Sara Sidle: [Sara and Grissom sit facing each other. The light from the setting sun filters through the darkening room] It's funny... the things that you remember and the things that you don't, you know. There was a smell of iron in the air. Cast-off on the bedroom wall. There was this young cop puking his guts. I remember the woman who took me to foster care. I can't remember her name, which is strange, you know, 'cause I couldn't let go of her hand.
Grissom: Well... the mind has its filters.
Sara Sidle: I do remember the looks. I became the girl whose father was stabbed to death. Do you think there's a murder gene?
Grissom: I don't believe that genes are a predictor of violent behavior.
Sara Sidle: You wouldn't know that in my house. The fights, the yelling, the trips to the hospital. I thought it was the way that everybody lived. When my mother killed my father, I found out that it wasn't.
[Sara starts to cry. Grissom reaches out and holds her hand]
