She wakes up stiff and sore and is confused for a moment why she is on the sofa when it all comes back. She must move, or make a sound, because Mike is suddenly awake.

'You okay?' he asks, voice drowsy with sleep, and for the first time she doesn't feel her stomach clench with desire. She pushes herself up to sit and he does, too, leaning back against the opposite arm of the sofa.

They don't say anything. She can hear someone in the kitchen-probably her father. The clock on the mantel reads 6:33; he follows her gaze.

'Do you have to go in today?' she asks.

'Yeah,' he replies. 'I should probably start getting ready, but I can call in sick.'

She forces herself to shake her head although she has no idea how she'll be able to last today without him.

'Your mom's gonna stay today, remember,' he reminds her, and her heart unclenches a little. She nods.

'You should get ready then,' she says, and he leans across the sofa, hand outstretched. After a long moment she lays her hand in his and he squeezes it.

'I love you,' he says softly.

'I love you too,' she replies, needing to say it and knowing he needs to hear it. He leans forward and kisses her forehead briefly before heading to the bedroom. She waits a few minutes and then goes into the kitchen.

Her father is there, sitting at the table in his dressing gown, a cup of coffee cradled in his hands. He looks exhausted, like he hasn't slept, and her heart clenches when she realizes that, for the first time, he looks his age.

'Hi, darling,' he says, forcing a smile. 'Want some coffee?'

Some of the numbness from yesterday has worn off. She's aware, now, of an aching sense of loss, of violation. She tries, and fails, to keep that from showing on her face. Her father looks utterly, utterly bereft.

'Yes, thanks,' she says, and the moment passes. He stands from the table to pour her a cup and she pulls out a chair, wincing as she sinks into it. She catches her father's horrified glance as he turns to hand her her coffee; she drops her gaze immediately and he swallows.

'I have to go into the bank this morning,' he says, 'but I'll be back as soon as I can. Your mother and I can stay as long as you want.'

'Thank you,' she says quietly. 'Daddy-please bring a copy of the Ledger home.'

'Sweetheart-'

'Please. Actually, I'd like you to get one now. And the Times. And any other paper that mentions this.' She doesn't look up at him.

'Are you sure?' he asks, voice soft but not pitying, thank God.

'I need to know.'

'All right,' her father says after a long moment. 'I'll pick up some breakfast, too.'

'Thank you,' she whispers, and takes a scalding sip of coffee. He stands up and touches her shoulder lightly as he leaves the kitchen to get dressed.

Her mother comes into the kitchen shortly after her father goes to dress. She, too, looks her age this morning, her silver-streaked auburn hair disheveled. She's dressed already in khakis and a light blue sweater set she probably found in the dresser-they both keep spare clothes here-and she pours herself a cup of coffee before sitting down.

'Daddy said he was going to go out and get breakfast.'

'And the papers,' she says, and her mother drops her gaze.

'Yes.' Her mother pauses. 'Are you sure, darling, that you want to see them?'

God, no, of course she doesn't want to see them, but she has to, she has to face it… she nods.

Her mother says, 'What do you want to do today?'

'I don't know,' she admits. 'I need to listen to my messages.'

'I can do that,' her mother offers.

She shakes her head. 'I need to. And I need to call my secretary, and see if Rebecca can cover my patients, and I-I need to make an appointment with her myself.' She came to that conclusion last night, watching television with Mike. She needs help, desperately, she knows that, even if this hasn't fully hit her yet.

'I'll do that, darling,' her mother says, and this time she nods, grateful to her mother, to taking this out of her hands.

'Thank you,' she says. She takes another sip of coffee, lukewarm now, but she needs the caffeine and the comfort of it.

They sit in silence. She's grateful that her mother is here, that her father is, that Mike is-that they care enough for her to be here. But she just… she wants to be alone, to curl up in a ball and cry and take a five-hour-long shower and just… forget.

Instead she takes another sip of coffee.

Her father and Mike enter the kitchen together and she suddenly feels as though she can't breathe. The kitchen is large for New York apartments and the table in the kitchen has four chairs, but-she stands up suddenly, almost tipping over the chair.

'Lizzie, what is it?' Mike asks, but she-she doesn't know what's wrong with her, her heart is racing, she has to-

'It's okay, Lilibet,' her mother says, standing up and resting a hand on her shoulder. 'It's okay.'

Mike and her father move away from the door; Mike guides her father over to the counter near the coffee pot, giving her some space, and her heartbeat slows, the panic recedes, and her shoulders slump.

'What happened?' her father asks from near the coffee pot.

'Panic attack,' Mike says before she can reply or even realize what happened. 'It's okay.'

She looks at him, seeing the slump of his shoulders and the pain in his eyes and she closes her eyes, unable to help him now.

'I'm going to get breakfast,' her father says.

'I've got to head into the precinct,' Mike tells her. 'Can we talk for a minute?'

She's grateful he's giving her an excuse to leave this cramped space, and nods, and follows him to the living room.

'You sure you want me to go in?' he asks her. 'No one's gonna mind-'

'I want you to get him,' she tells him.

His gaze is flinty. 'I will. I promise, Lizzie.'

'Good.' That's all she can say.

'Can I give you a hug?' he asks her softly, and she nods. He approaches her slowly and God, she appreciates that he knows what she's going through, how he should behave, even as her heart aches at the fact that it's necessary at all… his embrace is comforting, warm, solid, and she's reminded again how grateful she is they've found each other.

'I love you,' she whispers.

'I love you too, Lizzie,' he tells her. 'I'll call when I'm leaving work.'

'Okay,' she says, and he kisses her forehead lightly before heading down the hallway. She hears him say goodbye to her parents and then he's gone.

A few minutes later, her father sticks his head in the living room to say he'll be right back. She nods, forces a smile, and he leaves, too.

The papers are worse than she expected. It's surreal to read these articles, to see a photo of herself, the portrait photograph her parents had insisted on when she was a debutante, the one that was published in the Social Register, juxtaposed next to the police photo of Merritt's second wife, dead, sprawled on his desk wearing a leather hood…

She tries to read the article as though it's about no one she knows.

Dr. Alex Merritt, (Harvard '61, Cornell Med '64) has had an illustrious career as an OB/GYN to Manhattan's wealthy women. With privileges at only the best hospitals, awards and accolades by the truckload, and the ability to charge $150 an appointment (no insurance accepted), one would be forgiven for thinking that Dr. Merritt was an unimpeachable expert in the field.

Dr. Merritt has been accused of drugging and raping a patient, Dr. Elizabeth Olivet (see below for Dr. Olivet's credentials and biography) yesterday. Dr. Merritt has been married twice. His first marriage ended in divorce, but his second marriage ended in the suicide of his second wife, Teresa, age 23. His wife was found in his office, on his desk, wearing a leather harness and hood that are common in the deviant sexual underworld.

'Merritt is a lifetime member of the Marquis Club,' a NYPD detective told our reporter. Marquis as in Marquis de Sade, we are told, where participants routinely participate in BDSM sexual practices.

Dr. Merritt's attorney, Danielle Melnick, has released the following statement: Dr. Merritt is a respected gynecologist and pillar of the community. He has worked at some of our city's best hospitals and is widely recognized as a leader in the field. He vehemently denies these accusations.

The alleged victim, Dr. Elizabeth Olivet (Farmington, Barnard '82, Columbia PhD '86) is the daughter of New York Trust Bank President Nicholas Olivet and his wife Isobel. Dr. Olivet was presented at the Debutante Cotillion and Christmas Ball in 1978. Dr. Olivet has worked in private practice and is currently the in-house psychologist at the 27th Precinct in Manhattan. We have reached out to Dr. Olivet for comment but have not heard back.

God, seeing the picture of herself ten years ago, happy, enjoying herself and her life… and now… and next to the picture of Merritt's dead wife…

She sets down the paper, excuses herself, and vomits up the bagel she had for breakfast as soon as she reaches the bathroom.

Her mother comes in to find her in the bathroom, back pressed against the glass wall of the shower, clutching her knees to her chest. She vomited again a few minutes ago and she feels clammy and sick.

'Let's get you into bed,' her mother says, taking charge. She lets her, and climbs between the sheets, closes her eyes, and lets her hold her tight.

She dozes for much of the day. She's exhausted from yesterday, from not sleeping last night, and even now, taking another shower at 4 pm, she is still tired. Her mother has spent the entire day with her, holding her while she slept, reading her books-her favorites from when she was little-making her lunch and snacks… she feels like she's slipped out of time, out of herself, and somehow she's fallen back to her childhood, when she was ill…

She does let her mother listen to her messages, which she does while she sleeps. When she woke up again, her mother told her she'd handled almost all of the phone calls and that she should take a shower, first, before going through the messages she needs to respond to.

So here she is, in the shower. She's already been here so long her fingers and toes have pruned. She doesn't want to get out yet, though. Here, in the shower, she feels clean. But her mother is knocking on the door, asking if she's all right, so she has to get out.

She takes her time getting changed, blow-drying her hair, and putting on real clothes. She does all the little things she doesn't have time for during her morning routine-examining her face for wrinkles, plucking a stray eyebrow hair, rubbing lotion into her skin. Finally, though, there's nothing else she can do. She pulls on one of Mike's sweaters, a long-sleeved tshirt, and leggings, and goes into the living room. She can hear voices as she walks down the hall-maybe her father is home?-but when she enters the living room she sees it's Diana Hawthorne.

'Liz!' Diana says, jumping up from her seat, though thankfully she doesn't try to give her a hug. 'Hi. I just wanted to stop by, see how you were doing, give you an update.'

'Diana brought you some flowers, Liz,' her mother says, indicating the bouquet on the table. 'Lilies.'

'Not just from me, but from Jack and Ben and Paul…' Diana trails off as she comes into the room, taking a seat on the end of the sofa.

'I'll leave you two to chat,' Mummy says, 'I need to call Miranda. She and Peter will be here around 7.' She forces a smile. Her mother squeezes her shoulder as she leaves the room.

'How are you doing?' Diana asks, suddenly serious. She leans back against the arm of the sofa and looks at her. She and Diana have known each other for years, since their last year in grad school, when they met at a women's shelter, and she's enjoyed working with her. She is a good lawyer and a good friend. She can be honest with her in a way she's reluctant to be with her parents or even Mike… even if she can't.

'As you may expect,' she says, lifting her shoulders in a shrug. 'Sore. Bruised.'

Diana nods, her expression growing solemn. 'I know. Well, I wanted to give you an update-the case is assigned to Judge Silver. Melnick filed a motion to have the courtroom sealed to the press and Silver approved.'

'Well, that's something,' she replies. 'Though I wouldn't put it past the ghouls from the Ledger to sneak someone in.'

Diana nods. 'I know. But… it's better than nothing.'

'That's true,' she admits, though her voice sounds false to herself. Even though she doesn't want the press to focus on herself, she wants everyone to know that he is a bad man… even if she can't bear the thought of anyone hearing the tape… oh, God.

She closes her eyes.

'I was raped,' Diana says quietly, and she opens her eyes to look at her. Her usually elegant friend is nervous, running a hand through her coiffed blonde hair. 'Second year of law school. I was on a date with a classmate and we'd gone back to my place, and he drugged my drink and…' she breaks off and looks away. 'My roommate came in. When he was in the middle… I was unconscious. My roommate called the cops, locked the guy in the bathroom, and tried to wake me up. He couldn't, and he had to call an ambulance, too. I woke up in the hospital the next afternoon. The guy who… he took a plea. A six month suspended sentence, two years probation, and a thousand-dollar fine. And I was glad he took a plea, you know, because… my career hadn't even started, I didn't want to be known as the lawyer who was raped…' she takes a deep breath. 'He did it again, though. He's still in jail.'

There's a bitter twist to her mouth when Diana says, 'they told me I was "lucky." They kept saying it. "Lucky." "Lucky" that my roommate came in. "Lucky" that I was unconscious and don't remember it. "Lucky" the guy got punished. And I guess I am. In the scheme of things. And that's why I started volunteering at the women's shelter, to help women who weren't "lucky."'

'I had no idea,' she says, quiet, responding not as a psychologist for once but as a friend, as a woman who has gone through this, too…

'I didn't really tell anyone. It took me a long time to trust men again, besides my roommate. Well, he wasn't interested in women, so that helped, but… people kept telling me it would get better.'

'Doesn't it?' she asks, heart sinking.

'No,' Diana says. 'I won't sugarcoat it, I hated that, I know you would too… it gets different, but it's always there. Every man… God, until Jack, I had to tell friends where I was going, and what time I'd expect to be home, and… and I lived with my roommate for a lot longer than I needed to, because then at least I felt safe.'

'I'm sorry,' she says, and she is-sorry for Diana and sorry for herself, that this will never be over… she knew it, she's had enough rape victims as patients, but to hear it from someone who is like her…

Diana shakes her head. 'That's not what I meant. I meant… I wanted you to know that you aren't alone, Liz. That you can talk to me if you want, or need to talk to someone who has been through it because I have been through it too… I know how you are feeling and… look, Liz, anything you need-if I can help you in any way-'

'Thank you,' she says, reaching out to take Diana's hand, stemming her flow of words. 'I appreciate it. I appreciate it more than you know.' And God, she does, the knowledge that someone understands, that she is hear and someone she knows, someone who is helping with her case…

Diana squeezes her hand. 'Any time. I mean it. It's good that you have a good support system,' she adds. 'Your parents, friends, family…'

Her front door opens and closes.

'Lizzie, I'm home,' Mike calls from the foyer, and Diana raises an eyebrow.

'I didn't realize you were seeing someone,' she says.

'For about a year. We've… kept things quiet, and I'd appreciate it if you would, too,' she says, and Diana nods, barely conceals her surprise when Mike enters the living room.

'Hey, Diana,' Mike says after a moment, also surprised though he doesn't have a chance to hide it. He leans against the wall. 'How are you?'

'I'm fine, Mike, how are you?'

'Could be better,' he says, flicking his gaze to her, then back again. 'Come to visit Lizzie?'

She nods. 'I've got to get going, though. Remember, Liz, call me if you need anything.'

'I will. Thanks again, Diana.'

She nods, gives her a quick peck on the cheek, then stands. She and Mike give each other an awkward nod, then Diana edges past him. They can hear her pick up her coat and leave the apartment.

'How're you doin'?' he asks.

She lifts her shoulders in a shrug. 'Diana came to give me an update. And to talk.'

'Yeah?' he asks, voice tight.

'We've known each other a long time. Since grad school. We volunteered at a women's shelter together.'

The tension in his shoulders eases at the unspoken message that she was here as a friend, not a colleague. 'I didn't know. Nice you stayed friends, though.'

She nods. 'How was your day?' she asks, as though today is just a normal day.

He shrugs. 'Same old, same old.'

It's not, they both know that he's lying, but she lets it go.

'Mummy's on the phone with Miranda,' she says. 'Or she was. They're coming over tonight for dinner.'

'Okay,' he replies. 'I'll get changed, then.'

'I need to, too,' she says. 'And I want to take a shower.'

She sees concern flicker in his eyes but she ignores it. Even after five showers she still doesn't feel clean. She doesn't know how long it will take but she needs to wash, needs to feel at peace…

'When are they gonna get here?' he asks instead.

'Around 7.' It's 5:30 now, she notes. God, this day has lasted forever…

'Okay,' he says, standing up. 'I'm gonna need to shower too. Want to go first?'

She shakes her head. She wants to take her time; she won't be able to do that if she knows he's waiting.

'You sure?' She nods and he says, 'okay. I'll be out in a bit.'

'Okay,' she manages, and watches as he walks out of the room. Once he's gone, she subsides back onto the sofa, closing her eyes.

It's the first time she's been alone, really alone, since it happened. Even when she was in the shower or bath either her mother or Mike would check on her, but she needs time alone, time to herself…

Her whole body aches. The bruises he'd left have only darkened. It feels as though half of her body is a bruise.

She doesn't know how she'll be able to go back to work. Not now. When?

How will she be able to interview suspects or victims or work with her patients? How will she be able to just sit there?

And Diane… changing therapists now will be detrimental for her but… she can't help her any more.

Listening to her messages today… she's told her secretary to handle any work calls, but calls from her friends… she's not going to be able to respond to them. Not now. And then the flowers… God, how inappropriate, and how welcomed, and how many…

An arrangement from Audrey and Charlie. Roses from Nick. Daisies from Jane, Sally, and Cynthia. Diana had brought a sheaf of lilies.

It feels as though someone's died. Well, that's not an inappropriate comparison. She's lost herself. The woman she was-happy and confident and energetic-is gone. Who is left?

She hears footsteps in the hall and raises her hand to wipe away the tears on her cheeks.

It's Mike. He's freshly showered, hair still damp, dressed in jeans and an untucked oxford shirt. How long has she been sitting here, if he's already out of the shower?

'You okay?' he asks her, looking concerned, coming closer slowly, slowly. She forces herself to take a deep breath, to still the racing of her heart that has nothing to do with how much she loves him.

'Peter and Miranda are gonna be here soon, Lizzie. D'you still want to shower?'

She shakes her head, draws her knees to her chest, wincing as her bruises ache again, and yet again.

'D'you want some tea?'

She shakes her head again.

'Can I sit down?' he asks, standing at the end of the couch.

She forces herself to nod and he takes a seat, still moving slowly. In the psychologist-portion of her mind, she knows exactly what he's doing and she appreciates it more than she can say. Making sure she knows she's in control of her environment, that she can tell him no and he'll listen, that she's safe… but in the other part of her mind, the one that's at the forefront now, she's heartbroken that it's come to this, that she can't just be happy that he's here with her, that they can't be embracing, or making love-she shudders, involuntarily. She can't imagine being so close with anyone, even him, right now…

'Lizzie?' he says softly, and she forces herself to meet his gaze. 'It's gonna be okay. We're gonna get past this. It's gonna be okay.'

'Will it?' she asks him, and she almost flinches from the bitterness in her tone.

He nods and she crumples.