Sequel to Almost Honest, and the second part of the Paper Trails series. Like its prequel, there are numerous mentions of episode 3x01, Lost Son. Timeline is about a year after the events of AH, and there are six pieces to this part of the story. Nothing recognizable belongs to me.

Letters left a paper trail. A connection. And connections had a way of making everything just a little more complicated.
-from: Almost Honest
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It was a grey day in early September, the promise of rain imminent on the horizon. Throughout the morning, the low rumble of thunder had echoed in the distance, seemingly in no hurry to close in over the city and bring a temporary relief to the already oppressive heat. It was only just past noon, and the possibility of several more hours without that relief was not something Calleigh Duquesne was looking forward to.

It was with a contented sigh that she pushed open her front door, feeling the cool air hit her still-flushed face. She didn't often drive all the way home just for lunch, but on a day like today, a sandwich in the lazy comfort of her own home was far preferable to hitting a drive-thru with the guys.

Not that there was anything wrong with the guys; quite the contrary. Delko had always been one of her closest friends, Cooper was fun to tease, and Wolfe…well, Wolfe was growing on her. But sometimes it was nice to get away for a little alone time, especially this time of year…

As she padded into the kitchen, Calleigh set her keys and the day's mail down on the counter, as her eyes strayed immediately to the calendar on the refrigerator. For the past couple of years, September had been a rough month; it was just a month with so many attached memories, so many attached regrets.

It was a transition month - it was the month in which Calleigh's words, her deepest feelings, had shifted from temporarily unvoiced to forever unspoken.

She could still remember the last conversation she'd ever had with him. If only she'd known it'd be their last…

Calleigh shook her head, willing those thoughts away. It had been three years ago; there was nothing now that could be done about it. It was past time to move on, to let go, to…try and forget.

Letting out a breath, Calleigh busied herself with her mail. Quickly she thumbed through it, nothing more than the usual meeting her eyes. Electric bill, junk mail, bank statement -- Calleigh grimaced; she liked her mail tidy, and to her dismay, stuck to her bank statement was another envelope. By what, she didn't know; but it did take a fair bit of tugging to unstick the two envelopes without ripping either.

The bank statement was fine; it was the other letter that had Calleigh frowning. Her name was scribbled carelessly on the front of it; the stamp placed lopsidedly in the top right corner. There was no return address, Calleigh realized with a raised eyebrow. The only possible identification, aside from the sticky handprints, was the postmark - a small town somewhere in Minnesota.

The untidy scrawl on the envelope was vaguely familiar, but for the life of her, Calleigh could not imagine who it could be.

Her curiosity grew as she made herself a sandwich. Any explanation that reached her mind seemed to contradict itself. If it were a business letter, then obviously it wouldn't be sticky, nor would the address be scrawled so carelessly on the front of it. If it were a letter from a friend, it would've had a return address on it.

It could always be blackmail, or a threat from a released convict, but somehow, Calleigh knew that wasn't the case. She knew that the letter wasn't ill-intentioned, despite whatever logic might tell her.

Sandwich made, she poured herself a glass of sweet tea and sat down at the counter, again taking the envelope in her hands. There was just something about the penmanship that called out to her; something about the curvature of the capital s in her street name; something about the slight tilt of the 4 in the zip code.

She'd seen this writing style before.

And as there was nothing helpful on the front of the envelope, the only way to find out where it'd come from was to open it.

Very carefully, Calleigh peeled the envelope open. Maybe the sender hadn't been too careful with it, but for some reason, Calleigh couldn't bear to damage it at all. There was a slight shake in her hands as she gingerly lifted out the folded letter, noticing that it too was rather sticky in spots.

She unfolded the letter, revealing a page more of that inexplicably familiar writing. With one hand, she lifted her glass to her lips. It was then that her eyes strayed to the bottom of that letter, to the signature. Stunned, it was all Calleigh could do not to choke on her sweet tea.

All those familiar letters, the penmanship that she knew all too well, every unanswered question prompted by the sloppy envelope - it all seemed to converge at the end in one, all too familiar name.

"You are going crazy," Calleigh murmured slowly to herself. She shook her head and cast the letter aside for the moment, as though convinced it would disappear, like a figment of her imagination. She had been working quite a few late nights lately; she was sleep-deprived. That had to be it. There was just no other explanation as to why she had just opened a letter from a man who'd died three years ago.

It just didn't make sense.

Unnerved, Calleigh turned her focus to opening the rest of her mail and eating her sandwich. Her bank statement; now that was nothing out of the ordinary. Scrupulously she had kept track of her spending, and the numbers were just as she'd expected them to be. Her electric bill, however, wasn't exactly what she'd expected. To her dismay, she realized that her bill had gone up yet again.

It was irritating, but not completely irrational. No, irrational was currently on her countertop, just a few inches to her right. With wary eyes she cast a glance toward the letter before reaching almost savagely for the final piece of mail, some junk mail about a sale at a local car dealership. It was the type of thing Calleigh would normally toss to the garbage without reading, but today she read through it from top to bottom.

But there was only so long that she could contemplate the absurdity of getting a free gas card for buying a brand new car. Sure, gas was expensive, but it was still cheaper than buying a whole car. Calleigh hated these little pieces of junk mail, but today, she would only be too happy to have a thousand more of them, just for the distraction.

It wasn't until her sandwich was gone and her glass half-empty before she made herself reach out once more for that letter. She picked it up slowly, almost as though afraid it would burn her.

Her hands trembled slightly as she lowered her eyes to the paper, biting her lip in both anticipation and fear. What could this mean? How could this be possible? The questions poured into Calleigh's mind like water into a bowl, threatening to overflow.

It was with a deep breath and a pounding heart that she, ever so slowly, began to read.

Calleigh,

I'd try to be polite and ask how you were, but I figure it's just a waste of space and time, since you'll never read this letter anyway. A question expects an answer, and I don't like unanswered questions. So I just won't ask.

But I can wonder, though, and that I do. A lot. Not a day goes by that I don't wonder how you're doing. If you're still the world-famous Bullet Girl; if you're still at CSI; if you're still the same, beautiful woman I remember you to be. I wonder if you've stopped spending so damn much time in that lab, because there's more than just work in life.

I wonder if you've met anybody special. Some days, though it kills me to think it, I imagine you happy and in love, maybe married to some rich stock broker, or to someone who shares your insane love of guns, or even to, I don't know…Delko. He always did have that crush on you. And now that I'm being honest, I can finally say it annoyed the hell outta me.

Calleigh gave a smile, though still she was skeptical. The writing was definitely Tim's, and the words were definitely what she'd wished one day to hear from Tim himself, but never really expected to hear. Only, there remained the one nagging doubt penetrating her mind.

How was this possible? Tim died three years ago. He was shot in the chest. He bled out. Alexx performed the autopsy. And then…the funeral. Calleigh could still see that day so clearly in her mind, as though it were yesterday. She remembered the sheer strength it took to hold her tears at bay; to be the one strong pillar of their splintered team, should Eric or Horatio need something to hold on to.

She had examined his gun herself. She had written the report; she had been the bearer of bad news. She had been the one to make the call of weapon malfunction, rather than poor gun maintenance. Tim didn't deserve to be remembered as the cop who didn't clean his gun, twice.

Remembrance. In Calleigh's mind, it was a word used solely with regard to one's death. Death, not life.

Timothy Speedle had died.

And yet, Calleigh held in her hand the very words of that man; words which had arrived in an envelope that had been postmarked only two days before.

The only thing to Calleigh that made sense at the moment was to read on.

And so she did.

I saw something from the corner of my eye today. It was a flash of long blonde hair, so like yours. For a second, I kind of hoped it might be you. Crazy, yeah. I know. What would you possibly be doing up here in the middle of nowhere? Even I can't stand it here, but I keep telling myself it's not so much the cold air and the mountains that I hate, but the fact that you're not here with me.

God, if you were actually getting these letters, I imagine you'd be quite sick of reading the same things over and over again. But then again, you always did like predictability, so maybe it wouldn't be so tedious after all. I know writing them never gets old. All the letters in the world could only scratch the surface of what I've always felt for you.

Now, the sappiness - that does get to me. Count yourself special; there's nobody else I'd pour my heart out to like this. But then again, it does say something, the fact that I can only do it because I know you'll never read these letters. Yes, it's cowardly, but at this point, there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. It's not like I can waltz back into your life and just tell you I love you, though you've no idea how much I want to.

It was something at which I was once a pro - leaving. People and places get old. Staying in one place for too long was never a good thing to me. I've done it all before - packing up and leaving friends, family, mentors, and homes behind. But in being forced to leave Miami, I had to leave something I'd never had to leave before. Suffice it to say I grew attached to you, Calleigh. Let's face it; you're beautiful, you're smart, you're funny. You're pretty much the perfect woman. Of course I grew attached to you. I think I started falling in love with you the very first day I met you.

And then, there was the last day I ever saw you. You know, the day I pissed you off by stealing your crime light. The day I was going to tell you how I felt, but then I chickened out. And the day I supposedly died. Obviously I didn't. But sometimes I wish I had. Because other than being with you, dying would be the only way to make this pain go away.

I thought it'd be easy, Cal. It always has before. But there's just something about you that's different. Something about you that keeps you on my mind day and night. You don't know how badly I miss you.

I'm so sorry I could never give you the truth. About everything. You deserved that much. You didn't deserve to be lied to.

I don't want to close this just yet - I could write to you all night. It's the only way I feel connected to you. But it's getting late, and I'm gonna have a hell of a hangover in the morning as it is. I promise you, it's not the tequila talking. I think all the other letters I've written to you would be proof enough of that.

I love you Calleigh. I love you, and I wish more than anything that you could know that.

-Tim

It was with shaking hands that Calleigh laid the letter back on the countertop. Those same, shaking hands lifted themselves to Calleigh's temples, rubbing them in circles before raking through her hair in…in what, exactly? Frustration? Confusion? Anger? She had no idea what she was feeling.

But there was one feeling that easily made its way to the top of that stormy sea of emotion: an intense feeling of longing. A longing to hear his voice. A longing to feel his arms around her, even though they'd only exchanged accidental touches in the past. A longing to feel his lips on hers, even though she had no reason to believe his kiss would be any different than any other.

Above all, Calleigh longed to see him again.

But it was impossible! Just as impossible as receiving a letter from him, just as impossible as the idea that he was still alive somewhere.

She'd seen the blood at the scene. She'd seen the casings, the bullets. She'd seen the science.

She'd seen his casket lowered into the ground.

She'd been to his grave numerous times; she'd seen the pristine letters carved into the marble, spelling out his name.

Calleigh knew he was dead. It was irrational; impossible.

It was with that firm thought that, after setting her plate and glass in the sink to deal with later, she grabbed her keys and marched out of the kitchen, ready to head back to work.

But as the clouds above finally broke, sending a cascade of rain toward the ground, Calleigh found herself slipping back into the kitchen, under the pretense of making sure she'd turned the lights off. And this time, on the way out, she paused long enough to tenderly slip the single piece of paper into her purse.

Impossible or not, it felt nice to have a part of him with her.