A/N: Okay. Much longer chapter than normal, but I didn't want to break it up. Fully acknowledge lots of liberties taken with Olivia's past, but I think they're all plausible based on what we know, and frankly I think the show has done a poor job of explaining certain things.

He is on the beach at twilight, and the ocean is dark and wild. He doesn't know what beach it is, but it's on Long Island. He doesn't know how he knows this; he doesn't remember coming here, or planning to, but he's certain about his location. For some reason, he is wearing his holster and carrying his gun, and, even though he's retired and no longer in possession of it, he knows it's okay, like the rules have been temporarily suspended.

He hears a scream from somewhere behind him. When he listens closely, he realizes it's more like a series of sharp yelps of pain, and it's coming from inside the house. He recognizes the voice.

He tries to rush to the beach house, but his legs are deadweight. The sand is holding him back, and he is paralyzed. Frustrated, he tries to call to her, but he can't. He is mute, too. Both of these things make sense to him, like they've happened before.

And then, all at once, he is inside the house after all. It is daylight again, but he doesn't question how this happened. He knows his way around the house, but he's sure he would've had no reason to have ever been here before.

In the bedroom, Jenna is lying on the floor on her back, bleeding from her chest. He stands over her, knowing she has already died, but still he drops to his knees wanting to help her. And it's then that he sees that the gun is not in its holster, but in his hand, and that he is the one who has shot her.

But then when he leans over her, he sees that this is not, in fact, Jenna. It's Olivia. Of course it is. Because Jenna is dead, and Olivia is alive.

And then he looks at the gun in his hand, and realizes that all along he's been carrying Olivia's gun, not his own. Because, of course, his gun was turned in to the Department the day he retired. It makes sense to him, too, that he'd be carrying Olivia's gun, because when they were partners, it was not unusual for him to carry random things of hers. At the back of his mind, this reasoning strikes him as ridiculous, but he nevertheless decides it's true.

He is also sure he has recently used this gun, but he knows that Olivia is not shot, and nobody else is here. He looks at the gun again, and sees now that it is covered in blood, up the full length of its barrel. Which is also a little strange, because that is not how blood is supposed to spatter when you shoot someone.

Olivia is directly beneath him on the floor, between his knees. He doesn't remember straddling her, but it's where she's been all along. He doesn't think too hard about it. Because she is writhing in pain and he wants to help her. But she's not in the sort of pain that comes from a gunshot wound. This is something else. A kind of agony he's never seen before.

And yet at the same time that he's puzzling over this, he also already knows the answer. He knows what was done to her with the gun that's in his hand, but he wants to pretend another explanation is still possible. Like he's watching a horror movie for the second time, hoping the gruesome ending has changed, but knowing, of course, that it hasn't.

She looks up at him, gasping. "Please don't kill me. Please. Please! I'll do anything!"

He starts to reassure her that he would never, ever, hurt her, but his vocal chords still won't function. He pleads with her with his eyes, hoping to communicate that way.

How could you think I would ever –

He startles awake, drenched in sweat, clutching his phone in a death grip. But the tail end of the dream still lingers, feeling real, and the frustration of not being able to communicate with her is still visceral. It takes another several seconds for him to fully process that this was just a dream. He opens his eyes finally, taking stock of his surroundings. He is lying face-down on his beige Ikea couch in his spartan Upper West Side apartment. Across the room is the one housewarming item he owns: a floor plant his daughters chipped in to buy him when he moved in.

A peak at the cable box tells him it's three-thirty in the afternoon. He spent the entire morning chasing Eli around the playground, and then he came home and collapsed on the couch. Also, he hasn't been sleeping well at night.

He sits up, wheezing, trying to gather himself, to reassure himself that what he just experienced wasn't real. But it's little comfort to remind himself of this, because there's still that awful, gut-level dread, sitting there at the base of his throat like a dormant but malignant tumor, reminding him that there is a greater reality here, one that is quite literal, and very much terrible.

Still catching his breath, he throws his phone onto the couch, then snatches it back compulsively, checks it, tosses it back down.

He hasn't spoken to her in two days; not since that night she threw him and Amaro out.

He grabs the phone again, pulls up her number, stares at it. Hesitates.

He'd vowed not to harass her.

But the nightmare is haunting him.

And so are Amaro's words.

It takes six rings for Olivia to pick up. In the span of those rings, Elliot has conjured all sorts of explanations for why she's not answering his call. Just as he's ready to give up, a weary voice comes on the line. "El?"

He rushes to cram in the speech he has in his head before she hangs up on him. "Liv, I know my last visit didn't end well, but I … I just wanted to apologize for upsetting you."

"Okay." There's neither anger nor forgiveness in the response.

"It's the last thing I wanted to do to you," he adds.

She sighs. "I know that."

He's heartened by the sincerity in her voice. He pauses. "How are you doing?"

She takes a second to reply. She is thinking through what information to divulge, and what to keep back. "I'm stir-crazy. How are you?"

He blurts out the first thing that comes to his mind. "I miss you."

It's the most honesty he's ever given her. And the least he owes her.

"El, I – "

Sensing she's looking for an excuse to get off the phone, he interrupts. "Wait, look, I know I fucked up the other day. I had no right to barge in and – "

"El, stop."

"I just – "

"STOP. Please."

"Liv, please, hear me out. I know you're with Brian now. I don't want to ruin that for you. But I just need to know you're okay."

"I am," she says, her voice cracking. "I just want to get out of this apartment."

He can read her like a book. She's giving him an opening. If he doesn't take it, it could be a long time before she gives him another. "Well, are you… well enough to?"

"I think so."

His heart skips a beat. "Do you want to get some coffee maybe? I could pick you up."

"Actually, I'd love to just take a walk. It's such a gorgeous day. Do you want to take a walk with me?"

He exhales in delighted relief. "I'd love to. I can be by in fifteen."

She is waiting on the front stoop of Brian's building when he arrives. He practically sprinted from his place to get here, and it got him a little sweaty. He hopes she doesn't notice. He showered right before he left; it would be a pity to ruin that. She is wearing a short-sleeved relaxed-fit sky blue collared popover with a four-button placket, slim dark blue jeans, and tennis shoes. He wonders how she thinks about her wardrobe now, about whether she selects for clothes based on how many scars they'll cover up. He's relieved to see that she's regained some color, and, more importantly, some of her vigor. Her arm is still in encased in the wrist splint, but the sling is gone. There are still stitches on her forehead, but the bruise behind them is fading. She looks beautiful.

"You got a haircut." He is stating the obvious: at least three inches have been disappeared since he saw her.

She grabs a strand between two fingers, slides them down to the end. The shortened lock falls out in one chunk. "You know, I got, like, seventy-five haircuts in all the time we worked together and this is the first time you've ever commented."

She's deflecting. Something about the observation upset her. Maybe Lewis made a crack about her hair. Maybe he did something to it, or with it.

Cautiously, he answers, "Well, I guess this is the first time it surprised me."

"Why?"

"Because it means you're moving forward, I guess. You're regaining some healthy vanity. Plus, I didn't realize you were mobile enough to go out. I'm just glad to hear it, that's all. And it's a nice look," he adds. He is nervous; so far she's showing no sign of bringing up the elephant in the room. And yet, surely what he and Amaro told her is on her mind. How could it not be? He wishes he could read her mind. He wants to know how badly she's suffering.

Without responding, she busies herself using her good arm to grasp the iron bannister and hoist herself to a standing position. Seeing her struggle, he offers a hand, but she waves it off. "I'm fine."

He steps back, letting her take the lead.

"How's the chest pain?"

"Better than it was," she says softly.

"I'm glad."

They begin to walk east towards Broadway. She is steadier on her feet now, but it still seems to him – and he's pretty sure it's not his imagination – that her gait is more tentative than it ought to be, like she's barefoot on scorching sand. As she walks, she subtly rocks from side to side as if only able to bear weight on either foot for a split second. Amaro's words linger in his head, haunting him. He's been focused on the psychological damage, but what if she's still injured? How can he let her walk around in such obvious physical distress?

After a few yards, he offers his elbow, and he's grateful when she hooks her good arm around his. It's something. "Brian at work?" he asks casually.

"No, he caught an early train to Philly this morning. His niece is graduating from Drexel."

He starts to turn his head in question, but she puts up a hand. "I insisted. He agreed to go under duress."

He laughs. "I see."

She waits a beat. "It's different with you, El. Even after two years, I feel like I can … be myself with you."

The candor shocks him, and hope floods through him like a salve. It's all he can do to nod, reach across with his free hand to squeeze hers. "Always."

As they walk, much more slowly than would normally be comfortable for either of them, he feels the weight she's putting on him, and his worry escalates. Is it because she's winded, or because of something else? "You sure you're all right?"

"Yeah," she answers, but he thinks she's trying to hide that she's short of breath.

"Do you need to sit down? Please, tell me the truth."

"I'm fine. It's just so nice to finally get outside, get some fresh air."

He's a bit confused: Didn't they establish that she just got her hair cut? He doesn't press her.

"Anywhere in particular you want to go?"

"The park."

"Yeah? It's four avenue blocks. Can you walk that far?"

"It's three blocks."

"What are you talking about? Broadway, Amsterdam, Columbus, CPW. That's four."

"Broadway doesn't count."

He furrows his brow. "What do you mean, it doesn't count?" He points ahead. "It's right there. It counts."

"Because Broadway is not an avenue. It runs mostly diagonally. It intersects the other avenues, which are parallel to each other."

"Huh. I never thought about that. It seemed vertical enough to me."

She looks at him in question. "You never noticed how Broadway crashes into every single avenue at some point, creating these big flashy squares? That's how you get Union Square, Herald Square, Times Square, Lincoln Square, Columbus – okay, that's a circle."

"Hey, Miss Smarty-Pants," he chides. "I'm a Queens boy, remember?"

She shrugs. "I just thought it was common knowledge."

"Maybe to you elite Manhattanites."

At this, she snorts. "Ha! Elite. I'm a blue-collar cop, same as you."

"Blue-collar, my ass," he scoffs. "You're the daughter of a tenured English professor who was a faculty member at an Ivy League university. You speak four languages, you – "

"Not fluently," she interjects. "I – "

He puts up an index finger. " – You probably aced your SATs, and you're more well-read than anyone I've ever met, even Munch. You may've chosen to be a cop, but if you'd wanted to do anything else – medicine, law, academia – you could've."

As they arrive at Broadway and stop at the red light, she turns to him, pained. "Elliot, you talk like you're this dumb rube. You could've done anything too."

"Oh come on, Liv. Not like you."

"You realize that I am literally wearing a blue collar."

He glances over at her. So she is. He shrugs. "I never said you don't like to fit in."

"Okay then." She lets a beat pass, stares glaze-eyed at the heavy traffic buzzing up and down Broadway. "My mother wanted me to go to Columbia. She made me apply."

"Why didn't you go?"

"You assume I got in."

"Did you?"

"Yeah."

He laughs. "So?"

"I didn't want to stay in the city. I didn't know what I wanted to do yet, career-wise I mean, but I knew I needed to get away from her, if I was going to have any chance of figuring it out for myself. And also… well, it would've been weird. Being in the same college where she… where I was … you know … "

"Conceived."

"Yeah."

It occurs to him that in all the years he's known her, this is the first she's talked about her past, outside the narrow context of her mother's victimhood and alcoholism. She knows his whole family history, his children, his ex-wife; she's even met his mother, but Olivia's own story is mostly an empty canvas to him. Surely there's a rich, three-dimensional history there, like everyone else. All blank to him other than a handful of carefully curated anecdotes.

"Can I ask you something, Liv?"

"Sure."

"How did you actually decide to enroll in the Police Academy? I mean, me? It made sense. I was just out of the Marines, my father was a cop, all of his friends were cops, we were working class, I was going to night school, but I had a kid on the way. Being a cop was practically preordained for me. But you, you couldn't possibly have known many cops on a leafy liberal arts campus, and this career choice must've stood out among your peers, your professors, the people who knew you."

"It did. Everybody tried to talk me out of it. Career counselors, a couple of my friends."

"Your mother?"

"Especially my mother. I thought about applying to law school. It was sort of the most logical choice for someone with my background and interests."

"But?"

"But, I don't know, it didn't feel right."

"And the Academy did?"

"Not at first. It was rough the first few months. I was sure I'd made a mistake."

The light finally turns green, the walk sign appearing, and they begin a slow trek across the intersection.

"Did you do it, I don't know, maybe to reject her?" He regrets the question as soon as it's out of his mouth. "I'm sorry, that was mean. I shouldn't have – "

But she stops him. "No, no. It's a legitimate question. And it's certainly what my mother thought."

"Did you?"

"Maybe a little. Not on purpose, but we weren't in a good place in our relationship by the time I hit my senior year of college. Her drinking had gotten worse while I was away. I'd stopped coming home during breaks. I stopped feeling ashamed when people asked why she never visited me there. I guess maybe on some unconscious level I was doing what I could to distance myself from her and her world."

"But you did join Sex Crimes."

"Yeah, that was different, it came later. We'd had a bit of a rapprochement in our relationship, and I cared a lot about social justice, and about what had happened to her. I'd been raised to be an empowered female. Several of my mother's friends, at least before she alienated them, were feminist intellectuals. I'd already done the hard part, I thought, which was to become a cop, as a woman. So when there was an opening at SVU, I knew I had to join it. I was rejecting who she wanted me to be, not who I really was, if that makes sense."

"It makes a lot of sense. I wish I'd had that sort of wisdom."

She laughs sardonically. "Little did I know, getting through the Academy would be the easy part." She pauses. "Did you ever regret becoming a cop?"

"No, not really. But I wish I'd considered other paths, I guess."

"Still wish you could've been an astronaut, huh?" She jabs her interlinked elbow into his ribs as they step onto the sidewalk.

"Heh, heh. You remember that."

"'Course I do."

He shakes his head. "I'll never live that down."

"Nothing wrong with wanting to be an astronaut." She pauses. "Unless you're afraid of flying."

"Ha! Funny."

As they resume walking, Amsterdam now ahead in the distance, the noise level again dies down, and she grows quiet next to him. It's like she's trying to decide whether to tell him something.

"There was an incident," she starts. "When I was in second grade."

"What kind of incident?"

"Police were called to our apartment. My mother was in a drunken rage, and I guess the upstairs neighbors called. It had happened before, but this was the first time it stuck in my mind."

"How come?"

"Because one of the cops who answered the call was female." She chuckles. "I didn't even know women were allowed to be cops until then. I'd never seen one before."

"It made an impression on you."

"Yeah. Because she noticed me."

He's intrigued. "What do you mean?"

"All the other times the cops came, they acted like answering this kind of call was a waste of their time. My mother was good at convincing them everything was fine, and that's all they needed to hear. And her partner was the same way. Classic macho alpha male who thought he had better things to do than answer a domestic disturbance involving a woman. But the female cop, her name was Eileen, she came right up to me on the couch and asked me my name. She noticed a bruise on my arm, and asked me how I got it."

"What did you say?"

"I didn't say anything. I was too scared to talk to her. My mother had told me that the police never believe what you tell them – she didn't explain the context of that until much later – and anyway, she was hovering around, and I didn't want to get in trouble. I was afraid of her."

He is mesmerized by this tale. "How did you get the bruise?"

She throws him a curious look, as if to say, I thought that part was self-evident. "My mother had just beat the hell out of me because I'd dropped a plate of mac n'cheese on the floor. I was trying to make myself dinner because she refused to make me anything to eat. The crash set her off."

A chill runs up his spine. In their time together, she'd mentioned her mother's abusiveness in passing, but for some reason, he hadn't imagined it might be this severe. "So what happened?"

"The cop asked if she could lift my shirt, and she saw that I was covered in fresh bruises. She told my mother that she was taking me to the hospital. She could see that I was scared to go with her, to trust her. But she eventually convinced me."

"Jesus, Liv. Was there an investigation?"

She shrugs. "I don't know, but I doubt it. I told the nurse at the hospital that I fell off the monkey bars. Eileen brought me right back home that same night." She states all this without a trace of bitterness, as if nothing more should have been expected.

"Did you go to school with bruises?"

"Oh, I never missed school. My mother was strict about that. I had to be dying before she'd keep me home."

"How often did she hurt you like that?"

She shrugs one shoulder, like that detail is irrelevant. "That bad? Maybe once or twice a year. Most of the time it was a slap, or she'd hit me with a shoe, or kick me. I usually had a bruise or two somewhere on my body, but rarely that many at once."

"And teachers never noticed?"

"Never. I was good at hiding it. And it was a different era, you know? If it were today, I probably would've spent half my childhood in foster care."

He clenches his jaw, anger rising up in his throat. It's a familiar feeling after all these years, but he'd never thought he'd feel it so fiercely for her. "But this cop noticed," he says.

"Yeah. At first I was mortified that she'd seen them and I worried that other people had too, like the kids at school. But she stayed with me at the hospital and told me to call her if I ever needed help again. She stopped by the apartment the next day, without her partner, to check up on me. My mother wasn't home. It was the first time in my life anyone had ever paid any real attention to me."

"What ever happened to this woman, do you know?" He thinks he would like to shake her hand.

"Yeah. My first year out of the Academy, I tracked her down and invited her to lunch. She remembered me, and I think she was touched that I remembered her."

"Did you keep in touch?"

"For a little while. She was like a mentor in those first few years. She died of breast cancer about five or six years ago. I went to the funeral."

"That's sad."

"Yeah."

He's thoughtful for a second. "Liv, how come you never told me that story before?"

She turns to face him, her expression a mix of pain and fortitude. "Elliot, this is the first time I've ever told that story to anyone."

He's not sure what to say. The story has saddened him deeply, less so because of what she endured per se and more so because she told it with such matter-of-factness, as if some form of parental mistreatment is not an abnormal part of most people's childhood. He knows she knows that her mother was a deeply flawed parent, but he also wonders, for the first time since he's known her, if she fully comprehends the extent of it, that not all alcoholic parents are bound to be this abusive. He wonders if the job further skewed an already distorted worldview.

They arrive at Amsterdam, stop at another red light.

"She wasn't a monster," she adds, sensing what he's thinking. "There were a lot of good times, too."

"I know." He wonders if that's really true. His own father was a jerk, and on occasion his behavior bordered on abusive, and his mother mentally unstable, but he still emerged from childhood with mostly happy memories. Of boisterous family Christmases, birthday parties, Thanksgivings with housefuls of cousins, trips to the beach, of catching butterflies and flying homemade kites with his mother. His father, when he wasn't working, played touch football in the park with him and his friends; took him to Mets games.

"Did you ever regret becoming a cop?" he asks her.

"Not for a second. It never crossed my mind. But you know what I have been thinking a lot about lately, El?"

"What's that?"

"That after I graduated from college, I came right back to the city. Literally, the next day. That with the exception of those four years upstate, I've lived in Manhattan my whole life."

"You're a city girl," he says neutrally. He's not sure where she's going with this.

She splays her hand panoramically across the expanse of the trafficky bustle of Amsterdam. "I've lived on the Upper West Side my whole life."

"So?"

"Well, don't you think that's strange?"

"That you've lived in the same neighborhood your whole life? Not really. Lots of people do."

She seems to think about this. "I've been wondering if… if, I don't know, maybe it's time for a change."

"Well I can't picture you in Queens."

She giggles. "No, no. God, no. I belong in Manhattan, for sure. I just meant, I don't know, try downtown maybe?"

"Downtown," he repeats, turning it over. "Yeah, I can see you there. Soho? West Village? I can't see you in the East Village."

"I was thinking more like Battery Park City."

He whistles. "It's expensive down there."

"I know. But there are some affordable rentals. And it just seems… peaceful there. A few months ago I interviewed a witness in one of those apartments facing the river, and I mean the view was just spectacular. You could see the Statue of Liberty. The buildings are all spanking new and they give you these floor-to-ceiling windows." She sighs. "I've always wanted to look out at water. There's something healing about that, you know? And anyway, my mother left me a bit of money that's been sitting in a bank account all these years, and it's not like the Upper West Side is cheap. Maybe it's time for a change."

She's oblivious to how hard his heart has started thumping. She's talking as though Brian is not a part of this fantasy future. But he dares not say it out loud. "Battery Park City, then. Why don't we hop on the subway and check it out?"

"Right now?"

He shrugs. "Why not? Feel like a train ride?"

She thinks for a second. "Strangely, yes."

They make a U turn and return to Broadway, then head three blocks down to the 1-2-3 station at 96th Street. The express train is a straight shot to Chambers Street, and it's a short walk to the waterfront from there.

As they approach the subway stairs, Elliot hesitates. "Should we take the elevator?"

Just as she glances across to the far wall of the station to where he's pointing, an elderly woman with a walker happens to arrive, and pushes the down button. "Um, pass."

He chuckles. "Okay, that was unfortunate. You're sure?"

"Yes. Let's do this."

The train is crowded, but they find two empty seats facing the aisle and slide in, squeezing in next to three other bodies.

He hasn't taken the subway in several weeks, and he finds it soothing. Or maybe it's just that Olivia is sitting next to him, a bit healthier, and seemingly glad to be with him. At some point they'll have to talk about his and Nick's visit, but she seems to be in a good mood, and he doesn't want to spoil that.

"You're wearing perfume," he says, finally realizing that the stirring fragrance that reminds him of watermelon and burnt caramel, which he's been vaguely attributing to her bath products, is something more specific.

"Yeah."

"I like it."

"Thank you. It's Versace, I think? Casey got it for me for my birthday last year."

"It's nice on you." The truth is, it's sexy as hell on her, and he loves it. He yearns to lean sideways into her, to scoop his arm around her shoulders. He wants to bury his nose in her neck, take in this intoxicating scent.

"El, how's Kathy?"

He takes in a sharp breath, trying to put the perfume out of his mind to answer the question. "She's fine, I think. She's seeing someone, I think it's serious. We've been talking a bit more lately, because Maureen's getting married in August."

"Yeah, you mentioned. Do you like the guy?"

"I do, actually. He's in dental school at NYU, and she's got a job at a start-up in the Flatiron area that does something with the cloud that I don't understand, even though she's tried to explain it to me, like, a dozen times."

"Don't feel badly. Nobody understands the cloud."

"Yeah, yeah. You know, Liv, I never thought I'd say this about any boyfriend of my daughters', but I couldn't be more thrilled. He's perfect."

"El, I'm so glad to hear that. Please tell her congratulations for me."

"I will. We have lunch every week. She lives with her fiancé in Union Square."

Olivia turns to him in shock. "Wait, so let me get this straight. Your daughter is living with a guy she's not yet married to, and you're okay with that?"

It's the first time since he's reconnected with her that he feels the passage of two years between them. He has changed since she knew him. He wants her to know that. He shrugs. "You get divorced, you face the prospect of not seeing your kids every day, you learn how to pick your battles. Plus, they've been together five years, the kid's going to be a dentist; he's not some tattooed idiot on a motorcycle. Also, I guess I've just … lightened up with the Church dogma."

"I'm so happy for you."

He is struck by her sincerity. For all their past problems, she has always shown genuine interest in his children.

"You want to hear something crazy?" she asks suddenly.

"Absolutely."

"I took one of those DNA tests, you know? I don't mean a forensics one, like the one I did to find Simon. I mean, from one of those companies where they tell you your whole genealogy, your ethnic background, your heritage?"

"Yeah …"

"So I was curious, you know? My whole life people have commented on my skin tone, my eyes, my hair, like they hint at something … you know, not totally Caucasian. But then Joseph Hollister turned out to be as white as they come, and so it really made me wonder."

"So?"

"So … turns out I'm one-eighth Jewish. On my mother's side."

"Huh. You're kidding. Do you think your mother knew?"

"I'm not sure. It must have been on her mother's side, since her father's family came from England. My grandmother died when my mother was sixteen, and other than being born in Czechoslovakia and arriving here as an orphan after World War Two, she never talked to her about where she came from, or where the rest of her family was. It got me thinking, if one of my grandmother's parents was Jewish …. that would, you know, make some sense."

"It would," he agrees. It hits him now, for the first time: she had no family on her mother's side either. "That's amazing, Liv. Were you happy you did the test?"

"I was. It was nice to feel some sort of connection to the past, I guess. Even if the circumstances were maybe more tragic than I'd figured." She grows pensive.

"I hope you weren't thinking that tragedy is somehow your genetic destiny."

"No, not at all. If anything, it put this attack in perspective. Made me stop feeling sorry for myself."

He sighs. "Liv, you went through a terrible thing. You shouldn't downplay that just because – "

"I know, I know. It just gave me some comfort, that's all."

He lets it go. "Maybe I should get one of those things done," he muses. "Though I'm pretty sure I know what it would say. One-hundred-point-zero-zero-zero-zero percent Irish Catholic."

She sighs wistfully. "You were always a very good Catholic."

"I'll take that as … a compliment?"

"You should. You stuck to your principles without imposing them on anyone else. I admire that."

"Thank you."

"El, can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Do you still pray?"

He hesitates. "I go to Mass, sometimes. Not as much as I used to."

"But I mean, do you pray. To God. Not just as a ritual, but with genuine … belief, that he's listening."

He takes a second to consider his answer. No one's ever asked him this before. "I used to. Now, if I'm being honest, not really. It's more just a habit."

She looks into her lap. When she continues, she speaks in a more hushed tone, and he has to strain to hear over the din of the train. "There were moments when I was with Lewis, when … I understood for the first time in my life, why people pray. I understood the allure of prayer, I guess."

He freezes. "What do you mean?"

Even from her position next to him, with her chin tucked, he knows that her expression has darkened. She links her fingers together between her knees, leans forward, rocks with the sway of the train. "There were moments when I was so terrified he was going to kill me, there was this instinct, to pray. But it was more like begging. Begging, for this God I really didn't think existed, to save me."

He puts a hand on her back, waits.

"Those were some of my lowest moments, because I really didn't believe anyone was listening, and I was jealous of people who do believe, who at least are able to give themselves that little bit of hope."

"But you saved yourself," he offers.

She doesn't answer, and he wishes he knew what she was thinking.

He thinks back to what Amaro said, about what her expectations were, of being saved. By her own squad, by anyone in the world. He wonders anew if, during those endless, brutal, hours, if she thought she'd been forgotten, abandoned by the people in her life, by humanity at large. He suddenly recalls the bag of cards Amanda gave him. In his haste to see her, he completely forgot to bring them. He makes a mental note to do this, first thing when they're back.

But for now, he just wants to comfort her. He wants so badly to snake his arm fully around her, pull her close, offer her the support she deserves. But he holds back, not wanting to send the wrong signal.

At 14th Street, a mass of people exits the train, and are replaced by a smaller incoming group. He falls into troubled silence as the train resumes its journey. As they pass by the Christopher Street station, a local stop, the train slows to a crawl, which it always does between here and Chambers. He's never known the reason; he assumes it's something historical about the land, or the fragility of the architecture above, or maybe something esoteric about the engineering, but he's always just accepted it as one of the quirks of the New York Subway system that nobody questions. There's something hypnotic about riding the subway. He thinks he should do it more often. "Next stop," he says, but he knows she already knows.

She doesn't respond, and when he turns to look at her, she's distracted. She is fixated on a man diagonally across from her standing in the aisle clutching a pole. Her mouth is slightly ajar, and she is using it to take deep, measured breaths.

"Are you all right?"

But she doesn't answer.

"Liv, what's wrong?"

Her breaths are coming sharper and faster. Her eyes are wide, mesmerized as she stares, like she's transfixed.

He follows her gaze. The man she's staring at is tall and lanky, with dirty blond hair, a long oval face punctuated by an angular jaw, and a confident swagger. He is in his mid-thirties, and handsome, but otherwise non-descript. He is staring back in their direction. "Do you know him?"

"I want to get off this train."

"It's the next stop."

She doesn't say anything. It seems she is starting to hyperventilate.

Alarmed, he rubs her back in circles, takes her right hand in his, squeezes it gently. "Liv, come on, talk to me."

And then the spell is broken. She blinks, her shoulders slacken, and she visibly relaxes. "I'm fine. It's okay."

A few seconds later, the train come to a screeching halt at Chambers Street. He helps her to her feet, remembering from his own past rib fractures how painful the act of standing up can be. The second they're out of the train, on the platform, she bends over, clutches her knees, breathing heavily, like a person on the verge of throwing up.

"What happened? Who was he?"

Visibly shaken and still hunched over, she says, "He was nobody. He just looked like Lewis. But it wasn't him."

"He's in jail."

"I know that."

He nods, offers his hand. "Come, let's get out of here."

Outside in the fresh air and bright late-May sunshine, Olivia stands at the top of the subway steps on the corner of Chambers and West Broadway. Her chest heaves from the exertion of climbing a flight of stairs and the swell of emotion that's overtaking her. She leans her weight against the cast iron railing that encircles the station's staircase, staring vacantly at the gleaming Freedom Tower. Masses of tears flow freely down her face. She wipes at them brusquely, but she's not really trying to conceal that she's crying.

She lets him pull her into his arms, and he holds her, right there on the street corner. "It's gonna be okay," he whispers.

"I'm never going to get over this, am I?" Her words are muffled against his chest.

He rubs her back. "Of course you are. It's been less than two weeks. Give yourself a little time."

He can feel her trembling. This incident has really shaken her.

"He didn't even resemble him that much." Her lips move against his collar bone, and she struggles to regain control. He'd forgotten how many inches he has on her; he's not used to her without some sort of heel.

"I knew after a second it wasn't him." Her voice is nearly inaudible against the din of a nearby construction site. "But there was something about how he stared, his gaze. I don't even think he was looking at me; probably at the ad behind my head. But it freaked me out anyway."

"Honey, you need time. You need time."

She pulls back, looks up at him, her eyes red and still tear-filled. It's the most vulnerable he's ever seen her. His shirt is soaked on his right side directly beneath his chin. He wants to reach to the back of her neck, cup her scalp, feel her silky hair slip through his fingers. And he wants to kiss her.

Consumed with shame that he even has such an impulse under these circumstances, he forces himself to focus on the moment at hand.

But it's too late. She shifts awkwardly. "El – "

He releases her before she has a chance to say any more. He knows she's not interested in him romantically, but he doesn't want to hear her say it. He'd rather make do with the friendship she's offering, and the fantasy in his head.

She looks up at him quizzically.

"What?"

"Nothing. I just forgot how tall you are."

He grins.

"What?"

"Nothing," he says. "Should we head to the water?"

"Yeah."

"You're right, it is stunning down here."

The walk down Chambers, across the West Side Highway and to the promenade along the river, is normally less than ten minutes, but it's taken them twenty.

"You've been here before," she says.

"Of course. It's just been a while. I don't come down to this area very often. Just occasionally to the memorial, to pay my respects."

"The sunsets are gorgeous." She gestures into the distance, like a real estate agent trying to promote the neighborhood. She looks out at the water. It's choppier than usual today, and he wonders if they're due for another thunderstorm.

"I lied to you before."

He stops walking, causing her to pull back as well. "What?"

"I lied. About my hair. I didn't get it cut. I did it myself."

He exhales, relieved it's not something more consequential. "You cut your own hair?"

"Yeah."

He knows this is significant in some way, but he's not sure how. "Oh. Well, if I remember correctly, you didn't say you didn't. I just assumed."

"I didn't correct you."

"Okay … so, you misrepresented it. Who cares? I've cut my own hair, from time to time, when I didn't have time to stop at the barber."

She goes to the railing that abuts the river, just off the walking path. She gazes across at Jersey City, at the cluster of highrise apartment buildings.

Unsure what to do next, he sidles up, parks himself next to her. Waits for her to say something.

"I did it two nights ago, right after you and Nick left."

He freezes, dreading what she's going to say next.

She turns to face him, her eyes so, so, haunted.

And then her phone rings from her back jeans pocket. Loudly, obnoxiously. She jumps out of her skin. "Hello?"

He can't hear the other side.

"Rafael." She covers the mic with her hand, mouths to him, "The A.D.A."

He nods. He takes a step back to let her have some privacy, but she shakes her head. "It's fine. He's just updating – no, not you. I'm just with … an old friend. Yeah. Oh." Her eyes darken. "Oh, well what is it?"

All at once her face is etched with anxiety, and Elliot knows that something is up with the case.

"Okay… okay, well I'm not at home … Meet me?" She pauses and looks to Elliot.

Elliot gestures. Of course. Do what you've gotta do.

"I'm in Battery Park City. The promenade, just off Chambers. Okay, okay, see you then."

"Well?"

She looks shell shocked as she puts her phone away. "He said there's been … a development."

"What kind of development?"

"He wouldn't say. He said it's better if he tells me in person, and it turns out he's at the courthouse, which is, like, five minutes from here, so he's hopping in a cab."

"Do you want me to stay when he gets here?"

She looks up at him, searching his eyes. For boredom? For impatience? For discomfort?

And then he gets his answer.

"Yes, please," she whispers, not meeting his eyes.

He's struck by the desperation in her voice. Because when he looks back down at her, he sees something in her face he's only ever seen once before, and that was in his dream earlier today.

Terror.