Author's Comments: Is there anyone left out there who still doubts that I love to torture Olivia? Maybe I was a psychopath in a past life. Pray for my soul…

Rebel in the Dark

Chapter Eleven

Part 1.

Elliot arrived at the scene too late, but he heaved a huge sigh when he found out she had escaped. His relief was short-lived, though, when he entered the hotel room and saw traces of her everywhere—her coat, her boots, her wallet. Officers were bagging several items, including a stack of money in her duffle bag, and then he realized she wouldn't make it long without any of this stuff.

Something shiny on the dresser caught his eye, and he was drawn to it like a cat to a Christmas tree ornament. Her necklace. He looked around, and as he noticed nobody watching him, he slipped the trinket into his pocket.

She had not been expecting this, and she was in trouble. In an effort to track her down before some dumbass with a happy trigger finger found her first, he retreated to his car and began driving down side streets. It seemed like there were blue uniforms everywhere, and he thought it would be a miracle if she got away this time.

But after several hours of searching unsuccessfully, he still had not heard the dreaded call on the radio. And although he felt defeated that he couldn't find her, he was also grateful that nobody else had gotten to her first. She had played Russian roulette once before with the cops, and he didn't doubt that she might feel defeated enough to try it again.

When the weather report came on the radio, he turned up the volume. "Lows in the low twenties, with a sixty percent chance of snow. Expected snow amounts of four to six inches." How stubborn would she be before seeking out his help? There were a lot less places to hide without money. And who knows how much protection she had when she had left so suddenly—did she even have a coat on? After darkness fell, his search was a lot more difficult, but he kept plugging along. Around midnight, he ventured into Penn Station, looking at each of the dozens of homeless lined up against the walls, hoping she would hunker down in there to stay warm. He spotted a woman with dark hair, her head buried against her knees, but as he trotted in her direction, he realized it wasn't Olivia.

Pushing through exhaustion, he kept the search up until daylight, and then even his stubborn brain had to admit the futility of continuing to look. There was already a solid layer of snow on the ground, but if she had kept moving, she may be miles away by now, and there were countless crevices for her to slip into during the night. He couldn't shake off a sense of dread—she could be anywhere, with no protection from people who might harm her, and vulnerable to the frigid winter air.

'Please, Liv, just call me,' he prayed as he laid his head against the back of his car seat and allowed sleep to consume him.

Part 2.

Olivia kept in the alleyways and off the main streets while she ran through options in her mind. She had already decided that surrender was not an option. If she called Elliot, or anyone else for that matter, not only did she risk capture if the police were monitoring the phones of her loved ones, but she also put them in the unpleasant position of having to choose between turning her in or going to jail.

No, for now she was going to have to try and make it alone in the jungle of skyscrapers. She knew that the majority of the homeless would spend cold nights in Penn Station or the subway tunnels to avoid freezing to death, both of which would be teeming with transit cops.

She was going to have to spend the night outside, barren as she was in her gray sweatshirt, jeans, and tennis shoes. She spotted a discarded coffee cup bantered about by the wind and picked it up. Then she made her way up the street, hugging herself with her arms, holding out the cup as a young trendy couple approached. "Spare a quarter?" she said, her voice trembling in the winter air. Maybe she could panhandle enough for a hat and some dinner.

"Get a job," said the man, avoiding eye contact.

Keeping her head down, she continued down the street, reluctantly revealing the cup whenever she passed someone. "Spare some change?" she repeated to everyone she met.

A few people must have felt sorry for her lack of winter attire, because they threw in bills instead of pennies. Others ignored her while looking away. One man in a suit spit in her direction. She vowed never to walk past a homeless person again without giving something.

After twenty minutes of this routine, she lost feeling in her fingers and switched hands. But as the temperature fell with the descending sun, it took a lot less time for her other hand to go numb as well. She closed her eyes against the wind, picking up her pace to keep her core from dropping to dangerous lows.

Feeling like a popsicle of sorts, she stopped in a doorway so she could count her haul. She tried and failed to pick out each coin individually, her frozen fingers unable to hold onto the petrified metal objects. Trying another tactic, she tried to steady her shaking hands enough to pour the money out into her left palm. But her quivering arm wouldn't cooperate, and a few coins spilled out onto the sidewalk, one quarter boldly rolling away into a nearby storm drain.

"Shit," she said, bending down to gather up the remainder of the runaway coinage.

Finally she was able to get the damn things to stay steady in her hand, and she sorted through them, coming up with a sum of eight dollars and forty-two cents. Enough for a hat.

Entering a bodega, the warm air was like stepping into a sauna, after forty-five minutes in below-freezing temperatures. She lingered as long as she could, looking at every item in an effort to kill time in the life-saving warmth of the store. But the cashier began to glare at her, and she knew she had worn out her welcome as a bum off the streets, so she grabbed a knit hat for sale and plopped down eight dollars.

Then she stopped at the door and sucked in one last balmy breath before descending once more into the chill gray of the city.