn't have a sister."

"Hey Nick, who's your friend?" says a voice from behind me. I turn and it's Greg. He seems older than I expected; though I know his approximate age. He's smiling at Nick and is barely paying me any attention. They share a look before Nick clears his throat, rubs the back of his neck with his right hand and replies:

"Hey G, this girl came looking for you. You'd better have a talk with her."

"Hey, what's up?" Greg directed toward me. I didn't want to have this conversation in a crowded hallway, but he seems perfectly comfortable just standing here with all these glass walls and people looking at us. I look around uncomfortably, then look at Nick for help, not knowing what to do.

"Maybe you should take this somewhere private, G." Nick says, coming to my rescue.

"I don't tend to take strange girls into back rooms, Nick" Greg replied, then to me, not unkindly: "What's you're name?"

"Alexandra Sanders" I reply, getting more and more anxious. Greg is taking the lead in a way I hadn't anticipated in my script. The whole script has been blown out the window now and yet again I'm making things up as I go along when I talk to him. This isn't going right!

His eyes go wide as I say my name. He stares at me incredulously, almost angrily and accusingly. I begin to stutter through an explanation of my actions, feeling like a guilty intruder, "You're my brother. I found your picture in the..."

"How old are you? He barks, cutting me off.

"Fourteen." I meekly reply.

"Well he certainly didn't waste any time." Greg muttered to himself at my reply, staring at the floor.

"What does that mean?" I ask, confused about whom Greg is referring to.

"I am not your brother, ok. I'm not Alex Sanders' son." He snaps at me.

"You were until you walked out on him when his wife was dying!" I angrily snap back, not sure of what I believe about the situation anymore. Greg stands there shocked. Like he has no idea what I'm talking about and I've just made a huge mistake.

"Greg, let's take this elsewhere." Nick interjects as an older man comes over to our group.

"What's going on here?" asks the man. He's got a graying beard and piercing blue eyes.

"Nothing." Greg replies, but it sounds strained. He's emotionally moved by me, but toward anger, not guilt or regret like I thought he'd be. I made a real mistake in coming here.

"Meeting a young lady who claims to be your sister isn't nothing," the older man calmly says as if his eavesdropping on our conversation was appropriate, "Greg, take the rest of the night off and sort this out. There's only an hour of shift left to go anyway. Nick and I will finish up with the paperwork. Go."

Greg, to my surprise, looks to Nick instead of answering the older man. Nick looks back at him, then fishes keys from out of his black jeans pocket and hands them to Greg, saying, "I'll make Warrick drive me home. I'll see you there in a little bit."

Greg smiles a bit at Nick, then turns to the older man and says, "Thanks Griss."

He looks at me, then begins walking toward the exit. I look quickly at Nick and the "˜Griss' guy, then follow, running a few steps to catch up to Greg, who has already reached the doors and is walking out into the sunlight.

***

I toss my visitor's pass at the receptionist before I follow Greg into the parking lot. He's already over by a big truck and is unlocking the doors. That truck must be Nick's, he gave Greg his keys for it. Where's Greg's car? Does he not have a car of his own? Maybe it's under repair. Then I remember that Greg is gay-Nick must be his life partner and they share the truck.

He's got the ignition running by the time I climb into the passenger side of the truck. I set my book bag down on the floor between my legs and fasten my seat belt as he drives out of the lot. I don't know what to say; I've made a real mess of things. Nothing has gone according to my plan. He was supposed to be sorry for what happened, not angry.

"Are you hungry?" Greg asks, breaking the silence with a question I didn't expect.

"Yes," I meekly reply, "I had some popcorn on the bus, but it was a really long ride."

"We could order a pizza. What kind of pizza do you like? Pepperoni?"

"Sure. I like pepperoni."

Greg pulls his cell phone from out of his jeans pocket, eyes never leaving the road. He punches in the number for a pizza place from memory and places the order for one large pepperoni pizza. We don't speak again for the rest of the car ride.

When he pulls the car into the driveway of a house and turns off the engine we both just sit there for a minute. I feel so guilty for making him feel uncomfortable like this. I turn to him and say, "Greg, I shouldn't have barged in on your life like this. I'm sorry, it just seemed..."

"It's ok." He cuts me off, anger still present in his voice. Then he sighs deeply and when he speaks again the anger is gone, replaced by a calm resignation: "You should know what happened. I can't believe he didn't tell you himself...well, yes I can. But, it doesn't matter. You're here now and I'll try to explain it. Come on, let's go inside."

He leads me inside the door of the house and into the hallway. There are two different sizes of men's shoes on the mat, so my guess about him living here with Nick may not be completely wrong. I drop my book bag beside my shoes and follow him into the living room. I sit down on the couch while he goes to the kitchen. He brings back a beer and a Pepsi-handing me the Pepsi. I thank him and he nods at me while swallowing some of his beer.

We sit in silence. I'm not sure what to do. I thought he was going to tell me what happened but he doesn't seem to be even preparing himself to speak. I'm getting more and more uncomfortable and agitated as the minutes go by and when the doorbell rings I jump.

Greg smiles a laugh at me as he gets out of the chair to pay the pizza delivery guy. He brings it back and places it on the coffee table between us, not bothering to move the magazines and books on the coffee table first, just putting the box on top of them. He goes back to the kitchen and grabs some plates and napkins, as well as two more drinks. We eat, but I can't eat very much. I feel like an intruder and the anticipation and worry is making me very nervous.

After Greg finishes his first slice he asks, "I know your father doesn't know you're here, because he never would have allowed you to come, but does he even know that you're safe?"

"Mom and Dad went on a business trip to New York. They won't be back until next Wednesday." I reply.

"So, your mom works with your dad?" He asks.

"Yes, she's his secretary." As soon as I finish speaking he laughs. Not an all-out belly laugh, more like a weak, incredulous laugh.

"What?" I ask. Why is this funny? I think he's being insulting, but I'm not entirely sure how.

"When Alex was married to my mother, in the last couple years of their marriage I thought he was fooling around with his secretary." Greg explained, "I couldn't prove it, nor did I really have any evidence to support my theory, but it seems to have worked out."

"My mother would not fool around with a married man. And my father has never mentioned you, or another marriage. Please tell me what's going on." I say, losing control of my patience.

"I'm sorry," Greg said, "I just thought we should eat first. I don't know. I guess I thought it would make it easier for me. I told Nick last year, but he's the only person I've..." Greg trailed off, then finished, "I didn't think of how it must have been for you to just sit there waiting. I'm sorry."

"It's ok." I assured him, "You didn't exactly plan for this."

Greg smiled briefly at me, then began to tell his side of the story.

***

"My mother's name was Lydia. She married Alex Sanders and then I was born. I grew up in San Francisco. We lived a happy, normal life as a family. We did normal family stuff. Alex used to take me sailing. We had picnics. They would ground me when I did stupid stuff like skip school or stay out too late. It was normal.

"Then when I was 14 my mom got sick-cancer. The doctors tried really hard to save her. She took lots of pills and did chemo and stuff but nothing was working. Two years later her kidneys failed. She needed a new one so they tested me to see if I was compatible. But when they did that they found out that I couldn't be the child of Alex Sanders. I couldn't have gotten the blood type I have from the combination of Lydia's and Alex's DNA.

"The doctors assumed he already knew; that I was her child from a previous marriage or a sperm donor or something. One of them said something to him about it in passing. Alex was shocked and then he became furious. He couldn't take his anger out on Lydia so he beat the shit out of me in waiting room at the hospital before security arrived and took him away.

"I didn't know why he attacked me. The nurse who cleaned me up and bandaged me explained that he wasn't my father. I was crying as I tried to tell her that it wasn't my fault and that I didn't know and that if she could just tell him that then he would love me again. I was kind of stupid, really.

"I wasn't healthy enough anymore to donate a kidney to my mom right away. By the time they doctors would let me it was too late for her. Before she died she told me that she was sorry for what happened. She had a one-night affair with a marine in their first year of marriage, but she had thought that I was Alex's son. What was one night compared with a year, right?

"My mother's father, Papa Olaf, took me in. He went to my house to pick up all my stuff and had it transported to his place in New York. I stayed at the hospital for the few remaining days my mom had left. When she died I stayed at his hotel room with him. After the funeral I moved to New York to live with him till college.

"Alex didn't come to the funeral. I haven't seen him or heard from him since that night at the hospital.

"He probably had you tested when you were born, just to make sure that you were his. As for naming you "˜Alexandra,' well, it was probably to lay his claim on you even further-Alexander, Alexandra.

"So, that's it. I'm not sure what else to tell you. I'm not your brother, but, you can stay here for a couple of days if you'd like."

I don't say anything in response.

***

Shortly after Greg finishes telling me his story the front door opens and Nick comes in. After taking off his shoes and coat he walks into the living room and asks, "Did you guys need some more time? I could go out back."

"I think it's ok." Greg replies, "Alex?"

"Yeah, yeah it's ok." I say.

"Did you want some pizza?" Greg asks as Nick reaches down for a slice before sitting in a chair that matches Greg's.

"So Alex," Greg asks me, "what did you want to do now? I could put you on a bus back home or you could stay here for a bit. Nick and I could show you Vegas, since you came all the way down here. Or should you be getting back to school or something?"

"I don't know" I respond. Greg seems genuinely concerned about me, but I'm just too confused to try to make a decision right now. What he told me...it doesn't fit in to anything I know of the dad I have. Tears start streaming down my cheeks as I remember all the good times we've had together. The father"“daughter things we've done. Like the time I was 10 and he took me trail riding. Or the times he took me to see figure skating. Or when I had to have my appendix out and he brought me a stuffed bear. I still have that bear sitting on my bed at home.

But, Greg must have memories like this too. He said that they had done normal family stuff. That dad had taken him sailing. How could he have turned on Greg like that just because he wasn't biologically his son?

"Alexandra, it's ok," Greg says gently as he leans forward and places his hand on my knee, "He's not a bad man. He just got hurt and acted out. After he just probably didn't know how to handle it, so he started denying that the whole thing ever really happened. It doesn't make him a bad father to you. It doesn't make you guilty of anything for loving him."

At the sound of his words I really cry. I can't help it; I just start sobbing. Greg moves from the chair to the couch and pulls me into his arms. Nick jumps out of his chair, goes over to the bookshelf and brings back the box of tissues that had been on one of the shelves. He then goes to the kitchen and brings me back a glass of water.

I sob into Greg's shirt as he holds me. When I start to slow down he reaches for the tissues and hands me one.

"Better?" Greg asks.

"What do I say to him now?" I implore.

"Well, you should tell him truth. Give him a chance to tell you his side."

"What if that doesn't work? What if he doesn't want me now that I know?"

"You can always come back here." Nick says and Greg nods his assent, "We won't leave you with no place to go. Now, I think we'll all feel better after some sleep. I'll go make up the guestroom."

"I don't think he'll kick you out Alex," Greg says after Nick leaves the room, "You're the child he always wanted. The one he had to work so hard to get. He won't just toss you aside."

The pain I can see in his eyes makes it so I can almost hear the unspoken words: "like he did me."

We get up off the couch and Greg goes to the hallway to pick up my book bag before leading me to the guestroom. As I lay down on the fresh sheets Nick had put on the bed I feel more exhausted than I ever have in my life. I quickly fall asleep.

***

As I slowly gather consciousness I remember the strange circumstances that made it so I'm waking up in a strange bed. It's Greg's guestroom. The green wallpaper and the wood borders are nice. It's stylish, but clearly without a woman's touch. There aren't any frilly things or anything with lace, but it's still welcoming.

"Come in" I say to the quiet knock on the door.

Greg pokes his head in, "Good morning, er...afternoon. Breakfast is ready if you want some. I made pancakes."

"I'll be right there." I respond. As the door closes again I get out of bed, pull some spare clothes out of my bag and change. Then I go out to the kitchen. The pancakes smell wonderful.

Nick, Greg and I sit down to breakfast together. Not much is said-everyone is feeling a little awkward about yesterday, I guess. When the pancakes are gone Nick jumps up to put the dishes in the dishwasher. Greg turns to me and asks, "So Alex, what would you like to do today?"

"I think I'd like to stay here for a day or two, if it's alright. I've never been to Vegas before and since I'm already down here..." I trail off, hoping he'll take over.

"Sure. I'll show you around. We can catch a Rockettes show or something; get you some cheesy souvenirs."

"Greg!" Nick yells from the kitchen, "look at the news on the tv."

I didn't notice before, but the television had been on silently in the living room during breakfast. Nick had a clear view of it from over the kitchen counter, but Greg and I weren't facing it. We turn to it simultaneously and see my latest school picture staring back at me with an Amber Alert warning. Greg rushes over to the remote on the coffee table and turns on the volume: "...fourteen year old Alexandra Sanders went missing Saturday morning from her home in San Francisco. Her parents, Alexander and Isabel Sanders arrived home early from a business trip to discover that their daughter was missing. Authorities have been searching the area and kidnapping has not been ruled out..."

"Oh shit!" Greg and I say at the same time.

"You have to call your dad right now." Greg says to me, going over to the portable phone, removing it from his cradle and bringing it over to me.

"I can't call him. He's going to kill me. Oh God is he ever going to kill me!" I exclaim.

"That doesn't matter right now. You have to call him so he'll call off the police and get your picture off the news." Greg responds while thrusting the phone at me.

"Ok." I warily agree. My hands shake as I dial the numbers. With each ring of the phone my heart pounds louder. I'm so scared of what he's going to do; what he's going to say.

"Hello." Says my dad at the other end of the phone.

"Dad, it's me, Alex." I say, my voice small and frightened.

"Alex! Thank God! Where are you honey? Are you ok? What happened?"

"I'm fine. Really. Um...I'm in Vegas."

"Vegas! Why are you in Vegas?" His voice has gotten louder, angrier. He's not going to like this any way I present it.

"I'm with Greg. You know, the guy who isn't your son." I cringe. That even sounded awful to me. Greg and I share a look-it clearly sounded awful to him too.

"WHAT!?!" Dad screams, "THAT SON OF A BITCH! KIDNAPPING MY ONLY CHILD! Just hang on sweetie and we'll get you out of there!" He turns from the phone and starts speaking to other people. I can't hear exactly what he's saying, but it's clear he's telling them that Greg kidnapped me.

"No, Dad, no! He didn't kidnap me. Dad! Listen to me. He didn't kidnap me! DAD!"

"We'll come right down there sweetie. Just you hang on. Be a good girl now and everything will be ok. I've got to go now. I love you. I'll see you soon."

"Wait Dad! Don't hang up. You need to listen to me. Dad! He didn't kidnap me..." My words die when I realize that my Dad already hung up on me.

Greg and Nick are standing right in front of me, looking shocked.

"He didn't listen to you, did he?" Greg asks.

"I tried. I tried, I really did. He wouldn't listen. He's coming down here and..."

"Fuck." Greg interrupts, then turns to Nick, "What do we do now?"

"I think we should call Grissom." Nick says. He takes the phone from my hand and punches in a few numbers. He waits a moment for the person at the other end to pick up, then says, "Grissom, we've got a problem."

***

The waiting is intolerable. The anxious feeling in my stomach has never been this bad before. My dad should be here any minute, provided he found out where Greg lives. But at the same time he might not be here for hours. And it's already been hours since that phone call. It feels like it's been days.

The four of us are sitting on the porch so we can see when my dad pulls up. After Nick called Grissom the older man came over with a statement for me to sign. It declares that Greg didn't kidnap me, that I chose to come down here on my own and that I wasn't signing it because they told me to. He said that it should help convince the SFPD that I wasn't kidnapped and so we wouldn't have problems with the "˜crime scene' being out of state. Provided it all goes well, of course. But just in case I have a copy of the statement in my book bag.

Greg looks like he's going to be sick. Actually, he threw up in the bathroom a couple hours ago, but he still looks like he's going to be sick. Every time a car turns on to the street it's like he has a panic attack and can't really breathe and his eyes go really wide.

I feel so awful that I've put him through this. And for what? I was so selfish over my Nancy Drew-like desire to solve a mystery that I never stopped to consider how it would affect the people involved. Every time Greg's breath hitches in his throat I want to cry out that I'm so sorry. But I've already apologized and he keeps telling me that he is fine and it's no big deal. Liar. Even I'm a better liar than that.

And so we wait. Wait till the seconds feel like they're sludging past and our whole lives feel heavy with the act of simply waiting. We wait, and I wish that he'd just get here so it could be over and at the same time I wish that he would never, ever arrive because just intolerably waiting here is so much better than what's going to happen when he finally finds us.

I notice the car pull up more from Greg's reaction then from the sounds of the wheels crunching the pavement and the blissful silence that occurs after an engine has been turned off. He didn't react the way he had to cars driving by, when he looked like a terrified child who couldn't breathe. After a split-second of shock that the waiting was finally over his resolve hardened into that of a confident adult. This time, Greg was facing Alexander Sanders on his terms and on his turf.

Greg, Nick, Grissom and I stand up, but only Greg walks the three steps down from the porch to confront my father. I feel like I should be down there with him, but at the same time I sense that only Greg can do this and that it would be unforgivable of me to interfere now.

"Hello Alex." Greg says calmly as my dad gets out of the car.

"What the hell have you done with my daughter?" Alex barks.

"She's right over there," Greg says as he points to me. I wave a little at my dad, but remain silent. "She came to visit me. She had some unanswered questions."

"If you've harmed a single hair on her head I'll kill you, I swear to God!" Alex yells, shoving a pointed finger at Greg, who remained calm.

"She's fine; stop overreacting. She's the one who came to visit me. I wouldn't hurt her. I even put her up for the night and fed her pizza."

"And told her lies, no doubt. You were always such a liar and a phony and a fake."

"At least I told her what happened." Greg counters.

"Alex, we're leaving." Dad yells at me, decidedly ignoring Greg's last comment.

"Dad, I came down here on my own. Greg's been really nice to me, I don't want to leave like this." I come down the steps now, with my book bag in hand knowing that I probably will end up leaving like this. Nick comes down too.

"Get in the car young lady, right now, or you can walk back to San Francisco!"

I turn to Nick, give him a hug and whisper "thank you." Then I walk over to Greg and give him a big hug, which he returns in like kind. We don't say anything. We've said everything already.

Grissom, who remained on the porch and out of the conversation till now, suddenly interjects, "Mr. Sanders, whatever happened to the kidnapping charges you wanted to lay against Greg?"

"The police refused to come. The fools said that Alex's reaction wasn't consistent with kidnapping. I had to drive all the way down here on my own because the legal system, which runs on my tax dollars, refused to help me in my time of need." He turns back to Greg, who is standing with his arm around me, "I'll be nice to you, boy and let this one go, but if you ever try to take my family away from me again I won't hesitate to..."

"Alex," Greg interrupts as he goes over to Nick and puts his arm around the older man's waist, "I don't need you or your family. I've got my own family right here. But if Alexandra ever wants to spend time with us again she's more than welcome." He smiles at me as he finishes.

My dad's response to this is to get in the driver's side of the car and slam the door. He pulls on his seatbelt, starts the engine and sits there impatiently staring at me while drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. I move around to the passenger side and as I open the door I call out, "Thanks for everything Grissom and Nick. Thanks a ton Greg!"

I get into the car, tossing my book bag in the back. I'm still pulling my seatbelt on as my dad slams the gears into reverse and peals out of Greg's driveway. I turn around to look at them one more time and see Grissom is cleaning his glasses while Nick and Greg stand with their arms around the others waist, waving goodbye.

With that scene of love and caring to fortify me, I know that I'll be ok. Dad came to get me, he hasn't thrown me out of the car or anything and we will be ok in time. He's still my father and I do love him. He's done some bad things in the past but now the only person it's affecting is himself.

After sitting next to him for about an hour I figure he's had long enough to cool down. I turn to him and ask, "So Dad, what's your side of the story?"

The End.

***