As the sun rose, Olivia rolled over and groaned. She'd been up half the night searching every available resource for any sort of information on Nicholas or Imogen Tanner. All she'd found was a squeaky clean family. Some pictures of Nicholas and his wife at charity galas, impeccable tax forms, and a whole bunch of awards that Imogen had won throughout the years. Really, it was almost depressing how perfect this family seemed from the outside. Though she knew better, Olivia began to doubt herself and this whole case. Had she just imagined the fear in Imogen's eyes? How certain could she really be that Morales' identification of the bag was correct? And how did they even know that it was Imogen's bag? Was she jumping to conclusions because of the way Imogen looked? Some people were just naturally tiny; there was no need to think anything was off because Imogen was small. In this size-obsessed culture of theirs, it was possible that Imogen had some sort of eating disorder. Tragic, but no crime, and not something they had any jurisdiction over. Even their interviews with Ophelia were suspect. Maybe they had terrorized Ophelia into thinking something was wrong with her friend. After all, the girl hadn't noticed anything in ten years. But then Olivia had remembered the way Imogen's voice cracked as she whispered, "Please," and she knew that this girl needed help.
When Elliot entered the crib, the first thing he saw was Olivia's hair strewn all over the pillow. Her forehead was furrowed and she was mumbling something as she flopped from side to side, "Liv," he gently shook her, "Liv. Wake up. It's nearly eight o'clock."
"Mnpmgh," she opened her eyes a slit, "Dun wanna." She pulled the covers over her head and curled up in the fetal position.
"Liv," he felt as though he was waking up one of his children, "Come on. We've got to see Imogen," he was glad to see that she yawned and straightened up, rubbing her eyes with the backs of her hands, "I brought you some coffee," he smiled and held out a cup.
"Not Munch's, I hope," she took a sip and made a satisfied face, "Good."
"I brewed my own batch," Elliot sniffed the air, "Notice how it doesn't smell like grease and charred wood." She laughed and he grinned, "You think after thirty years as a cop, he would have learned how to make a decent cup of coffee," when he saw the lines under her eyes, he grimaced, "How late were you up?"
"I think I got to bed around three."
"Find anything?"
"Not even close," she sighed, "If I didn't know better, I'd say they're the perfect family and Imogen lives a charmed life," she put her head in her hands, "El, I can't help feeling that something is terribly wrong. Can we go check on her?"
"Sure."
Half an hour later, they were parked across the street from the Tanner brownstone. Each detective was poised over another cup of coffee, silently staring at the door. Sometimes Olivia thought this was the worst part of a case – the waiting. Seeing injuries and hearing descriptions of abuse was horrifying, but this waiting for something to happen felt like a knife in the gut. Without extenuating circumstances, they had to be content to sit and hope that Imogen wasn't being harmed, "There he goes," Olivia commented as the door opened and Nicholas Tanner appeared. He glanced down the street before hopping into the parked limousine and speeding away.
Elliot put a hand on Olivia's shoulder, "Wait," he cautioned, "we need to know that he's not coming back," Olivia grimaced, but sat back down. They waited another fifteen minutes before Elliot would allow them to get out of the car and walk up to the door. He rang the bell, listening for any movement inside. When he pressed his ear to the door, he could hear a slight scuffle, like a mouse running across the marble entryway. He knocked, "Imogen?" They waited, which seemed to be the activity of the day, "Imogen, it's Detectives Benson and Stabler. Could we please speak to you again? Imogen, are you there?" Again the scuffle, and Elliot was pretty sure that it was Imogen on the other side of the door, "Imogen, your father's at work for the day, and we really need to talk to you. Please?"
"Here, let me," Olivia motioned him away from the door, "Imogen, honey. Please let us in. We're worried sick about you."
"I'm fine," came the whisper, "Please leave me alone."
"We can't do that until we know for a fact that you're all right. Please let us in?"
"My father said I'm not supposed to." It was the kind of response they got from small children, not teenagers, and it made Olivia's blood run cold. The terror in Imogen's voice felt like nails against Olivia's skin and the detective shuddered.
She pressed closer to the door and spoke to the crack, "He won't know, I promise," Olivia tried to make her voice as warm and engaging as possible, "Honey, please?" Olivia hoped that endearments would touch Imogen's love-starved heart enough to get her to trust them.
They could hear the lock slowly turn and the creak of the door as it opened. The wraithlike figure who greeted them bore little resemblance to the Imogen they had seen yesterday. She was wearing a thick scarf that covered her mouth, and huge sunglasses over her eyes, so that the tip of her nose was the only part of her face that was showing. Olivia immediately grabbed Elliot's sleeve and telegraphed her fears through wide eyes. Imogen stood in the entryway, arms crossed over her chest.
"Aren't you warm?" Elliot inquired. The girl just shrugged and turned away, "Could we sit and talk?"
"You said it wasn't going to take long," her voice was raw and cracked, "What do you want?" The detectives could see that she was trembling like a leaf, her hostile posture barely hiding her shivering jaw.
"Are you okay? Olivia put her hands on the girl's shoulders, "If anyone's hurting you, if anything's happening that you don't like, you can tell us. We're here to protect you," she looked deep into Imogen's face, "Sweetie, you can trust us." Olivia was never sure what had done it, but Imogen seemed to overflow. She didn't sob, just gently and quietly boiled over. Tears welled up in her eyes and poured down her face, catching in her scarf, and smudging her concealer. She pressed into Olivia, who wrapped her arms around the girl and let her cry into her jacket. When Imogen was finished, she stood back and hesitated. Silently, she reached up and took her sunglasses off before unwinding the scarf and letting it drop to the floor. Olivia had to stop herself from gasping at the sight. The girl's eyes were swollen and bruised. Her lips were caked with dried blood, and her face was an assortment of bruises. Some faded, others recent enough that Olivia knew she'd been beaten last night. She remembered the odd tinge Imogen's face had had the day before, and she realized it was because there was not a single inch of skin that was not discolored by a bruise. The girl had coated her face in concealer because it was the only way she could expose it without exposing the marks. Imogen then took off her sweatshirt, which revealed a thin body, dotted with bruises, welts, cuts, and scars. Olivia heard Elliot breathe in sharply when Imogen turned around and took off her shirt. In addition to the bones protruding from her back, the girl's flesh was crisscrossed with belt marks, swollen and distorted beyond recognition. They were fresh, and Olivia guessed they came from yesterday afternoon, between the detectives' visit and when Imogen and Ophelia had spoken on the phone. On the girl's left shoulder was a deep rope-like scar that, upon closer investigation, looked as though it had been made with a hot iron.
The sound of Imogen clearing her throat snapped Olivia back to attention, "What do you want to know?"
