Author's Note: Big thank you to the awesome folks who read chapter 1 and left feedback! I so appreciate hearing from you, and I'm glad you think the story's off to a good start. Just wanted to clarify-the story is set around the same time that season 20 started, but it's going in a completely different direction from the show. In other words, Spoiler Alert! Amanda won't be up the duff at any point in this fic. End Spoiler Alert! I may have fudged a few other minor details here and there to suit the plot, but hopefully nothing too drastic. And you might have noticed I added a cover image; unfortunately, this site shrinks the hell out of them, so you can't get the full effect, which sucks. [whispers] So I added a link to the full size version in my profile, because I think it's pretty rad (FYI, starbuck81 is my Tumblr name and my preferred online alias, that's why I used it on the cover). Just remember to change the parenthesized dot to an actual dot. ;) Hope you like chapter 2.

"Disarm you with a smile
And cut you like you want me to
Cut that little child
Inside of me and such a part of you"

- THE SMASHING PUMPKINS

CHAPTER 2: Disarm

"Son of a—"

Olivia caught herself at the very last second, eyes landing on her six-year-old son who sat across the table from her, coloring on a gigantic sheet of brown butcher paper.

"Sea biscuit," she concluded, hoping the ridiculous expression would go unnoticed by Noah and by the voice on the phone.

It didn't.

"What?" said Noah, crayon skidding to a halt.

"Huh?" said Fin.

Olivia could picture him pulling the cell phone away from his ear to stare at the weird white lady on the other end.

"Nothing. Eat your fries and don't eavesdrop on Mommy." Fixing Noah with a mock stern look, Olivia tapped her fingernail on the wide-rimmed plate that housed a partially gnawed hamburger and a mound of golden steak fries. Her son's eyes were often bigger than his stomach, especially when she took him to lunch at his favorite diner.

Wide grin exposing two absent bottom teeth, Noah ducked behind his tumbler of chocolate milk. He peered up at her with one eye through the textured amber plastic. "I see biscuits," he whispered, giggling.

"Ok, I'm gonna assume you got the little man with you, otherwise this is the strangest conversation we've had in twenty years," Fin said, his tone amused.

"Yeah, I'm sorry. Noah's making me rethink my stance on censorship laws, aren't you, my love?" She reached over to ruffle his hair and in the same swift motion rescued his milk from drenching the entire tabletop. Pinning the phone between her ear and shoulder, she waved him to sit flat in his booster seat and please take a few more bites. "He misses nothing, Fin. It's like living with a miniature IAB officer."

The sergeant's laughter brought a smile to Olivia's face, in spite of the bad news he came bearing. Another dead girl, another dead ringer. It was enough to put her off the remainder of her tuna salad on whole wheat, but she was trying to set a good example for Noah, the pickiest eater in all five boroughs.

After thanking Fin for keeping her apprised—and promising several times not to show up at the precinct until work tomorrow morning—Olivia bid goodbye to her sergeant.

"Take care, Moms," he said, casual, easy, and fooling no one. "Tell the Notorious N.P.B. his Uncle Fin says hey."

"I will." Olivia pocketed her iPhone, taking a moment to absorb the information she'd received and mentally damning the piece of crap who was responsible. A small, hard knot had formed in the pit of her stomach, but if the job had taught her anything, it was how to compartmentalize. Don't bring your work home with you, don't let the perp get into your head, don't give in to fear. And when all else fails, remember Dr. Lindstrom's breathing exercises.

She drew a deep, steadying breath through her nostrils, exhaled it slowly between pursed lips, then burst into laughter.

Two massive French fries dangled from the corners of Noah's mouth, trapped by his upper lip, which sported a glistening milk mustache. Making guttural walrus noises, he attempted to dip his new tusks in a tiny paper container of ketchup. (Condiments must only touch food on a voluntary basis, according to Noah Porter Benson.) He paused to see what was so funny and one of the dunked fries plopped onto the table. It left behind an aura of red specks when he picked it up and chomped it in half.

"Mama, why'd you say I see biscuits?" he asked around the mouthful.

"Hm?" Olivia rescued the other fry from a similar fate, absentmindedly taking a bite as she wiped the ketchup off Noah's colorful placemat.

They favored this diner because of the bouquet of chunky Crayolas and the long strips of sturdy paper torn from an endless roll that were deposited by a waitress in front of every child below the age of ten. Hours of fun for a creative boy, and yards of artwork to adorn the walls at home. It didn't hurt that the cozy little eatery also had the best cappuccinos in the neighborhood. They served the hot, frothy drink in mugs the size of soup tureens.

Olivia contemplated the remaining half of her sandwich, then cast a longing glance at the coffee machines behind the counter. Seated at the row of stools in front, a young woman with a round pretty face and tousled bob of ginger hair was smiling in her direction. It wasn't unusual to find complete strangers beaming at her and her son—he was damn adorable, after all—and Olivia reciprocated politely.

"You know!" Noah raised his voice as if she were hard of hearing. "You told Uncle Fin your son sees biscuits."

"Oh? Oh." Olivia pressed a hand over her mouth to hide her amusement. "No, honey, I said sea biscuit. S-e-a, like the ocean."

His face scrunched up the same way it did whenever they were reading bedtime stories and came across a word he didn't understand. "But what's a sea biscuit?"

"Well, there used to be a famous racehorse named Seabiscuit. And I think it's some kind of food sailors used to eat."

Tapped out on the particulars of equine nomenclature and ship cuisine, she handed over her phone so he could consult Siri on the matter. She resumed munching happily on her sandwich and sea salt chips as she watched him navigate the device more easily than even she herself sometimes could.

After spending the first several months of his life fretting over verbal skills and developmental delays, it delighted Olivia to hear her son communicate so well with the digital assistant. He was ahead of the other kindergartners in reading and writing, too. Occasionally he inverted a letter or number—mostly E's and 3's—but his teacher assured her that was very common for children Noah's age. None of his other classmates could write out their entire name, address, and mother's phone number. She worried about making him neurotic with too many games and quizzes about personal information, but each time he brought home a drawing entitled "16TH PRESINK" or "MY FAMLEE," complete with bobble-headed figures wearing huge cherry red grins and police blues, her fears were assuaged.

"Is that Uncle Fin riding a horse?" she asked, pointing to the man-shaped blob Noah was coloring in with the rather fabulously named shade of cafe au lait. Goateed and waving, the caricature sat astride a bandy-legged horse with a brown coat and an exceptionally long body.

"Uh-huh. It's his trusty steed, Mister Milkshake," Noah said slyly. He nibbled his hamburger in one hand while the other scrawled jagged parallel waves along the bottom of the paper. They looked like dark blue jigsaw blades.

"Oh, it is, huh?"

"Yep." He plucked up the brown again and drew something roughly trapezoidal floating on the choppy waters. "Now I'm gonna make you captain on a pirate ship 'cause you're the best mommy in the whole wide world."

Olivia chuckled. "And here I thought the bad guys were tricky," she said, motioning the waitress over. She ordered Noah a strawberry shake—no other flavor would do—and succumbed to the lure of designer coffee. Finishing off her meal with gusto, she dusted the crumbs from her hands, already anticipating wrapping them around the sweet, creamy cappuccino.

"Sergeant Benson?"

"It's Lieutenant, actually." Olivia responded on reflex, then wished she'd held her tongue when she turned towards the speaker. It was the young woman who had smiled at her a moment ago. Up close she was just a kid, probably no more than eighteen or nineteen. Vaguely familiar, but not someone Olivia had dealt with recently. She seldom forgot a face.

"Hi," she added, hoping for a hint to help place this one.

"You don't remember me, do you?"

Busted.

"I'm sorry," Olivia said, head tilted in apology, still searching for clues in the girl's amused expression. The eyes were blue-green, stormy, but offset by quirked lips glossy with a fresh coat of balm; the hair a touch too red to be natural, but youth and a fair complexion made it work. Tying it all together was an eccentric sense of style: black turtleneck tucked into high-waisted jeans with rolled cuffs and paint splotches, a patchwork smock that almost grazed the floor, a pair of scuffed Oxfords.

Whether the clothes were trendy or scavenged from grandma's attic, Olivia couldn't tell, but they had a cute ragamuffin appeal, like the orphan costumes in a production of Annie. The kids in that show were probably more menacing than this girl, so it caught Olivia completely off guard when a jolt of anxiety suddenly left her shaky and perspiring.

"I, uh— sorry," she stammered, tucking both hands under her thighs to prevent nervous gesturing. "I know we've met, but I'm... having a senior moment."

"No, it's okay!" the girl laughed, appearing unaware of the effect she was having. "It's been a long time since we saw each other. I was shorter back then. And blonder." She flashed two rows of perfect white teeth and thrust out her hand. "I'm Millie. Well, you knew me as Amelia. Amelia Cole."

Look away, Amelia.

The words echoed so loudly in Olivia's ears she didn't even hear her son exclaim, "Amelia Bedelia!" as he snatched up the orange crayon and doodled a redhead alongside the blonde and brunette pirates in his boat. For a moment he was no longer seated across from her, and she was no longer in the safety of their special Sunday restaurant. For a moment she could feel the edge of a table pressed against her pelvis, the heat of a rock-solid presence behind her, the deadly weight of metal in her hand and at her temple. And the click.

Forever that click.

Five years had passed since William Lewis bent her over a rusty workbench and forced her to play Russian Roulette in front of little Amelia Cole—but sometimes it was yesterday. She wondered if Amelia ever still felt the bindings on her wrists, cutting off circulation, chaffing skin raw.

I do, Olivia thought.

She released her hands from their self-imposed prison, needing them desperately to be free. A quick shake expelled the tingling and brought her back to reality, where Noah had picked up the slack and introduced himself, accepting Amelia's outstretched palm.

To the girl's credit, she didn't recoil from the sticky ketchup and chocolate milk stains; instead, she gave an exaggerated bow and affected a British accent. "A pleasure to meet you, my good sir," she said, using her thumb to wipe off most of his partially dried mustache.

Noah giggled and kept hold of her hand, swinging it at his side. He'd found a new BFF.

"Amelia. Oh my God," Olivia said, recovering her voice and mobility enough to stand and offer a hug. She no longer needed to stoop down, although she still had at least three inches on the girl. "It's so good to see you."

Only a small lie. Being terrorized together at gun point by a psychopath and dealing with the fallout of his suicide didn't leave much opportunity for bonding. She remembered Amelia as a sweet kid, shell-shocked from so much trauma, but brave. Olivia had every intention of staying in contact with her after their ordeal, but the surviving members of the Cole family had needed space to grieve. Meanwhile, Olivia was in the throes of a PTSD-relapse, barely sleeping twenty minutes at a stretch and phoning Dr. Lindstrom at all hours.

By the time she had pulled herself together, life took another unexpected turn in the form of motherhood. Obviously, she knew how to spot avoidance coping a mile away—saw it in countless victims over the years—but reasoned that Noah had to come first. She couldn't risk being triggered again while trying to raise a baby. Or a toddler. Or a preschooler...

It would have been ludicrous to call by that point, even though just last year she'd stumbled across an obituary for Thomas Cole, preceded in death by wife Janice, survived by loving daughters Lauren and Amelia.

Yeah, she really dropped the ball on this one.

"I know! It's been way too long." Amelia returned the hug warmly, holding on tight as if they were the dearest of friends. "I kept meaning to call, but—" The stack of bracelets on her wrist jangled when she made a broad gesture. "Life."

"I completely understand," Olivia said, a tad relieved she didn't have to broach the subject. Her panic attack had more or less subsided as well, and she kept a steady hand on the girl's arm when they separated. "I didn't even have this little guy last time we spoke."

"I didn't think so. I would've remembered a cutie like him," Amelia said, giving Noah's hair a light ruffle. "He looks just like you, by the way. Same smile. Must get those killer blue eyes from Daddy, though."

Olivia had heard so many variations of the same comment from well-meaning but misguided strangers that it barely fazed her anymore. Her heart did break a little when Noah, without ever leaving his make-believe world where Odafin Tutuola rode ponies across oceans, and pirates were predominantly female, piped in, "I don't have a daddy. It's just me and Mommy. And Lucy."

The flush creeping up Amelia's cheeks set her already bright roots ablaze. "Shit." She covered her mouth quickly, wide eyes darting from Olivia to the six-year-old within earshot, and back again. "I mean shoot! I didn't realize you were— Not that there's anything wrong with that, I mean— I just thought..." Pleadingly, she gazed up through long eyelashes, looking very much her childhood self. "Help."

"Amelia honey, breathe." Olivia laughed gently, giving the girl's arm a reassuring squeeze. "It's okay. Lucy's the nanny."

The waitress arrived then, rescuing Amelia from her faux pas and delivering a soda fountain glass brimming with a whipped cream cloud and enough pink milkshake to make Noah's eyes go buggy. Olivia's mouth watered at the sight of her own liquid dessert, but she managed not to pounce quite like her son, whose nose and lips were already covered in white fluff. Instead, she pulled an extra chair up to the end of the table, urging Amelia to sit as she did the same. She did slip her hands around the cup, though. Instant relaxation.

"So, how are you doing? You look incredible," Olivia said with sincerity. "You're what now, eighteen?"

"Yep, last May." Amelia sat down, folded the sides of her smock into her lap, and plopped the crocheted bag from her shoulder on top. "I feel ancient."

Olivia snorted. "Oh yeah, you've practically got one foot in the grave," she said, eyes rolling above the brim of her cappuccino as she took a careful sip.

"I'm serious! You try taking care of a baby and working all day, everyday. Well, okay, you've done that, but I'm, like, going prematurely gray over here." Amelia lifted a lock of her brilliantly colored hair. "Why do you think I dye this?"

"Wait. You have a baby?" Olivia set her cup down a little too hard on its saucer. She frowned at the droplets that escaped—a few less to be savored—and soaked them up with a napkin.

"I didn't tell you that yet? See, my mind's going too. Next I'll be gumming oatmeal and peeing my pants."

("Ewww!" cried Noah, who continued slurping milkshake through a long, striped straw.)

Rummaging through her bag, Amelia pulled out a cell phone with a hardshell case depicting some sort of forest deity, his hoary old face protruding from the bark of a decrepit oak tree. "I designed it myself," she said, noticing Olivia eyeing the rather creepy scene. "I'm an artist. Hence, the paint streaks." She patted her denim-clad knee, then swiped at the phone screen a few times.

"Aha, here's my baby girl. Her name's Matilda. Tilly, for short. Millie and Tilly, get it? She's three months old."

Olivia squinted at the proffered photograph and felt around for her glasses. She finally found them propped on top of her head when Noah pointed up. Pretty soon she was going to have to wear them on a chain. Talk about feeling like an old lady.

"Oh, sweetie, she's beautiful," Olivia cooed as the image came into focus. Fawning over babies was probably the next step in granny-hood, but she didn't care. Tilly was an exceptionally pretty baby.

Most infants looked mildly disoriented at best, others downright intoxicated, while having their picture snapped. Tilly gazed straight into the camera, a delicate smile on her perfect rosebud lips. Naked except for a pink satin ribbon held in place by a dainty headband, she lay on a fuzzy pink blanket, her tiny ivory body swaddled artfully in its folds. What little hair she had so far gave off a coppery sheen, her eyes agleam like sapphires.

Warmth, pleasant and soothing, bloomed in Olivia's chest, but whether it was the result of the child's angelic portrait or the cappuccino, she couldn't be sure.

"I know, right? She looks just like the baby pictures of my mom. But there's some of her daddy in there, too. He's the one that took this picture. He's super talented, don't you think? Oh my God, you should totally bring Noah by our studio sometime so he can do your portraits!" Amelia practically squealed with delight as she shuffled through a few more photos, thrusting the phone towards Olivia again.

This time there was a selfie on the screen, Amelia's arm extended to capture the overhead shot. In the other she cradled her daughter, asleep in a lacy white christening gown. Crouched over to fit in the frame, a young man peeked out from behind the baby's frilly bonnet. Judging from his slim build, unkempt hair, and steel blue eyes, sharp behind wire-rimmed spectacles, he looked about twenty or so. But it was hard to tell without seeing the rest of him.

"That's him. His name's Carl. He's camera shy. I always tease him because how can a photographer be camera shy?" Amelia shrugged and turned the phone around to smile at the picture. "He's a weirdo, but I love him like crazy."

"I'm happy for you," Olivia said, taking a measured sip as she considered how to proceed. Amelia wasn't even out of her teens yet and already a mother, nor was she wearing a wedding ring. Olivia wondered how great this Carl could actually be if he hadn't bothered proposing to the girl he'd knocked up ten seconds after high school. Then again, at least he had stuck around, which was more than Olivia could say for any of the men in her life. If the young couple had found a family dynamic that worked for them, who was she to judge?

Still, she couldn't turn off her cop instincts—not completely. "How long have you two been together?" she asked casually.

"About a year. Whirlwind romance, I know. We met right after my dad..." Amelia glanced sidelong at Noah and mouthed, "Passed away." She tucked the phone back into her bag, closing the top clasp with an abrupt click. "I was kind of a mess after that. Carl pulled me through. I probably wouldn't have graduated without him. Now he's encouraging me to get my art degree."

"He sounds like a good guy."

"He is. The best. I just wish my dad had gotten the chance to meet him. And his granddaughter."

Guilt crept over Olivia, but she forced herself not to avert her gaze. You never turned away from the victims. Maybe Amelia wasn't that little girl tied up in William Lewis' house of horrors anymore, but Olivia would always feel responsible for her, to some extent. If she had told the truth about beating Lewis from the beginning, the Cole family might never have been touched by his special brand of evil.

"I heard about your father," she admitted slowly, the knot in her stomach from earlier clenched tighter than ever. She reached over to place her hand on Amelia's with slight hesitance, as if it might be rebuffed. "I'm so sorry. I wish I could've been there to offer some support."

No excuses. None would suffice.

Amelia curled her fingers around Olivia's, opposite hand resting heavily on top. "It's okay, Liv. You had a lot going on, I get it. Besides that, it was a very small service. Dad never liked a big fuss. He's the last of the family anyway, besides me and Tilly."

Now only nursing his milkshake occasionally, Noah had been observing the exchange with mild interest. He selected the nub that had once been a black crayon and began tracing the outline of his flattened palm on the drawing paper. Next, he confiscated Olivia's available hand from its cozy spot against the coffee mug and traced it alongside his own. And finally, with a bit of daring, he tugged Amelia's uppermost hand over to join the lineup.

Olivia watched the whole process in contemplative silence, unaware her features had hardened into a scowl she normally reserved for perps in the box. "What about your sister?" she asked, resurfacing from the deep tunnel of thought so suddenly it made her blink at the brightness pouring in through the diner's plate glass windows.

"Oh, duh! Lauren too, of course." Amelia slipped free from Olivia's grasp to butt a palm against her own forehead. "What'd I tell you? Oatmeal and Depends, here I come. I'd forget my own head if it wasn't screwed on."

"How do you spell Amelia?" Noah asked, head bent over the somewhat inflated handprints he'd captured. They looked more like Mickey Mouse gloves than human extremities, but he was labeling each one in his large childish scrawl, for future reference. A study in concentration, his face mirrored his mother's almost exactly, except for the sliver of pink tongue that poked from the corner of his mouth.

"M-I-L..."

"How's she doing?" Olivia asked when the girl paused to let Noah copy each letter.

"...L-I-E." Amelia nodded encouragement as her name—gritty, askew, and with a backwards E—was transcribed next to the legends NOAH and MOM. "She's great. Busy with school and stuff, but I get her to let loose once in awhile. Actually, I'm headed to her place for lunch right now. Just grabbing some takeout because neither of us can cook to save our lives. Guess that's what happens when you grow up without a mom."

Before the sting of the last comment had fully dissipated, the waitress appeared with a white carry out bag and a check.

"Right on cue," Amelia said, fishing around in her purse for a wallet. She opened her mouth to protest when Olivia intercepted the bill, sliding it out of reach across the table with her fingertip.

"I got it." Olivia's hand went up to quash any further objections. She gave an affirming nod to the waitress, who drifted away looking like she didn't care who paid for what, as long as a tip was involved.

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"Lieutenant Benson," Amelia said rhetorically and grinned, shaking her head as if surprised by her own sheer luck. "It really is good to see you again. I wish we had more time to chat—" Her eyes lit up, and a second later she whipped a business card from inside her purse. "Here. That's my apartment. Promise me you'll come visit soon. I can show you the studio where me and Carl create our masterpieces, and you can meet Matilda. Promise?"

Printed on premium grade stock, solid black with a gloss finish, the card featured the same design as Amelia's phone cover. Embossed for three-dimensional effect, the oak tree's face was even more unsettling. Gothic-style white text stood out against the dark background, proclaiming:

Sylvestris Deus Arts
Photography & Mixed Media

Below that, in a smaller, more legible font, the names Carl Silvanis and Millie Cole were followed by a Chelsea address and phone number. Not too far from the precinct, Olivia noted.

"I'm not leaving until I hear you say it," Amelia goaded, even as she gathered up her fragrant lunch and stood to go.

There were few other options but to comply. "I promise," Olivia said, releasing a choked little laugh when Amelia threw both arms around her shoulders and gave a quick, fierce squeeze.

"I'll hold you to it." Amelia pointed to show she meant business, then blew several air kisses, pausing beside Noah for another ambush hug and a peck on the cheek. "I'm always around, so stop by whenever. Bring your boy so my girl has someone to play with. See you later!"

Half the diner heard the last few bars of Amelia's salutation as she backed towards the door, waving animatedly. And just as quickly as she had reappeared on Olivia's radar, she was gone once again.

"Wow," said Noah, looking dazed and a bit windblown, as if he'd just stepped out of a hurricane into dead calm.

"Huh," Olivia concurred, tracking the girl's departure through the nearest window, until her vivid form was swallowed up by a crowd of business suits crossing the street.

"I like her."

Olivia pulled her gaze away from the bustling city outside, back to her sweet boy and their happy place. "Me too," she said, returning his broad smile. It slipped for a moment when, raising the cappuccino to her lips, she caught a glimpse of the bill next to her saucer. The price was fine—fourteen bucks wouldn't break the bank. But a grilled cheese and eight ounce soup for two people? Odd.

Shrugging it off as another idiosyncrasy, of which Amelia (or rather, Millie) seemed to have many, Olivia picked up a crayon and began coloring with her son. Seconds later they were both giggling helplessly at her inability to draw so much as a simple stick figure.

Chapter 3 coming soon!