While reading, please be aware of the PG-13 rating. This story deals with heavy topics such as abuse (physical, mental, sexual), alcoholism, and drug use.

* I DO NOT OWN THE CHICAGO P.D. CHARACTERS. I ONLY OWN THE STORY LINE THAT I HAVE CREATED*

Thank you, guys, for all of the support for the last chapter! Let me just say that I'm not very happy with this chapter but I wanted to get it up for you. Hope you enjoy!

Erin –

One week later

Just as I am about to get out of my car and walk into Morrison Elementary for the S.A.C. class, my phone buzzes in my pocket. It's a message from Hank.

Hank: Have you seen her yet?

I don't need any more information to figure out that he is talking about Robbie. After I dropped her off last week, I went back to the house that I grew up in, and had a long conversation with Hank about the young girl. He confirmed my suspicions by saying that he, too, thought Robbie is being abused. He even put in an emergency phone call to his friend from DCFS, but he hasn't heard anything back, much to our dismay. For the rest of the week, I stayed close to my phone at all times, silently hoping that Robbie would call. But the phone never rang.

I let my fingers glide across the screen.

Me: Not yet, just got here. How's the case going?

In the two seconds it takes for me to close the car door, my phone buzzes again.

Hank: Antonio just went to talk with one of his C.I.s. Let me know when you talk to Robbie.

I write my name in the sign in book in the main office before responding.

Me: Will do. See you in a bit.

I go down the familiar hallway, a path that I have grown to memorize, until I reach the classroom. I glance down at my watch, realizing that I am about ten minutes early. Mrs. Johannsen is gesturing to the board, her mouth moving quickly as she describes the picture, while the students look on with bored expressions. I let myself move to the classroom window, and am able to see Robbie, slouching over her desk in the back of the room.

Even though her hair is parted so some of it is covering her face, I can still see that the severity of her bruises from last week has decreased to a sickly green and yellow. That is all that is visible on her face, but even from where I am standing, I can see a light blue blossoming from the neck of her shirt.

I knock on the door, not caring that I am early any longer. I watch Mrs. Johannsen stop mid-sentence, and then gesture for someone to open the door. When the student does, I am met with twenty kids hastily putting their notebooks away. I ignore them, and look to Robbie, but she isn't looking at me. In fact, she is making an effort not to.

I say hello to the kids, and hello to Mrs. Johannsen, who moves out of my way to her own desk. I place my bag on the table and glance inside to see the work books that the class has been writing in for the past few weeks. The ones that hold practically useless information on things they most likely will never use in life. I tuck my lips between my teeth, mulling an idea over in my head, before closing the bag and placing it on the floor.

"We're going to do something a little different today." They all look displeased with this arrangement. "I want you all to put your desks in a large circle." It takes them a moment, and I'm still not sure if what I'm doing is even allowed, but soon, the desks are in a large circle, and just as I suspected, there is a spot large enough for me to slide another desk in next to Robbie. She rolls her eyes, and shrinks to the other side of her desk.

Resisting the urge to reach out and hug her, I clear my throat so the chatter stops. "I want to do this little exercise because I realized that all of these classes have been revolved around not getting yourself into trouble. But I know more than anyone that sometimes, you feel like putting yourself into that situation is the only choice."

The expression on the students' faces are varied. Some look bored, just like always. But the majority of them, including Mrs. Johannsen, are watching me with extreme curiosity. Robbie is still refusing to look at me, however I can tell that she is listening, which I am glad for. I take a deep breath, I have only told this story twice. Once when I was interrogated by the police, and the second time when I told Hank after I lived with the Voights for over two years. "When I was ten, I enrolled in an after-school program. It went until five o'clock, and in order to leave, a parent or guardian has to pick you up." I have gathered the attention of the rest of the kids, including Robbie, who is sneaking a look at me out of the corner of her eye. "It wasn't until seven o'clock did my mother finally come and pick me up. She was clearly drunk, and not at all capable of driving. Part of me was glad that my teacher didn't ask any questions when her car pulled up and I just got in, but another part of me wished that she had brought me over to the car and had talked to my mom."

A hand hesitantly rises from the far side of the circle. The owner of the hand is a sweet girl named Whitney, who seems to enjoy the class and is always attentive. I nod, telling her to ask her question, and glad that I can take a break from telling my story. "Didn't you say that you shouldn't get into a car with someone who is drinking?"

See, always listening. That lesson came from a few weeks ago, and even I have forgotten them. "I absolutely said that, and if I knew that when I was your age I would've been in much better shape. With that being said, I was ten years old and I thought my mom would never hurt me." This isn't necessarily true, since I knew full well that when my mom was drinking or high, she was no longer my mom. She was Bunny: single woman with no responsibilities, and anything that happened to me during that time- she really didn't care. "I got into that car, and she ended up crashing into someone's mailbox. I am in no way trying to justify my reasoning for getting into that car, but if I had trusted someone enough to tell them what was going on, I would not have been in that accident. I would not have been brought into the police station and I would not have been forced to answer questions about my mother that I did not want to answer." I leave out the part about being thrown into foster care for a month, my third stint by that time, while my mom served her sentence in jail, and then fought tooth and nail (which I still to this day have no clue why) to get me back.

Mrs. Johannsen is watching me carefully, her eyes flicking from me to Robbie. "Now, tell me this: who could I have told about my mom so I didn't end up in that situation?"

Robbie has once again shifted her gaze to looking down at her lap. Anthony, who I still am holding a slight grudge against, raises his hand. "You could've told your teacher."

I nod, "Absolutely. Who else could I have told?"

The responses start rolling in: guidance counselors, other relatives, friends, and the last one is what I wanted to hear: a police officer. Of course, the answer comes from Whitney.

I ask her to repeat herself, and she does. Some of the students laugh at her answer, since most of them think police officers are just here to arrest them, but I shut those comments down. "Out of all of those people that you just mentioned, a police officer is probably the person you can trust the most. I understand that sometimes there are officers that have different opinions of the job, which will result in a different response, but the majority of police officers are people that you can trust with anything. And not just trust, but they can help you. They will help you. The key is to let them."

I am so invested in getting this message across, that I visibly jump when Robbie pushes herself out of her chair. She moves so quickly that her desk collides with the linoleum, and the girl is out of the classroom in a flash.

Desperately, I look towards the teacher, who immediately motions for me to follow her. The other students are whispering amongst themselves, already formulating rumors as to why Robbie has left.

I push myself out of my seat, grabbing my phone and keys from the table when I get up there. The door that Robbie slammed open is still cracked, so I am able to slip out, trying the hear where her feet might have carried her. It doesn't take me long to figure out that she went towards the main entrance, and I find myself running to catch up with her. For a small girl, she sure can run fast.

When I leave the school, I can see Robbie a few paces in front of me up the school driveway. She keeps whipping her head around, wondering if I am following her. When she notices I am, she picks up the pace.

My breath is rattling in my chest, but I keep going, determined to catch up with her. When I reach the entrance of the parking lot, I make a split decision to go get my car, figuring that I'll be able to cover more ground that way. My hand is shaking when I put the key in ignition, but I am instantly grateful for the vehicle, since I can now catch my breath.

It takes two seconds for me to catch up with Robbie, who has tears streaming down her face. "What are you doing, kiddo?" I slow the car down to a crawl, and roll down the window so that I can talk with her. She has stopped running, but won't turn and look at me. "Robbie, what is going on?"

When I got into the classroom this morning, I was obviously not expecting warm hugs and an abundance of kind greetings. What I was expecting, though, was at least a smile: some sort of acknowledgment of our time spent together. Something to show that our bonding, if you can even call it that, happened.

"Please," I beg, "Talk to me."

Her chest is rising and falling heavily with each strained breath. "Stay." Shaky breath. "Away." Shaky breath. It looks as if it hurts her to say this, since the tears start falling heavier, making a path through the obvious concealer on her face.

"Robbie, please tell me what is going on. I can help you." I feel like this is the fiftieth time that I've said this, but if that is how many times it will take to make her open, then I will say if fifty more times over.

Robbie turns onto a side street, and I start struggling to keep the car at her pace. We are only a block from her house, and if she doesn't get in the car soon, I won't be able to stop her from going inside.

Suddenly, Robbie stops. She whips her body around and comes over to the car, leaning up against the passenger side. "You don't get it, do you?" My eyes widen, I have no clue what she is going to say. "You are the problem, not me!" Her lip is trembling, but she isn't stopping. "You are the one that keeps following me. You are the one that is obsessed with me, and is stirring up all of this trouble with my teachers, and the principal, and the police for God's sake." Robbie laughs in disbelief. "And the social worker. Do you know how much trouble I got in?"

"Robbie that isn't what I intended. If you would let me help you…"

Her face contorts to a mixture of anger and confusion, "That's not what I'm talking about! My parents are fine. I am fine. And you sending a social worker to my house on a hunch, is not okay!"

I try again, "Robbie…"

"Enough! Detective Lindsay, Erin, stalker, whatever you want me to call you, just stay away!"

Her eyes are clouded over with tears when she turns on her heels and starts walking back down the street. Frozen, I stay put, with my foot hovering above the gas pedal, watching as the distance between us grows further. And that distance? I caused that. I pushed for her to open up when she clearly isn't ready.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm my emotions. I don't normally get upset, but when I do, it is over something that I care about. Robbie is definitely one of these instances.

The young girl has disappeared from my sight, and I start driving again, turning onto Robbie's street, just in time to see her crossing her front yard. I pull up slightly, just so I can see into her house. She looks around, before pulling open her front door and slipping inside. It slams shut behind her, and in a matter of seconds, the same man that I 'met' last week appears in the doorway. The same man with the light stubble, and the greasy black curls. Even his outfit is the same, just with a few additional stains. Our eyes meet across the yard, before he turns around and goes further into the house.

I slam the door open to the 21st district, pushing past some uniforms and heading towards the stairs.

"Erin! Are you okay?" Platt asks from the desk. I offer a half wave, before storming through the gate into the intelligence unit.

The men of my team look up from their desks. Everyone seems to be here, all except Antonio, who's desk is empty. Hank is in his office, and the whiteboard is covered with possible suspects and timelines, but there still isn't one solid answer.

I know my face is red from crying when I make my way over to my desk. I sit down, practically throwing my phone and keys down on to the wooden surface. They are all watching me, especially Jay. My foot is bouncing up and down, and when I can't take their stares anymore, I make long strides until I am in Hank's office.

"What happened?" He immediately looks up from his computer, and gestures to the seat in front of his desk.

The tears start welling in my eyes again, "I don't know what I'm doing wrong with Robbie, Hank. She doesn't want my help even though I know there is something going on. It's like she wants to be in that situation."

"You know more than anyone that there is more to it than that, Erin." He leans back in his chair, folding his hands on top of his chest.

"I know but-."

The gate coming into the intelligence unit slams open, and Antonio comes in carrying a picture. Hank holds up a finger, and goes into the main room just as Antonio is taping up the picture. I wipe beneath my eyes, and join my team. But as I leave the office, the picture taped up makes me stop in my tracks.

"This is an age progression photo of Sean Price, one of my C.I.s tipped me off about him. He was a drug lord in California, of all places. He moved to Chicago about ten years ago, under the alias Gregor Tucker, but didn't register for anything. No license, mortgage, bank statements, nothing," Antonio pauses, and my heart races in my chest. "According to my C.I., he's been getting shipments of heroin that have passed through multiple dealers before the stash reaches him, for the past six months. There are also reports of the people in his crew getting shipments of strychnine. It's a whole system, boss."

Hank rubs his chin; my eyes do not leave the photo. "Did you get an address?"

Antonio nods, "558 Harrison Ave."

My stomach churns. The photo is haunting in itself, but even more so when I've seen the person in real life. The same light stubble and greasy black curls. The same evil glint in his eyes that makes my skin crawl. "Erin, you okay?" Jay asks from across the room.

My voice catches in my throat, "That's Robbie's dad."

Robbie –

"So, still bringing your cop friend around?" I jump, the deep voice startling me. I thought I had successfully made my way into the house without anyone noticing. My mom was passed out on the couch, and I naturally assumed my Dad was with her. I guessed wrong.

With my back turned to him, I take a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves. "I didn't bring her anywhere."

He laughs, "You're trying to tell me she was parked in front of my house just because?" I told her not follow me, now look what is going to happen.

"I didn't tell her anything. She followed me home. That's it." I try advancing towards the other side of the room, but a hand comes up and grabs my wrist. "I promise, I didn't tell her anything." He yanks harder, and spins me around so I am facing him. I feel my palms start to get sweaty. His breath reeks of liquor and his pupils are so small they are barely visible. I instantly become more afraid: it's one thing for him to be in a right state of mind, but when he is drunk and high, it opens a whole new evil inside of him. "I swear."

He moves his hand further up on his arm, until he is able to yank me down to my knees. I yelp in pain. "You know, I'm getting sick and tired of you lying to me." He smiles, "You think you're so sneaky, but I know that it was you who told them. I know it was you who are bringing them by MY house! I know it is you, tipping them off about the drugs!"

"I-I didn't. I swear." His hands are shaking, more from the drugs than the nerves.

"Enough!" I flinch backward as his hand strikes me across my face, right where he hit me yesterday. He reaches his hand behind his back, and pulls something from behind his back. When he brings it back around, I am staring into the barrel of a black gun. "I'm going to make you regret you ever lied to me."

I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter! The next one will be intense, and hopefully I will have it up by the end of the week. If you liked it, please don't forget to review, follow, and favorite the story! Thanks for all your support!

Next time:

Erin gets herself into some trouble….

Until Next Time,

KDanceWriteDream