A/N: To the Cassidy fans out there (if any): Sorry.
As a reflex when the pizza arrives, Elliot goes to the fridge to get a beer. Thinking better of it, he grabs a bottle of Coke instead. He gets two glasses from the cabinet, and calls to where she's sitting on the couch, barefoot with legs tucked and clutching the remote, the Mets game playing on mute.
"Water, Coke, or orange juice?" He pauses. "Or beer."
"Coke would be great. Thank you."
He brings the Coke and glasses to the table and they start to lay out the boxes and napkins. They are both freshly showered, she wearing a too-big NYPD t-shirt of his and a pair of slim-fitting gray cotton joggers that Kathleen left at his place. Her hair is wet, and she smells like apple shampoo; also his daughter's.
"This is good," she says after several bites, deeply satisfied.
"Tony's. Best in the city."
She watches the muted TV for several seconds. It's the bottom of the sixth, and the Mets have a guy on first and second, with two outs. They're beating the Dodgers 2-1.
"My mother loved baseball," she comments wistfully.
"Really? That seems kind of … "
"Random?" She smiles. "I know. It was her only other interest besides art and literature. And, well, vodka. She watched every game obsessively, taught me the strategy behind the different plays, and how to read the statistics. We'd pour over the standings in the newspaper together."
"Did you go to games?"
"A few a year." She shrugs. "We'd take the subway up to the Bronx. It was the only time she'd ride the subway."
He raises an eyebrow in mock disapproval. "Yankees, huh?"
She lifts the corner of her mouth in a coy grin. "Are you gonna kick me out of your apartment now?"
"I'm thinking about it."
Her husky laugh carries a lightheartedness that borders on genuine pleasure. He'll take it.
"I haven't been to a game in years," she continues. "Since … actually, since I took this job. Couldn't even tell you which teams are good this year."
"We should go to a game sometime."
She contemplates this. "You know, I think I'd like that. I've never even been to Shea Stadium."
He chuckles. "Yeah, well, you're shit out of luck on that one. They demolished it about five year ago."
She slaps her forehead. "I forgot about that! Citi Field now, right?"
"Doesn't have the same ring to it."
"No it doesn't."
"I've only ever been to one game at Yankee Stadium," he now tells her. "My father won a bar bet and snagged tickets to the '78 World Series. Game 6."
She turns to him in shock. "I was at that game, too."
His mouth falls open, and an irrational burst of excitement gushes through him. "You're kidding. Do you remember where you were sitting?"
"Somewhere on the first base side, I think. You?"
"Right field. Nosebleed."
"Well," she deadpans, "now I know why we lost that one."
He looks at her, as if for the first time. "How did I never know this about you?"
"Elliot," she says earnestly, "when did we ever talk about anything besides our cases?"
"That's true …" He trails off, deep in thought. He finds this revelation strangely endearing. And incredibly sexy.
Remembering the bag of greeting cards, he wipes his lips with his napkin, springs up from the couch. "One sec."
"Where are you going?"
"To get something."
He returns to the couch with the Duane Reade bag, hands it to her.
"What's this?"
"Look inside."
She pulls out a wad of colored envelopes, most of which have her name printed by hand. She picks out at random a canary yellow envelope. It's a Get Well Soon card with a cartoon dog blowing its nose. The note is written in green crayon, in a child's oversized scrawl. On the left face of the card is a crude drawing of a dinosaur, also done in crayon.
He follows over her shoulder as she reads the note out loud.
"Dear Ulivia, I saw you on TV and I hope you feel better soon. My birthday party is tomorrow. I am turning 7. I wish you could come but my mommy said it is inapropiate. From, Joshua."
Elliot chuckles. "Inappropriate, I get. That's a tricky one. But I didn't know it was possible to screw up the spelling of your name."
"Well, you have to hand it to him. It's phonetic."
"Do you remember him?"
"Vaguely. I think it was a molestation case, maybe a year ago?" She hugs the card to her chest. "He sounds so sweet."
She pulls out another one. This card is simpler and elegant; cream-colored with a white floral embossment on its cover. The handwriting is that of an adult, likely one who grew up during an era when penmanship mattered. There's a full paragraph:
"Dear Olivia," she reads. "You may not remember me, but fourteen years ago you helped me get through the worst time in my life. You cared so much about me and my case, even after I'd long given up on it myself, and even after I was a total bitch towards you. I have wanted to apologize for that for a long time. I hope you can forgive me. Because of you, I was able to start fresh and go back to school and get my CPA (if you ever need someone to do your taxes, I would be glad to). I saw on the news what happened to you and I knew I had to reach out. I am so sorry that you had to go through such a terrible ordeal, but I have no doubt you have the strength to recover. Sincerely, Harper Anderson. PS: I would've killed him."
"I remember her," Elliot says.
Olivia nods. Tears have flooded her eyes. "So do I. Wow, isn't that something."
"She was kind of nasty to you," he recalls. "Even though it was Cassidy who was the real ass –" He realizes too late what he's saying. "I'm sorry."
But she shakes her head. "No, don't be. You're right."
"I wouldn't have figured her for a tax accountant."
This makes her giggle. "Me neither. A real estate agent, or an interior designer, maybe. But hey, who am I to stereotype? According to you, I should be locked in an ivory tower somewhere in New England."
"Liv, I hope you didn't take that – "
She waves it off. "No, No. I'm just saying, we meet people at fixed points in their lives, almost always during their lowest moments. I wouldn't want anyone to look at me right now and draw conclusions based on the mess they see."
"You're not a mess. Don't say that."
Ignoring the comment, she pokes her nose through the rest of the bag. "There must be over a hundred in here. Where did you get these?"
"Amanda was holding them for you. You should see your desk, Liv. It's like a gift shop."
Her breath hitches. "Are there chocolates?"
"Tons."
"Well why didn't you bring me those?"
"I – I don't know, I guess I didn't think – "
She ribs him. "I'm teasing you! Thank you for bringing this to me. It means a lot. I guess I have some reading to do."
She doesn't ask what he was doing at the precinct. He wonders if she's just not putting it together, or whether she suspects the reason but is choosing not to find out.
"Liv, can I ask you something?"
Detecting his shift in tone, she is immediately guarded. "Okay … "
"Why didn't you kill him?"
She takes several seconds to reply. "I – " She stops short. "I thought about it. I had the gun pointed right at him. I thought about you, how you wouldn't have even hesitated."
"I'd have blown his head off, no question."
She reaches over, squeezes his forearm. "I know you would have. I think I even told him that."
"Have you thought about why you didn't?"
"I guess I … I don't know, didn't want to give him the satisfaction. He wasn't afraid of dying. He woke up while I had the gun on him and he started goading me. He told me I didn't have the guts to do it."
"Oh, he was wrong about that. Whatever your reason, it wasn't because you were too chicken to pull the trigger."
"I did screw up, though."
"How?"
"I lost control. I let him taunt me into beating him to a pulp with the rod I'd pulled off the bed. I lied in my statement, told them he broke free and attacked me again."
His heart jumps in his throat. This is his chance. "Liv, are you completely sure you remember all this accurately?"
She turns to him, searching his eyes, her expression pained. "Why does everyone keep asking me that? Why are you asking me that?"
He tells her the truth, or at least this piece of it. "Because Nick told me that Lewis's injuries were mild. They were consistent with what you said you had to do to subdue him, initially."
The news doesn't appear to faze her, though he imagines she's had some practice pretending. "Well, then, he's covering it up, or something, to protect me."
"I don't think so, Liv. I mean, Barba too. Did you happen to notice that he didn't mention anything about Lewis suffering from major injuries?"
"You're taking their word over mine?"
The implicit betrayal wounds him. "Of course not. Nobody's questioning that you managed to free yourself and gain the upper hand. But you also had a head injury. You'd been drugged with a lot of powerful stuff. You told me yourself some of those pills made you hallucinate. And he'd been torturing you for days."
"Look," she says, visibly distraught. "I don't know what's going on here, but I know what I did. It was completely unjustified. I thought I did kill him. When Barba came to talk to me today, I was sure he was going to tell me I was being charged with excessive force."
Elliot lets a beat pass. "Your partner told me the condition you were in when he got to you."
"What did he say?" she demands, trying in vain to conceal how unnerved she is by the statement.
He treads carefully, not wanting to further upset her. "He said you were in bad shape, Liv."
"He's exaggerating." But her voice cracks, belying her doubt.
He's pushed this as far as it will go. It's been a rough day, and he doesn't want to cause a breakdown. "We don't have to talk about this if you don't want to," he says gently.
She leans over the coffee table, busies herself gathering the pizza boxes, the dirty napkins. "Let me clean up."
"Liv – "
"Just. Elliot. Let me … Be."
"Okay."
He sits still on the couch while she buzzes around him, clearing the coffee table. He knows it's an excuse to take some time to process the day's events, on her own terms. But he also knows the conversation about sleeping arrangements is looming. He hopes she hasn't changed her mind about staying overnight. He doesn't think she's in any condition to be alone. He's not sure he is, either.
When the living area is more spotless than he would ever hope to get it himself, she plants herself at the far side of the room, behind the couch, peering nervously down the hallway towards the bedroom. "I can't kick you out of your bed again," she repeats.
He sighs. "Don't start that again. I can sleep on a locker bench. Don't worry about me."
He shifts on the couch to face her. She looks so forlorn, he thinks, standing by herself in the corner, stripped of any trace of protective bluster, an island of fear and sadness.
"Would you… " she starts, her voice dropping to a rasp. She looks at the floor. "Would you, um, sleep with me?" The second the words are out of her mouth, she turns red. "That's not what I … I'm sorry, I didn't mean …"
He springs to his feet, deftly crosses the room and closes the space between them. He plants a palm on each of her shoulders, cupping them firmly. "I know what you meant."
She can't meet his eyes. "I'm not a cheater."
"I know." He's struck – and a little bit hurt – that she thinks that if not for her relationship status, he might otherwise make a move while she's this vulnerable.
"I just meant … sleep."
"You know I would never take advantage of you under these circumstances."
"I wasn't raped, Elliot."
He's shocked that she feels the need to prove that she's still tough enough to have sex. "But you were assaulted by a known rapist," he points out. "Regardless of whether he went through with it, it was a deeply traumatic experience."
She makes a halfhearted attempt to wiggle out of his grasp. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry."
"I know you wouldn't ever do that. I don't know why I said that."
"Forget about it."
"Are you sure you don't mind … you know, sharing your bed?"
He almost laughs out loud at the absurdity of the question. She has no idea how his heart jumped in delight at the prospect of spending the night this close to her. "I'm getting the way better end of the deal here, Liv."
"I feel guilty."
He pauses. "About Brian?"
"Yeah."
He shrugs. "We're just going to sleep."
"Yeah."
"Kay?"
She takes an extra second to answer. "Okay."
Not wanting to prolong the awkwardness, he pulls away, heads to his dresser in the bedroom. He fumbles through his drawer, looking for something suitable to wear to bed. He usually sleeps in boxers. He shudders, recalling again the pair of panties, sitting in a baggie at the back of his sock drawer, like a time bomb. He checks the drawer again, reaches in and pushes the bag deeper into the back corner, and then buries it beneath a pile of socks. He knows she will not rummage through his drawer, but the obsessive-compulsiveness that comes from being a detective is still with him. He settles on a pair of gray sweatpants to wear to bed.
"I'll go change in the bathroom," he says.
Now standing in the middle of his bedroom, still as a statue, she appears not to have heard him.
"Liv? If you've changed your mind, it's ok, I'm happy to – "
"Why are you so good to me?" she blurts out, looking up at him with enormous eyes.
"What?"
"I mean, you just spent the last eight hours with me, two of which you spent watching me, like, melt down … and … you've treated me so well, I-I don't know what I did to deserve … to … " She trails off, looking at the floor.
He takes a step towards her. "Why shouldn't you be treated well?"
"What I mean is … I guess I … I've felt like this real person around you. Not like this … caricature, you know? I'd forgotten what that felt like."
He wishes he could make her understand. "That's the least you're entitled to." His voice is low.
She starts to tuck her chin, but he nudges it back up with his fingers. "Liv. Liv, look at me."
Tentatively, she meets his eyes.
"You're going to get through this."
"I know."
"Do you?"
Her eyes well up with tears. "Not really …"
He pulls her into a full embrace, enveloping her. "Do you trust me?" he rasps, his mouth at her temple.
"You know I do."
"Then believe me when I tell you you're going to get through this."
"You can't know that."
"Yes I can. Read those cards. Every person who wrote to you got through it. And they all know that you will too."
He feels her muscles slacken; she is uncomfortable with such demonstrativeness. "Let's, uh, get into bed, okay?"
"Okay."
She starts to pull away, but he has one last thing to say before he lets her go. "I love you."
She doesn't hesitate. "I love you too," she replies, her voice breaking.
But what he really wishes he could say is, I'm in love with you.
Sitting up in his bed, her eyes track him from across the room as he emerges from the bathroom, teeth brushed and sporting the gray sweatpants. Bare-chested, he finds himself again searching through his drawer for a t-shirt.
"You don't have to put on a shirt on my account," she says.
He spins around to face her. "What?"
"I mean, if you're more comfortable like that … I've seen you plenty of times without a shirt on."
"Liv, I know, but, I mean, I don't want to do anything that, uh …" he stammers.
"It's okay, honestly. And it's not exactly an unpleasant sight." She smiles, a little more provocatively than he would have expected.
"Are you sure?" His voice has grown husky.
"I'm not made of glass, you know." She turns over the corner of the covers on his side, welcoming him.
"This, I know." He climbs into bed with her. It's the first time he's shared a bed with anyone since Kathy. He reaches to the bedlamp. "Should I turn it off?"
"Yeah," she says gratefully.
When the lights are off and they have lain down and said goodnight, she turns over onto her left side, facing away from him.
With the day fully at a close, he settles onto his back, one hand under his head.
"It's not you," she says.
He turns onto his side, stares at the back of her head. "What?"
"I'm not turning my back on you. It's just easier… to breathe on my side. I haven't been able to sleep on my back since the surgery. And the other side … hurts."
"Of course."
All at once, a swell of emotion rises up in his throat. The spell of the last few minutes has been broken, and the reality of her physical condition, which he's still not sure she's being completely truthful about, is brought home yet again. He loves her more than anyone in the world besides his children, and it is still so devastating to see her suffer so nakedly. But at the same time, he is grateful that she trusts him to be this close, especially after the two-year gulf. He doesn't take it for granted.
Ten minutes pass, and he lies on his back in the dark, wide awake, staring at the ceiling, processing the day's events. In some ways it's good that her back is to him; he's not sure he would be able to control his body's reaction to seeing the silhouette of her face and the soft curve of her body beneath his sheets, right next to him in his own bed.
"Are you asleep?" she whispers, her body shrouded in shadows.
"No."
She lets a moment pass. "I'm going to break up with him. I just need to find the right moment."
He's taken aback by the admission, not least its timing. "I don't want to come between you."
"I know. It's not you. I just think … we're not on the same wavelength. I don't think it's fair to him, to keep pretending."
"He does love you," he offers. He's not sure why he's telling her this. Maybe it's because, after the horrifying story she shared with him of the mistreatment she suffered as a child, he wants her to grasp, for once, how loved she truly is. Not just by him, but also by all the people who know her. Cassidy was right about one thing, that day in the hospital waiting room: everybody loves her. Those greetings cards are proof.
Even in the dark, he senses the way her body language has shifted; the comment has made her uncomfortable.
"Maybe he does, but it doesn't change how I feel about him."
"Which is?" His interest is fully piqued now.
Despite her earlier words, she rolls onto her back, talking, now, to the ceiling. "We had a fight, two nights ago. That's the real reason he agreed to go to Philadelphia."
He props up on an elbow to face her. "Couples fight, Liv. It doesn't mean you have to break up." Seriously, why he is trying to talk her out of this? But he knows the reason: he's trying to probe whether she really means it.
"No, this was telling, I think. I didn't like how he treated you and Amaro."
This is the last thing he expected her to say. "Look, Liv, I, uh, we were out of line, coming there like that. I'm really sorry about that."
"I appreciate that, but it's not the point. It was the way he did it. Like I'm this fragile thing who needed to be protected from my own partner. Both of you."
If their places had been reversed, he's not sure he wouldn't have done the same thing to Cassidy. But he keeps this thought to himself. He's curious to see where she's headed with this.
She continues. "He's jealous of you, and he despises Nick, which he's allowed to do, but he never shuts up about it, and he gets pissed when I defend him."
"Why is he jealous of me though?" This is not the impression he'd gotten from Cassidy, who had seemed, if anything, to be blissfully unsuspicious of his reemergence in Olivia's life.
"Not jealous that way," she clarifies. "But because he knows I've talked to you about Lewis. He can't understand why I won't tell him anything about … you know."
"You haven't told him anything?" He's genuinely surprised. Whatever Cassidy's faults, he seemed sincere in his desire to help her.
"Nothing beyond what's already public information. I frankly wish he didn't even know that much."
"Do you not trust him?"
"It's not really that. All I know is, he left SVU for a reason, fourteen years ago. He couldn't handle it. He's jealous, maybe, because he knows you and Amaro can."
"Liv, I – "
But she stops him. "Please, hear me out."
"Okay."
"We reconnected by chance on a case, maybe, ten or eleven months ago? It was a grueling one. He got shot, and there was a whole thing with Cragen, and … anyways, afterwards, I guess I was just craving some mindless fun, a diversion from the job, you know? Or maybe I was just feeling a little lonely. And it was nice, for a little while. But then he started talking about moving in together, and even getting married, and I just had this … viscerally negative reaction to the idea. I know this sounds mean-spirited, but he's not that mature, or sophisticated. He doesn't want to try new things. I had made up my mind to end it when this thing with Lewis happened. And afterwards, he just assumed I would … you know, need him. And now we're stuck in this situation where all he wants to do is take care of me, and I find myself spending all this energy trying not to hurt his feelings. And honestly, El, I don't have a lot of energy to spare right now."
He's not sure how to respond to all this. He didn't figure this would be the thing he'd go to bed to.
As if reading his mind, she adds, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have dumped all that on you just as we're falling asleep. I just thought I should explain."
"No, it's fine, really. I'm glad you did."
"I'm going to call him tomorrow," she resolves.
"Okay."
He settles onto his back again, staring at the ceiling, processing what she's just told him.
A minute passes.
"Damn," she mutters.
"What?"
"I don't have my phone. And I never memorized his cell number. He's going to take that personally."
"Liv, I guarantee you he couldn't recite yours by heart. Nobody memorizes phone numbers anymore."
"I remember yours," she says.
"I remember yours too," he concedes.
Still on her back, her hand finds his at his side, and clasps it, tentatively at first, and then firmly. He closes his eyes, his mind enlivened by the contact. Keeping his eyes trained on the ceiling, he squeezes her hand reassuringly.
She starts to roll back onto her left side, away from him, but, curiously, she doesn't let his hand go. Instead, she pulls it with her, so that he, too, now rolls onto his side behind her. He quickly switches hands, so that it's his outer one that she now pulls over her, guiding it around the curve of her waist, sliding it over the cotton material of his oversized NYPD T-shirt, and then parking it at her bellybutton, trapping it there. He scoots his body closer to give his arm more slack, rocking the entire bed.
"Is that okay?" she whispers.
You're asking me that? he wants to joke. "It's more than okay." Feeling intrepid, he leans forward and kisses the small patch of exposed skin between her shoulder blade and the nape of her neck. Her hair is still damp from the shower, and a clump of it needles his forehead. "Sweet dreams."
"Sweet dreams," she whispers back, shivering.
He awakens to his arm, the one that's still clasped around her waist, being wrenched away violently, followed by a strangled shriek.
"Liv!" he cries, snatching his arm back. He glances at the alarm clock next to his bed: it is 3:06 a.m.
He lifts his head to peer at her in the darkness. She is thrashing in her sleep, struggling and whimpering.
"Liv, wake up!"
Her back still to him, she starts to scream, but her words are unintelligible. He leans over, gently shakes her shoulder. The stimulus causes her arm to flail up wildly, and he has to duck to avoid getting hit in the face.
"Stop! STOP! Please, stop!"
"Liv!" He jumps out of bed, rushes around to her side and kneels in front of her. Still asleep on her side, her face is awash in anguish. She is screaming so loudly he's worried someone in the building will call the police.
"Stop!" she yells, but this time her voice is less shrill, and it's more like a howl of defeat. "No," she moans.
Again, he reaches to her, this time tapping her wrist, hoping to rouse her. He switches on the bedroom lamp, hoping the light will help awaken her.
She again wriggles her arm away in panic, but the screaming seems to at last be dying down.
But a second later he realizes it's only because she's gasping for breath.
Her eyes fly open. And she starts to cough.
"Liv, it's ok, you're okay."
Fully awake now, she continues to hack away, wincing in pain as she clenches her chest.
"Okay, okay," he tries to sooth. A brand new worry has now emerged: that she is not physically up to this level of distress.
Still coughing on her side, she tries to sit up to gain leverage. He reaches to help her, but she pushes his arm away. "Don't touch … I-I'm sorry."
Sitting back on his heels, he shows her both of his palms. "Liv. Liv, look at me. Stay with me, okay?"
She manages to do so, in the midst of another coughing spasm.
"Will you let me help you sit up so you can breathe better?"
Still wildly gasping for breath in between hacks, it's all she can do to nod.
"Okay…" He gets to his feet and slowly reaches for her, keeping his hands in her line of vision. "I'll just grasp you by the armpits, okay?"
Red-faced and eyes panicked by the lack of oxygen, she nods her permission.
He grasps her on either side, lifting her counterclockwise, until her back is pressed against the headboard. Finally in a sitting position, the coughing fit remains powerful, but she's able now to inhale deeply enough to gain the upper hand.
With the task completed, he retracts his hands, keeping them to himself. He takes a seat on her side of the bed on top of the covers, next to her knees, and waits for her to settle. Whatever she was dreaming, it was violent.
Finally calming, she rests her head against the backboard, and presses her fingers against her lower ribcage. "Uhh…"
"Those ribs can take forever to heal," he says sympathetically.
"Ye-ah-uhhh." She winces again, doubling over. "It's worse … Worse. When I. Cough."
He looks on anxiously. "Can I get you some Tylenol maybe?"
She takes a second to think about it. "Okay."
He scurries away, returns a minute later with a bottle and a glass of water, which he places on the nightstand.
"Thank you." She smiles weakly and takes the bottle, but doesn't open it. Instead, she holds it listlessly on her lap, and leans her head back against the headboard, closing her eyes.
He goes back to his side of the bed, and settles next to her. "I get a lot of nightmares, too."
"About what?" she asks, lifting her head to look at him curiously.
He hesitates. "Mostly … about Jenna. I'm trying to revive her, but I can't."
"Oh, Elliot." She reaches to his wrist, grasps it supportively.
He covers her hand with his other one. "Sometimes the kids. The job stays with you, even after you leave it."
"Good to know." She chuckles ruefully. She pauses. "This one … this one was bad."
"What do you remember?"
"Um, we were in that beach house. I was handcuffed to the bed. And he … he, um … he came at me with a blowtorch."
He forces himself not to react. "Go on …" he encourages.
"He said he was going to burn my clothes off."
He winces. "Jesus."
And now he desperately wants to know: Did this part actually take place?
"But then he, he, um… he put it down. Because … because …"
He waits.
"Because …"
He looks at her. "Why did he put it down?"
"Because I was already naked."
He feels her shudder next to him. Taking a chance that he won't freak her out, he reaches over, puts his arm around her shoulders. "And then what happened?"
She thinks. "I noticed you were in the room, too."
"Me?"
"You, and a little kid."
He frowns. "Who was the kid?"
"I'm not sure. It was a little girl, but she was sort of faceless. Maybe one of your daughters when they were much younger? You were duct taped to a chair across the room, and the little girl was next to you, on the floor."
He swallows back a lump, scared to hear what she's going to say next. "What was I doing?"
"He told you you had to watch."
"Watch?"
"Watch … while he … raped me." At this, she pivots away from him, swings her legs over the side of the bed, hunching her back.
"Oh, Liv. I'm so sorry. That's terrible."
She takes in a shaky breath. "I didn't even tell you the worst part."
He leans forward, cups her shoulder blade from behind, waits.
"The scene changed," she says, her back to him.
"What do you mean?"
"We weren't in the house anymore. I-I was still on the bed, but we were, um, in the courtroom."
"The courtroom?"
"Yeah, I know it sounds ridiculous. But the bed … was in the courtroom, like where the witness chair would be? And he was allocuting, and he had told the judge he needed t-to … re-enact … the … the, um …"
"The rape."
"Yeah. And the judge had granted the request, and that's why … that's how I ended up on the bed … "
"It was a dream," he says quietly.
"I know," she chokes out. "I know how absurd it sounds out loud, but … it was so real."
"That's not what I meant."
"I know."
"The dream makes perfect sense, actually." Except the little girl, he thinks, disturbed by this detail. It probably means nothing, he reassures himself. They talked earlier about his daughter, and she has always associated him with his children. And maybe reading greeting cards from children also placed them unwittingly in her subconscious.
"I know." She sniffles.
He gets on his knees, crawls back to her side and sits next to her at the edge. "Liv," he starts gently, "Have you considered getting some counseling?"
She nods. "I have. I had an appointment, last week. But then the surgery, and-and, I know I should reschedule, and I keep meaning to, but I just … haven't."
"It might help."
She turns to look at him, offers a weak smile. "Yeah." She takes in a sharp breath. "I should um, I need to …" She points to the bathroom, starts to scramble to her feet. "I'm sorry for waking you, I just … I should… clean up… I should…"
"Just … sit for a minute. Catch your breath."
"I'm fine. It was just a dream."
"I know." He glances at her torso. "How's the rib pain?"
"Fine … as long as I don't move a muscle."
"Then don't." He smiles. "I'm wide awake."
"Me too."
"We can sleep in. I don't have any plans tomorrow. Do you?"
"Just to … buy a new phone." She gives a short laugh.
He laughs too.
Five hours later, he stands in his kitchen area drinking orange juice when his cell buzzes.
"Elliot!"
"Don? Jeez, what time is it?"
"It's eight-twenty in the morning. Tell me you know where Olivia is."
He swipes his hand over his scalp. Dammit. "Yeah, uh … she's here. She stayed overnight at my place."
Cragen exhales audibly. "Thank God."
"Why? What's going on?"
"I've been trying to reach her for over an hour! Why isn't she answering her phone?"
"Oh. It, uh, got … submerged. She's getting a new one today. Don, what's up?"
"I need to talk to her."
"She's still asleep."
"It's important. Wake her up."
"Can you just give me a hint? She had a rough night, and I hate to – "
"We've got a big problem."
"The guilty plea? She already knows. Barba told – "
"Forget about that. That's on hold for now."
"Why?"
"The homeowners of the house on Long Island? They just reported that their housekeeper and her five-year old daughter are missing. They were supposed to be there the same day Olivia was found."