Chapter Two: Ulterior Motives

"Mom, I was trying to talk to you," I say, gently putting my hand upon her wrist as she comes into the kitchen. "I've been clean for seven months and three weeks, and you've only let me leave the house for those AA meetings. They're so depressing," I say, shaking my head, heading over to the refrigerator and getting out Greek yogurt and blueberries, before shutting the door behind me. Then I fetch the jar of honey from the pantry and a bowl and a spoon before taking it to the kitchen bar. "Mom?"

She sighs, turning off the water; I notice her hands, so chapped from doing so many dishes over the past three months. She tried to keep busy around the house throughout the summer, as she was put on a mandatory vacation. "Yeah, I know that, sweetheart," she says, drying her hands as she turns around to face me. "It's just a difficult time right now. The morgue is due to release your father's body at the end of the week and then the funeral arrangements will be planned..."

"Tell me why they couldn't have just done that whole autopsy thing right away, please," I say, my mouth full.

"The best of the best were still knee-deep in the whole investigation regarding the Boston Marathon bombings," she replies patiently, knowing full well that we'd gone over this initially.

"He's going to die," I predicted.

She blinked, apparently shocked at my flat tone.

Ever since rehab and my addiction being made common knowledge, gone forever was my happy-go-lucky behavior. Instead there was a serious young woman in her place, who had finished her senior year of high school by mail—well, online—over the summer. Now, at only fifteen years and eight months, I'd stated that I wanted to wait until my next birthday before beginning college classes. I was glad that my mother seemed fine with this, as I was researching which colleges I would be potentially matched with program-wise, applying for scholarships, writing various essays, and really considering a career-path for myself.

"So, sweetheart, how's the college hunt coming?" she asks, pouring herself a cup of tea and ruffling Livi's hair as Helena brought them into the kitchen and placed them in their highchairs.

"Fine," I reply. I dips her spoon back into the yogurt, taking a slow bite as I mull over my next words very carefully. "I've been thinking a lot about where I want to go and what I want to do and stuff."

"And stuff?" she asks. "What kind of stuff?" she says, bending down and kissing Donnie's head as she waits for my response. "Yeah, really buckling down," I continue. "I'm trying to think at what would be the best possible option for me... I suppose a therapist of some kind would be good, given my own demons may help me sympathize with my client..."

"Uh-huh," she replies.

"...and John Buchanan was so inspiring," I continue, staring off into space for a moment as I continues musing. "A lawyer in New York..."

"Also a good career choice," she encourages me, "and you have the kind of grades a law school would want..."

"But I really think..." I shake my head, convincing myself that it was a terrible idea. "Forget it. It's stupid."

"Nothing is stupid," my mother tells me firmly. "Come on. Tell me."

I scrape the bottom of my bowl, getting out the last bite of yogurt before getting to my feet. I rinse out my bowl and puts that and its spoon into the dishwasher before letting out a little sigh and turning back to her. I am wearing my favorite orange sweater with my favorite pair of high-waisted skinny jeans and a pair of chestnut-colored Uggs I'd insisted that she buy me over the summer. My orange sweater is one of those scoop-neck things that folds over onto itself, thus exposing the camisole I have beneath it. "I was thinking about starting college as soon as possible," I reply. "Classes don't start for about a week and a half and I could still get in..."

"Sweetheart, we agreed that you didn't have to..."

"No, Mom. Please. Just hear me out."

She smiles. "Of course, darling," she says, leaning back against the counter. "Go ahead. I want to hear."

"I've enrolled at Westchester Community College," I reply. "I want to get my Associate's Degree and then my Bachelor's Degree... And then I want to join the police academy."

She nearly drops her teacup—I'd been afraid of a reaction like that. "The police academy?"

"Yes." I nod. "I know what I want. I want to get my degrees and then my plan is to be accepted by twenty-one, if not earlier," I say quickly. "You always said that your degrees were beneficial on the job, right?"

She nods. "Yes. Of course, I knew other languages as well..."

"Well, I know English, French, and Spanish—and I'm learning Mandarin," I tell her quickly. "And you know that I know Swedish as well," I say, delicately, for that piece of information was gleaned from my interrogation by John Buchanan. "I want to join the police academy, Mom. Dad—he always said I'd make a good cop."

"A beat cop?" she asks me, and I wonder if she thinks that this is all I'm good for, but I decide to continue to persuade her instead.

"No." I shake my head. "I want to be a detective of Special Victim's Unit, Mom, because I was a special victim. I want to help those who were able to help me—I want to return the favor."

She shuts her eyes. "Which SVU?" she asks me, greatly daring.

"Manhattan," I reply, proudly.

She turns to Helena as her eyes snap open. "Please watch the twins while I have a word with my daughter," she says levelly, before setting her teacup aside and taking me by the arm and bringing me upstairs to my bedroom. "Edythe, I think it's great you want to be a cop, and work SVU—just please... Don't work Manhattan, I'm begging you..."

"Why?" I ask, shocked. "Olivia's your best friend..."

She sighs. "Yes, I know that, but..." She shakes her head at me; she is conflicted about something, I see that now. "You don't understand..."

I reach out and touch her arm. "I'll never understand if you refuse to explain it all to me," I say softly. "I've driven you to hell and back again, Mom—and you still love and are there for me. No matter what it is, I promise, I'll be here for you," I say, and I hope she does tell me—something, at least.

She nods, and a sudden realization clouds her beautiful face. "Okay. But don't you dare tell anyone—only Don knows about this, and your father."

"I promise," I reply, full of anticipation.

She reaches out then, gripping my hands. "Olivia is my birth mother," she tells me quietly. "Don thought that he was my birth father at one time—that's why we're so close—and he ran our blood after I was in an accident. The panels came back negative, but since Olivia's blood is in the system, it automatically came up as a match."

"How long have you known?" I whisper.

"A while," she replies, and I don't press for a time limit. "The point is, I don't want Olivia to know."

"Why not?" I ask, thinking this is crazy.

She sighs, conflicted all over again with informing someone of this deep, dark secret after so long. "Because, she's not an unintelligent woman, sweetheart. I've dropped quite a few hints these last several years, so she could very well know as we speak. But I don't want to put words into her mouth, nor do I want her to know because she made the choice to give me up and not seek contact with me. But, such is life. I guess I wasn't really meant to have parents, really..."

I purse my lips. "And what about your sister?"

She shakes her head at me. "We haven't spoken since I... Well, not for a very long time. Tell me, Edythe, why do you ask?"

I shrug. "I only know what you've told me—that she's a lawyer, is married with four kids, and lives in Dallas. I could go online at any time to find out information about her, but I don't—out of respect for you. No matter how much I may want to know about her, I won't do it if you don't want me to, and I respect that, Mom, really I do."

She reaches out and cups my cheek. "Stella would have loved you."

"That was her name? Stella?" I ask.

She nods. "Yes." She sighs a little then, contemplation clouding her vision as she considers her thought carefully, mulling it over before continuing, "Sweetheart, I think I'm going to go to Dallas..."

"Can I go with you?" I ask, hoping that the answer would be 'yes'.

"When do your classes start?" she asks her, knowing she must be diplomatic about this whole arrangement.

"Not for two weeks," I reply.

She nods. "Yes, you can come with me. I know Helena would need your help with the twins, but..."

"We're fine," Helena says from behind her, and she turns around. Helena is holding onto the twins' hands. "I know Sebastian has some vacation time coming up if you wouldn't mind him coming..."

I smile as my mother crosses the room and throw her arms around her. "Thank you," she replies, before telling me to pack as she must do so herself, booking our tickets and hotel room, space permitting.

After I went to my bedroom, after my mother told me what she'd be up to—and after she booked us on a red-eye flight, I got into a hot bath. Soaking in the water, my pale skin flushing red, my mind began to drift. I considered the possibly consequences of meeting my aunt for the first time—adopted aunt, but that was splitting hairs, of course—as my head lolled just above the surface of the water, its warmth enveloping me. Sure, something must've happened between her and my own mother for them to cease their relationship full-stop, but what, I wondered, could that possibly have been? Families fought all the time—what was so lost that this fight couldn't be solved? As I continued musing, I allowed my head to fall beneath the depths of the bath water.

"I have an idea," I says as we wait for our food to arrive.

My mother raises her eyebrows. "Yeah?"

We are sitting in the luxury hotel, Rosewood Mansion, in the heart of Dallas, and, after a brief period of awe of the impressive architecture, I'm fully prepared to get down to business. We're not here for the aquarium, nor are we here to see the site of JFK's assassination—no, we're here for something far different.

"Yeah," I reply, taking out my phone and Googling something, then clicking something, growing impatient as the person keeps me waiting. "Hello. I'm being represented by Mrs. Hendricks, and I was wondering when she would be in the office today?" I ask. "Oh, I see. Thank you very much. Listen, I know it's strictly unorthodox, but I have some sensitive paperwork that I must send her. Could you please give me her home address?" I ask, with the perfect amount of desperation to pull it off. "Oh, you won't find my name in there, dear. It's strictly off-the-books, if you know what I mean. Yes, yes, thank you," I say, dipping into my bag for a pad of paper and a pen and scrawling the information down. "Thank you. No, I don't need to leave my name with you, it's quite all right. I'll be sure there's a Christmas bonus in it for you, my dear. All right. Thank you. Take care," I say, hanging up and looking at my mother with raised eyebrows.

She looks around, mortified. "Edythe, I hope you can appreciate that if I weren't your mother, I would be forcing myself to arrest you right now..."

"Fine," I say, acting like I'm seriously going to crumple up the piece of paper in front of her. "I guess we don't need Aunt Stella's information..."

"No!" my mother cries out, swiping it from me. "Although I do know someone who can help us further with this..." This time, she takes out her phone and dials an all-too-familiar phone number. "Hey, Fin, it's Maggie," she says.

"Fin?" I demand, and my mother ignores me.

"Yes, fine. In Dallas right now with Edythe." She laughs at something he says and she quickly becomes like the mother I used to know—the one before Dad died all those months ago. "No kidding... Listen, I need a favor." Relief floods her face at his quick response to her asking for a favor. "I need you to confirm a home address for me," she tells him. "Okay. 7545 Plum Field Lane, Dallas Texas," she says quickly. "I need to know the names of the people who live there."

I roll my eyes. "Detectives," I mutter, proceeding to count all the intricate shapes upon the edge of the table.

My mother nods at something Fin has said. "Yes. Thank you, Fin." She sighs at the next thing he says. "Stella is my older sister," she replies. "Thanks so much—I owe you one!" she says, hanging up.

We finish our breakfast before heading out of there and outside in the morning heat to the parking lot. We get into the rental car and she has me type in Stella's address into the GPS system as we head towards the highway. We get off at the proper exit and see many lavish mansions as we continue onward before turning on Plum Field Lane, things really were bigger in Texas!

We finally find the proper one and park down the street, not wanting to call attention to ourselves as we exit the vehicle and make our way up to the house. Just as I can see she's about to chicken out, I promptly step forward and ring the doorbell. A chorus of bells goes off from inside and I almost jump back from the doorway in shock—too Real Housewives, if you ask me... I knew then that those bells would haunt me for a thousand nightmares.

The door opens and we see a boy of about seven years old standing there—this must be my aunt's firstborn.

"Hello," my mother says to him. "What's your name?"

"Baxter Hendricks Jr.," he replies.

Yeah, that's a name, I think to myself.

"Hi, there," my mom says, kneeling. "I'm sure your mom and dad have talked to you about not talking to strangers, but it's okay to talk to me, I promise."

"Why?" he asks.

Promptly, Mom pulls out my police badge. "Because I work with the police," she replies. "I know it might be a scary job, but it's my job to keep kids like you safe from bad guys out there."

"Honey, who's there?" asks a melodious voice, and Mom promptly gets to her feet as Stella enters the foyer and stares at my mother with wide eyes.

"Hi," Mom says, lifting her hand to her.

"Hi," Aunt Stella replies. "Um, Bax, go finish your homework..."

"But Mom..."

"Please," Aunt Stella says, her voice firm but not mean as Baxter Jr. rolls his eyes and walks out of there. "Maggie..."

"Stella," Mom says, completely at a loss of what to say.

Her eyes drift over to me. "Hello."

"Hi," I say, putting out my hand. "Edythe—with a 'Y' and an 'E' not the E-D-I-T-H spelling. My birth mother was weird," I say, hoping that my laugh manages to break some of the ice.

"Birth mother?" Aunt Stella asks, her eyes sliding back to me. "She's not your...? I mean...?"

Careful there, Aunt Stella, I think to myself.

"No, she is," Mom replies quickly. "She's my oldest—she's fifteen. I adopted her about four years ago. I hear you have four."

"Yes, yeah. Baxter Jr., who you just met. Then we had our daughter Charley, and our younger boy Seymour and then our Baby Harper."

"Not a baby!" a little blonde cherub shouts from the opposite end of the hallway, a pout to her voice.

"Come in, please," Aunt Stella says, and Edythe and I find ourselves crossing the threshold and into the house.

"Not a baby!" cries Harper, a little more indignantly this time as we all of us make our way towards her, her blue eyes indignant. "I's a big girl!" Her gaze turns to my mother then and the outrage disappears as quickly as it came. "Up!" she shouted then, throwing up her arms.

Mom bends down and pick up my newfound cousin, who looks pleased at her great height. "High as a pwincess!" she crows.

Mom nods. "Yes, princesses must be kept very high. Do you know why?"

"'Cause they woyal?" Harper asks. Mom tries and fails not to laugh. "Yes, that's right," she says, kissing her on the cheek.

"You're a natural," Aunt Stella tells her admiringly.

"Thank you," Mom says. "Other than Edythe, I have twins back at home—Livi and Donnie."

"With your husband?" Aunt Stella asks.

I turn away then, pretending to ogle the many photographs on the wall, but really, I do so to compose myself.

Mom sighs. "He died three months ago," comes her soft reply.

"Baxter!" Aunt Stella calls, and her husband enters the room, and I turn to look at him. "Take Harper and..." Aunt Stella begins.

"Maggie!" Uncle Baxter shouts, crossing over to Mom and kissing her on the cheek. "How the heck are you? And...?" He turns to look at me. "Hi. Baxter," he says, putting out his hand.

"Edythe, with a 'Y' and an 'E'," I reply. "Nice to meet you."

"Honey, please take Harper and Edythe to the playroom," Aunt Stella tells him quickly. "Girl talk—now."

"Understood." Uncle Baxter carefully takes Harper from Mom's arms and motions for me to follow as they all three slip from the room. "It's time for you, you little monster, to take your nap," he declares to Harper as we walk upstairs.

"No!" Harper shouts. "No nap!"

Uncle Baxter laughs. "Yes nap—Mommy mentioned making cookies later, your favorite, and I know that she would be very disappointed if you couldn't have any later, sweetheart."

"Fine," Harper grumbled.

Uncle Baxter's phone vibrated then, and he switched Harper to the other arm so as he could answer it. "Damn, it's the office," he says, turning to me. "Could you put her down for her nap, please, Edythe?" he asks me. "Harper's rooms at the end of the hall, and I really have to take this."

I nod. "No problem," I reply. I take Harper easily and move to the cream-colored door at the end of the hall, opening the door and setting her down upon the edge of her bed. "Now, what do you usually do first before your nap?"

Harper grins—she believed that she was in charge. "Naptime clothes!" she shouted then, pointing to the wardrobe. "Sunny dwess—yellowy—with pink flowers!"

Nodding, I cross to the wardrobe and fetch it, easily getting Harper out of the lovely white blouse and pink stretchy pants she was wearing now. "Oh! You need a diaper change!" I say. I get her completely out of the clothes and take her across the room to the changing table, where I clean her up.

"You family?" she asks me.

I smile down at her. "Yes," I reply, using the sanitation cloth and cleaning her bottom expertly. "We're cousins." I commence cleaning her and sanitize my hands before getting her into a fresh diaper and getting her into her 'naptime clothes'. "I think that you, Princess Harper, would like a story?"

After I finish reading Harper a book, from one of the many on her shelf, I leave her bedroom and shut the door behind me. I spy a note hastily taped to the wall a few feet ahead of me, and make my way towards it. Edythe—had to run out to the office for something. If you go to the landing, there's the second floor of the house, and you will see the kids' living room. We have T.V. with cable, a desktop computer, an Xbox, PS4, a Wii, and pretty much anything you can imagine. Feel free to go ahead in there. There is also a kitchenette beside the living room, where we keep all the snacks in the cupboards and the fridge. Help yourself to whatever you want! – Baxter

Shrugging, I make my way down the hall; not exactly what I had in mind on vacation, but hey, it's always fun to watch mindless T.V. at someone else's house for some reason...

After flipping a few channels, I found an old black and white movie, and became lost in the love affair between lead stars Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman. I'd read once that kisses in films in the 1940's were only permitted to be three seconds long—go figure! As I continued becoming lost in the plot, I heard heavy footfalls on the stairs and assumed that Baxter forgot something; what I didn't count on was a familiar voice calling my name.

"Edythe?" said the voice, and my heart nearly stopped. "Notorious—that's a good movie, a real classic."

Turning, I saw my dad in the doorway, and I couldn't for the life of me fathom how I managed to get to my feet. "Daddy?" I whispered.

He smiled at me. Other than looking tired and a little beat-up, he was fine; and he was really there. "In the flesh, sweetheart."

"Daddy!" I cried out, closing the distance between us and throwing my arms around him as tightly as I could. "Daddy, are you real?" I cried out, breathless, as I tore myself partially away from him to get a good look at his face. "You're not Uncle Mason or something, are you?"

He shakes his head. "No. I'm your father."

I feel my eyes filling with tears then. "We thought...everyone thought..."

He quickly wipes my eyes. "I know what people thought, sweetheart. And I'll tell you what happened when you're older..."

I shake my head at him. "I'll wait," I reply, throwing my arms around him again. "I have my daddy back."

"You do indeed," he says, kissing my head.

"Don't go again," I whisper to him, tightening my grip upon him then, almost as if I thought he'd disappear into thin air. "I don't think Mom or I could take what happened again. If it was half as painful for her as it was for me..." I shake my head. "Point of fact, we can't do it—not again."

He nods. "I understand." Then, pulling me back, he asks, "What's this I hear about you wanting to join the academy?"

Mom and Dad told me about the pregnancy almost as soon as we returned home and after the excitement had died down. I decided to surprise them one evening on the day they'd gone to Manhattan on what turned out to be Sargent Munch's pre-farewell party, as well as to get their ultrasound on the new baby. I just wanted that night and day to be perfect, so I rolled up my sleeves got to work. That evening, the pair of them found me on my own with the twins.

"Honey, what's going on?" Mom asked, stepping into the kitchen.

"Hey, Mom!" stepping forward and kissing my cheek. "Daddy!" I crowed, setting the bowl down and throwing my arms around him. "I just thought it'd be nice...the dinner, I mean. If it's too much..."

"What's all...?" Dad asked.

"Oh, I told Helena to go home early," I replied effortlessly with a smile. While the twins were absorbed in The Princess and the Frog on my new iPad, I'd been on the family iPad making dinner and dessert, along with a salad.

My mother raised my eyebrows at this rather domestic scene, and took note of the roasting chicken and potatoes in the oven, as well as the Caesar salad—halfway prepared on the kitchen island—as well as the mixing bowl with what seemed to contain cake batter, which I was stirring.

Dad smiles and shakes his head. "Sweetheart, it's perfect." He sticks his finger impulsively into the bowl of batter.

"Daddy!" I admonished, lightly swiping him with my wooden spoon.

Dad chuckles. "Sorry—I just can't help myself. White cake is yours and my favorite."

I nodded, picking up the bowl again and continuing to mix the batter. "So, how did the doctor's appointment go today?"

"Well," Mom says, turning to Dad.

Dad puts an arm around her. "Tell her."

Mom turns back to me. "Honey, we're having a boy!"

I immediately put the mixing bowl back down and threw my arms around them both. "That's amazing! Two for two!"

Livi turns around then, a pucker betwixt her brows. "More babies?"

Donnie slumps in his seat. "Too many..."

Mom laughs and leans down and kisses both of their heads. "Helena gave them a bath?" she asks, taking note of the fresh scents of their heads.

I giggled and shook my head. "No. That was me."

"What about school?" Dad asks.

"Well, I'm only doing online this quarter—my classes are math and English. We have a special homework website for math and we have to turn in one essay a week on the topic of our choice in English."

"The math assignments are daily, I take it?" Mom asks.

I nod. "They are—Monday thru Friday, at least. But I do every assignment on Monday—so I have more time for my essay."

"So, you've finished your math for the week?" Dad asks.

I smile. "Yeah, Dad, I have. And I'm halfway done with the essay, which isn't due until Friday at midnight. I have two whole days to finish it."

Dad nods. "All right, then."

"Hold on," Mom says quickly. "What's your topic this week?"

"When women transferred from just being merely domestics in the households into equal partners in a marriage," I answer. "I was writing another couple of paragraphs before you came in. Would you like to hear some?"

"That would be lovely," Dad said.

I pour the cake batter into a cake pan, scraping the bowl and putting it and the wooden spoon into the sink, whereupon I turn on the hot water faucet and allow them to sit so as the batter doesn't become totally caked on. Then, I wash my hands and turns back to my iPad, and minimizes the cake recipe tab and opens a Word document tab.

"Okay, here we go... 'Suffice it to say that men were considered the main, acceptable breadwinners within American and British society for hundreds of years. It wasn't until the 1920's in America that women's rights were finally deemed 'important' by various government officials, who decided to give women a voice. While they were given a voice to some extent, it came at the price of having husbands who believed that their opinions should match their wives and vice versa. There are many documented cases of women who have suffered at the hands of their husbands for staying true to their conscience, yet not their partners'," I say, rather satisfied with myself.

Dad, who was on the edge of his seat, had his mouth hanging open. "Oh, my god, Edythe..."

"That was lovely, sweetheart," Mom tells me.

I smile, basking in our praise of me. "Thanks, guys. Oh! I've got to check the temperature of the chicken." I shut off her iPad and puts on a pair of oven mitts and takes out the meat thermometer from its drawer and opening the oven door. I pull out the chicken and potatoes, finding the fattest part upon the creature's breast and stabbing the thermometer into it, front and center. "Another twenty minutes on that, maybe," I say, swiftly removing the thermometer and shutting the door in a careful motion. I preheat the bottom oven to three-hundred and fifty degrees and wait for it to beep before slipping the cake inside.

"You're very efficient, darling," Mom tells me. I smile. "Thanks. Why don't you two go upstairs? You could take a shower and change into something more comfortable for dinner. I still have to get the table ready and carve the chicken. Then I have to arrange the potatoes and ice the cake and slice it accordingly. There's plenty of time."

I was walking down a New York sidewalk one night, just blocks from where I'd called for an Uber to pick me up. The sidewalk was slick with rain—what else can you expect for an early spring night? This was one of the first times that Mom and Dad had allowed me to venture into Manhattan by myself since becoming clean and sober. I was sixteen, and we were going shopping for cars in a few weeks, and I couldn't have been happier. I'd earned this—I was happy, healthy, and I would be graduating with my first college degree in almost no time at all.

As I walked down the slick sidewalk, I almost didn't hear the man behind me, and I just continued minding my own business, walking closer and closer to the pick-up destination. Just as I was about to turn the corner, I was grabbed from behind and shoved into a nearby alley; trash cans covered almost every imaginable space, and I was hauled to the back, where a small courtyard was, and there were plastic bags everywhere.

"Don't scream," said the man, his voice in my ear. "Keep quiet." He lays me down on my stomach and cuts away my pantyhose, shoving my skirt up. I begin to struggle and he inadvertently cuts my legs. "Don't," he tells me firmly. "If you lie on your stomach, you won't see me. Then, I won't have to use this," he says, putting the cool, bloodied edge of his knife to my throat, "to kill you. Just cooperate with me, okay?"

Shaking, he covers my mouth with his hand and uses his other hand to force my legs apart. He unzips his pants and enters me forcefully then, and I grip the bags in front of me, my knees giving out as tears course down my face. Shivering as he continues his assault, he shoves me down further, and I get a noseful of garbage in my face. Struggling, he finishes, groaning in my ear and sighing in a moment of pure and simple appreciation.

"Nice—not a virgin, but nice," he says softly in my ear. He takes his knife again and, causing me to scream against his hand, cuts into me, and then leaves me on that pile of garbage in the darkness of the alleyway. As soon as I hear him leave, I turn over, pulling my skirt down over my torn pantyhose, immediately taking out my phone and dialing a familiar number. My hands are shaking too much, however, and I cannot type. Getting to my feet, I run from the alley and call another Uber, who takes me directly to SVU. I walk inside there, shaking, but bypass Don's office entirely—it is Olivia who I want to talk to, desperately.

I don't see her at her desk, and immediately look around; there are many people in the squad room, but only one I want to talk to. Various phones ring, and I am left standing there, feeling utterly alone. Then, footsteps come behind me, and I turn around, looking up at Nick.

"Hey—you're Edythe?" he asks, then gets a good look at me. "Oh, my god... Are you okay?"

"I need...Olivia," I say, finding it remarkable that I am still able to speak. My assaulter had, in fact, cut into my throat, and I'd barely been able to give the Uber driver the address for the SVU squad.

"Yeah, sure," Nick says, putting an arm around me and leading me into the nicer of the two interrogation rooms.

"Nick?" Turning, I see Don, who looks appalled when he sees that it's me. "Nick, Edythe is family, practically."

"She wanted to talk to Liv..." Nick says.

"And she will, in my office," he says, managing to get me away from Nick. He brings me into his office, telling me to sit down and to wait. He leaves, and, on his return, tells me that Olivia is on her way. He brings me a hot chocolate, looking grave, as he sits opposite me and, when the door opens, he gets to his feet and leaves me alone with her—my grandmother.

Olivia sighs and crosses over to me—still not having seen me fully. "Edythe, if you've come to try to bury the hatchet on your mother's behalf..."

"Look at me!" I shout then, turning to look at her, and Olivia's eyes widen, and she realizes her mistake.

"Come on," she says, getting me to my feet and pulling me out the other door of Don's office—the one leading to the hallway. "We'll get you to the hospital, Edythe—why didn't you go there before...?"

"Because, I couldn't," I reply, hurrying to keep up. "Liv?"

"What?"

"Don't tell my mom or dad," I beg, and then my knees buckle and I see black. It is when I come to that I feel immense relief that Olivia is the only one sitting there. "I hope my parents aren't worried," I say, and she shakes her head.

She shakes her head. "I called in a few favors—Gina King, that friend of yours from your online class?"

I nod. "Yeah?" "Good family—she's agreed to say you're staying at her apartment tonight. Your parents were worried, but they're fine with it. Gina's background check was pulled and there was nothing—even under the alias database. Nothing to worry about; and besides, you're completely safe."

I nod. "I know that now."

"Good." Olivia crosses the room, taking out a notepad and a pen. "Do you think you could tell me what happened to you?"

"I was here, in Manhattan, tonight to see Gina. Our class has weekly online group discussions and Gina and I were in the same group. We met for coffee a few times outside of class and she was really cool. Tonight was my first time at her apartment —she's nineteen and is a trust fund kid, so she lives on her own."

"Okay," Olivia says.

"My curfew is ten thirty, so I gotta be outta the city by nine-fifteen," I tell her. "I had called an Uber driver, but wanted to walk a little bit, so I arranged for the driver to pick me up about three or four blocks from Gina's apartment. I walked for about three blocks—so I guess it was four because the guy was supposedly just around the corner—and heard someone behind me. He grabbed me from behind and forced me into an alleyway," I say, feeling my eyes beginning to warm with unshed tears.

"It's okay, Edythe, take your time," Olivia tells me.

"He told me to be quiet and not to look at him," I say quietly. "He said that if I didn't look at him, then he wouldn't have to use his knife to kill me..." I whisper, and touch where his blade had cut into my neck. "He told me to cooperate and I did, but I struggled a little..."

"Then what happened?" Olivia asks.

"I guess he decided to punish me, because he cut me, right here," I say, turning over and lifting the blanket. I'd remembered where the assailant had cut me, due to the pain I'd still felt there, and wondered what Olivia would do.

"Damn that nurse," Olivia whispered, looking at it, her eyes meeting mine. "She thought it was a tattoo..."

"What is it, really?" I whisper.

"Initials," Olivia replies. "WL." Then, as if grasping the enormity of it all, she whispers, "Oh, my god...not him. Not him again..."

"Again?!" I demand, covering myself.

She shakes her head and moves to leave. "Never mind..."

"Olivia Margaret Benson, you stop right there!" I cry out, and Olivia turns to look at me for a moment.

Regarding me, she sighs. "Edythe, I know you don't want to, but you'd really benefit from having your mother or father here..."

"No," I say firmly.

"Edythe..."

"The law says I don't need them here, and I don't—want them or need them here, ever. Don't you dare tell them."

Olivia sighs. "Edythe, I'm just suggesting that a family member would be beneficial to..."

"But I have a family member here!" I protest.

Olivia smiles. "I'm flattered that you think of me that way, Edythe, but you really should consider..."

"No, you don't get it!" I cry out, and put my head into my hands. "I really can't do this... I can't do this anymore."

Olivia crosses to me, putting a concerned hand upon my shoulder. "What is it, Edythe? What's wrong? What can't you do anymore?"

I raise my head, drawing my legs up beneath my chin. "You wouldn't understand it," I reply.

"Then help me," Olivia says, perching upon the edge of my bed. "Help me understand what you can't do anymore."

I raise my eyes to hers. "It's a secret."

She smiles in sympathy at me. "Well, I think it's okay to tell me, if it's your secret, too, of course..."

I sigh. "Part of it is, I guess..."

"Okay. Tell me."

I face her then. "A baby girl was born in New York, in July, 1985. She was born to a teenage mother, and she was named Margaret. The woman was just starting college and opted for a closed adoption to ensure that her daughter got the best life possible. The girl was adopted by a good family, by those standards, and the family later moved to Washington State. The girl was on vacation in New York in the early 2000's when she decided to become a police officer instead of an actress, which had been her lifelong dream..."

"Edythe..."

"No, let me finish," I reply. "She achieved her dream, and now she is the Captain of Homicide in Manhattan, New York. Now, things have come full circle—her daughter was raped, while her grandmother listens to this story."

Olivia's eyes widen then. "What are you telling me, Edythe?"

I bite my lip, raising my eyes to hers. "I'm telling you that my mother was the baby in that story—the baby you gave up. I'm the girl she adopted, making you my grandmother."

Olivia gets to her feet. "I think you're traumatized from the ordeal that William Lewis put you through," she says, almost as if she is assuring herself. "Some bed rest would be beneficial to you now..."

"William Lewis?!" I cry out. "From the news?! The one who kidnapped you?!" I cry out in fear.

Olivia nods. "Yes."

"Why did he choose me?"

Olivia shrugs. "Power. He probably thought you were an easy target. Get some sleep," she says, leaving the room before I can call her back.

I remain silent throughout the ordeal, returning home the next morning as if nothing untoward had happened. As I finished out the rest of the year online, I realized I was about two dozen credits away from graduating with my first college degree. Summer passed, and so did fall, and then it was Christmas again. Since I hadn't pressed it before, I was finally given a car for Christmas, and I couldn't have been happier with my 2014 red convertible Ford Focus Cabrio.

My seventeenth birthday came and went, and I knew that it was only a matter of time before my mother and Olivia spoke again. She'd been plagued with nightmares since Olivia's kidnapping at William Lewis's hands—whose DNA matched that of what had been found inside me—and the fact that she'd very nearly been one of his casualties. I could hear her screaming in the night, and my father comforting her, as well as Baby Mason, who was a toddler by this point, crying in fear.

I give my mother a quizzical look the following morning as I attempt to assess the situation. I had taken every psychology class I could get my hands on, and found I truly enjoyed it, but still had my heart set on being a cop.

Mom steps forward and kisses my forehead, and I still give her that look I'd been giving her before.

"You had a nightmare," I say softly.

"Mom, is Edythe being psychic again?" Livi asks.

"No fair! I wanted to asks that!" Donnie complains.

"Kids, come on, now," Mom says, admonishing the twins. "Your sister is just assessing my mind—no harm, no foul."

"Fowl! Like bird!" two-year-old Mason chimes in.

Mom chuckles. "Something like that," she replies.

"We should start him on homonym lessons," I say softly.

"Shh!" she says, trying not to laugh. "Okay. Well, I have to head out now. Nate may think that he's captain now," she jokes, leaving the kitchen and heading down to her car.

Helena came into the kitchen and took the twins and Mason out to her car; the twins were in kindergarten now, and Mason had a fifteen-hour-a-week playgroup he attended, and they'd be gone for a while. Once they all three had been dropped off, Helena spent her lunch hour with Sebastian, whereupon she'd pick up Mason from playgroup and go grocery shopping and then take him to the park. Then it was usually time to pick up the twins, and then she'd come home and organize their homework and snack and naptime. Then, she'd make dinner, and give them their baths, and put them to bed. The following morning, it was reverse/repeat, day in and day out.

I went into my bedroom alone; Dad had left for work an hour beforehand. With my assignments done for the week, I switched off the light in my bedroom and crawled back into my bed. Curling up into a fetal position, my eyes wetted automatically with tears, and I proceeded to sob into my pillow; it wasn't just the rape from William Lewis; it was all the rapes I'd been subjected to over the years—it all started with Jake, and now it ended with William. I had no idea what the rest of my life had in store for me, but I came to the conclusion that, even though I'd survived all of these terrible ordeals, nothing could be worse than subjected to heinous acts by men, several of whom had claimed to love you, before they'd used you in the most despicable ways one could ever imagine.