A/N: Friendly reminder that there's eight chapters (technically seven chapters & an epilogue) left after this one, guys. It's been confusing trying to keep track, with the prologue messing up the chapter numbers this whole time. Just wanted to bring that up again, so y'all weren't wondering why there were chapters "missing" by the end. Also, giving this chapter a TW for mentions of sexual assault. /TW ETA: Reviews seem to be back to normal, so I moved my reply to the nasty guest over there. I've switched guest reviews to moderated on my account and will be directing any future flaming/hate/dumbfuckery into the trash where it belongs. I write these stories for free to be enjoyed by fellow Rolivia-lovers, not to be "critiqued" (aka insulted, there's a difference) by random Internet trolls who wouldn't know good writing if it came up and bit them on the ass. This is a fansite, not a creative writing course, and unless you're my beta or a publisher or someone who holds a degree in the writing field (like I do), don't tell me what to do with my fics or my 'verse. I accept polite suggestions for things nice people (as most of you are) would like to see included in my work—the rest is confetti. *disappears in a poof of glitter*


CHAPTER 31: The Truth Shall Set You Free

. . .

"I called Alex after you left."

Just as Olivia had feared, Amanda stiffened at the news, her arms gone as rigid as the steel cables that supported the RFK, rather than the gentle cradle they had formed seconds before. Her eyes were blue sparks, like the sudden zap of an electrical outlet. Supposedly the blue underbelly was the hottest part of a flame.

The silence lasted a full fifteen seconds—Olivia counted each tick of her Breitling, amplified to the volume of a wall clock by the bathroom's acoustics—then Amanda finally made a sound that was part hum, part grunt of acknowledgement. "Yeah, I kinda figured," she said quietly, and though the admission obviously bothered her, she kept a level tone, relaxing her embrace around Olivia. The only thing she couldn't control were those eyes, electric, incendiary.

"You did? How?" Olivia asked, bracing for an accusation or another explosion of anger. She didn't want to bring Alex into this again and risk snapping the tenuous thread that had just begun stitching them back together; but if they were going to make any sort of real progress, she needed to be upfront with Amanda. Hiding Alex's visit would only drive more of a wedge between them, and if Jesse happened to let slip the news about "Mommy's friend" stopping by, they would be in the same mess all over again. She wouldn't put that on Jesse's tiny shoulders, and she didn't want it on her own conscience.

"I saw her lipstick on one of the wine glasses. Smelled her perfume in the living room." Amanda gazed toward the door, as if she might be able to see past it into the living room, maybe even see a misty silhouette of Alex outlined on the couch, like an afterimage captured in Chanel No. 5. "I know your scent, Liv. And your lipstick."

The connotation of those simple phrases—that Amanda knew her down to the smallest detail; that she cared enough to pay such close attention to things most people overlooked—stole Olivia's breath away and rendered her incapable of saying much more than, "Oh."

"I don't blame you for callin' her. Wouldn't even blame ya if something happened between y'all," Amanda said, glancing inside the blanket at Olivia's chest, bare except for the bra she'd worn to work nearly twenty-four hours earlier. The detective looked unbearably sad then, the spark in her eyes dying out. "Not after the way I acted."

"Amanda. Look at me." Gently, Olivia took her fiancée by the chin, urging it up until their eyes met. The left side was still inflamed and bloated to three times its regular size, giving Amanda an oddly doll-like appearance, as if one of her automatic open and close lids had gotten stuck. She would hate that comparison, pediophobe that she was. It only made Olivia's heart ache all the more. She traced her thumb underneath the budding bruise, as close as she dared without touching it. "Nothing happened. I just . . . I needed someone to talk to. When I couldn't get through to you, I tried her because . . . "

Because I was drunk and desperate? Because I had something to prove? Because I wanted to pay you back for walking out on me? Classic Olivia. Still running to a lawyer friend for help when things got really bad.

"I didn't know what else to do. She came over and we talked. Maybe half an hour at most. Barely even drank the Nero I opened." Olivia frowned at the pocket of skin between her thumb and forefinger, discolored and partly smooth now, her latest of many scars. She was turning into a patchwork of slash marks, zigzags, and burns; a story quilt that told of a life spent dodging the blade, the jagged bottle, the smoldering kiss of a cigarette tip. When would the story end?

"I dumped the rest of the bottle. That's how I broke the glass," she said distantly, stroking the scar with the index finger of her opposite hand. It filled her with a sudden, overwhelming shame she couldn't—or didn't want to—identify. "I shouldn't have left it lying around. I should've cleaned it up so the kids didn't see. Or get hurt. I'm sorry, I—"

Amanda placed her fingertips lightly to Olivia's trembling lips. "It's okay, darlin'. I took care of it. They didn't see, nobody got hurt." She was rocking them again, so gently it was almost imperceptible. Her palm circled Olivia's back, smoothing away the tension and the hitch of emotion that made it difficult to catch a breath. "You don't have to apologize for that. Or anything, for that matter."

"Yes, I do. You were right about Alex. She made a pass at me. I stopped her, told her it was never going to happen. That I'm in love with you. Marrying you. Then I asked her to leave and she did. But you were right . . . about the earrings, about her ulterior motives, about all of it. I'm sorry I didn't believe you."

Olivia hadn't meant for it to tumble out in one breath like that—or at all—but there was no stopping once she'd gotten started. She wouldn't mention the kiss, though; how, for that fraction of a second, she longed for it, even if she had wanted the lips to belong to Amanda. Sometimes full disclosure wasn't the best way to go, especially when it would only hurt someone you loved and stir up more trouble. She knew that better than anyone.

"And I won't see her anymore," she added anxiously, when Amanda didn't respond for a long time, her expression unreadable behind the swelling and bruises. "I don't think she and I are capable of being friends now, anyway. Our lives are too different. So much has changed . . . I don't need her anymore. I just need you."

She was fawning again. Avoiding conflict by telling Amanda everything she wanted to hear, whether or not it was in her own best interest. And she found she didn't care. What she wanted, what was in her best interest, was Amanda Rollins. If that meant losing a friendship that drifted in and out of her life every few years—like cicadas that emerged from the soil every thirteen years to molt and mate and die within weeks—then so be it.

"I love you, Amanda." Searchingly, she tried to catch a glimpse of Amanda's downturned face, worried she had pushed too hard. The detective usually lit up like their still-standing Christmas tree whenever Olivia declared her love, which she had trained herself to do often.

Until she'd met her first fiancé, Daniel McNab, she had heard the words "I love you" only twice in her life—and only one of those times was from her mother. She could even put a number to how many times she had said it to someone else before adopting her son (a grand total of four). Back then, it felt foreign in her mouth, almost embarrassing, as if she'd uttered the wrong lines in a play. Now, she said it daily, naturally, and with her whole heart, to her children. It had taken a little more practice with Amanda, a grown woman who might not say it back; but once Olivia started, she hadn't been able to stop. To her immense relief, Amanda had always returned the sentiment freely.

Or used to.

Olivia was about to repeat herself, in case her fiancée hadn't heard (of course she had, they were inches apart), when Amanda finally raised her head again, unshed tears glittering in one eye, leaking from the corner of the other. She nibbled at the frayed skin on her sore lip, a fresh drop of blood sprouting like a tiny, red toadstool. She licked it off, then wetted her lips several more times, making a false start after each.

"You might feel different when you hear what I done. Did." Amanda cringed at the mistake, casting an almost fretful look at Olivia, as if she were a strict teacher known to scold for sloppy grammar. "You might not want me anymore."

Olivia's heart skipped a beat, and she was glad Amanda's hand had returned to her waist, where it couldn't detect the subsequent pounding in her chest. She wasn't afraid that her feelings for Amanda would change, but she did fear finding out what had gotten the detective to this state—so subdued, so raw.

Olivia didn't recall ever seeing her that way before, except in the days immediately after the Charles Patton trial and the shooting death of Esther Labott. She hadn't been able to reach out to Amanda like she'd wanted to during either of those moments; had let her determination not to be seen as the soft-hearted, touchy-feely commander of the sex police prevent her from offering the detective a shoulder to cry on. Now she realized some of that had been a means of keeping Amanda at bay and denying the attraction she'd felt for her subordinate, whom she had no business getting close to, physically or emotionally.

Well, that ship had long since sailed. And Olivia hadn't missed it for a single minute.

"I won't feel differently," she said, cupping her hand to the unblemished side of the blonde's face. "I promise. There is nothing you can tell me that will make me stop loving you, Amanda Jo."

Ten seconds ticked by on the Breitling. Fifteen. Then twenty. At twenty-five, Amanda readied herself, drawing a deep breath, as if preparing to dive headfirst into icy waters. At thirty, the plunge: "I took the earrings to a pawn shop after I left. Thought I could get enough cash to pay for . . . things. I been worryin' about money a lot lately, with the weddin' coming up, and Christmas, and— and I saw this ring in the jewelry store when I took your watch to be repaired. It was so pretty and it reminded me so much of you. I wanted to buy it to replace the one that prick ripped off your finger . . . "

Here, she paused to twist the engagement band in question around Olivia's finger like a radio dial, seeking a clearer station. "Didn't want you thinking about that every time you looked at it. But the other ring was too expensive. I couldn't afford it and the watch. And here I was puttin' all that pressure on you about a joint account, when I got nothin' to contribute. We wouldn't even have been in that damn bank if it weren't for me. And now look at us."

"Oh, sweetheart." Olivia looped the same stray lock of hair from earlier behind Amanda's ear, smoothing it into place repeatedly, compulsively, as if it might flutter loose in an unexpected breeze. She had known the younger woman was fretting about money recently, but to what extent, she hadn't realized. Amanda actually looked ill while speaking of it, the color drained from her cheeks, teeth chattering like a jonesing crack addict. "I wish you'd told me it was bothering you this much. I don't want another ring. This one is perfect. If anything, it's a reminder that nothing can tear us apart, no matter how bad it gets."

A sad smile plucked at the corner of Amanda's lips, but went no farther. The moisture from her battered eye glistened on the overripe lid, the skin there as puffy and seamless as a newborn's, much too tender to be touched. "There's more, though. And I need ya to just . . . just hear me out, okay? I don't want you defending me or making excuses for me."

The urgency of the request, the prayer-soft tone in which it was given, alleviated the sting that might otherwise have accompanied those words—as if she were an enabler. A fawner. Olivia folded her lips together, nodding in earnest. She knew how to listen with impartiality; she did it nearly every day on the job. It was easier with strangers to whom she had no emotional connection, but she could do it for Amanda's sake.

"I couldn't go through with pawnin' 'em, though," said Amanda, forcefully, plowing full steam ahead with the story like there had been no interruption. Her gaze grew distant, endless blue as the ocean. "I got to thinking 'bout how my daddy used to pawn my mama's jewelry to feed his habit. My sister did the same damn thing with that guy's flute that time. I know you said get rid of the earrings, but . . . that ain't— that's not the kind of person I wanna be. Not the kind of wife I want to be to you." She clasped Olivia's hand—the one wearing the engagement ring—to her bare chest, the way girls in period dramas hugged a rose from a lover to their bosoms.

That argument seemed so long ago now: storming over to the dresser, taking out the earrings and tossing them on the bed, telling Amanda to do with them as she pleased. Olivia was glad the detective hadn't pawned them, not because she planned to wear them, much less keep them—they were tainted far more than the ring—but because Amanda looked crushed that she'd even considered putting them in hock.

"I still got 'em in my pocket. You can have them back and wear them whenever you want. I won't bitch at ya anymore, I swear." Amanda tucked a lock of hair behind Olivia's ear this time, fondling the lobe as though one of the diamond drops already sparkled there. She drew back her fingers a moment later, closing them into the clamshell of her fist. "I shoulda come home when I left that place. I wanted to. I almost answered your call, but I was too . . . "

Amanda made a helpless, grasping gesture as she searched for the word that her expression clearly conveyed: she was too scared. Scared she would be told not to return, just as Olivia had been on the other end of the call, fearing the opposite—that her fiancée would never come back.

In the end, Amanda couldn't put a name to the emotion, but she forged on all the same. "Everything was just buildin' up inside me, ya know? Felt like I's gonna explode if I didn't . . . do something. Kept thinking about the money. I know that's just an excuse. That's always been my excuse—needin' the money. Tonight's the first time I let myself believe it in a really, really long time. I thought I could just go in and get right back out . . . "

About halfway through the preface, Olivia caught her breath, held it, anticipating what was to come. She knew, even before it crossed Amanda's lips. It was something she had quietly tried to prepare herself for since their relationship began—the possibility that Amanda would one day have a gambling slip or a full-blown relapse. In the early stages, when she was still trying to talk herself out of getting romantically involved with a coworker (who was also a subordinate and a woman), she had used Amanda's addiction as yet another example of why it would never work between them.

You can't trust an addict, Olivia. She'd learned that lesson before she learned the ABCs—and she had been a quick study, able to recite the entire alphabet by age three—only to have it reinforced with every forgotten birthday, every school ceremony disrupted by the loud drunk in the front row, every broken promise to "get better." It had taken her years to trust Amanda at all, based on the simple fact that she was an addict and those mornings she cruised into the squad room late, sunglasses in place, hair and clothes woefully out of, had hit much too close to home for Olivia.

But Lindstrom had made a good point, as he so often did: "Your mother never sought help for her alcoholism, Olivia. An addict must first want to change if they're ever going to recover. Amanda has done both. You have every right to be angry at your mother, but don't let that stand in the way of your happiness now."

That had been the real game changer in her decision to date Amanda. Of course, the doctor later warned her that long-time recovered addicts occasionally had slip-ups as well and not to assume the worst if it happened. So she'd planned for this moment, hoping that it wouldn't transpire, telling herself not to be angry if it did. When it did.

And here it was:

"I went to a casino. Nothing illegal—just that shitty one out in Queens. Everything's electronic and annoying there. Plus, it's humongous." Amanda curled her upper lip in disgust, without a twitch from the bottom. She resembled Frannie baring her teeth in a "smile," the kids' favorite command for the pit mix; and for a second, it was easy to forget that she was admitting to losing her sobriety. "Anyway, that's not . . . never mind. I just— I didn't even want to be there, is what I'm tryna say. I wasn't having a good time like I used to. All I could think about was you and the kids. How I's letting you down. It felt . . . it felt like I was cheating on you."

She mumbled the last part, her voice so indistinct Olivia strained to make it out. They had both been testing the waters of infidelity, then. Olivia had sipped at hers, found it wanting; Amanda dove into the deep end, ignoring the undertow signs. Whether she'd sink or swim remained to be seen.

"Used to be, I could tune that out. Knock back a couple drinks, smoke a few cigarettes. By my fifth or sixth hand of blackjack, I'd be feelin' no pain." Amanda gave a humorless, convulsive little laugh that sounded more like a bark, the kind of noise Gigi made when a stranger got too close to the children. She shook her head, scattering wispy strands from the blonde nest on top. "I was even winning this time, but I didn' care. That's when I . . . I called Daphne. Think I wanted— I wanted someone to stop me? I didn't want you to see me like that, so I called her.

"That's when the douchebag started hittin' on me. The guy, I mean, not Daph. He ended up, uh, propositioning me 'n her. And you, actually."

"Me?" Olivia asked, eyebrows flicking upward in surprise. The reaction was a bit delayed, that line from a moment before still ringing in her ears: I didn't want you to see me like that. Well, she sure as hell understood that. She was sitting in her soon-to-be wife's lap, on a toilet, spilling out of a bra and too-tight leggings, with vomit in her hair. Real class-act she turned out to be.

Even in college, she'd made sure to clean herself up after a night of heavy drinking and partying—few and far between, those—fearful of waking up next to the latest frat boy (or latest professor) who might see in her a glimpse of Serena. A pathetic, sloppy, slutty drunk. And now Amanda had seen it. How the detective would ever be attracted to her again after tonight, Olivia couldn't say.

"—my wife'd kick his ass. Then he made some pervy comment about invitin' you along," Amanda said, looking as if she were about to turn and spit a curse at the man's feet. "So I decked him. It was a good one too, but he rounded on me right quick. I didn't see it comin' in time 'cause . . . " She swept an accusatory gesture down her front. "Drank too much. Gettin' hit kinda snapped me out of it, though. I guess this is a good thing."

Shaking her head, Olivia reached for the fingertips Amanda was using to probe the skin below her swollen eye. No. "No," she said out loud, drawing the hand into her lap.

At first, Amanda looked down in surprise—and with a little hope—at their joined hands, but her features quickly darkened, sullen shadows pooling in the hollows between bruises. She worked her thumb over Olivia's knuckles, the continuous swiping reminiscent of a card dealer doling out the deck. As if she'd noticed the similarity too, she stopped mid-stroke and poked her thumb between Olivia's closed fingers, trapping it in place.

"We left after that," she resumed, gazing inside the gap where the blanket didn't quite meet around their shoulders. There was nothing amorous about the look. She appeared to be staring right through Olivia's chest, though it was overflowing the bra cups in a way she had once described as "two large caramel soft serves melting on small cones."

("I didn't realize I was marrying a poet," Olivia had responded dryly, then laughed until tears streamed down her cheeks.)

"Me and Daph, I mean. Talked for a while outside, then went to a diner." Eyes like frosted window panes, a sapphire sky on the other side, Amanda pressed on, unblinking. "She told me I had to sober up before I came home. Gave me this whole lecture about you bein' a lady and how I better apologize to you like one."

Good ol' Daphne.

"So that's it, basically," Amanda said with a note of resolution, and now she brought her eyes into focus, training them on Olivia's face. "That, and I played a scratch ticket when we were Christmas shopping at the mall. I kinda . . . found it by accident. Told myself I could handle it, just that once. How dumb am I?"

No dumber than someone who thought one more glass of wine would solve the problem, one more pill would help her sleep. (Not just dumb, but stupid.) Olivia opened her mouth to reply, ready to assent that, while mistakes had definitely been made, Amanda was far from dumb, but she was interrupted before she began.

"Go ahead and yell at me, okay? Don't sugarcoat it. I know how bad I fucked up, and I deserve whatever you got." Amanda set her jaw with a military air, like a soldier heading into battle. "You wanna cuss me out, cuss. You wanna hit me, hit me. If you tell me to pack up my shit and get the hell out, I won't blame ya. Just . . . make it hurt, whatever you do, 'cause I can't stand feeling this way anymore."

"Amanda, I am not going to hit you," Olivia said, touching the blonde's clenched jaw, its delicacy an almost absurd contrast to the steely exterior it was meant to project. She traced her fingertips along the ridge, treating it as gently as fine crystal.

The anger she had expected to feel—that she'd fretted about to Dr. Lindstrom; that she sometimes journaled about, writing reminders to herself to stay calm and not be too hard on Amanda if it happened; that she'd felt whenever her mother broke a promise to stay sober—wasn't there. Mostly she just felt sad and tired. "I would never do that. And what good would yelling or swearing do?" She bunched her shoulders and let them drop, the blanket slipping from one side. "I don't want you to leave. And I don't want to hurt you."

Amanda dipped a glance to Olivia's bare shoulder and drew the blanket back over it, lifting aside a tuft of dark hair. Her eyes darted to the right, to Olivia's neck, and she held the hair carefully away from it like she was peering beyond a curtain, disturbed by what lay on the other side. "But look at what I did to you," she said insistently, a scratch in her voice making it sound worn thin, reedy. "I put bruises on you, Liv. On your"—she thumbed Olivia's neck so gently it tickled, her own throat catching—"on your body. And I did do it because of Alex, 'cause I'm a jealous piece of shit. I wanted her to see that you're mine and she can't have you. And what about all the other stuff I did in there?"

She flung a hand towards the honeycomb tiled wall, their bedroom just on the opposite side, carpet stained with Merlot, remnants of an iPhone scattered on the floor. "I threw you against the dresser and pulled your hair. I tried to trigger you on purpose so you'd stand up for yourself. I practically . . . practically forced you to have sex when you didn't want to. Christ Almighty, how can you even look at me right now?"

"What do you want me to say, that you were an asshole?" asked Olivia, feeling strangely calm in spite of Amanda's rising emotion. Serene, almost. (At the age of twelve, she had laughed uncontrollably when she found Serena in a baby name book and realized it derived from the word serene.) "Fine, you were an asshole. If you ever treat me like that again, we're done. But I know that wasn't you, Amanda. You've been through so much lately. You're still reeling."

Olivia swept aside the bangs that had fallen to mingle in Amanda's eyelashes. "And let's get something straight, you didn't force me to do anything against my will. You were . . . inappropriate, but I let it happen. And you didn't throw me. I outweigh you by thirty pounds. In fact, I shouldn't even be sitting—"

When Olivia shifted, preparing to stand, Amanda held her around the waist, keeping her still. "You think that means I can't hurt you? My daddy used to get into bar fights all the time, with guys twice his size, and he always won. Almost beat some guy to death once. He's got this superhuman strength when he's mad. I got it too. One of the only things the sonuvabitch gave me, 'sides the blue eyes and the gambling habit."

Abandoning the attempt to move, Olivia went very still on her own now. She knew little more about Dean Rollins than Amanda knew about Serena Benson. Both parents were subjects they avoided as much as possible, and when either did come up, the conversation was usually stilted and uncomfortable. But Amanda hadn't batted an eye when she mentioned her father this time, and she seemed poised to continue.

Sure enough:

"Been thinkin' about him a lot lately. Having Mama here just . . . I dunno, just brought it all back or something. When I was at the pawn shop, I got to rememberin' how he used to drag me along to hock Mama's stuff so he'd have an accomplice. Someone else to share the blame. He'd gimme some of the money, though. And I always took it.

"That's the kind of person you'll be marrying if you stick with me. Mean white trash who'll do anything for a buck," Amanda said matter-of-factly, leaving no room for a different interpretation. She made a soft, disgusted sound like a bug had flown into the back of her mouth. "You deserve so much better than that, Olivia. Things I can't ever give you. I'm afraid I'll just hold you back or . . . or hurt you. I can't stand that I keep screwing up and getting you hurt."

"Amanda. You're the one who just got shot." Olivia gazed at her fiancée in disbelief, slipping a hand inside the blanket and gently cupping it at Amanda's side, a safe distance from the bandage. "You're the one who got hit in the face twice tonight. If anybody's getting hurt, baby, it's you. I'm fine—I don't even feel the hickeys and my hair's been pulled a lot harder than that before."

That much was true. Slaps had been Serena's favored brand of punishment, a sort of feverish delight in her smog-colored eyes whenever she landed an especially satisfying crack across Olivia's cheek, but hair-pulling was a close contender. She had yanked Olivia by the hair every step of the way into the police precinct to turn in Daniel for statutory rape; Olivia's scalp was sore for days after, and she hadn't minded lopping off several inches of her mane-like hair when Serena apologized with shopping and a trip to the salon. Less for her mother to grab.

"I'm not just talkin' about tonight," Amanda said, her tone heated, more from trying to impress her point than from anger. "Or even the shooting. It's been going on a lot longer than that. When Mama hit you on Christmas, it all"—with a flick of the fingers, she splayed her hand open in front of her eyes, simulating a bright flash—"I dunno, kinda blew up. It got me thinkin'. I'm supposed to protect you, and I can't even do that right."

The detective's fiercely protective side was one of the qualities Olivia loved most about her, and it hadn't gone unnoticed that the majority of that fierceness centered on Olivia herself. It felt good to finally be so important to someone, but maybe she had indulged it too much. If it was putting this kind of strain on Amanda, it wasn't worth it. Olivia wasn't worth it.

"It's not your job to protect me, love—"

"Yes, it is," Amanda burst in, her hands giving Olivia an adamant little shake around the waist. "You're my— you're everything, Liv, and it is my job to keep you safe. But I keep on lettin' you down and hurtin' you just like everybody else always has."

Olivia wasn't quite sure who the "everybody else" referred to, but she had a feeling her mother would be near the top of that list. "When have you let me down? You make me feel safer and more loved than anyone ever has. I didn't even think . . . I didn't know if I could be loved, until you showed me how. I thought I was going to be alone the rest of my life.

"But this," she said, locating her fiancée's left hand under the blanket and bringing it to her heart, ring on ring, her free hand going to the same spot on Amanda's chest, "you and me—it's the first time I've ever felt wanted. You've given me so much, my love. Things money can't buy."

A teardrop escaped Amanda's good eye and she quickly swiped it away with her shoulder, the blanket sliding off and draping around her arms and Olivia's, like an off the shoulder gown. She gazed down at their clasped hands, cushioned at Olivia's breast, then inhaled so sharply, it whistled in her throat. "Oh God, Liv, you don't even know. All the ways I've failed you."

She broke then, taking deep shuddering breaths, releasing them in sobs, tears raining vehemently from both eyes. Amanda Rollins didn't cry; but when she did, it was with the absolute and inconsolable despair of a child. "I could've stopped so many of the bad things that've happened to you. I'm the reason Lewis found you, and then I ignored my instincts those first couple days you were gone. I knew somethin' wasn't right, but I was too caught up in my own bullshit to . . . Maybe if I had followed through, he wouldn'ta had you for so long. Maybe he wouldn'ta hurt you so bad."

Every bit of moisture had withered on Olivia's tongue at the mention of Lewis, of those days with him. She tasted the vodka, even now. For months after that four-day hell, she'd drunk Merlot just to mask the flavor he left in her mouth, part kerosene, part burnt hair. There were other things in that bouquet—things she didn't dwell on or wish to know about. It seemed she was still searching for the right vintage to drown them out, all these years later.

She tried to speak, found she couldn't. Amanda wasn't through anyway.

"An- and Calvin. I . . . " The detective looked to Olivia with such pleading and distress in her watery blue eyes, it was physically painful not to intervene, not to hold her and tell her she needn't continue. But she did need to; she needed to pour out the secrets she'd been bottling up for so long, and Olivia, no matter how difficult and triggering it was to hear, needed to listen.

"It's my fault he did that to you. I was upstairs in Amelia's apartment talkin' to the goddamn neighbor lady while he was down there on top of you. And then I just poked around like a fuckin' rookie in that warehouse while he—" Amanda let out a small, miserable moan, lifting her eyes to the ceiling, a penitent looking to heaven for redemption from purgatory. Her prayer was disjointed and shaky, broken by sobs both silent and full-bodied, but every word was crystal clear: "I was right outside the door while he assaulted you. If I'd moved a little faster and acted like a cop instead of gawkin' at pictures, I would've been able to get that freak off of you before he did anything."

Before he reamed her tits and came all over them, she meant. Two years and two months later, even Amanda couldn't say it. Worse yet, she felt responsible for it. Olivia realized then that she was still clutching the blonde's hand to her chest, now in a death grip. When she started to let go, Amanda snapped to attention, looking crushed. Olivia shook her head and brought the palm to her lips, pressing them to the fate line down the center, pressing that to her cheek.

"Baby, no. No." For a moment, that was the only word Olivia could produce—the only one she remembered. She swallowed dryly several times, trying to restore enough saliva to flush the sawdust from her throat; let another sound pass through. She wanted to cry along with her fiancée, but didn't have the tears. (You're bone-dry, Detective. Menopause already? No? Well, let's see what you've got in this drawer to get you nice and—)

"What they did to me," she said in a rush, forcing it out before the thought (memory?) finished itself, "none of that is your fault. There's nothing you could have or should have done differently to stop it. Lew— he would've gotten to me no matter what. I was . . . "

His. Forever and always.

She had the brands to prove it. She was livestock.

"It happened the way it was meant to. It was ugly and horrific, but— but it ended. He's dead and he'll never hurt anyone else." Olivia held Amanda's hand fast to her cheek, absently raking her fingers along the back, the others knotting into the blanket. Her hands hadn't been this restless in months. "You had a part in that. Who knows how many more people he would've hurt if you hadn't brought him in? He might still be . . . " Alive. " . . . active, if not for you. You did your job, Amanda. That's all you could do. You got orders and you followed them, just like I did. No one knew. No one is to blame but him."

Would she ever really believe her own rhetoric? Would Amanda? The detective had listened to the speech, openly weeping at times, sniffling behind a wad of toilet paper torn from the roll at others. She blew forcefully into the tissue now, pinching it from her nose, wincing at the pressure to her surrounding features.

"What about Calvin?" she asked in a soft, childish timbre that went straight to Olivia's heart. She sounded about ten years old, the way she must have back when she used to creep from her hiding spot upstairs and tend to her broken, bloodied mother on whichever downstairs floor the woman was sprawled. "You think that was fate too?"

Maybe it was. Everyone had their calling in this life, the thing that defined them, that they were drawn to time and again by unseen forces. The recurring theme of Olivia Benson's life was sexual trauma: it was the way she came into the world, and the topic that informed almost every bit of advice her mother ever imparted; it was what she had built her career around, twenty-odd years of one heinous act after another; and it was something she'd personally experienced so many times she had stopped counting. If that didn't qualify as destiny, what did?

"I don't know," Olivia said, hating how helpless it sounded, how hopeless.

At some point, she had resigned herself to such a fate, she realized. And she knew precisely when, if she were being truthful. It was when Lewis had her chained to the table. Hearing herself beg to be raped; feeling him harden against her backside, cramming into her as if he were already inside. That had destroyed whatever was left of her after the first time. Deep down, she feared that the reason she hadn't fought him then was because she couldn't, not because she wouldn't.

"I don't know," she repeated sadly, for a moment unable to meet the detective's eye. But she forced herself to do so as she continued—Amanda needed to know she meant this: "Whatever it was, you're not to blame. You saved me that day. And every day since. No one else looks out for me like you do—"

"But Orion. I'm the reason your shoulder's messed up. And Mama . . . " Amanda had lost a little momentum, her certainty beginning to wane. She stroked Olivia's cheekbone with her thumb, the rest of her fingers sifting into the dark hair nearby. "She slapped you the way Daddy did her when I's a kid, when I could only stand back and watch. Same at the bank. That guy had his hands all over you, and I just stood there."

"Sweetheart. Listen to me." Olivia grasped the blonde's forearm, wanting something to hold onto. She had felt like that before—during sex, during her assaults. Moments when she relinquished control or had it taken from her. "It is not humanly possible for you to protect me every single minute of every single day. And those examples you just gave? I was there too. I didn't save you from getting stabbed with a screwdriver. I saw how unhappy you were while your mom was here, but I didn't make her leave. And I stood by while you got shot. I'm the one who let you down."

Amanda shook her head stubbornly, some of her determination restored. "It's not the same."

"Why not?"

"It just . . . it just isn't. You're— we're different."

. . .