So, this is something my dark, twisted mind came up with upon waking up this morning. Set in the future after Elliot's return. Please heed the M rating.

Trigger warning for (Chapter one and future chapters):

- language

- sexual assault

- violence

"I wasn't aware I had so much clutter." She's been in this apartment for the past eight, almost nine years and while most of her cabinets are meticulously organized these days, this dresser obviously contains her drawer of shame. The last time she's taken a proper look at it must have been… probably never, Olivia decides when she can't recall a single instance. What she does remember is that this drawer is usually only opened to drop some useless item in there.

Matches, a lighter. A miniature notepad. A pair of now rusty nail scissors?

"You wanna throw all of this out?" His arms snake around her body from behind, crossing just below her breasts as he places a chaste kiss into her hair, right above her ear. She leans back and melds into his chest, unable to keep the smile that spreads off her features as she shrugs. Elliot's warmth seeps into her skin and she allows a small, content sigh to escape at the contact.

She scans the contents of the drawer, deciding she hardly needs any of it. Last time she checked she had a healthy supply of matches in the kitchen, a notepad on the breakfast bar. She's at the age where she needs grocery lists. From what she can tell there is nothing of importance in there.

"Probably," she agrees, picking up a light blue pacifier that instantly conjures up a mental image of Noah sucking on it with relish, like this nipple made of silicone was all he needed to be content and peaceful. "Maybe not all of it," she thinks out loud.

"Ah, the baby keepsakes," he mumbles knowingly, his thumb swiping upwards against the underside of her left breast. In combination with his body pressed closely to hers and his breath hitting the back of her ear it creates a thrillling excitement that then sends a rush right between her legs. "Kathy had entire boxes of stuff for each of the kids," he explains innocently while his hand moves further up, lavishly closing around her flesh that produces a puckered nipple. Olivia's breathing becomes a shallow thing.

"Let me outline this: you want to paint this wall and have the new furniture fixed up by tonight, correct?"

"Sounds about right," comes his agreement, accompanied by a gentle, teasing squeeze.

"We're talking about furniture you haven't even picked up yet, Elliot," she reminds him before she turns despite the protest of his arms, trying to keep her exactly how she is. "Plus I gotta pick Noah up from Bentley's in fifteen."

"So?" He scrunches eyes, his brows knit. "I don't understand the problem."

Obviously, neither does his dick, because she can feel it bulge against her. The part of her that is starting to rediscover forgotten facets of her womanhood wants this to happen. Unfortunately there are other parts that momentarily prohibit it.

"Of course you don't," she rolls her eyes at him and places a kiss on his lips.

It's been four months now, and his unfading appetite for her is flattering in a way. They took this slow. There was no dating, not the dance she was used to with other men. There was no need for it because they've laid all the groundwork a long time ago. They skipped romantic dinners at overpriced restaurants for accounting for the past and catching up on everything they have missed out on in each others' lives. It's been countless conversations until they faced up to truths they have tried everything to conceal and deny when they were still partners. Eventually they spoke about feelings. Feelings they had back then. Feelings that lingered. Feelings that were still there. Elliot had said it first.

"I was in love with you, Liv. I was in love with you, and I'd long fallen out of love with Kathy, and I couldn't do a damned thing about it because telling anyone? I couldn't walk out on my wife with a new baby."

"So, you walked out on me the first chance you got."

"Yeah. It wasn't as simple as it sounds, but yeah."

When all of it was out in the open it took weeks until she first kissed him, then months until they took the next step. They haven't defined what they have. Somehow it doesn't feel like they need to. Things fall into place and it feels natural. It feels right.

"Move. Let's tidy out this dresser."

"I can be quick." Elliot wiggles his brows in what's probably a last attempt at changing her mind. "Show this thing a good time before you throw it out."

Inwardly, Olivia winces. The fifteen minutes may be plenty for him but her menopausal self isn't ready for quickies. Not that she's opposed to them in general, she'd happily have a go at it if she didn't have to deal with dryness and consequent discomfort during sex. Long story short, she's trying to find the right time to tell him she can't jump into things without some basic preparation.

"Right," she gushes, seeing his eyes light up, thinking she's seriously considering it. "So it can bust right under my ass, I can't imagine anything better. Now move," she tells him with amusement twinkling in her eyes, lightly pushing at his chest, wondering when he'll start questioning her avoidance when it comes to spontaneous sex.

When he lets go of her, he also lets go of the playfulness, instead he looks at her thoughtfully.

"Liv?"

Maybe the time's up much quicker than she has anticipated.

"Yeah?"

"Is something wrong? I mean, if you don't want to, that's totally fine, you know that. You know I'd never question that," he starts, and they are both acutely aware that he is questioning it. "I mean, I'd never…"

"Elliot, it's not," she shakes her head, trying to find the right words, but at this point she has maybe ten minutes left, and her sexual difficulties aren't something she wants to blurt out. "Nothing is wrong per se," she assures him. "We'll talk about this later. Tonight."

"But there's something," he concludes, and something flashes in his eyes, making Olivia wonder if maybe he's been concerned about her putting him off for a bit. He also sounds like he's dreading whatever is to come because in his mind something can only be a bad thing. Ultimately she feels a bit more nervous than she originally did.

"There's something. It's no biggie, Stabler. Lighten up," Olivia chuckles, trying to hide her own insecurities. She hopes it will ring true. The conversation in itself will be awkward, she's afraid. If they had been together for years it would be easier. However, she hopes it won't be some sort of turn off. She'd hate to lose these small moments that make her feel so desirable and wanted. It's a hormonal problem she hasn't yet found an ironclad solution to.

When Elliot visibly tries to shake off his worry she smiles and kisses him. The nervousness is shoved into the backseat because this-he-feels like home.

"I should probably get going. Can you finish this? I don't think there's anything in there that's worth holding on to," she says but lets the pacifier vanish in the back pocket of her jeans. "Just toss it in the garbage."

"Copy that," he agrees.

"I'll bring dinner," she says as she saunters off towards the coat rack, grabbing one of the various jackets. "Don't ruin my wall."

"How about you paint it, Miss I-dropped-my-coffee?" He challenges and she ducks her head a little, trying to hide her mischievous grin.

"Point taken."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

He joins her in the bedroom as she's sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed, laptop on the comforter before her.

"Are you almost finished?"

"Just about," she looks up at him, casting a smile at him as she notices something in his hand. A black case maybe.

"What's that?" She hits enter, closes the window and shuts the lid of the macbook as he unzips the find and produces her old camera, the kind you needed to put a film in. In fact, old doesn't even begin to describe the Canon. It's ancient. Momentarily she wonders if they still sell those in electronic stores. Polaroid cameras have a bit of a revival with teenagers lately.

"There's a film in it, I didn't want to toss it out. Four pictures left on it, too."

"I didn't know I still had it," Olivia says, cocking her head, wondering when she's last seen it. Obviously it survived the move from her old apartment into this new place she first shared with Brian. Probably he had packed it. Or she did, not paying much attention to what she kept and what she got rid of. She hadn't held on to a lot then. Anything that might have been touched by Lewis never made it past the threshold. Her belongings after had fit into eight boxes, and that included her entire wardrobe. "Does it still work?"

"Well, I didn't waste a picture but the display lit up once I changed the batteries. Do you know when you last used it or what's on it?"

She shrugs. "I have no clue. Fifteen years? Might as well be twenty," she scoffs. "If you'd have it developed, the pictures probably wouldn't come out anyway."

"You never know," he objects gently and turns it on, giving her a brilliant smile as he raises the camera to his eye.

"Smile," he tells her but she turns her head away, almost coyly so, and holds up a hand.

"El, don't. Put that away."

"Come on, what's the matter," he coaxes, dropping the camera a bit. "Aren't you the least bit curious?"

"About what?" She laughs.

"If it still works. Or the photos on it. I wouldn't want to waste four pictures, Liv. Come on. For me."

She contemplates this for a moment, cocking her head, her big brown eyes directed at him as he raises the camera again and *click*. She's startled by how unexpectedly he put his finger on the shutter button. The flash has her seeing stars for a couple of seconds. She raises one brow at him and again *click*.

"Elliot," she whines as he takes a step closer. She's never really been fond of having her picture taken, unless it's silly selfies with Noah. He sticks out his tongue and it's so immature but it also breaks through the barrier of embarrassment she feels as she chuckles. *Click.*

He smiles cockily and licks his tongue as he walks two steps closer. "See, that's not too bad, is it?"

"Unnecessary is what it is," she tells him as he puts one knee onto the bed. Trying to escape another shot she falls backwards the moment she thinks he's going to take the picture, but she miscalculates and he pushes the button when she's sprawled out on the mattress with a pout on her face.

"You're sexy." His voice is gravel.

Subconsciously she grabs the collar of her shirt, tugging it up an inch as her body stiffens. He drops the camera then, instantly sensing that he's said something that's still hard to hear, hard to accept as the full, honest-to-God truth.

"You are," he reinforces, surprising her. Usually he'd backtrack. Apologize. "You are so fucking sexy to me, Olivia Benson. And I won't accept any objections on the matter."

She swallows and her knuckles relax around the fabric of her night shirt. "Okay," she says. She wants to believe it. She almost does when it comes from him. It takes getting used to. The compliments, the way he looks at her, the way she thinks he sees her.

Elliot's the first sexual partner she's ready to open up to after what happened with Lewis, however bumpy the process is. He has seen her naked while Brian and Ed haven't. It took her a lot of emotional effort to get there. To undress in front of him, let him see her. All of her.

She'd expected him to flinch. To look at her differently. Look at her like a victim or like she's damaged goods. Like she's something pitiful. And he had looked at her, his eyes moving across her body, taking in every mark, every scar, every pound she's put on in recent years. With a matter-of-factfulness she's never mustered before she pointed out the roadmap of her ordeal, stating 'cigarette' or 'my house key.'

He'd paled, struggling to keep his emotions under control, but of course she saw the horror flit over his features, telling her it was much worse than what he had imagined. At some point he simply said 'okay', then pulled her into his arms. He didn't profess how she was still beautiful, or that the scars didn't matter, because he knows that yes, they matter. They matter to her. She's learned to live with them but that doesn't mean they don't bother her when she looks at herself. They matter and he lets them matter. And yet she understands that he loves her with them as much as he would without them. He doesn't avoid looking at them, touching them. He's not paying extra attention to them, either. Between the two of them, he doesn't allow them to take up any space and she's grateful for it because it lets her breathe. Maybe she only imagined it but with Cassidy it felt like he tried to reassure her all the time while Tucker avoided looking at the scars even when they were right there in front of him, like just laying his eyes on them could set her off like an unpredictable firecracker. She figured it should have been easier, he'd seen every single mark Lewis had left on her body in her case file. He'd known every sordid detail she'd disclosed of what the bastard had done to her. And yet it didn't feel like he wanted to be let in, regardless of how wary she'd been about it.

Elliot hadn't coddled her like Cassidy did, but neither did he act like he didn't know about every dehumanizing act of cruelty Lewis had done to her physically and emotionally. With him it felt like she was given a safe space, a space where he accepted whatever she had to offer. For the first time she was in a relationship that didn't make her feel alien.

The camera is next to her now, out of his grasp and she worries her bottom lip for a few seconds while he scrutinizes her, maybe wondering if she really accepts his words as reality so easily. She rolls it around in her mind a little, that she is sexy, and although still hard to believe, she knows he means this. She sees it in the way he looks at her, kisses her, touches her. He's never been even remotely cautious in the way he learned her, her body. It's not about just looks either, she thinks, because he mentions such mundane things like how her voice has deepened in recent years, or how her eyes darken when she's responsive to him. There's more but she can't think of it at the top of her head.

"Hey," he says softly and his pupils get small as he focuses on her lips that tingle from the brief assault of her teeth. Instead of saying anything back she reaches up and cups his cheek, brushing her thumb across his skin that's covered in a five o'clock shadow.

"You going home tonight?" Her voice is thick with emotion, hoping he'll stay and instill his declaration.

"Do you want me to?" Her eyes close. He's leaving it up to her and she's never entirely sure he doesn't just stay over for her sake.

"What do you want," she says quietly.

"What do I want?" He asks and nods his head at her when her eyes flutter open. "Yeah, I'd like to stay."

She feels needy, and maybe it puts him in a predicament, but she's relieved that he won't leave. He won't prod her or ask if she's okay, he knows better than that, but she's learning to communicate with him.

"I'm not trying to be difficult when you say things like that," she offers quietly, sounding like she's stifling emotions.

For a moment he seems to hesitate squinting his eyes at her, as if gauging what has triggered this reaction.

"I know that. And I get why you're hesitant to believe it, Liv." That's all. He doesn't make an effort to convince her further because he knows her. Pushing her will do the exact opposite.

She exhales a little heavier than intended and lets her hand drop to his shoulder. "You might change your mind about that."

"I don't see how," he retorts, but her cheeks heat underneath his gaze. She moves and he makes space for her to sit up, looking at her suspiciously before it dawns on him. "Is this about earlier? The something?"

"Yeah, something," she agrees candidly, as he gives her some more space for the conversation that makes her worried that once it's created, her words will only deepen the rift.

"Look, if I come on too strong sometimes, you gotta tell me, Liv. I mean, I thought I was catching on but then I wasn't so sure because it felt like mixed signals once or twice and…"

"El." She attaches her fingertips to his mouth, silencing him. "It's not you. You didn't do anything wrong." It's clear that he's been worried about her behavior for a little while. She hates that he thought he might have done something wrong.

"No?" He seems thoroughly surprised by this.

"No," she states simply. "Actually, mixed signals hits the nail on the head." She looks at the mattress between them and scratches the side of her neck before she looks back up. "It's not that I didn't want to today. It's just that erm…" She blows out a breath, her heart thumping faster. "I'm in menopause and things are literally dried up. I'm taking something for it and when you're here I'm prepping accordingly but I just can't that spontaneously."

For a moment he just looks at her and she sees the moment it clicks for him. "Oh."

"Yeah."

"Okay," he says and nods a few times. "And you didn't tell me that because…"

"We're fresh, El. I don't know, I thought…" Olivia shrugs, realizing she isn't sure what exactly she was thinking. A lot of things. "I mean, it's the opposite of sexy. And I'm only just getting used to it because this hasn't been an issue for me before. I thought maybe you noticed when we were intimate that I didn't really…," She decides not to beat around the bush. "...get wet."

"Of course I've noticed, Liv. But to be honest, I didn't know any different when it comes to you. I didn't want to assume it wasn't normal and risk offending you."

She nods as she listens, starting to grow pensive. He had no way of knowing that three, four years ago she self-lubricated just fine when aroused, or that now she was using vaseline and special creams to tolerate penetration at all. He's scooting over then, pulling her against his body and she releases a shaky breath she wasn't aware of holding.

"First of all? I don't ever want to hear how it's less sexy or not sexy. Okay?" He doesn't wait until she agrees. "And second? This is the stuff we need to talk about, Liv. More than anything else, probably. It obviously made you insecure. I hate to think that you were even a tiny bit uncomfortable ever when we were together because it's so unnecessary."

He's got a point. Who would have thought that he'd ever be the more reasonable out of the two of them.

Then: "Were you? Uncomfortable?"

It never hurt per se, but of course, depending on the time between applying the cream and the sex it was more or less pleasurable. She knows her silence speaks volumes as it drags on but instead of chastising her, Elliot kisses her hair, rubs her back affectionately.

"First thing tomorrow? We're gonna purchase a ton of lubricant."

The chuckle that rips from her throat is watery. She feels embarassed and stupid because he's taking this a lot better than she had expected. It's weird that they didn't have a fight yet. In fact she expected this to be their first for sure. How was she to know he wouldn't start talking about how she obviously has trust issues? Not that he'd be entirely wrong. She's had them her entire life, although not with him. This was more about feeling humiliation over the changes that come for her with age.

"Sounds good," she says in agreement, hoping he's missed how nasal she sounds.

"And we're gonna have that film developed. There are no ex-boyfriends on there, right?"

"God, I hope not."

"Good. Then we should be in the clear."

XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Liv reaches Amanda's desk just as she hangs up the phone, informing them the M.E. has finished the report on their latest deceased victim. It's taken long enough, the bodies seem to be piling up at the morgue lately.

"I'd say it can wait until morning," the Captain says wearily. They've all started early and left late for the past three days. Everyone's tired. Everyone's dejected, thinking the very same thing. An eleven year old girl shouldn't wind up sexually assaulted and dead. "Liza was ten weeks pregnant."

Fin curses underneath his breath, Amanda covers her mouth with her hand, sighs, shakes her head. It's four-thirty and it looks like neither of them is going to get home any earlier today than they did yesterday.

"I just got a call from a guy at a photoshop. He developed a film that he finds 'suspicious'."

"Wonderful," Olivia says heavily. "Wanna split?" She rarely has them handle cases individually but it sounds like they can handle it.

"Sure. You take photo guy?" Fin asks, jumping up from his chair like a jack-in-the-box.

"Yeah, at least he didn't sound so sure if he reported a crime or a couple living out some strange kink. Our luck it's the latter."

"Please, let it be. We don't need another case," Olivia says exasperatedly. "I know it's not a great time but I'll head out for the day. I can't miss the fourth dinner in a row with Noah. Keep me updated, though." There's an air of authority despite the friendship that has formed between them in recent years.

"Got'cha," Rollins agrees as she, too, rises and gathers her things. "Enjoy dinner."

"Thanks, Amanda. And whatever it is? The investigation can wait until morning, okay?"

"We'll see about that," the blonde mumbles, figuring their chances are fifty-fifty. The instances of unjustified calls are few and far in between. She prays this one will give them a lucky break and allow her too, to be home for dinner with the kids. At the same time she hopes it's something because driving out there for nothing will annoy the hell out of her, especially after this shitty week.

In the car she blasts the radio at an almost full volume, singing along to Fleetwood Mac. It's one of the perks of riding without Fin. If she has to work, she might as well make the best of it.

She finds a parking space right around the block, reaching the store in less than two minutes. A bell announces her arrival. The store is empty, bar one customer that's headed out. Walking towards the counter, Amanda produces her badge, identifying herself as police to the guy behind the counter. If she'd have to guess he's in his mid-thirties with no fashion sense whatsoever. His vanilla-yellow shirt is about two sizes too big for his slim build, the mauve tie awfully mismatched.

"Detective Amanda Rollins, SVU, I believe we talked earlier?"

"Oh, that was quick. Yes." He scrambles backwards, grabbing a typical envelope holding photographs. "As I said on the phone, maybe it's nothing, I mean, people are into all sorts of things, right? Nothing we haven't seen before," the guy, his name tag says Ronny, throws in, half laughing, half snorting as he slides the photographs in question over the counter towards her. "All kinds of sexual stuff, you know? Nudes. Feet, bondage. Haven't seen something like this yet, tho, so I figured, better be safe than sorry, right?" He offers freely.

"That sounds reasonable," Amanda says politely, picking the envelope up, tearing open the gummy seal.

"Guy said the film was his girlfriend's. Old camera they've found or somethin'. It's become a rare thing, right? People coming in to develop from film. They all got digital cameras these days, or come with their cell phones. Quick business."

"Yeah, yeah," Amanda agrees, retrieving the packet from the envelope. Opening the flap, she pulls out the stack of photographs. It's exactly three seconds until she realizes what she sees, where she's seen this before. The (layout of the) room. The pattern of the injuries inflicted on a female body. The details CSU has secured down to the full ashtray on the nightstand, the grey pillow that's askew beneath her head. The one thing that stands out as different is the bedding that had been missing from the scene.

Amanda recoils, fights to stay in control as Ronny keeps talking, but not a single word registers as she's sliding the pictures back into the packet without browsing through them. Her stomach lurches, and there's only so much she can do to swallow the bile that's rising in her throat.

She's seen every single image that was taken during the rape kit, every burn, cut, every bruise, however small, blown up in great detail for the jury during the trial. It was evidence, the kind Amanda was used to after years of being a cop. This is crucially different. This is not the aftermath of her former fellow detective, now her Captain, more so her friend, being kidnapped and tortured. This is Olivia helpless on her own bed, hands tied behind her back, pants and underwear pulled down to her ankles, shirt and bra pushed up, breasts exposed, being tortured. Her battered skin stood out in crass, bright contrast against the darkness the rest of the room was bathed in.

If this was any other person, Amanda would stoically look at the photographs, at the evidence. Now she can't stomach to flip through them at all, not here and now. The envelope that seemed almost weightless when she first picked up now feels like dead weight in her trembling hands.

"Thanks. If we have any more questions, we'll be in touch," Amanda manages with a curt nod. Her impassive face crumbles before she has fully pivoted, her eyes wide and hazy. She makes it out the door, turns left, keeps moving and moving. Until she reaches the car. Slides in. Tosses the envelope on the passenger seat.

She tries to take a breath, just one, but although her body seems to function mechanically, it doesn't feel like oxygen is reaching her lungs. Clutching her hand to her face, Amanda expels a staccato exhale as the other clenches into a fist so hard, her nails painfully dig into her palm.

Get a grip, Amanda. Think, she urges her panicky mind. Squeezing her eyes shut she wills herself to think rationally. When she opens them the image she's just looked at is still the only thing she can see clearly and although she knows what this was, who this was. She's bargaining like there's a shred of the possibility she's wrong.

Maybe I'm mistaken. Maybe this isn't her. God, please don't let it be her.

But it is. She'd recognize those distinct burn marks among a hundred, a thousand others, the bed, the room, the black clothes-she didn't need any of it to corroborate the obvious.

She hadn't needed to see the tear-stained face, the hollowness in those dark brown, only semi-lucid eyes to know it was in fact Olivia.

There's a slump in her shoulders when she allows the tears to fall, partly in shock, partly from feeling trapped in an impossible situation. What is she supposed to do? She's seen one picture. One. Most likely there are more and she can't bring herself to check. If she thought she had been heartbroken for Olivia then, she doesn't know what to call this. It's completely beyond comparison, beyond what can be put into words. Despite being in the car the smell of burnt hair and flesh taints the air. It's chilling to the bone, just like it was when they stood in her demolished apartment with evidence for days but no Olivia. All they had were pieces of her. Blood. Saliva. Sweat. Urine.

Just when she thinks the heightened emotions are starting to turn into numbness, her stomach rebels violently. She's going to be sick, there's no way around it, so instead of trying to fight her clenching stomach she wrenches open the car door and sticks her torso out.

She vomits in heaps until she's only dry-heaving, wishing Kat hadn't insisted on a proper lunch a couple of hours ago. Carelessly she wipes her mouth with the sleeve of her blazer, drawing in a few shaky breaths as she fumbles for the key, jabbing it into the ignition. Warily she glances at the envelope on the passenger seat, like it's going to come at her any second. She still doesn't know what to do with this although she itches to toss it in the Hudson or even better, start an impromptu bonfire and burn it to ashes, pretend these pictures never existed.

It's not her place, though. No matter the damage these photographs are going to do, it's not her damage to prevent, not her decision to make what Olivia gets or does not get to see. Besides, there's no way to cover this up anyway. The pictures are gone from the store, picked up by police. This will raise suspicion for everyone involved the moment Elliot wants to pick them up. The way Ronny's been rambling, he couldn't appease Stabler to save his life.

Trying to think, Amanda drums her open hands against the steering wheel, the thumping growing more forceful as the minutes tick by. She has no solution, no idea how to go about this. All she knows is that she can't shoulder this burden on her own, that if she keeps this to herself for much longer, she's going to go insane. So, she does the one thing she can actually think of and pulls out her phone, closing her eyes as the familiar voice permeates.

"What's up, Amanda? Kink or case?"

"We got a problem," she states stoically. "Meet me at my place? Nineish?"

"What is it?" He's serious now, too, and although she wants to give him something, she can't get the words out.

"Fin, can you meet me later, yes or no?"

"Course," he states, like any other answer is out of the question. Before he can ask again she hangs up, swallows, draws in one more shaky breath. She's going to go home, have dinner with her girls, tuck them in and read to them before pouring herself a stiff drink and re-entering Olivia's personal hell, only to find out what else they are dealing with. She'll shower, as if water and soap can give her a sense of cleanliness after bathing in Lewis' sadistic perversion and Olivia's sheer terror, before telling Fin about the pictures. She won't let him see them. He doesn't have to do it to himself. More than that Amanda feels the fierce urge to protect Olivia, shield her from another set of eyes besides her own.

She just needs to talk. Figure out what to do, what the next step should be. Turning the key in the ignition, the engine roars to life. The entire way home, Amanda is on autopilot, wishing the images that claw at her consciousness away. She is acutely aware of how little she knew or understood of what Olivia meant when she once told her: "You have no idea what utter terror is."

She'd thought she knew, even when she had apologized. She'd thought…

But seeing Liv's place in shambles, realizing she's been kidnapped? That hadn't been enough. Finding her fragile, her system shot by hard liquor and drugs? Nope. Hearing her detailed recount spanning over four days of her captivity? Amanda shakes her head furiously, angry at herself, at how blind she had been, at the goddamn audacity she had just because what? She'd experienced trauma, too?

Goddamn, Olivia was right. She didn't know what utter terror was. Not until today, looking at those hopeless, almost jet-black eyes.