Elliot took a confirming glance at the scribbled address and shoved the scrap of paper into his pocket. This was the place, Sam's on 8th Avenue, where Olivia had stopped for a drink the night she disappeared. Yanking the door open with more vigor than necessary, Elliot tried to calm his rising hopes. Already, it seemed as if he had crossed too many leads from his list to ever find his partner.

With purpose in his gait, Elliot strode to the bar and pulled his badge and a photo of Olivia from his pocket. "I'm Detective Stabler, with the Manhattan Special Victims' Unit. I need to know who was working on a Friday night, two weeks ago."

To his relief, the bartender turned to fetch her manager without any further inquiry or resistance. The manager emerged from behind the bar and, with a second flash of Elliot's badge, ushered the detective into his cramped office. Elliot perched on an available folding chair and offered the round, balding man Olivia's photograph.

"Do you recognize this woman?" he asked.

"Of course," the manager replied, leaning back in his chair. "That's Olivia, she comes in here pretty regular. Why you askin'?"

"Sir," Elliot began before he was cut off by a wave of the manager's hand.

"Call me Chris."

"Alright, Chris. She's been missing for two weeks and I believe she was here the night she disappeared. I'd like to know who was working on Friday October 14th."

Elliot was gratified when the manager dug into a drawer in his desk and withdrew a thick binder marked "schedule" in black marker. Sliding reading glasses onto his nose, Chris flipped through the pages until pausing and running his finger over the printed text.

"Aha," he said as he slid a notepad and pencil across the desk. He squinted as he scribbled before finally tearing the sheet free and holding it out towards Elliot. "Here you go, a couple of bartenders and the busboy. Call 'em up and if they give you any shit, tell 'em to talk to me."

Elliot nodded his gratitude and pocketed the folded paper. He stood to leave but paused when he felt a touch on his sleeve.

"Find her, detective. She's one of my regulars and she always makes me laugh."

Again, Elliot nodded, his hopes beginning to bubble, and let himself out of the office. With a wave at the bartender, he left the dark bar and burst into the bright autumn sunlight. Shoving the key into the cruiser's door, he thought a quick prayer. Please let someone have seen her.

Elliot sank exhaustedly into his desk chair in the squad room. He buried his face in his hands to avoid the sight of Olivia's empty seat as well as the concerned stares of his colleagues. He hardly had the energy to keep his cheek from resting on his forearm and letting his eyes close. He certainly did not have the heart to break the bad news to his friends. Her friends. He simply hoped that they would read the news in his slumped posture.

After contacting each of the employees on the list provided by Sam's manager, he still had nothing. Each of the bartenders remembered Olivia on that Friday night, recalled that she had seemed depressed, exhausted. However, none remembered her speaking to anyone or leaving. They could hardly even give him descriptions of other patrons. It had been a busy night. And so, after two weeks of exhaustive searching, Elliot had come up with nothing. It was as if his partner had simply vanished.

In the darkness, Olivia prayed for death. Her life was pain; it was all she could remember. Pain in her limbs, her heart, her most sensitive and private places. She tried to picture the comforting faces of her friends, her family. She strained to paint Alex's smile in her mind, but it had been too long. All she could imagine were images of blonde hair splayed on the concrete, blood and sirens, and Alex's unshed tears as she was ushered into a black SUV.

Olivia prayed for her own tears to come and grant her some small release, but it seemed that they had taken this from her too. She had already sobbed herself dry and now she only mewled pathetically into the silencing gag. So she slumped, still and silent, in her concrete prison and let her mind go blank. It was a skill she had learned quickly as she distanced herself from the torture and humiliation that would otherwise overwhelm her. She was nothing, a mockery of the woman she had once been, a toy soldier.

The footsteps and gruff voices came for her once again. They contorted her body, violated her with objects or flesh, tortured her for their own pleasure and she hardly cared. It was as if they were mutilating a mannequin as she watched from a distance, her vision obscured by mist. She couldn't feel sympathy for an inanimate object. They didn't have feelings, after all.