Author's note. I know, I know, and I'm ashamed. It really is awfully late. I meant to write a continuation of this story, but other stuff came up, and, well.......I didn't. I appreciated (really very, very much appreciated) all the reviews I got for the first chapter, and I hope at least some of you are still around for the second part. In my defense, I haven't been connected to the internet for months and months, and I did suffer.

Eliot Stabler paced back and forth in his kitchen, fists clenching and unclenching, slowly wearing another fine layer of enamel from his molars. He looked at the phone where it had skittered to a stop on the unimaginative and worn linoleum, by the fridge. As he bent to pick it up, his eyes caught an old picture of his oldest daughter held up by a ladybug magnet. It was taken several years ago, when his daughter still wore her much loathed braces. A moody Maureen grinned out at him form behind the glossy photo finish, a reluctant smile on her lips.

He was suddenly reminded of Kathy, asleep in their bed upstairs. He wondered again about his decision not to wake her; he knew that she would want to be woken. But she needed her rest, and waking her up to worry wouldn't do any good. If she rolled over in the night to find his side of the bed cold, she wouldn't think anything of it.

Damn Maureen for not calling him! She'd promised. His daughter hadn't wanted to promise to call him every night to assure him that she was safe. She'd argued that it defeated the whole purpose of leaving home; of being independent. He'd cajoled and bullied, though, until Maureen had agreed with a roll of her eyes and an indulgent sigh. And until now, she'd never broken her promise.

The phone in his hand, he ran his thumb lightly over the buttons. He held it up to his ear to check for a dial tone, and was half relieved and half disappointed to hear one droning in his ear. Numbers he could call ran through his head, but he knew exactly how seriously he'd be taken by the people on the other end of the phone. They'd ask how long it had been since Maureen went missing, and how old she was. He'd have to tell the truth, and then listen to their condescending, fake-sympathetic responses. They'd tell him that she was all grown up, that he had to stop worrying, that she was certain to turn up soon, and, though not in so many words, to leave them the hell alone so they could help people with real problems. He'd said the same things himself, offered platitudes and maybe even a tinge of sympathy to distraught parents, but no real help. There was nothing that he could do until the worst actually did happen.

He felt his finger dialing a number, muscle memory, and he had to look down to see whose it was. He held the phone up to his ear. Even if there was nothing Olivia could do to find Maureen, she'd listen and take him seriously, and she'd do all she could. He tried to force his voice into some semblance of normalcy.

Hey, Liv.

You haven't by any chance heard from Maureen?

Olivia hung up the phone with a sigh, and slipped it back into her pocket. She wished for some antacids, to settle the guilt in her stomach. Her partner and friend would, inevitably, find out that she'd colluded with his daughter. Elliot would be angry (to put it very mildly). But, really, the best she could to for him would be to encourage Maureen to tell her family when she was ready. When she did, the wrath of Detective Elliot Stabler would be something to behold. She pinched the bridge of her nose, and tried to sink deeper into the uncomfortable hospital hallway chair.

A uniform that Olivia didn't recognize came to pick up the evidence, as Olivia was finishing the oily dregs of her fourth cup of what the hospital optimistically called coffee. A little while later, as Olivia was just starting to doze off, Dr. Sorenson poked her graying head out of the examination room. The women spoke briefly while Maureen got dressed in gray sweatpants and sweatshirt provided by the hospital and several sizes too big. When she emerged hesitantly from behind the examination curtain, eyes dry and jaw clenched, Olivia was suddenly reminded of Elliot. She moved, slowly, to put her arm around Maureen's shoulders, and when she didn't flinch, gave them a gentle squeeze. Maureen leaned against her, head down, her arm around the older woman's waist, as they made their way slowly out of the hospital.

As Olivia pulled her car out of the parking lot, Maureen turned her bruised face to look out the window where stealthy sunlight was creeping its way over the city.

Where are we going now?

Olivia looked at her hunched shoulders, at her messy ponytail.

To a station, so you can give a statement. Seeing Maureen's widened eyes when she turned quickly around, she added Not ours.

How long will it take?

Five hours, maybe six. I wish it didn't, but we have to be really thorough.

Olivia saw Maureen's ponytail bob up and down, saw her reflection bite its lip.

Couldn't you just take me somewhere else?

Olivia sighed. It's important that we get your statement right away, Maureen. After that I promise that I'll make everyone leave you alone for a while.

Maureen let out a burst of hot breath onto the window, and traced patterns in the fog on the window until they arrived at the station.

Olivia stood, arms folded, looking at Maureen through the one way mirror. Another detective, and an A.D.A. she didn't know stood watching, too. The A.D.A. had introduced himself as Michael Carson. He didn't say much, but when he did, he spoke in a soft, hesitant voice that forced Olivia to lean towards him to hear. His hair was plastered to his head with an unpleasant amount of gel, and his tie was festooned with neon pink flamingos that grated on Olivia's nerves.

The other detective, short and thin, except for his incongruous pot belly, had grunted J.M. Thibodeaux at Olivia when he had first come into the room, after which he'd done a toddler's job of ignoring her completely, moving around the darkened observation room as though she weren't there, and managing never to let his gaze fall in her direction while she was watching.

Maureen was hunched in her seat, her body low to the table, looking at a spot on the wall over her interviewer's shoulder. She spoke quickly, in a monotone, answering all the questions she was asked in dispassionate detail. She had been at this already for more than three hours, and Olivia wanted nothing more than to rush in, to stop the interview and to take her partner's daughter away. She winced as the interviewer elicited yet another painful detail from Maureen, and curled her fingers around the table behind her by way of an anchor.

An hour later, Maureen started to cry. She turned her head to look at the glass, eyes searching back and forth as though she could somehow see through the glass.

That's it, announced Olivia. You've got enough; I'm taking her home.

Thibodeaux looked at her for the first time, and quirked a corner of his mouth when she headed for the door, but he didn't move to stop her.