This is a story I started ages back, but never finished for a myriad of reasons. It's back, though, and better'n ever, I should think. Written in response to the sudden lack of Munch observed in SVU back during the 2006-2007 season, which marked the beginning of Much-lite SVU episodes which continue to this day.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Law and Order SVU or any of the characters wherein. Those are property of Dick Wolf, Wolf Films, and NBC. If they were property of me, I wouldn't be writing fanfiction for it...or would I? Eh, point is I own Haley Owens. Without further ado, I present:

I Don't Believe In Coincedences

by

GreenEyesStaring


"Put down the gun,"

Unsurprisingly, the command did little good. The armed man stood his ground, his exterior unfathomably cool: his feet were apart in a dominating power stance, gun aimed squarely at the victim with one perfectly controlled hand, and his breathing a steady rhythm. The only hint of an abnormality rested in his glistening blue eyes. They held the glimmer of angry desperation within their pupils, the hopelessness of a trapped animal; a madman hid amidst their anxious glint.

And before them, stood a sixteen-year-old girl, and John Munch. The latter of the pair was cursing. He was not entirely sure why he was cursing, it had never done anything to alleviate the stress of being held at gunpoint before, so Munch had no reason to refer to it now, be he did so anyway. He supposed it was human nature – there really was very little good one could see in a hostage situation. The way he looked at it, if he wasn't cursing, his mind was racing. In the dimly-lit chamber, Munch assessed the situation as well as he could.

The armed man was about three feet away from the girl, the case's official victim, and seven feet away from him, the case's unintended victim. He looked at the barrel of the gun and cursed once more. His gun. He'd been so stupid…what kind of New Yorker was that kind of careless? The silver barrel hovered a little before the madman's extended hand, aimed at the girl. Munch stood frozen in place, alternating his vision from the gun to the girl's back. She was not moving (hell, Munch doubted if she was even breathing), because she knew as well as Munch that her next step could be her last.

Munch cleared his throat, and spoke again in the most commanding tones he could muster without shouting, "I said put down the gun."

"You've seen too much," the man stated. His even tone scared Munch far more than a wild, unstable one would have. Without his glasses, Munch couldn't see too well into the distance, but when the white shimmers of the man's eyes turned toward him, Munch was aware that the man was facing him, and he felt something very cold drop into the pit of his stomach. "There's no way I'd be stupid enough to let you out of here."

"At least let the girl go," Munch pleaded, fighting the alarm rising in his throat. He looked ahead, to where the victim, Haley Owens, was standing, just four feet in front of him. She stood in a stance very much like Munch's: arms raised, back straight, and legs slightly bent at the knees. "Let her go. She won't talk; I swear."

"They all talk," the man replied casually. Munch could not detect the hysterical whine very often appreciated in the voice of a person aiming a gun. This guy was calm, as if he did this so often, it had lost its edge. Munch was a cop, and he still couldn't draw a gun on someone without feeling an observable rush. "So you have to do away with them before they do get a chance to blab." He jammed the gun in the girl's direction. "And you're a gentleman, Detective, right?"

Munch calculated his answer, having no idea where the question was leading. He slowly nodded. "I was last time I checked."

"Good, good, then you agree with me on my ladies first policy," he said, nodding at this statement as if the answer were obvious. "So, in the spirit of chivalry, state your last words."

Haley let out a deep, ragged breath as the gun came to find itself two inches from her forehead. Slowly, knowing that her life was up anyway, she turned to face Munch, her eyes hiding fear. For having a gun aimed at her head, she seemed unreasonably calm. Swallowing hard, she blinked a single tear from her eye and quickly sniffed defiantly against the falling drop. She focused on Munch's eyes, one of which was turning blue around the socket from being punched, and she beamed at him through her cracked and bloodied lips. With a very nervous, bubbly chuckle, she offered him two thumbs up. "Thanks for the awesome company. I'm really glad I got to spend my last day with someone so brilliant. Now I'm sure, Detective, this was no damn coincidence."

At the sight of her smiling face and the tear running down Haley's battered cheek, Munch's heart split into several different pieces. Upon hearing her final words, hearing them wasted on the situation, his stomach tightened into a knot. Munch's nerves were weak, ravaged from the long, long hours since this ordeal had begun, and he had very little emotional strength left; he sure as hell did not have the strength left to deal with watching an innocent sixteen-year-old get shot in the head right before his eyes. Chocking back a fist-sized lump of tears and vomit, Munch took a step forward, hands still raised at his sides, and gave the man another command,

"Let her go. You can have me, but you have to let her go."

The man gave a very wide smile. Munch heard the clinking of metal as the man tightened his grip around the gun. A deep chuckle rumbled through the room. "I thought you said you were a gentleman, Detective Munch. Hmph, no such thing, I see. But there's no need to bargain. I promise you'll both get your turn at the barrel. However, if you're so eager to see Nothingness, I think that can be arranged…" The silver gun flashed suddenly, changing from Haley's forehead to Munch. He had just enough time to realize he'd dug his own grave before he heard the horrible, gripping sound of the gun being fired.

Contrary to literature, film, and television, time did not freeze for John Munch as the bullet sailed from the barrel toward his chest. There was no moment of revelation when he saw excerpts from his childhood and was suddenly swamped by the realization of his life's meaning. Nothing like that at all. Munch heard the sound of the shot, and closed his eyes to brace himself for the pain. He heard the distinctive shouts of Haley, the man, the scurry of footsteps; all of it happened within the span of seconds. And they felt like seconds.

"Detective!"

He heard a grunt of pain as something heavy slammed against him. Against his chest, to be exact. He felt something rip into his shoulder. He was thrown back by the force of impact, his chest feeling heavy, weighed down; his eyes remained closed and dared not look up into what was sure to be Haley's horrified face. He was a coward, a damn big coward. He'd failed her, he'd failed her, he'd failed her. And even as he fell into a swimming blackness, he couldn't bear to look at her for fear of his face betraying what fate awaited her. He should have kept his mouth shut, protected her. Now he was leaving her vulnerable. Munch felt contact with the cold floor, felt his already injured head hit the floor. And he passed out.

John Munch was having a bad day.

In all honesty, Munch's day had started off pretty well. He had woken up that morning after a full night's sleep, which was hard to do on a Detective's schedule. He had vacated his bed (however lonely it was) with an unusual spring in his step. He'd showered, shaved, and dressed to the sound of CNN echoing throughout the apartment, and was very pleased, how by the end of an hour, no one had said anything utterly stupid. Munch had even been aware (and he felt shamefully vain about this) of how cooperative his hair had been with the direction of the brush this morning. Even his breakfast of toast, an egg, and half a grapefruit had tasted better than usual, which was big thing to say about the toast, which his ancient toaster had recently taken to burning into inedible clumps. As he'd thrown on his coat and capped his head with his signature hat, Much sprung lightly from his apartment and made his way to the precinct.

Munch had made such good time from his home to the precinct, that he had deviated from his usual course and ducked into a small convenience store to buy a cup of coffee and a newspaper. As he'd waited in line to pay for his morning drink, he'd scanned the paper's headlines and was pleasantly surprised to see that there was nothing too horrible going on in the world this morning. Despite knowing that the headlines were never anything to base his day off of, Munch allowed the morning's good news to lift his spirits even higher. He didn't think the morning could get any better until the cashier at the store made a mistake ringing up his order, and gave him a free doughnut for his troubles. Though he would have preferred a Krispy Kreme over a generic 24-Hour Mart doughnut, he took the sweet pastry anyway and headed for the office. By the time he had physically entered the precinct and sat down at his desk (the doughnut hadn't survived the three-minute walk from the mart to the precinct), Detective John Munch of Manhattan's Special Victims Unit was sure today was going to be a good day. And after Olivia had showed up with a large box of actual Krispy Kremes, Munch was convinced that nothing, not a thing at all, could go wrong today.

An amateur mistake.

The call came in at about ten-thirty that slow, November morning, interrupting the squad's game of wastebasket-ball. Circumstances being what they were, Munch found himself in the lead, tied with Elliot, which hadn't happened for a good amount of games. Olivia was close behind them, and Fin, oddly enough, was trailing the leaders by five points, and Olivia by three. Said detective took another shot at the wastebasket from his seat, as defined by the rules, and made a clean basket. He gave a whoop of delight, and preformed the obligatory victory spin in his desk chair.

"Now, don't get too cocky, Fin," Elliot warned with a smirk as he smashed up more paper projectiles. "Allow me to remind you that you're still losing."

"Yes, thank you," Fin replied in deadpan. He shot both Munch and Elliot a sour glance, "How in the hell am I losing to two white boys? No, never mind that, how in the hell am I losing to John?" Ignoring Munch's snort of disdain, Fin picked up a crumpled paper ball, and lightly tossed it across his desk, across Munch's, and into the older detective's lap. "Someone's been practicing at home I see. You've got a nice arm today."

Munch picked up the paper and smiled over the rim of his glasses at his partner. "You, on the other hand, don't. So, don't waste your good shots, Fin. You're going to need all of them if you plan on catching up with Olivia, let alone surpass me." He chucked the paper ball back at Fin's desk, where it landed in Fin's open cup of coffee. The Black detective fished the wad out of his coffee, threw it into another wastebasket, and gave Munch a mean smirk reminiscent of the kind little kids give each other when they realize someone else has the upper hand.

Tapping the end of her pen to the desktop, Olivia surveyed the points on the sheet of paper in front of her and sighed. "Alright, Fin, you made that basket, which means you cleared the ten-point mark, so you're still in the game. We have Elliot and John at fourteen, I'm holding twelve, and you're at ten. I don't think you're winning this one, buddy." She looked up from her tally marks at Fin, who seemed to be deep in thought about his wrist, which he kept flexing back and forth. "John, you're up. If you make this shot, you'll be in the lead, if you miss, of course, Elliot one-up's you and becomes the leader."

Determined, and in very high spirits about possibly winning the game for the first time since mid-July, Munch crumpled up a sheet of the regulation yellow writing pad paper into a compact ball. He reclined in his desk chair, tossing the ball lightly up and down in his hand for confidence, and took aim. His target, the wastepaper basket, was sitting atop Olivia's desk, cold and unmoving, daring him to take a chance. He raised the paper ball, measuring the distance carefully; he didn't usually do this, measure the distance, it had never helped him before, but today his methods were being rather productive, so he banked on them this one time. He drew his hand back as he got ready to shoot and felt nervous. A phone rang somewhere off the left of the large room, but Munch fought against its persistent, irritating sound and kept his well-honed focus on the basket across the smile isle. Something inside him told Munch the shot wasn't quite ready to be made yet. It needed a little more time to…stew. To just sit there and think about being a little paper ball whose sole purpose was to land in the wastebasket across the way. Just a little longer…one…two…two and half…bending the wrist…almost ready…taking it slightly forward…and…

"People!"

Dammit! Munch had flicked his wrist at the same time that Cragen had come out of his office with the startling call-to-arms. Startled to hear the booming voice in the otherwise quiet room, Munch's concentration tore apart and his focus shattered. His whole body jerked at the unexpected call and his meticulously-aimed ball veered to the left, completely missing the wastebasket and hitting Olivia in the face before bouncing into her lap, and subsequently, the floor. Damn. Growling inwardly, Munch lifted his eyes from the paper ball on the floor, and gave his full attention to Cragen. He found himself thinking that what Cragen had to say had better be very important, or the Captain was going to have to pay for making Munch miss his shot. And the payment would be evil, cruel; stolen licorice and misplaced trinkets of sentimental value made their way to the top of Munch's revenge list.

"People, we've got a case."

At the sound of a case, at the sound of their jobs, at the sound of their very life's purpose, the four detectives started to move. Olivia capped her score-keeping pen and put the scoreboard away in her desk drawer, then straightened up to hear what Cragen had to say. Fin quickly returned the wastebaskets to their original places, and spun in a neat half-circle so that he could make eye-contact with his good Captain. Elliot stood up, quickly collecting the paper balls on the floor into the office's newly-assigned recycle bin. He held the bin out for Munch to deposit the handful of paper wads he had rescued from the wastebasket. "We'll continue this next time we get a chance; good game, John."

"Gotta make sure someone keeps you on your toes," Munch said, a bit disappointed that his one chance to win at wastebasket ball had been taken away from him in such an ungraceful manner. However, there was no time to be sore about the wins that could have been when there was police work to be done. He sunk back into his chair, now over his lost chance, and paid intent attention at the bald man in charge.

Donald Cragen, captain of the Manhattan Special Victims Unit, stood at the center of the room, arms crossed over his chest. Munch noticed that today Cragen wore a rather haggard expression on his wrinkled face the likes of which the squad was treated to only rarely. "Sorry to ruin your slow morning, but we have a case."

"What's up, Cap'n?" Fin asked, picking up on the Captain's more serious tone. He exchanged glances with his squad mates, realizing that they, too had noticed the stark contrast in Cragen this morning.

"We just got a call from Missing Persons," the captain said. "A sixteen-year-old girl never made it to school this morning. Missing Persons called because they think we may have more information about this than they do."

"Why's that?" Elliot asked, taking a side-long glance at the evidence board in the back of the room. It was empty save for a few traces of paper from some of their recurring cases, the latest of which had gone bone-dry two months prior. Trying to keep the discussion light, Elliot laughed, "The Coney Island Exhibitionist hasn't gone missing, has he?"

Light chuckles went up from his fellow detectives. "That would be a pity," Munch added. "He's their single most popular tourist attraction."

"But God knows he's not their biggest attraction," Olivia quipped with a coy smile. The hoots that followed her comment subsided quickly at the sight of Captain Cragen's un-amused glare. Professionalism set back into the four adults as soon as it had left them and silence once again reigned in the office. Olivia sized up her superior officer with a curious look. "You're scaring me, Captain. What could be this bad?"

"Missing Persons redirected the call to us because the caller, who also happens to be the only witness, said they saw the victim get dragged into a back alley by a man in a red baseball cap."

And those words had been enough. The team simultaneously went rigid in their seats, as the news and its implications sunk thoroughly in. Each detective's reaction was, while unique to them, the exact same thing. Elliot's eyebrows raised in surprise as tensed his arms resting across his chest; Olivia redirected her glance at the floor, jaw set in stout refusal to be visibly bothered by the news; Fin placed his arms behind his head, blinked for stability, and let out a long and tired sigh; and Munch remained still, his chin cradled his hand, expression unreadable behind his dark lenses. No said a thing, at least not immediately.

Cragen felt their anxiety. This case, ongoing now for the better part of a year, had been one of their most taxing jobs in a very long time. In the four months since they had heard anything about it, his squad had needed to have two joint therapy sessions to shake the horrors of the case. It was evident why none of them were eager to go rushing back into it, but life rarely cared about things like that. Since receiving the phone call two minutes prior to the announcement, Cragen had mulled over how he was going to break the news to his squad without giving them too much of a shock; but one didn't exactly have too much time to mull and ponder when the walk from your desk chair to the bullpen was all of thirty seconds long.

"The Mind Games Rapist," Fin said definitely into the heavy silence. A series of shivers went up around the room at the very name.

"Aw, crap," Elliot said. He unwound his arms from his chest and began tapping the desktop in frustration, fear, building tension. "I was hoping we were done with this guy. I was hoping he'd have crawled into some ditch by now and died of a heroin overdose."

"Well, here's to saying he has, and this missing kid is nothing more than that," Cragen said, moving his restless hands from his chest to his pockets. The note of heightening apprehension in Elliot's face worried him, but assumed it was only natural. "I know it's not your favorite case, but we have to go and find her. We are officers of the law, and this is our duty. I want you guys to canvass her school, her neighborhood, and the area in which she was kidnapped to see if we can find a motive for this kidnapping. Missing Person's is currently searching for the girl." He handed out the girl's home address and school name to the detectives. "The witness who saw her get abducted lives at the address on the back of the card. Now get a move on."

Despite their ill feelings, the squad rushed out of the precinct on Cragen's orders and into their respective cars. Though none of them voiced their thoughts on the walk to the garage, it was a mutual four-way understanding that they could not let their past experiences with this case affect how they handled today's operation. Each one of the SVU squad members knew that the victim was the top priority, and even if they were feeling slightly sick from the sudden flashbacks, the implications, and the thoughts of what they were going to encounter, they had no excuse to fail. Their agreements went unspoken, verbal communication between the four unnecessary at this height of their camaraderie. The two cars, both older Ford Taurus models, one black, the other silver, were parked side-by-side in the garage. As they approached, Elliot gave instructions, more out of wanting to break the silence than actually having to tell his team what to do.

"Alright, so John and Fin, take the school. We'll talk to the parents. First ones to finish, go straight to the witness and we'll meet up there, alright?" The three other members of the squad nodded, and with like mind, they climbed into their cars.

With Elliot and Olivia off in one direction questioning legal guardians, Munch and Fin arrived twenty minutes after leaving the precinct before the old doors of St. Joan's private high school. After being badgered by the school's front office aide to slap unflattering nametag stickers to the front of their shirts, the detectives found themselves traversing the wide courtyard between class buildings behind the school's formidable principal. The large woman crossed the threshold of one of the buildings and sped down the hallway on her way to a flight of stairs.

"It's school policy to have the student's parents call in to inform the school that the student will not be coming in that day," the principal, one Mrs. Sykes, said. She spoke the entire way up two flights of wooden stairs; Munch found himself irritated at the sound of her heavy heels on the polished wood. "If no call was received, and the student has not shown up by the end of first period, we call the house to check with the parents. We did not receive a call from Haley Owens' parents this morning – she's such a diligent student, she's never missed a day of class since she's been enrolled here – so when Ms. Owens had not appeared by nine o'clock, we called the parents."

"And then you found out that you had a missing child on your hands," Munch offered. "And promptly informed the police." Munch's posture was all interested business – stern face, head high, black hat off and held politely at his side – perfectly capable of lulling any un-savvy citizen into a misconception that Munch was paying the utmost attention to their every word. But the few who had the pleasure of knowing the lax Jew on closer terms knew that this was nothing but a front; anyone who had ever coexisted with Munch for longer than ninety minutes would have been able to tell, quite easily, just by the tone in Munch's voice, that the detective was not complying with professionalism, but expressing his distaste for over-extended formalities…or something like that.

One such person fortunate enough to know the ins and outs of John Munch's personality was his partner of about eight years now, Odafin Tutuola. Currently at Munch's side, with his hands in his jacket pockets, Fin raised a questioning eyebrow at his partner's impatience. He read the older man perfectly, and knew that Munch was currently trying his damndest to keep himself from telling the woman to stop talking and start speaking. The look on Fin's face suggested that no one had told Fin to bring a sharp tone and short fuse to the canvass. He let the question on the tip of his tongue fade, deciding it better to inquire once the two had some time, and turned his attention back to Mrs. Sykes.

"Does Haley have a lot of friends?" Fin asked, cutting Munch off before the snippy sentence-endings turned into hurtful remarks. "Someone she would tell about any trouble she'd been having."

"Well, from what teachers tell me, she has a lot more acquaintances than she has friends – she's a popular girl, well liked – but she's not very close to a lot of the students. Her closest friend is Caitlin Morgan. I've called her into my office, so if you could follow me, Detectives…" Mrs. Sykes took off once again and turned the corner into a doorway. She pushed the ornate wooden door open and into a small reception area. A young man sat behind a receptionist desk, currently taking care of some business over the phone, and in the chair next to the wall sat a slight blond girl, looking worried. "Caitlin, good morning. These detectives are here to speak to you."

"It's about Haley, isn't it?" the girl asked, rising quickly to attention. "Something's happened to her, I just know it."

Munch gave a sigh, not an annoyed one, but one of concern. At this point, Fin was not very surprised to witness the change in his demeanor. "Haley's been kidnapped. We believe to know who by, but we need to rule anyone else out just be sure. Can you tell us if Haley's been in any kind of trouble lately."

Caitlin shook her head fiercely. "Haley doesn't really have trouble with anyone, sir. She's too relaxed for that kind of thing. Everyone likes her – even some seniors."

"Does anyone like her a little too much?" Fin asked. His young source of information looked confused at his question. "Enough to do something to her?"

"Oh, no. Not at all, really," Caitlin replied. "She holds casual acquaintances with most people. Haley likes hanging around for a laugh and conversation, and she'll help anyone if she can, but for the most part, she keeps her distance. And people generally do the same thing."

"Haley ever accidentally overstep a boundary with someone while joking? Maybe piss someone off and not know it?"

"Naw, Haley never joked too close to the vest," Caitlin said, again shaking her head.

"No one at all comes to mind?" Munch persisted.

"No. Like I said, she's very well-liked," the young girl said. "Even if she had pissed someone off, Haley would realize her mistake immediately and apologize. People are so drawn in by her personality anyway, so they'd be pretty quick to forgive her if she accidentally insulted anyone." She dropped her head in defeat. "This doesn't tell you much, does it? I'm sorry that I can't really help. She's my best friend and there's nothing I can do."

"Hey, chin up," Munch said. "You were more help than you think." He shot a glance at Fin. "At least now we know where to start looking. Thanks, Caitlin."

"You'll find her, right, Detectives?" Caitlin pressed. She was fighting back tears in her brown eyes. "You're gonna get her back from wherever she's gone, right?"

Munch and Fin exchanged a very familiar look. Munch could no longer count the number of times the victim's family and friends had pleaded with them to bring justice to their offended love one. He hated the feeling, but had learned to suppress it far deep down within himself many unfeeling years ago. Looking into Caitlin's watery eyes, Munch nodded curtly and placed his hat back atop his head and gave her the time-tested, victim-approved, practiced answer of all time,

"We'll do everything we can to find Haley, Caitlin."

As he turned and left the room, Munch hoped the girl couldn't tell that his words were cold and hollow.

Breaking bad news is never easy, especially to parents. And even though this case already held the advantage of the parents having the news half-broken, the strain was still very real and very present. Elliot Stabler had gotten used to the feeling in the pit of his stomach, the slight shaking of his hands, and the quiver in his voice as he approached the victim's loved ones. The trick was in keeping his mind blank and just delivering the news, very much like ripping off a band-aid; though, unlike ripping off a band-aid, one had to have more care in the actual process, because if it came off too quickly, the too-quick release could be confused as apathy. It wasn't something he liked to do, and just because it was something he did on an almost daily basis, he didn't find the task any easier.

That morning when Elliot and Olivia arrived at the Owens family apartment half an hour after splitting from Munch and Fin, Elliot was the one to tell the already-distressed mother that her daughter's captor was most likely a psychotic rapist. If the woman had not been sitting down at the sound of the news, Elliot was willing to bet good money that she would have toppled over onto apartment's polished wood floors. It took ten minutes for Elliot and Olivia to calm Mrs. Owens down to the point where she could hold a glass of water without spilling the liquid everywhere, and another eight before Mrs. Owens regained enough composure to swallow the sedative pill in Olivia's hand. By the time the pair was ready to question her, Mr. Owens had arrived at the apartment, trailed by a red-faced boy and girl, both looking somber.

"Sir, I'm Detective Stabler," Elliot said, quickly flashing the man his badge. Elliot gestured to Olivia, who was making small, quiet conversation with Mrs. Owens on the sitting room couch. "This is my partner, Detective Benson. We've been assigned Haley's case. You're Mr. Owens, her father?"

"Yes," Mr. Owens replied. "Gerald Owens. What can you tell me about my daughter?"

"Mr. Owens, this isn't easy to say, but we have reason to believe that your daughter was kidnapped by a mentally ill person. More specifically, a mentally ill rapist."

Owens went very white in a matter of seconds, and Elliot saw him give a very quick glance in the direction of his younger children. "Jerry, Sarah, take your mother into her bedroom, please, while the detectives and I talk." Now very shaken, the two younger kids led their mother away down the hall, and Olivia rose to join the conversation. "So you're saying Haley's been kidnapped?"

"Haley never made it to school this morning," Olivia recounted. "We need to rule out the positivity of anyone else who may have wanted to abduct Haley, possibly to hurt you. Do you have any disgruntled co-workers?"

"Not that I know of," Mr. Owens answered. "I don't make any enemies for myself in the business world; I have my family to think of." At his own words, Mr. Owens chocked, and held back tears. "There's no reason to kidnap us; we really don't have that much money. And Haley…why Haley? Why not me?"

Elliot sighed deeply and directed his attention at the floor. He would always feel self-conscious about experiencing a person's most humbling intimate and human moments. He felt like he was trespassing somewhere where he didn't belong.

"Mr. Owens, I am really sorry for what you're going through right now," Olivia said. Elliot envied the empathetic tone in her voice. She was so much better at connecting with people, regardless of who they were, than he would ever be. "It's never easy to have something inexplicably taken away from you, but right now, we have to make sure that there is no other reason that Haley may have been abducted." Mr. Owens regained his composure, barely, and looked up at the pair of detectives. Olivia jumped in before he had a chance to relapse. "Is there any one you know who might want to hurt your daughter in any way?"

"No," the father answered. "All she ever brings home from school are, you know, funny little stories. She's never said anything about having someone who bothers her. But Haley keeps a lot of things close to herself, so I'd doubt if she'd tell us if she had a problem."

"No one comes to mind?" Olivia asked. "Perhaps someone in the building?"

"All the contrary, actually," the father said. "I get people telling me how well-behaved and polite my kids are around here. Not a single person comes to mind when you talk about wanting to hurt Haley." He sounded very honest, but still lost for words at the situation. "And I highly doubt this is work-related. The company's so large, any problem is usually management's fault…may I see my wife?"

"Sure, Mr. Owens," Elliot said. "She'll be very calm for the next two hours – we gave her a mild sedative. Just be sure to be there to talk when the medication wears off. Do you mind if we take a very quick look around Haley's bedroom now?"

"Do what you need to do," the father said. "Just please find the person responsible for this."

Like they needed telling twice. Elliot and Olivia walked down the hall into the only bedroom that had an open door. Olivia stepped inside, followed by Elliot, and they knew almost immediately that there was not going to be anything too useful in the room. It was nothing out of the ordinary. The bed was in one corner, parallel to the door. A desk was up against the next wall, right next to the bed, serving as both computer desk and nightstand. The closet at the end of the room was open, revealing clothes, school uniforms, and a general mess of sneakers and one pair high heels. Like any other teen, Haley had a few posters taped to the wall space over her bed and across the room. Elliot found himself feeling dated when he failed to recognize the bands the posters advertised and the colorful characters striking poses on the posters advertising television shows.

Then Elliot realized that there were too many shelves of books in the room. The number was subtle enough to not be noticed at first glance, but large enough so that it was noticeable after a few moments. Loaded bookcases lined the spaces in the walls that weren't obstructed by furniture, and a few single shelves crossed over lower spaces. Every shelf had books on it, some looking neat and untouched, others strewn haphazardly along the shelves because of their popularity. Only one other place came to his mind when he saw the clutter of books and papers.

"This looks like Munch's apartment,"

"She's even got heavy leather-bound books," Olivia said, leaning in closely to the shelves to read the titles. As she moved on, Olivia pointed to some of the shelves. "Half of these are language books. Portuguese, French, Japanese, Russian, and even Czech; then books on how to conjugate verbs and bilingual dictionaries. This kid must really like languages."

"Or have too much time on her hands," Elliot said. He studied the bookcase closest to him. "She likes contemporary fiction. It certainly overruns her collection of Hugo, Dickens, and Shakespeare. There's a lot of foreign literature, too, along with some of those Japanese comics. Eh, apart from the book clutter, I doubt if there's anything telling in these shelves. Anything on the desk?"

"Just a lot of drawings and homework," Olivia replied, closing a drawer with disappointment. From what she could surmise, Haley seemed to be the kind of person who was reserved, but had very little to hide. Olivia found no hidden compartments in her drawers, hiding maybe a secret journal or message from anyone who may be at fault for the girl's current predicament. Her eyes settled on the laptop computer atop the desk, but she doubted there was too much telling information stored within it. She propped it open, slightly surprised to find it running, and smiled rather widely at the desktop background.

"She looks like a very lively, spunky kid," Elliot mused over Olivia's shoulder. In the background picture, a tall, slim girl with dark brown hair and glowing green eyes had one arm thrown casually over the shoulders of a cardboard cutout of TV's favorite cynical doctor, Greg House. She was smiling widely at the camera, green eyes twinkling even through the lens, and gave the photographer a giant peace sign with her fingers. As Elliot looked at the picture, he got a familiar feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Olivia chuckled lightly and began clicking through some files. Mostly music, pictures, and typed documents. "Well, we could give the computer a shot with Forensics. There really doesn't seem to be too much on it, though. So far, the worst thing on it is an ample collection of illegal music."

Elliot rubbed his temples. "Well, that's all we can do here, Liv. We should go see Munch and Fin, maybe they were luckier than us. We have to hurry, though. If this is Mind Games Guy, we have to find Haley before he starts the games…"

Olivia didn't need Elliot to finish his sentence to know why they were in a time-crunch. If Haley had been kidnapped by the Mind Games Rapist, they had little time to intervene before he started playing games. Games, Olivia knew, none of his victims had ever survived.

So much for Chapter 1.

Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it. Reviews would be lovely.