Even when we win, we lose.
Aziza Amir. Elias Barras. Randall McKenna. Tito Frank. Tommy Dowd. Jean Weston. Sam Cavanaugh. Jeremy Brice. Cheryl Avery. Ray Bevins. Joe Blaine. Tim Donovan. Others…
Victims. People. Who the system had tried to help. Or who were once suspects, maybe perpetrators. Who were wronged. People who had lost as she had.
People who were gone.
When she was alive, she had visited the faces. Or the graves. Now that she is essentially among them, Elliot leaves the fresh flowers.
The list now includes Alexandra Cabot. More.
He'd told her when she returned.
She'd cried.
Olivia sinks down beside Casey. Casey's hand runs along the beer she's sipping while listening to Elliot and Munch debate JFK's assassination. She waits to prod, "Perhaps JFK never died."
They turn to Casey. "See, that's what I'm talking about… it could've been—" Munch continues though they've stopped listening. Olivia watches her melt with Elliot's smile.
"I have to use the bathroom."
"You can manage yourself," Casey hisses. Olivia takes her arm, leads her to the back.
"It'll never happen."
"What are you talking about?"
"He loved Kathy. He cared about Alex. Leave it alone."
Casey, surprised, just nods.
"I always thought it would be Olivia." Her words are slow and calculated, sad, angry, disappointed.
Olivia. His partner, best friend.
He couldn't talk to her, like he can't talk to Kathy; when he tried, it either became about her or him. It was never about the case, about the victim, about why…
Alex knew to just sit. Or make coffee. Or draw him into her arms.
He turns back to her, his wife of twenty years, sitting across the table. Kathy breathes in a long raspy breath and covers her shaking chin with a fist, waiting. "So did I."
"'You okay?"
"Yeah." Alex says, arms crossed in front of her. "How about you? I heard about Kathy."
A look of sadness fills his eyes, but he only shrugs and says, instead, "I miss you. Just talking to you."
She walks up to him and leaves a chaste kiss on his bottom lip. She's tempted to reach out and put her arms around him, to touch him, and only allows herself to when he finally hugs her.
"I heard there's someone in Wisconsin."
"It was temporary."
"Were we?"
"We could never be permanent, El."
Knowing it's true, he smiles. "Backgammon?"
He nibbles her collarbone. "Telling the truth is erotic." She looks over him: brown eyes, hair, only average height.
Not her type. Certainly not Elliot.
"You're a writer?" She guesses.
"How did you know?"
"Construction workers don't come up with lines like that."
"What about entrepreneurs?"
What I said I was. She shakes her head. She's numb. He feels like nothing.
"Tell me something truthful about you, Emily."
"Something erotic, you mean," she teases. One last chance at a feeling.
"It'll be both." He kisses her again.
Nothing. She starts to slip out of his arms. "My name isn't Emily."