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Jim grimly gathers Ziploc bags from his kitchen. Sandburg left a week ago, and Jim’s accepted that he won’t be coming back. The little bastard.
He steels himself and steps into the room where Blair last slept, in this messy bed. Emotionlessly, his crime scene mask firmly in place, he cuts the sheets up and places pieces into gallon-sized bags. He zips in Blair’s scent; tries to shut Blair out of his thoughts.
If he needs to, he’ll use these sheets, to stop sensory spikes from incapacitating him.
Toothbrush, hairbrush, voice on the answering machine.
All criminals leave trace evidence.