A/N: Trigger warning/Mature Content: Sexual assault.

Time passed. I had no idea how much time. In this strange drug-induced vortex I had entered, time had no relation to actual earth time. Time was measured in the number of times I seemed to be conscious and in the increasing odor in the back of the van as Dickie's body began to evacuate, reaching progressing states of rigor mortise.

The van stopped occasionally. When it wasn't stopped, we drove. Sometimes items were taken out of the van. Other times, additional items were stacked in the back. I struggled to follow what was happening. I faded in and out. I tried to keep my eyes closed, because when I opened them, I was reminded I was lying next to Dickie's corpse.

Eventually, my muscles regained some control. I could wiggle my fingers and toes, and I was able to wiggle to the other side of the van, away from Dickie. Unfortunately, this minor relief also brought with it a throbbing headache, the shakes, nausea, and an incredible, endless itching all over my skin. It occurred to me that my body was detoxing from the drugs, and I gritted my teeth, trying to breathe through the searing pain in my skull.

When I thought I could no longer bear the throbbing in my head, the van came to a stop. A few minutes passed, and the side doors of the van were thrown open. I didn't recognize either face peering in at me, but both were Caucasian men.

"Out," the first man ordered.

I recognized his voice as the man from before, when the drugs had been loaded.

I tried to get to my feet, but I stumbled, face-planting into the floor of the van. I pushed myself to my hands and knees, but before I could attempt to crawl out, the man grabbed me by the hair and yanked me out of the van. I cried out, and my body landed on concrete. He grabbed me beneath my arms and hoisted me up.

We were in a large garage with three stalls. One stall contained a black SUV, the second a black limousine. The white panel van was parked in the third.

"Take care of that," the man said, gesturing to Dickie's lifeless form.

Man two busied himself with Dickie, and the first man shoved me forward, supporting my weight.

"Walk."

I ascended a short set of stairs with wobbling, unsteady legs. We crossed through a door, entering what appeared to be a small mud room. Off the mud room was a small powder room.

"Use that," he ordered, shoving me into the bathroom.

Upon seeing the toilet, I realized I did, in fact, need to use it. I steadied myself on the wall, stumbling forward to the toilet. I fell to my knees and dry-heaved into the toilet, my body screaming as it burned up the last traces of whatever mystery drugs I'd been given.

Once the heaving stopped, I worked to steady my breathing.

"Hurry the fuck up," the man said, looking impatient. "I don't have all day."

I pushed myself up and gently reached for the bathroom door, hoping for privacy. He grabbed my arm and shoved me back.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he asked angrily. "Hurry up."

"Privacy?" I croaked, my voice dry and scratchy.

The man laughed cruelly, and he pulled a gun from under his shirt.

"Go," he ordered, pointing the gun at me.

A single tear rolled down my cheek as I undid my jeans, pulling them and my underwear down my thighs. I curled over myself, trying to shield myself from view as I relieved myself. I felt overwhelming shame. I tried to devise some kind of an escape plan, but I was having a hard time putting coherent thoughts together with the throbbing in my head, much less plot an extraordinary escape.

I finished using the bathroom, then washed my hands. I splashed cold water on my face, then scooped water up, drinking it greedily from my cupped hand. At some point during this process, it occurred to me that I may be in a funeral home. The black limousine stuck in my memory as a clue.

"Let's go," the man said, pointing back the way we'd come.

"Where are we going?" I mumbled.

"That doesn't concern you," the man said.

I took three steps into the mud room, then spun around, thrusting my arm out at the man. I failed to connect with his face and stumbled forward. I tried to back away quickly, but my movements were too awkward and labored. The man slapped me across the face with his gun.

Fireworks exploded in my head, and I collapsed to the floor, holding my face.

"I don't have time for troublemakers," the man said, his voice raised. "You either cooperate, or you die. It's simple, lady."

He reached into his pocket, withdrawing another syringe.

"Please, no," I begged, pushing away with my feet. I wanted to fight—needed to fight—but my brain wouldn't fire.

He shoved my face into the floor, pulling the cap off the needle with his teeth. He plunged the needle into a vein in my arm and slowly pressed the plunger, releasing the drugs into my bloodstream. The warmth raced through my veins, followed by euphoria, my headache melting away. The pain I'd felt in my face just moments earlier had disappeared, leaving only pleasure. Somewhere in the back of my brain, I knew this was bad.

"Up and at 'em," he said, yanking me to my feet. I half stumbled and was half dragged back to the van, where I was unceremoniously shoved through the side doors. I lay on the floor, the drugs raging through my body. I fought the rush as best I could, but eventually gave into the darkness that pulled me under once more.

Time passed in this way, with moments of lucidity punctuated by periods of blackout or additional injections. Time passed-it could have been hours, days, or weeks. Occasionally I was tossed a bottle of water or a package of crackers. I was given a McDonalds cheeseburger at one point, which I greedily ate in the back of the van with shaking hands. Sometimes a small voice in the back of my head would remind me to fight, but my brain was unable to conjure a plan in its intoxicated state.

I was jolted coherent by a hand grabbing my shoulder, warm sunlight streaming in through the side cargo van doors.

"Let's go, buttercup," the man said, pulling me toward the doors.

I climbed out of the van, my limbs stiff and awkward, and I stood with the sun shining on my face. I imagined I looked like a cat, preparing to nap in the sun. My head was pounding, but I looked at my surroundings, trying to figure out where I was.

We were in the gravel parking lot of an old Motel, the sign reading M-tel in the absence of an O. Besides the van, only two additional cars were in the lot—both older model sedans far past their prime. The building was white with aging green shutters, the building in sore need of a paint job. A two-lane highway ran in front of the motel, with no traffic in either lane. Beyond the road lay fields with the first sprouts of crops peeking through the black soil. I could see a gas station in the distance, but no other buildings were visible from my vantage point. We were somewhere rural, and the landscape didn't look like Jersey.

"Walk," the man demanded.

"Why?" I asked, praying someone would drive by.

"Walk, or I'll shoot you," he growled impatiently, poking me in the back with the barrel of a gun.

I shuffled forward, putting one foot in front of the other.

"Go to four," he said. "You make a peep, and you'll regret it."

It took me a minute to understand that 'four' was the number of the hotel room. A voice somewhere deep inside me said not to enter the room, but the louder voice in my brain now controlled by mystery drugs tried to beat down the rational voice. The man had a gun—and I couldn't outrun his bullet. I scanned the parking lot again, looking for someone—anyone—to run to for help. I saw no one.

We reached the door to four, and the man unlocked the door with a metal key. He shoved the door open, revealing a small room with orange shag carpet and walls covered in geometric wall paper. A king-size bed sat on one wall, a dingy navy and orange floral comforter covering it. A small bathroom sat on one side of the room, with an archaic orange bathtub and shower combination, white toilet, and sink set into an orange Formica countertop. An old air conditioning unit ran loudly beneath the front window where a table with two chairs sat, and the back window was covered in metal bars.

"Clean up," the man ordered.

He shoved me toward the bathroom, and I tripped, sprawling across the carpet. He grabbed the back of my shirt and pulled me upright, where I stood watching him fearfully. He dropped a duffel bag on the bed and sorted around in it, taking out a short stack of clothes and a toiletry bag.

"I said get cleaned up," he said. "Now. Shower, shave, hair—all of it."

"Why?" I asked, feeling panic rise in my chest.

"It's what men want," he said, handing me the toiletries. "Be sure you're smellin' real nice. If you're a good girl and do what I ask, you'll get rewarded. If you're naughty, we're going to have problems."

His words sent a shiver down my spine, and I obediently took the toiletries bag. I shuffled into the bathroom and began to close the door.

"Leave it open," he growled.

My heart felt like it was going to leap out of my chest. I knew I had to get out of here to find help, but the gun was standing between me and escape.

I unzipped the black toiletries bag, finding inexpensive travel sized soap, shampoo, conditioner, deodorant, and shaving cream. A cheap disposable razor had been included as well as an inexpensive perfume that looked like it came from Walmart.

I turned on the water in the shower, the calcium-crusted shower head spitting frigid water into the tub. I removed my clothes, trying to shield my body from the man's view, and placed the shower essentials on the side of the tub. I was relieved to be offered a shower, my body smelling of perspiration, but the circumstances were bad. The visions the man's words brought to mind were not pretty.

You've gotten yourself in over your head this time, Plum, and Ranger isn't here to save you. You're going to have to save yourself. Thoughts of Ranger flooded my mind, and my chest ached where my heart was supposed to be.

It occurred to me that I was going to need to have a clear head if I was going to survive. I needed to be able to develop and carry out a plan. I had to be able to fight. To focus. To run. I couldn't do any of those things when I was regularly getting shot up with drugs. Obeying orders was going to become a requirement if I was going to survive this ordeal.

I stepped into the water once it had warmed. I washed and conditioned my hair, then soaped my body thoroughly. I shaved my legs and underarms, finding relief in how benign this felt. Though the urge was strong, I didn't allow myself to shed any tears in the shower. Tears could wait. I had to have a plan.

I stepped out of the shower and wrapped myself in a thin, stained bath towel. I towel-dried my hair with a smaller towel and applied a small amount of deodorant under my arms. My teeth felt filthy, but there was no toothbrush, so I busied myself brushing my teeth with my finger. I drank water from the faucet greedily as my stomach rumbled. I was unsure what I'd last eaten or when, and I was trying to quell the panic I felt over the time I'd lost. How long had I been gone?

I picked up my worn clothes and began dressing, but the man stopped me.

"Wear these," he said, extending a small stack of clothes to me.

My instinct was to be my usual feisty self, but then I remembered—obedience to survive. I nodded and crossed the room to the man, taking the clothing. I backed away and surveyed the clothes I'd been given—a green camo crop top, a black pleather skirt, and a black lace thong. I swallowed hard and modestly turned away from the man to dress. I dropped the crop top over my head, pushing my arms through the sleeves. I bent to pull on the underwear, but before I could get them on, the man was on me.

I was shoved onto my back on the bed, the man's hand at my throat.

I sucked in air to scream, but the man pointed his gun at me with his other hand.

"Shhhhh, baby. You take care of me, and I'll take care of you." He released my neck and ran his hand down my chest, between my breasts, down my stomach, and over a small mound of my pubic hair.

I wanted to cry out. To fight. To crawl out of my skin. On the other hand, I had a gun to my head. I wanted to live. I felt hot tears stream down my cheeks and fall into my damp hair.

"What do you want?" I whispered, already knowing the horrible answer.

"A willing partner," he said, unbuttoning his jeans.

I closed my eyes and prayed. I promised god if he would get me out of this, I'd go to church every Sunday. I'd put money in the offering plate. I'd give mission work a try. I'd be a better person. I'd quit bond enforcement work. I'd take a job in the button factory. Anything to escape this moment and return safely to Ranger and my life.

I felt the man awkwardly fondling my breasts with a gun in his hand, and I opened my eyes. The man was stroking himself with his other hand. His face was contorted in pleasure. My skin crawled, and goose-flesh covered my arms. This was really happening.

I stared at the wall, trying to imagine I was anywhere else as the man continued to touch me.

"Come on, baby," the man grunted. "You're not much fun. Touch me."

I cringed, but obediently extended a hand to touch his shirt-covered chest.

Survive this, I ordered myself, my head throbbing.

I closed my eyes as I felt the man lift my legs and brusquely penetrate me. It was painful, my body unprepared for intimate activities. I cried out softly, and the man put his hand over my mouth.

"You like that, baby?" he groaned. "I like it too."

I allowed the silent tears to fall as the man had his way with me. I laid still, obeying the small commands he gave—touch me here, say you like it, raise your hips. With each thrust, it felt as though my body was being ripped apart.

Eventually, the man finished and rolled off me, wiping himself on my bath towel and buttoning his pants. I curled into a fetal position, hugging my knees to my chest. He tossed the ruined towel onto me.

"I've had better," he said. "You've gotta get your head in the game if you're going to earn your room and board."

He paused, staring at me for a few moments.

"What's your name?" he inquired.

"Stephanie," I croaked, a lump in my throat.

"That's boring," he said. "From now on, you're Hillary. Get cleaned up, Hillary. You've got a few hours to nap or watch TV or whatever before business picks up."

I slid off the comforter and went into the bedroom. I took off the crop top and re-showered my body quickly, drying it with the towel. I went to the bathroom and, when I wiped, found a small amount of blood. My body ached, my head throbbed, and I was exhausted. I wiped away my tears, dressed, and crawled into the bed, covering my head with the blanket and quickly falling asleep.

When I woke, it was dark beyond the curtains. My body was trembling and my headache had worsened. Rationally, I knew this had to be the drugs burning off, but that assumption didn't provide much solace. I felt like garbage. I rubbed my temples, praying for the pounding in my brain to end.

"Good morning, sleeping beauty," the man said. "You hungry?"

He was sitting at a small table playing a game of solitaire, a bottle of Diet Coke opened on the table.

I shook my head no as I stumbled to my feet and to the bathroom. I fell to my knees in front of the toilet and dry heaved. I used the toilet and washed my hands and face before returning to the bed, where I sat with my back against the headboard with my knees pulled tightly to my chest.

The man at the table took a short line of what appeared to be cocaine, closing his eyes with ecstasy as the drug raced through his body.

"Your turn," the man said, turning to face me.

"I don't want anything," I said, shaking my head.

"Oh baby, you earned it," he cooed, picking up a syringe off the table. "It's not a whole lot, but it's enough to make sure the next few hours are fun for you."

I tried to get away, but the man was on top of me in an instant. He held my head against the headboard, his knees pressing into me. He removed the lid of the syringe with his teeth and dug the needle into a vein in my neck.

"No!" I begged as he depressed the plunger, the drugs flowing into my system.

"See? There. That feels better, right?" the man reassured, climbing off me and the bed.

I crumpled to the mattress as waves of pleasure crashed over my body. I knew this wasn't actually better, but it felt better. My headache began to subside, and it felt like I was flying.

I faded in and out, awaiting whatever fate I had in store. The rational voice in my brain, the one that had been reminding me to fight, had been silenced. Eventually, there was a knock at the door. I pulled my body into a seated position and watched the man as he tucked his gun into his waistband and swaggered to the door. I found it hard to focus my eyes, the drugs affecting my cognitive and motor skills.

The man opened the door a crack, blocking my view with his body. He exchanged a few words with someone on the other side of the door before opening the door wide to let the person in. He took a wad of cash from the figure and shoved it into his pocket.

"It's a pleasure doing business with you," he said smugly. "I'm glad we came highly recommended. What did you say your name was again?"

"Dave," said a familiar voice. "I drive for Old Dominion."

I stared at the man who had entered the room, trying to make sense of what I'd heard. He was Caucasian and bald. He had a strange scar on the side of his head, and his features reminded me of Morelli, but he had tattoos on his neck and arms peeking out from under his black t-shirt.

Get a grip, Stephanie, I told myself. The drugs are making you hallucinate. The man is not Joe. He has tattoos. He's bald.

I rubbed my eyes, trying to refocus them.

My captor patted down the man, checking his body for weapons. He gave an affirming nod, turning to leave.

"Have fun with Hillary," he taunted. "You've got an hour. I'll be outside if you need anything."

"Sorry, I'm not into dudes," the new man said, walking in my direction. "She'll be plenty."

My captor left with a humorless laugh, taking a chair and shutting the door behind him.

I steeled myself for what was about to happen, drawing my knees to my chest. I rested my forehead on my knees and did some deep breathing.

I felt the mattress shift as the man climbed into the bed alongside me. He touched my arm, and I pulled away. A low sob escaped my chest.

"She's here," I heard the man say softly, his voice low. "Shut this down. Let's get her out."

The voice was painfully familiar, and I hated my brain for playing cruel tricks on me. I sobbed again, praying for this to be over soon.

"Stephanie?" I thought I heard the man say.

I dug my fingernails into my scalp, begging the drugs to quit betraying me. Waves of both pleasure and panic continued to roll over me in an endless torture cycle.

"Stephanie, its Joe. Look at me," the man begged, gently taking my face in his hands. "Are you hurt?"

I cautiously peered over my knees, looking into the man's eyes. His brown eyes were burdened and sad, a thousand unspoken words written there.

"Joe?" I squeaked.

He rubbed his hand over his bald head.

"I know, I look ridiculous."

He extended his hand to me, but I recoiled, shrinking away.

"Please, don't," I whispered, a sob caught in my throat.

"I thought you were dead," he admitted, his voice cracking.

Suddenly blue strobes flashed beyond the curtains and sirens sounded. Joe bounded off the bed, reaching the door in seconds to lock the deadbolt. The handle to the door jiggled, then there was a brief pounding at the door. Then there was silence.

Joe peered out the curtain, watching the situation in the parking lot unfold. I tried to watch from the bed, but my limbs had begun to feel like concrete, my eyelids heavy. I shrunk into the mattress as the walls of the room began to shift.

"Stephanie?" Joe asked, peering down at me. He placed two fingers on my neck, checking my pulse. "What's wrong?"

"The room," I muttered as I fell into blackness.

When I managed to resurface again, I was in a brightly lit room. The walls and ceiling were white, and I was stretched out in a bed.

"Welcome back," I heard Joe's voice say softly.

"Joe?" I asked, my voice gravelly.

His face swam into my vision.

"I'm here."

"Where am I?" I asked.

"We're in the emergency room," he explained. "We're in Des Moines."

I heard a door open then close again.

"Toxicology results are back. Looks like heroin," the voice said.

"I'm not surprised. She's covered in track marks."

I tried to say something, but all that came out was a hiss.

"What, Steph?" Joe asked, peering down at me.

"Special K," I muttered, closing my eyes.

"Ketamine," Joe told the other person.

"Possible," the voice said. "We'll have to wait on a urinalysis to know for sure."

Another face swam into my vision. It was a woman with dark brown hair pulled into a ponytail and blue eyes. She had delicate features, and she wore pale green scrubs.

"Hi Stephanie. My name is Doctor Lehman. I want to help you," she said. "Can you tell me what happened?"

My lip trembled and tears filled my eyes as I recalled the horrors I'd experienced.

"Take your time," she said softly.

I looked at Joe, and I could swear I saw tears in his eyes too.

"Where's Ranger?" I asked, my voice choked. I extended my hand to Joe, taking his into mine. He held my hand tightly, lacing his fingers between mine.

"He's on a direct flight here. He should be here within the hour," Joe explained. "He's had men in every state from Jersey to California working with the FBI to find you. It was luck of the draw that it was me that found you."

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

"Drugged drink," I explained, trying to put words together. "Took me in the van."

Joe spoke up.

"We know she was taken from a bar in Trenton, New Jersey on Sunday."

"Special K," I said again.

"What happened after you were taken?" the woman asked.

"Dickie," I said. A rogue tear slipped from my eye as I recalled his body next to mine in the van.

"Dickie did this to you?" Joe asked, his blank cop face sliding firmly into place.

I shook my head no.

"Dickie's dead."

Joe took a few beats to process that information.

I closed my eyes as my head spun.

"Were you violated in any way?" Morelli asked.

I nodded that I had, opening my eyes to look at Joe. His lips formed a straight line, and anger burned in his eyes.

"I'm so sorry that happened to you. Will you consent to my performing a sexual assault examination? It is essential if you want to press charges," the doctor said, her tone grim.

I nodded my consent, and the woman excused herself.

Joe stroked my hair with his free hand as I clutched his other tight in mine. He placed a soft kiss on my temple.

"I thought I'd lost you," he breathed.

I lifted my arm to touch my face, and I realized an IV had been inserted. My clothes had been replaced with a hospital gown.

"They're giving you fluids. You're dehydrated, and it looks like you've dropped some weight," he said grimly.

"What day is it?" I asked.

"Wednesday."

I nodded understanding, fighting futilely as I felt the drugs pulling me under again.

I startled into consciousness when I realized I was being photographed.

"What?" I asked, sitting upright in the bed. My head swam, and I felt myself list to the side.

"Whoa. I'm here," Joe soothed, steadying me with one hand as I held his other in a death grip.

The doctor held a digital camera in her hands.

"I'm sorry I startled you, Miss Plum," she said apologetically. "I was photographing your arms and face while I waited for you to wake."

I did some deep breathing, trying to get my heart rate under control as the woman took several more photographs.

"I need to begin the exam now," the woman said, setting the camera down. "Can you slide down in the bed and put your feet in the stirrups?"

I nodded my understanding as the woman adjusted the bed.

"You should probably wait outside," the woman said to Joe.

He nodded his understanding as he tried to release my hand, but I grabbed the front of his shirt, my knuckles turning white as I pulled myself upright.

"Please," I begged, my hand trembling. "Don't leave me."

Morelli stared at me, unsure what to do.

"Don't leave me alone," I cried, tears streaming down my cheeks. "It's not like you haven't seen me naked."

He shushed me and held me to his chest.

"Can I stay?" he asked the doctor.

I glanced at her over my shoulder, and I saw her nod her consent. She looked like she wanted to ask questions, but she kept them to herself. She gave me instructions as she examined my body, poking and prodding me uncomfortably. She swabbed, scraped, and photographed me as tears streamed down my cheeks and my head pounded. Joe's eyes never left mine, his hand clasped tightly in mine.

When the woman finished, she pulled my gown down over my midsection and pulled blankets up to my waist.

"That's all," she announced as she readjusted the bed. "You were a champ, Stephanie. You have a small amount of tearing and some bruising, but your body will heal on its own. Can I get you anything? Food? Drink? Extra pillow?"

I shook my head no, letting my knees fall to the bed.

"Do you think you could use the toilet?" she asked gently. "I'd like to take a urine sample if you're up to it."

I took a moment to assess my bodily needs, eventually nodding. I could do that.

She brought in a commode and a urine specimen container, and I did as she'd asked while Morelli turned his back. Morelli helped me settle back into bed, and the woman left.

"I like the tattoos," I murmured.

He licked his thumb to wet it and rubbed at one of the tattoos on his arm, the image disappearing.

"Washable," he grinned at me. "But if you think it'll help me pick up chicks, I can probably get something permanent."

Morelli sat on the edge of the bed.

"May I?" he asked.

I nodded, and he placed his arm behind me, pulling me into him. He placed a kiss in my hair, and I relaxed into him, his body familiar.

"Sleep," he urged as my eyelids fluttered. "I'll be here when you wake up."