A/N: Not a lot of multi-shippers among the Rolivia stans, I see. ;) Sorry to any Alex fans out there who are disappointed she's a foil in the Devilishverse; I really do love her, but I also really love angst and conflict for my OTP. Thanks for the chapter 15 reviews. Yeah, PQ, Amanda's up and around pretty quick, but that's kinda her way. Pushing herself to recover. To get up and walk out of the hospital after a placental abruption that almost killed her, etc. lol. That girl. What am I gonna do with her? Muhahaha... ahem, wait, where was I? Not sure if this chapter needs a trigger warning, but it does deal with addiction, so tread carefully if need be. Enjoy.

Maybe there's a God above
But all I've ever learned from love
Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew ya
It's not a cry that you hear at night
It's not someone who's seen the light
It's a cold and broken Hallelujah

- k.d. lang, "Hallelujah"

. . .

CHAPTER 16: A Cold and Broken Hallelujah

. . .

"And so this is Christmas," Amanda murmured along with the tune she could just discern over the clamor of a million frenzied shoppers.

Okay, maybe not a million, but it felt like that many as she navigated the thoroughfare of the mall, sidestepping and dodging as if she were in an obstacle course. Any other time, she simply would have powered her way through—grown men stood aside for the cop walk—but she had to protect her injury. The bomber jacket was folded over her arms, which she kept firmly in place across her abdomen, forming a shield of sorts. She paused every once in a while to check that the content of her jacket pocket was still there. She had almost gone and walked off without it, like a damn fool, when she parted with Olivia in the toy store. It was the whole reason she'd suggested coming to the mall in the first place.

"For weak and for strong. For rich and the poor ones, the world is so wrong." She snorted at the lyrics, truly hearing them for the first time and wondering how she had overlooked that line all her life. Maybe because this was the first Christmas she had three children and a fiancée to buy presents for, not to mention a visiting mother who might claim she preferred Amanda to spend her money on "the children and your . . . Olivia," but would play the martyr for years to come if she didn't get a nice gift. Amanda hadn't felt so broke since the time in college when she couldn't even afford to go to McDonald's for lunch with her friends. After that, she'd resumed the activity that had almost gotten her kicked out of Mrs. Judd's fifth grade class at Loganville Elementary—taking her fellow students for all they were worth at poker. It was some of the easiest money she ever made, and it had kept her in greasy hamburgers and hot apple pies until graduation.

Now, she felt that broke again, and she hadn't even spent any money yet. There were a few toys stowed away in the bedroom closet, but they paled in comparison to the lists written and presented by her kids on Thanksgiving day (a tradition passed down by their Uncle Sonny, bless his heart). Olivia had taken the annual Reading of the Lists in stride, nodding along politely while Noah rattled off enough dance equipment to fill a whole studio, Jesse asked for all of the Wonder Woman 1984 merchandise in existence, and Matilda squealed, "Horsey!" and galloped in circles. Meanwhile, Amanda had begun to sweat when she realized just how unprepared she was—mentally and financially—for the biggest holiday of the year, at least as far as her kids were concerned.

She was sweating again, but this time it was from physical exertion. It occurred to her that she had picked up speed, whipping past stores and weaving in and out of foot traffic like she would have in the good old days, before a 9mm slug traversed her insides. If she didn't slow down and stop humming along to Lennon's Christmas tune, she was going to get winded before she even reached her destination.

In fact, she was gasping for breath already, as she passed by Smoke & Mirrors, a store that got away with its tobacco sales by posing as a novelty shop for all manner of smoking paraphernalia: pipes, hookahs, humidors, cuspidors, decorative bongs, and more. Amanda had stopped in once for cigarettes and stayed over half an hour, just musing at the rare and quirky items she would never buy.

Getting a heady whiff of cigar on her way by, she took a deep, whooping breath and coughed it out, then clutched her side in agony. If it was possible to rip apart at the seams, like one of the old shirts her mama used to tear into cleaning rags, she had just done it. A stitch might actually have popped because of that cough, and she felt lightheaded enough that she ducked into the first available corner to catch her breath.

She couldn't pass out this soon after Olivia's fainting episode in the squad room. When that happened, she had chewed her fiancée out for not taking better care of herself and spent the next few weeks practically hand-feeding her to make sure she ate. If Amanda pushed herself too hard and fainted, she would never hear the end of it. Mainly, though, she didn't want to put Olivia through that—she knew how frightening it was, and the captain had already seen her get shot and almost die. Also, if she passed out in this madhouse, she'd probably get trampled.

The corner she had escaped into turned out to be a miniature arcade. Or rather, a money pit for unsuspecting parents who let their children wander in for a look at the vending machines filled with multicolored, rock-hard candies and cheap trinkets in plastic capsules. Along the back wall stood a pinball machine, photo booth, and Jurassic World interactive video game with seats that moved like a flight simulator. On the opposite wall, attached to a platform with the name Sandy scrawled in gold lettering across the side, was an ancient mechanical horse that operated on pennies and looked like it should be shot and put out of its misery. Amanda knew exactly how poor old Sandy felt.

Splaying a hand on the large vending machine beside her, she bent forward far enough for the top of her head to rest against the colorful kiosk as well. It probably wasn't as good as putting her head between her knees, but after some initial panting, the lightheadedness began to pass and she stopped perspiring. Hell's bells, she couldn't even walk the length of a damn shopping mall without almost blacking out. At this rate, she wouldn't be back to work until after the holidays, and that meant no extra cash for Christmas. She would be lucky if she could even afford stocking stuffers.

It wasn't fair, goddammit. She had worked hard her whole life to ensure that when she did have a family, she could provide for them. While her parents hadn't been dirt poor—that was a description reserved for her daddy's Alabama kin, who barely wore shoes and seldom made it past eighth grade—she remembered them struggling to make ends meet, usually because Dean had gambled away all their money again. The fights were the worst, then. Around the age of twelve, Amanda had vowed to herself that she would never live like that when she grew up. Her kids would always get what they wanted for Christmas and they would never have to see their mama sad or hurt. Now, thanks to that little bitch Alpha and her bullet, Amanda was failing on both counts.

The thought sent a surge of anger through her, and she gave the kiosk a vicious kick. Something inside of it pinged and she heard a labored dispensing noise, like dollar bills being ejected from the money return slot in a self-checkout lane. Something else dropped on the other side of the machine. Amanda looked around to see if anyone had noticed her outburst, but people were filing steadily past the arcade, too concerned with their armloads of gifts, their Auntie Anne's pretzels, their holiday spirit—or blues—to pay attention to the blonde woman assaulting a crane game full of stuffed animals.

At least Amanda had assumed it was that type of game, until she glanced back at it and read the bold, exclamatory text that decorated the side panel in bright primary colors:

Jackpot! Win! Lottery! Play!

She recoiled from the machine as if it had claws and fangs (and in fact, for her, it did). Her next instinct was to run, and she might have done it, if not for the stabbing pain in her upper torso. She was still breathing heavily from walking too fast, so running was out of the question. Hobbling away slowly didn't sound much better; more like a dog retreating from an abusive master with its tail tucked in. Jesus, how weak and pathetic was she, to not even be able to stand in the same vicinity as a lottery machine?

Keeping a wide berth, she skirted around the machine, intending to sit down on the edge of Sandy the horse's platform. But as she started that way, she saw the lottery ticket inside the slot where new purchases were dispensed. She must have knocked it loose with that kick. It was nothing more than an unused dollar scratch-off ticket, and there was no earthly reason why she should stand around gaping at it for a whole minute, her feet heavy as concrete blocks and refusing to budge.

Somewhere deep down, Amanda felt an old familiar itch that was so faint she could almost ignore it. She had been ignoring it for the past six years. There were slips here and there, but by the time Jesse was born, she had her gambling under control. She worked the program, avoided triggers, went to meetings, and did all the things a recovering addict should do, no matter how much she hated it. Eventually, she hated it a little less. And at some point, all those meetings and steps and refusals to buy even so much as a scratch ticket became as ingrained in her routine as checking stats and playing online blackjack had once been.

Gambling hadn't crossed her mind more than a handful of times in the last year. She was too busy falling in love with Olivia, moving in with Olivia, helping Olivia through trauma, making love to Olivia, proposing to Olivia. Immersing herself in nothing but Olivia Margaret Benson. Amanda could happily go on that way forever—and she was happy, maybe the happiest she had ever been—so it didn't make sense to suddenly be tempted by a dumb lottery ticket that probably paid one hundred dollars at most. She wasn't going to throw away six years of sobriety for a measly hundred bucks. One hundred million, yes. Anything less than twenty or thirty grand was chump change.

Chuckling to herself, she snapped up the ticket for a look at the grand prize amount. When the card stock didn't immediately burst into flames in her hands, she relaxed and gave another short laugh. Chill the fuck out, Rollins, you got this. Even when she saw the Crazy 8's logo and read the announcement that she could "Win up to $888!" she hardly batted an eyelash. Her fingers didn't twitch, and she didn't reach instinctively for a coin to scratch away the silver coating with fevered and furtive reflexes, like some junkie shooting up in a back alley. The muscle memory was gone.

The only thing that gave her pause was when she tucked the lottery ticket into her pants pocket. Her fingertips bumped against the silicon shell of her phone case, and she wondered if she should pull out the phone and call her sponsor or Olivia. But she dismissed the thought as soon as it occurred. She had little more than a halfhearted acquaintance with the sponsor, who struck her as snobbish and possibly homophobic ("You don't seem gay," she commented to Amanda, every chance she got).

And calling Olivia would just make her worry needlessly. Amanda had already caught her fretting in front of the mirror, convinced that the hair at her temples was graying from the stress of the past week and a half. Personally, Amanda thought a few silver strands woven in with the dark brown ones would be sexy as hell, but Olivia did not see it that way. She'd scheduled an appointment with her colorist, who shuffled some clients around just to squeeze her in three days before Christmas.

Amanda had overheard her mother singing "Silver Bells" in the living room not long after Olivia got off the phone, and she couldn't help but wonder if it was mere coincidence or a dig at her fiancée's hair care woes. She knew for a fact that Beth Anne had been dyeing her hair honeysuckle blonde since the age of forty-three—Amanda didn't much care for that particular detail—and left untouched, it would be as white as the snow that had recently turned Central Park into a winter wonderland. She'd wanted so badly to march into the living room and issue her mother a loud reminder, but marching was out of the question and she was trying her damnedest to get along with Beth Anne for her children and Olivia's sake.

Her captain had been nothing short of attentive to her every need, concern, and whim since the shooting. Amanda didn't take too much advantage, although she had found herself exaggerating her pain at times so Olivia would put aside the paperwork or the journal, and focus on holding her. Stroking her hair, kissing her forehead, murmuring I love you's. If she called the other woman right now, Olivia would drop everything and come to her rescue. For what, though? A goddamn dollar scratch-off? That would be the most pathetic story in the history of Gamblers Anonymous. My fiancée had to save me from the lottery, but hey, we won five bucks—cha-ching!

After six whole years, Amanda couldn't possibly be that weak and susceptible. And she flat-out refused to frighten Olivia with something so small, on top of everything else the captain had on her plate: a fiancée who was physically and financially lame, a bitchy mother-in-law who just wouldn't go away, three small kids expecting a magical Christmas, and a squad to run. And though Olivia wasn't admitting it, Amanda suspected that their experience at the bank had triggered a PTSD flare up.

No. Amanda had it under control. She'd only stuck the ticket in her pocket because there was no sense in leaving behind what might be a winner. It was that kind of reasoning that turned her into a compulsive gambler and saw her sink thousands of dollars into debt, but back then, she wouldn't have been able to go thirty seconds without scratching the ticket.

Now, it had been at least a full minute, and she wasn't charging for the nearest casino or jonesing for the next big championship game. She was standing there with Sandy the mechanical pony, barely aware of the ticket in her pocket, which she would present to Olivia when they met up at the car. What better way to prove her strength and self-restraint than to hand over one of her former vices, unscathed? Cash prize or not, it would be a win and reinforce that Olivia could trust her.

"Nice horsey," she said, stopping to pat Sandy on the head before making her way back onto the main drag. She smiled to herself as she went, thinking only of Matilda—that sweet little thing loved her some horses—her other two children, and her beautiful bride-to-be.

Suddenly, it seemed like everything might just work itself out after all.

. . .

A few minutes later, she reached the jewelry store and felt her good mood start to wane. A crowd of people milled around the long display cases, gazing intently at the glass and the expensive items within. Their faces were lit from below by refracted light, giving them all an angelic sheen, but Amanda didn't see a host of seraphim. She saw a bunch of assholes who would probably take hours to browse things they couldn't afford, then wander off to the cheaper jewelry counter in Macy's. Several of them were couples, and Lord knew how long they would take if engagement or wedding bands were being decided upon.

"Sonsabitches," Amanda muttered under her breath. She was debating a trip downstairs to Zales—it would take at least another fifteen minutes to get there and probably be just as packed—when a voice called out a greeting and queried, "May I help you?"

At first, she didn't believe the man was speaking to her, but no one else stepped forward and she wasn't about to let the grass grow under her feet. Besides, she had a hole in her stomach. If that didn't count as a pass to the front of the line, she didn't know what would.

"What can I show you this evening, miss?" the man asked, when she approached the counter. He was a bit of a dandy, an impression strengthened by the velvet dinner jacket, silk cravat, and flawless hair and posture. He looked like he should be wearing a monocle and smoking with a cigarette holder.

Amanda mentally dubbed him "Old Sport," though his name tag read "Brennan." He glanced down with poorly concealed distaste when she plopped her bomber jacket onto the glass countertop in front of him, but she didn't care. She needed a place to lean and the jacket held what she'd come here for. "Hey," she said, fishing in its pocket for Olivia's watch. "I'm not here to buy. I just want to know if this can be fixed and how much it'll cost."

Old Sport drew back slightly, as if he expected her to be holding out a dead frog or a piece of dog shit. When he spotted the Breitling instead, his eyes lit up and his entire mien changed. Amanda could practically see the dollar signs flashing in his pupils. She was used to New Yorkers looking at her like she'd just emerged from a dilapidated trailer, a baby on her hip, a cigarette in her mouth, and a beer in her hand—especially when they heard her speak. But this was a new reaction, and one she had only experienced when she went undercover as someone with a whole lot of money. Old Sport thought she was rich.

"Oh, of course. Of course. May I?" He gestured with upturned palms to the watch, accepting it with the reverence of a snake handler taking possession of a deadly cobra. He tsked his disapproval as he studied the deep crack in the crystal facing. "What a shame. And such fine craftsmanship, otherwise. Breitlings are quite durable. It would take some effort to cause this type of damage."

He was poking around for an explanation, but Amanda had none to give him. She'd phoned Kat in secret a few days ago to ask if the officer had any idea how the watch got broken. The younger woman could only tell Amanda that, as far as she knew, the watch had been intact when delivered to the apartment. That was exactly what Amanda hoped not to hear. In her gut, she knew what had happened. Maybe not the specifics. But the whole damn thing was shady and reeked of Beth Anne Rollins.

So far, Amanda couldn't bring herself to confront her mother about it. She didn't want to know. And more than that, she didn't want Olivia to know. No matter how many times the captain claimed she was fine with not wearing the watch anymore, Amanda had still seen the hurt in those dark brown eyes whenever they glanced down, out of habit, at an empty wrist. Finding out Beth Anne had intentionally destroyed something so precious to her—and for what purpose? Spite? Jealousy? Amusement?—would only hurt Olivia more. She'd already lived with one cruel, abusive mother; she didn't need another one making her feel unwanted and resented.

"My wife's a cop," Amanda said flatly, as if that covered any and all of Old Sports' remaining questions. She did like saying my wife, though. It had come out on its own and she saw no reason to correct it. "Hazard of the job."

"Ah, I see."

Clearly, he did not. But he gave a sage nod and turned his attention back to the Breitling without nosing for more details. "Well, we do timepiece repairs on site," he said, draping the watch against his velvet sleeve like it was on display for a photo op. "And if you'll give me a moment, I'll speak with my manager and get you an estimate for this model."

None of that sounded very promising to Amanda. She might as well be at an auto repair shop, about to get gouged on a new transmission. At least then she would have some knowledge about reasonable prices—her uncle Davy was a mechanic, and she'd hung around his shop as a teenager, answering the telephone and learning how to change tires, install spark plugs, and identify common issues under the hood. But she didn't have any relatives who were jewelers (unless you counted cousin Boone, doing time in the state pen for muling drugs and jewels), and Old Sport here could take her for a real ride if he saw fit.

While she waited for him to return, she hummed along to the weird Peanuts Christmas song and tried not to think about how much her feet hurt or how painfully rigid her abdomen felt. She moved her jacket aside and distracted herself further by examining the jewelry encased below it. Her first instinct was to laugh, when she realized what was in the display; her second was to cuss and kick the damn thing, like she had kicked the lotto machine.

She did neither, choosing instead to stand there shaking her head at the universe's twisted sense of humor. In front of her, sparkling like a blanket of new fallen snow, were rows upon rows of the most beautiful engagement rings Amanda had ever seen. The rings she'd picked out for Olivia and herself were lovely, but these were befitting of royalty—and as far as she was concerned, her fiancée was a queen. A queen deserved better than a ring she'd had to wash the blood from.

Towards the rear of the case, Amanda spotted the one she wanted. Though twice as pretty as the rest, it stood aside to make room for the more ornate pieces. The band was white gold, topped by a roselike swirl with a larger diamond nestled in the middle and several smaller diamonds clustered among the petals. Flanked by deep blue sapphires and even more accent diamonds, the rose, a thing of delicate beauty, bloomed strong, centered, eternal. Everything about that ring reminded her of Olivia Benson.

Amanda was still staring at it, her nose practically pressed up against the glass, when Old Sport reappeared from the back room several minutes later. He had to clear his throat to get her attention, and for a split-second after she straightened, he eyed the fog left behind on the counter by her breath. She wouldn't have been a bit surprised if he'd pulled out a handkerchief and polished away the moisture, but he plastered on an obsequious smile—rich was rich, whether or not you left behind smudges—and cradled the watch in his palms like it was a newborn.

"I have excellent news for you," he said, sounding genuinely delighted. The guy really liked his watches. "Mister Vermilion would be more than happy to repair your wife's Breitling. Now, this is a much older model and will require some special ordering. However, I mentioned that it belongs to an NYPD officer, and he agreed that one of New York's finest shouldn't be running around the city without her watch. No extra charge to have it ready for you by Christmas."

That all sounded great, but Amanda hadn't heard a price yet. Cut to the chase, Old Sport, she thought, and almost said it out loud, catching herself just in time.

"How much are we talking?" she asked, hunched forward with her elbows on the countertop. She was feeling more rundown by the minute and didn't have the energy for a sophisticated rich lady facade. He'd have to settle for plain old jank-ass Amanda Rollins.

"It will be a fifty dollar discount, with the waived rush order fee." Old Sport paused to let that sink in, as if he expected her to agree, based on how much she wouldn't have to pay. "Even with the special order, you would still pay twice as much if you sent the watch in to be serviced at a Breitling repair center. And you might wait four to six weeks for it to be returned. Well into next year."

Unimpressed with his salesmanship, Amanda blinked boredly through the entire spiel. When it ended, she looked him dead in the eye and repeated, "How much?"

"At this point, if you only want to replace the crystal, it will be five hundred dollars." He said it with no more import than a fast food worker charging fifty cents for an ice cream cone. "But I did notice signs of wear on the strap, and it's best to have this type of watch tuned up every four years or so, especially after it's been damaged. I noticed the inscription on the back. I'm sure your wife would want such a beloved keepsake to be in the finest working order."

Amanda was still reeling from the five hundred dollar response, and barely heard the rest. She gave a blank nod, trying to calculate in her head how many credit cards she would have to max out in order to cover the repairs. She had known the watch was expensive and having it fixed would set her back a bit, but she could buy about ten brand new watches for that price. Not Breitlings, of course, but something nice that worked just as well.

Goddamned Serena Benson and her extravagant taste. Once again, Amanda found herself wondering how an English professor who was probably drunk off her ass at the time of purchase could possibly afford such a costly gift. Had to be a windfall. Maybe Mama Benson liked to play the ponies too, Amanda thought, suppressing a bitter laugh.

"—fifteen hundred altogether," Old Sport finished, with a self-satisfied air. He must have a commission-based salary. "Shall I begin the paperwork, or was there something else you were interested in? I noticed you were looking over our ring selection. Is there one I can show you?"

Dully, and without touching the glass, Amanda pointed to the rose ring, its petals alight with all those tiny diamonds. Each one seemed to be winking up at her, as if they were in on the joke—the joke that she would ever be able to afford them. "How much is that one?"

"Ah, the Vera Wang. An excellent choice." Retrieving a wrist coil from inside his jacket cuff, Old Sport used the attached key to unlock the mirrored sliding doors at the back of the jewelry case. As he delicately lifted the ring in its small, cushioned box, he rattled off a litany of facts about karat (and carat), cut, and size. But all Amanda cared about was the price tag, which he discreetly flashed for her from a white tab sealed through the ring:

$2,099.99

And that was just for one. If she wanted an engagement ring to match Olivia's—and she did, desperately so, though it hadn't seemed as dire until she couldn't afford it—she would have to fork over four thousand dollars. Nearly six thousand, when the watch was figured in. And that didn't even include the other presents she needed to buy. She couldn't fix the watch her own mother had probably broken and replace a ring that she'd already proposed with, and not give Olivia any real gifts. Then there was the wedding itself, coming up in a few short months, and Lord knew how much that would cost . . .

Her head swimming with numbers and totals and bills she had yet to acquire, let alone pay, Amanda had tuned out Old Sport. He was holding the ring out expectantly, smile frozen in place. He looked like the creepy bartender from The Shining, offering that fateful drink. Which made her Jack Torrance, throwing away his sobriety and going absolutely stark raving mad.

Heeere's Mandy!

"I'll think about it," she said, feigning indifference. As if she were too rich to care one way or the other. Too high-class to fawn over such a poor quality item in a third-rate jewelry store she'd only stepped into because it was convenient. She made sure to keep her own ring well out of view. "Just the watch for now, Ol— Brennan. Go ahead and add the new strap and tune up thing."

He had probably exaggerated the necessity for extra repairs, but Amanda wasn't going to half-ass this thing. She would just have to figure something out; she'd escaped tighter financial binds before.

When she had signed all the documentation (there was less paperwork involved in buying a brand new car) and paid the one hundred dollar security deposit, which counted toward the payment in full, to be charged upon pick-up, Amanda thanked Old Sport, collected her jacket, and tried not to glance at the rose ring as she departed the store. That sad Christmas song about skating away on a river was playing when she stepped back into the chaos beyond, almost getting swept away by a sea of people herself. She hated that song. She hated all the people. And right then, she kind of hated Christmas too.

Fighting her way back in the direction from which she had come, she made it as far as Smoke & Mirrors before her feet stopped working. There was no physical reason she could find. They were tired, but not so exhausted she couldn't continue; they were heavy, but she could still lift them. The damn things just wouldn't carry her any farther. There was an empty bench across from the store and she forced herself over to it, dropping down heavily on the wooden slats. She wasn't even out of breath, and the pain in her gut was bad but not intolerable. Not until she reached back to remove the cell phone from her pocket did it click—where she sat, what she held in her hand besides the phone, why her body had simply shut down.

On the ground, right next to her black high top, she spotted a shiny new penny, heads up. The lucky side. She laughed outright, earning a few stares from passersby, and clutched her side as she leaned over to pick up the coin. For a minute, she sat there holding it and guffawing until tears streamed from her eyes, blurring the lighted lettering that resided above the dim, tobacco-scented storefront ahead of her. (Struck & Millions, it briefly read. Broke & Minus.) The entrance reminded her of the dark and smoky rooms she used to escape to, feeding her dirty little habit, chasing the high of a big win. When she first stepped into those places, enveloped by an atmosphere of smoke, anticipation, and riches—she'd always imagined she could smell the money—it had felt like being welcomed into a warm embrace.

"Okay," she said to no one in particular, to good ol' Honest Abe's stalwart profile. To the Crazy 8's lottery ticket she had accidentally pulled from her pocket, alongside her phone. "Okay."

Had she really meant to scratch it all along? She didn't think so, but as she scraped off the silver coating with the edge of the penny, swiping the flakes away after each prize amount revealed itself, she couldn't help wondering. Or maybe she was just that big of a dumbass, to throw six years away on impulse. On a ten-second thrill.

(Storms & Monsters, she thought as she scratched. Smack & Mothers. Fuck & Horrors.)

And then it was over. She stared down at the ticket and the ash-like flecks scattered on her pant leg and smudged into her fingertips. It had been so long since she scratched one, she'd forgotten how messy they were. She didn't even like the damn things. They were her least favorite form of gambling—no strategy or skill involved, nothing to experience. Just a lap full of soot and five measly dollars to collect. She felt like she'd let a random stranger jizz on her for a wad of singles. She felt like she might barf.

A few feet off from the bench stood a trash bin. Amanda headed towards it (her legs worked perfectly fine now), planning to rip up the ticket and toss it in the receptacle, and maybe herself along with it. Instead, she veered sharply to the right, walked straight into the headshop, cashed the ticket there, and bought a pack of Camels with the five. She still had a couple cigarettes stashed inside her running shoe at home, but she wanted a new pack to hold in her hands. Without it, she feared what those hands might do next.

Five minutes later, she finally reached the mall exit she was supposed to have left nearly forty minutes ago. She desperately craved a cigarette, but she had peeked into the toy store on her way by and seen Olivia at the checkout counter, sliding her credit card into the chip reader. Amanda had just enough time to get out to the car, get it started, and hope she wasn't still huffing and puffing by the time Olivia arrived. She was halfway there when the combination of cold air and hurried footsteps left her breathless, a stitch in her already tender side. Clutching it, she staggered the last few yards to the SUV and barely managed to haul herself into the passenger seat once she got the door open.

Her breathing had just returned to normal when the hatchback raised, filling the cabin with a mellow light that sent her scrambling to stuff the open pack of cigarettes into her jacket pocket. She'd only wanted a sniff. "Need any help?" she called back too quickly, and had to repeat herself because Olivia didn't hear her the first time.

"No, you stay where it's warm." Olivia waved at Amanda over the backseat, just a gloved hand visible beyond the headrest. A few moments later, after a lot of shuffling noises and a grunt or two, the trunk closed and Olivia bustled into the driver's seat, bringing with her a blast of cold air and chattering her teeth. "Brrr," she said, elongating the sound with a trill of her lips. Her cheeks and nose were a vibrant shade of pink below her floppy knit beret. She couldn't stop sniffling. "Sorry it took so long, love. I didn't think that line was ever going to move. Why's it so cold in here? I told you to stay warm."

"I'm all right." Actually, Amanda was freezing too, and felt a little lightheaded from blowing into her hands to warm them while she'd waited for the heat to kick in. It had taken a bit of the chill from the air so far, but obviously not enough. "I didn't want to leave the car running that long. Bad for the engine. And it wastes gas."

"Amanda, you're still recovering." Olivia turned the heater on full blast and checked that the passenger side vents were open and aimed at Amanda. "Now's not the time to be frugal. I don't want you getting sick. I shouldn't have even brought you out in this weather to begin with. You look peaked. Let me feel your forehead."

Amanda didn't have much choice in the matter, as Olivia's glove came off, that hand cupping her brow. But she didn't object; instead, she watched the captain intently, wondering if her guilt was showing or if Olivia would somehow divine through touch what had transpired outside Smoke & Mirrors. She almost blurted it out then and there. If she were stronger, maybe she would have. If she were more like Olivia.

And less like her father.

"You do feel a little warm. That's it, I'm taking you home." Olivia fastened her seat belt and reached for the gearshift. Before putting it in reverse, she glanced over with concern and what might have been some guilt of her own—although that was probably just Amanda projecting. "Did something happen while I was in the store?" she asked, an odd note in her voice. Whenever she told the kids she'd be home from work in time to tuck them in, knowing it wasn't always true, that was how she sounded.

Amanda shoved both hands into her pockets, nearly crushing the pack of Camels, and checked that neither of her knees were bobbing. "Nope." She mustered the most natural smile she could, hoping it didn't come out as a wince. She had never found lying difficult until she met Olivia. "I was messin' around on my phone the whole time. Almost dozed off, actually. Guess I'm just plumb tuckered out from all the toy shopping."

A look of relief stole over Olivia, and she returned the smile fondly. "Well then, little pretty, let's get you home and into bed. Can't have my girl or her plums tuckered out."

"Not the same kind of plumb, darlin'." Amanda gave a light, appreciative chuckle, but a second later—and without knowing precisely why—she heard herself ask, "Did something happen with you in the store?"

Olivia pulled her other glove off by biting down on the middle finger, then handed the pair to Amanda. "You mean besides fifteen different renditions of the same damn Christmas song? No. Here, put these on, they'll keep you warm."

She was right. As soon as Amanda took her hands from her pockets, careful not to let the cigarettes show, and slipped the fur-lined leather gloves on, the heat trapped inside from Olivia's hands warmed her considerably. Even that felt like a lie on her part. As if she had somehow deceived Olivia into giving up the gloves and braving the cold.

"Did you win?"

Amanda snapped to attention, prying her gaze from the engagement ring on Olivia's finger. She hadn't been able to stop thinking about the rose ring with the sapphires since she got back to the car. When she wasn't thinking about the scratch-off ticket and how badly she had screwed up, that was. "Huh?" she asked warily.

"You said you were on your phone. I figured you were playing one of your apps." Olivia waggled her fingers at the phone in Amanda's lap, as if the device contained magical properties that made Candy Crush appear from thin air. She still couldn't find the app store on her own phone half the time.

Why did she have to be so damn cute? That just made the lying even harder.

"Oh, uh yeah, I won a couple times."

Or just the once.

Olivia eyed her suspiciously as they were exiting the mall parking lot. "You sure you're okay, sweetie?"

For the final time that evening, Amanda told another lie: "Yep. All good, babe. Now, quit worrying that pretty li'l head of yours and take me on home."

. . .