Kathy can hear something rattling.
She's been checking the kitchen drawers and cabinets for any remaining odds and ends. So far, she's found a book of stamps, a broken whisk, and a pair of thread-bare neon potholders that Lizzie weaved in third grade. She's onto the last drawer, the one in the corner that always sticks. It won't budge more than a few inches, but she can tell there's something in the back. She reaches inside, her wrist scraping against the wood, when she feels it—a small fabric bag, it seems, of coins.
She grasps it, sliding it toward her and out of the drawer; she's about to open it when she hears Eli running into the house. He's spent the past few hours at Kevin's, most likely watching cartoons and jumping in mud puddles and forgetting to say goodbye.
"Mommy!" He races into the kitchen, his shoes surprisingly clean. "Guess who I saw?"
They've already moved the table into storage, but still have a few chairs that will be going to Maureen's tomorrow. Tonight's dinner will be pizza on paper plates. Eli plops into a seat, motioning for his mother to join him. She leaves the bag on the counter.
"Who?" Kathy asks, imagining it's probably someone like the postman or the woman down the street with the five dachshunds.
But he leans in and she realizes he's learned something from his father, the whisper of reverence as he speaks her name—
"Olivia."
• • •
Olivia's been keeping an eye on the clock in Patty Wilson's breakfast nook, sipping politely on a mug of watery coffee while Nick crunches on a shortbread cookie. They've been talking for nearly twenty minutes, though Patty had described the suspect and answered all the questions they had asked in the first ten. Kevin's in the living room, the TV's blaring, and his mother's in the middle of a long-winded story about her first job as a court reporter.
"And all of a sudden, just as they were about the read the verdict—"
Nick's phone rings. He excuses himself, stepping away a few feet toward the window to take the call. Patty continues her story quietly, but Olivia hardly hears a word, only the soft tick of the second hand. Her eyes glaze over with visions of a scene only a few houses away. She pictures Elliot, Kathy, their lives in boxes, the creak of the front door as Eli steps inside and possibly, probably, reminds them of her existence.
Her calves twitch with the urge to stand, to run, though she's not quite sure of the direction.
She feels like she did as a little girl sitting in an office at Hudson University, practicing her cursive while her mother finished grading. In the windowless room, she'd loop her letters and count the minutes as the golden hour passed outside, hoping Serena would finish in time for them to see the sunset before it faded.
Some days, it would happen. Her small arms would push open the heavy wooden doors, revealing a sublime display of color and light; she'd try to hold onto it, letting the reds and oranges, the pinks and purples burn themselves into her memory in case they disappeared.
Of course, she reminds herself, they did. They always did.
She wonders what would happen if, this very minute, she interrupted Patty Wilson and made her way over to Elliot's house—if she'd scream, if she'd cry, if she'd wipe her feet on the mat and make civil conservation before leaving, wishing them well.
But she doesn't have time to consider it further. Nick starts toward the door, mouthing "Cragen" as he motions for his partner to join him.
Olivia apologizes as she quickly follows.
The story's over.
Patty wipes the crumbs from the table.
In the car, red and blue lights flashing, Nick hits the gas while Olivia jots down a few notes on the way to the scene.
For now, she finds relief in the rush as they drive, full speed ahead, away from the house, the street, the possibility of calling his name.
For now, she holds the pen loosely in her hands, shards of pencil breaking beneath her boots.
For now, she imagines herself like Elliot; she leaves and doesn't look back.
• • •
By the time Elliot's home, Kathy and Eli have already finished eating. A few slices of cold pizza wait for him in a greasy box on the counter. He can hear them pacing around upstairs; the house, in its emptiness, has grown more resonant. Every movement echoes.
Tonight, they're sleeping on air mattresses. Elliot had spent the afternoon at the storage place, lugging the last round of boxes from the truck to the unit. Kathy had wanted to get rid of most of it, knowing they'd be starting fresh overseas, but he had made a quiet project of salvaging what he could. Maureen and Dickie had gone for some of the furniture, Lizzie had opted for the plates and bowls, and Kathleen had promised to look after most of the sentimental items—the framed photos, the elementary school art projects, the foul ball her father had caught at a Mets game as a boy.
The kids had taken as much as they had wanted, but still, he had found himself staring at neatly stacked walls of cardboard, hesitant to part with any of it. Just in case, he had thought as he slowly pulled down the green steel door and called Kathy to tell her he'd be late.
Elliot had grown used to wandering. He had wandered out of the precinct the day that Jenna died, into meetings at IAB, and back to a house where he told himself he couldn't cry. He had wandered into his wife's arms, a shell trying not to break; he had listened to her whisper, "El, it'll be okay," knowing all too well that it wouldn't. For months, he had wandered in and out of nightmares, away from his bed and into his car, driving aimlessly for hours until exhaustion finally hit. He'd pull over and close his eyes, grateful for sleep's mercy as he drifted off to memories of late-night coffees and crossword puzzles and Olivia by his side.
It had taken him by surprise, though, when he had found himself starting his SUV and wandering from the storage place, through traffic, across the Queensboro Bridge and into Manhattan, down a familiar street, and then another until he'd stopped a block away from the entrance to the 16th precinct.
He had waited, unsure of his plan, until it had grown dark outside, cursing himself for all of the unanswered voicemails. The countless times he'd woken, startled, to an empty passenger seat beside him and almost called her back.
But he had known, without a doubt, that he would have stayed if she had asked him, his body crawling over thin ice to reach her, readying himself for the inevitable crack. The frigid plunge. The final gasp for air. And Olivia, racing to save him.
He had decided she deserved a partner, not a burden.
Rolling slowly toward the 1-6, he had reminded himself of this, his attention drifting to the sidewalk and the passersby, his own ghost lingering among them. He had tried to keep his eyes on the road as he'd driven past, but they had failed him, searching for her, darting desperately toward the door that he had closed.
A loud creak at the top of the stairs pulls his attention—
"Daddy!" Eli yells, jumping down two steps at a time. Kathy follows, carrying yet another cardboard box.
"Packed the rest of the photos for Kathleen," she mentions as they make their way toward the kitchen, Eli running ahead of them.
She's generally stopped worrying about where Elliot goes when he looks like this—vacant eyes, furrowed brow, hands that twitch and grasp at nothing. She doesn't mind losing him for a few hours as long as he returns. But she wonders if Olivia's visit to the neighborhood had triggered a chain of events. Another voicemail to her former partner. A visit before they moved. A farewell or, perhaps, a plea.
Kathy recalls the first few days after he'd left SVU, glancing at her husband's phone on the nightstand while he showered. Two texts and a missed call.
Olivia
Olivia
Olivia
Eventually, the messages had slowed, then stopped.
She had often found herself thinking back to Eli's birth, the blood trailing down her legs, Olivia's gentle strength cutting through the panic. In that moment, the wreck had shattered any lingering jealousies, and Kathy had understood, ever so briefly, what her husband had for years—the steadiness and the warmth of Olivia Benson holding your life in her hands.
Occasionally, she had asked Elliot if they had spoken, but he had always replied with the same two words, "Not yet." And every time, she had expected to feel some sort of relief, an affirmation of the hope that she, too, could be enough to hold his broken pieces in place. But instead, it had unsettled her as she realized he was slipping through her fingers, hurtling toward the ground with no one to catch him.
Still, she tries. She sets the box down on the kitchen floor and moves toward him as he washes his hands, resting her palms on his knotted back. Eli skates around them in his fuzzy socks, sliding toward the corner. Something jingles. Elliot reaches for a slice of pepperoni.
"Mommy, did you tell him?" the boy asks.
Elliot turns around to face his wife. "Tell me what?"
"At Kevin's," Eli starts, "I—"
"Eli—" Kathy interjects, pausing, weighing her words. Her voice is soft, restrained as she responds, "Let your father finish his dinner. Then we'll talk about it."
But Elliot never finishes his dinner, and he and Kathy never talk about it.
Instead, they turn toward the sound of Eli placing coins on the bare counter—a row of pennies, some shiny, some worn.
"1998," Eli suddenly announces, pointing to first. "1999, 2000, 2001," he recites, making his way down the line, already arranged in order by year. "2002, 2003, 2004."
"Eli," his father whispers, but Kathy stops him, resting her hand on his chest. His racing heart tells her everything she needs to know.
"2005. 2006."
"Kath…"
"2007. 2008."
She steps away from him without a word. There's a heaviness in the silence, an understanding that Eli soon confirms—
"2009. 2010."
—as he reaches the final coin.
"2011."