Author's note.

I don't know what inspired me to write this story. One day I sat in front of the computer and it just burst forth. It's my first time writing Law & Order and I've only watched a handful of episodes, so I can't promise everything will be in canon, or that my characters will be 100% accurate. I haven't been to New York in years so my geography may be off too. I can only promise to try to stay true to what I've seen on the show and write these characters as I've come to know and love them.

Be warned: the story WILL get dark and angsty at times, and some of it may be graphic-but it will have its warm fuzzy moments as well.

I don't really want to give anything else away. Read on. Tell me what you think.

1.

It was a beautiful, balmy New York City sunset. Abbie Carmichael couldn't help a sigh of admiration and contentment as she skipped down the Courthouse steps with Jack McCoy, her boss. Maybe "skipping" was too much—her walking was dignified as ever, or at least as dignified as a person who had been on high heels for twelve hours could muster. It was mostly her heart that skipped, on account of their recent legal success—People vs. Burton King, a well-known but previously unconvicted drug dealer. Murdering drug dealer, she reminded herself. It had been a hard battle, and a long one—and at one point the whole case had been nearly thrown out on a technicality.

But now it was over, and Burton King would never see the light of day again. Okay… too dramatic. But he wouldn't see the light of day from the outside. Life without parole. The words rolled off her tongue like honey. Was it sick of her to feel this way? What if she was just a closet psychopath getting off on other people's pain and suffering?

Hell, no. It wasn't like she enjoyed locking people up for life. But some people deserved it. Take this guy for instance. Burton King, a "self-taught businessman", as he called himself. It wasn't bad enough he led a drug ring responsible for who knew how many deaths by overdose. He had killed an innocent bystander. On purpose. In front of her now traumatized four-year-old. And why? Just because she'd happened to be on the wrong street corner at the wrong time.

Life without parole was too good for this guy. Death is what he should've got. But it was a first strike. He had no priors. And the traumatized little boy couldn't be called upon to testify. So…

It was still a success. Especially considering how close they'd come to have it all go up in flames.

"Whatcha thinking of, Abbie?" Jack unexpectedly asked. "You look happy."

"Satisfied is more like it. I'm just glad to see this end." She hadn't realized she'd been smiling to herself. What a chump.

"You did good," Jack conceded, even more unexpectedly. "Real good. If it wasn't for your research, we could never have gotten this guy."

She came close to blushing. It wasn't often Jack gave out praise. In fact, it was almost always the other way around. And God knew Abbie had made her share of mistakes since becoming his second chair. She couldn't really blame him for going off the deep end sometimes—her five year experience couldn't light a candle to his twenty, much to her chagrin. Maybe it wasn't respectable to be so elated it was her knowledge and her background that broke the case this time, but… human nature, right?

He spared her the trouble of having to think up a demure response by clapping her on the shoulder—his way of saying good bye. "Well, I guess I'll be seeing you around. Have a nice weekend."

Twilight fell as they parted ways, Jack heading toward his motorcycle (the idea of him in leather chaps still made her snicker) and Abbie turning the opposite way, toward the Courthouse parking lot. She'd put a lot of thought into the buying of her car. Mostly because it was true—if you lived in Manhattan, you didn't need one. There was the subway and way enough cabs to go around. But Abbie couldn't deny her Texan roots—she'd been raised on steaks, football, and pick-ups—she enjoyed driving. So why the hell should she deprive herself?

Dangling her keys joyfully, she couldn't help a little burst of pride at the sight of her Chrysler. Sure it was no Silverado, but it was hers. And it was beautiful. Roadtrip maybe, now that she finally had some time to kill after P vs King? She was just savoring the thought of taking off aimlessly toward destinations unknown, when she found herself shoved unceremoniously against her car door.

"Hey!" was all she managed to huff out in protest before a death grip on the back of her head crushed her face into the window, making it impossible to say anything else.

Her heart went into overload. Okay, innocent mistake this was not. This wasn't some fellow driver accidentally bumping into her on the way to his car. This was someone deliberately gagging her, driving her into the door with force enough to make her lose her footing and knock her wind out.

And that wasn't all. Along with the hand on her skull she realized there was another claw down south prying its sickening way up her skirt. And a revolting voice whispering in her ear, "Don't move a muscle, bitch."

Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod. She could feel his erection pressed into her hip, his hot humid breath on the back of her neck. Flashbacks to that one unfortunate date way back in college flew through her mind, unwanted statistics blaring across her brain: the average age of the typical rape victim is 18 and a half, 57% of college rape victims were attacked by their dates, only 50% of rapes are reported and of these only 40% are convicted, women who have been raped once are 7 times more likely to be raped again…

Fuck you, I will not be a statistic!

He pulled away for one second—one tiny second—to unzip his pants, and Abbie saw her chance. Using all the strength she was capable of, she whipped around and slammed her elbow into his face. And did the only other thing she could think of—screamed bloody murder. As loud and as long as she could, even knowing the parking lot was deserted—even knowing her gravelly voice wasn't really made for earsplitting yowls. Someone had to hear her. There were still people in the building, right? They hadn't all gone home for the night. And Jack… Jack still had to be around. They'd barely said their goodbyes a minute ago. He couldn't have left yet. And he'd be sure to recognize her voice. He heard it everyday.

Her moment of triumph was short lived, as she knew it would be. She hadn't gone two feet before he grabbed her by the jacket, throwing her back against the hood of her Chrysler. "Stupid bitch," he spat.

She caught only a glimpse of his bloodied features before a fist loomed over her, there was a mind-stunning blow, the feel of asphalt digging into her cheek, and then… darkness.