A/N: Sorry for the long delay, folks. It's been a busy work month, and these next two chapters were also a struggle to get right.
In his dream, he is duct taped to a chair and Stuckey is cutting through his shirt with a knife. The slashes are shallow, but it hurts like hell. If his mouth weren't duct taped too, he would be yelping like a wounded puppy.
When he looks more closely, though, it's not a knife after all. It's a blowtorch. He's not sure how he could have mistaken a blowtorch for a knife. Have his skills gone rusty that fast?
He sees, rather than feels, the flame about to hit his skin, and it scares the hell out of him. He's been stabbed, and shot, and thrown through a window, and beaten before, but never once in his life – not even accidentally – has he been burned.
But he's seen burn victims, and their suffering is horrifying. He struggles in his chair, desperate to escape the flame. There's a panic setting in, because he doesn't think he can handle it, and he's not sure what happens to a person, mentally, when they're made to endure something that they literally can't.
And then, like a miracle, Olivia is there, about to save him. Relief gushes through him. Because he knows she'll be successful. He trusts her completely. She is brilliant when it comes to negotiating with psychos, particularly ones as vulnerable to her beauty as someone like Stuckey. And anyway, for some reason he already knows how this scene will play out: She will use herself to lure Stuckey away, she will pretend to betray her squad and her partner, and she will kiss him to both convince him and distract him. She will do whatever it takes to save her partner.
And yet despite the certainty that he doesn't really need to worry about being burned – or killed – because she will save him, and they will even laugh about it later over drinks, there's still a sense of dread in his gut.
Because a little voice in his head is warning him: that isn't how this scene will end at all.
He notices, then, that there's a bed inside the forensics lab. It's six feet away, directly in front of him. He's not sure how he missed it before. He knows this is strange, but the idea of beds in places they shouldn't be is somehow familiar to him. It makes sense, he thinks.
And then, sure enough, she is on the bed, luring Stuckey on top of her.
He knows he should be relieved; her plan is working, Stuckey is no longer threatening him. But all he feels is a deep ominousness, which he can't explain. This isn't the first time she's used her body to manipulate a perp out of doing something awful. It's true, he's always hated it when she's done that, even when it was to save him. It's totally unfair to her. It shouldn't be a job requirement. But still, Stuckey's a clown, and while she surely doesn't want to kiss him, it's not the most compromising thing she's ever had to do. It won't scar her.
Any second now, and he, Elliot, will have the opportunity to kick Stuckey in the balls, she'll then use the distraction to swing at him and then he, Stuckey, will fall unconscious. And then she'll come and untie him and all will be well.
And now he sees the source of his dread: it's not Stuckey who's climbing on top of her; how could it be? Stuckey's in state prison serving a life sentence for murder. The person on the bed is Lewis.
And he, Elliot, is not the one about to face the terrifying flame. He is tied up and uncomfortable, but he is safe. Lewis isn't interested in him. Of course he isn't – they never are. He, Elliot, is just there as a prop. He's there to be a witness to what Lewis is about to do to her. He's there to amplify her humiliation.
The flame is directed straight at her exposed chest. When it makes contact, her skin makes a sizzling sound. She shrieks in exquisite agony, she pulls at her restraints, and her whole body bucks violently. He doesn't think he's ever heard anyone scream quite like this before. Desperate to help her, he puts all his muscle into breaking free of his bonds. But Lewis anticipated that he would be much harder to hold back than a little girl, who, in the previous iteration of this story (which he doesn't question at all), did get free. His tape is tight.
Lewis keeps the blowtorch planted on her skin for five full seconds before he withdraws it, laughing at how hard she's panting, at how her head slumps off to the side, exhausted from the pain.
He gets off of her, leaving her trembling and whimpering. The session with the blowtorch is over for now, but it's not to say there won't be another. Lewis is free to do this as many times as he pleases, and Elliot suspects that she's only getting a break so she can be clearheaded enough to feel the terror of not knowing what's coming next. But he, Elliot, knows exactly what's about to happen to her. And he knows there's nothing he can do about it.
Elliot's muscles clench with blind rage, not just at how badly she's suffering, but also at his own inability to help her. She's saved him so many times that it's almost become rote. And now, the only time she's ever really needed him, he's letting her down.
Severely weakened and still convulsing from the torture of the flame, she uses the energy she has to plead with Lewis to let him go. Him! Elliot shakes with inexpressible emotion: Liv, forget about me! I don't matter here!
But her effort is of course useless; all it does is give Lewis another excuse to remind her that she's completely under his control.
And he goes ahead and exercises that power, with unbridled glee. He barks at her to shut up, grabs her shackled wrists, deliberately rattling the one that's fractured, and then, as if to drive the point home, he shoves the barrel of his gun straight down her throat. And with his other hand, he unzips his pants.
When Elliot jerks awakes, it's 3:09 a.m. and he finds himself squeezing Olivia against his body in a death grip. She is moaning softly, agitated and shaking in her sleep. He loosens his grip, worried he has constricted her airway, and also that this is what's triggered the nightmare she is probably having.
He buries his face in her hair, taking in the citrusy scent of her shampoo, and kisses the back of her head. He plants his palm along her temple. "Shh …. Shh… it's okay, it's over …." he soothes.
She seems to settle, and he falls back into a restless but dreamless sleep.
The first thing Elliot feels when he awakens in the morning is the warmth of the sun on his face, beaming through the white linen curtain. The second thing is that the space next to him is vacant and cold. He opens his eyes, squinting. Olivia is standing by the window, arms crossed in an X across her chest, fingers clasped around her triceps, like she's freezing cold. She is dressed in yesterday's clothes – the only clothes she has with her – and is looking out at the city. Her hair is tied back in a half-ponytail with a fluorescent pink elastic band, but several strands up front are too short to fit and they spill out onto her face in loose waves.
All he can think is, her hair is so cute like that.
He notices something else: a few of the tips are wet. She has showered for a second time since last night.
He glances at the alarm clock next to his head. It's 9:47 a.m. He marvels at his ability to sleep so late. Despite the unspeakable circumstances surrounding why he's waking up in a 4-star hotel room that he could never afford, in his own city, and why he's spent the last two nights sharing a bed with Olivia and holding her closer than he ever did Kathy in two decades of marriage, he can no longer deny that he is so much more at peace with Olivia than without her.
"Hey," he says.
"Hey."
"How long have you been up?" He stares at her in profile.
She shrugs a single shoulder, not breaking her gaze. "Don't know. Maybe an hour."
"How did you sleep?"
She shrugs the same shoulder again.
He pauses. "Did you dream?"
She stiffens, pivots to her right, obscuring most of her face from his line of sight. "I don't want to talk about it."
He climbs out of bed, approaches her carefully.
The term fragile is not one he would ever associate with Olivia, but watching her stare glaze-eyed out the window, forlorn and devastated, he sees her, for the first time, in a different light. He is confident that she is strong enough to overcome this. But for now, in this moment, she has been senselessly traumatized and she doesn't know how to cope with it. She could withstand days of deprivation, of psychological torment, and even of physical torture, but Viva's story has challenged the core of her identity. Her identity as a rescuer, but never a rescuee; her identity as a female cop who's had to rely on superior wits and reflexes and sheer grit to offset her impressive, but ultimately inferior, upper body strength. And most importantly, her identity as the daughter of a rape victim whose love was mercurial at best, and wholly conditional on a specific kind of perfection: that she not only be smart and erudite and multi-talented – such things were the least she owed her mother, considering the emotional anguish her existence caused – but also that she never be stupid enough to let it happen to her. Olivia's spent the better part of two weeks dodging landmines of triggers, walking a tightrope of conflicting emotions, but always there was the safety net to fall back on: he did a lot of terrible stuff, but he didn't rape me. I saved myself from that. She's worn that truth as prominently as her beloved badge.
And then yesterday a housekeeper named Viva ruthlessly ripped that protective badge off. The safety net is gone, and she's fallen into an abyss of self-doubt; one that's making her question the one thing about herself that she thought made her worth loving: that she is strong; so strong, that she could defend herself against anything and anyone, no matter how improbable the situation. After yesterday's revelations, she thinks she is just like her mother: someone who, for all her talents, failed herself at the most critical of moments; someone destined to spend the rest of her life scrambling to reclaim scraps of dignity.
He sidles up on her left but keeps buffer between them. The Hudson River is a light shade of blue today – nearly translucent – and the water is glassy. To his left, the Empire State Building is boxier looking in the light, and the low rises beyond seem dustier against the haze of the morning sun. Way in the distance due south is the Statue of Liberty. The tranquility of the Manhattan morning is incongruous with the turbulence inside her head.
From behind her, he reaches out, tentatively and pulls her fully to him, her back against his chest. He enjoins his hands around her stomach. "How are you doing this morning?"
"Fine, I guess."
"Yeah?"
She takes in a sharp breath. "Elliot, did everyone know but me?"
"Know what?"
"That he … raped me." He feels her shudder. "Has the whole squad been talking about this? Was I the only idiot who didn't know?"
He's surprised, but not really astonished, by the question.
"No. Not at all."
"Well you knew. And Amaro knew."
He knows he has to be honest with her. "We suspected it, that's it. We didn't know for sure until we found the gun and had the fluids on it tested."
"The fluids? You mean …?" She drops her head. She will never admit that what she's feeling is shame – that would be hypocritical for someone who preaches the exact opposite – but he can hear precisely that in the way she lets the question taper off, unasked. As physically brutal as this part of the attack was, it's the humiliation of being violated in such an intimate way is haunting her. He knows this for a fact, because there's truly nothing else in the world that could ever impel Olivia to deliberately dispose of her most prized possession, her gun. She would sooner cut off a limb.
"Yeah."
"But … why did you even look for it? How did you know to look for it?"
It's the question he's been waiting to be asked for four days. At least she's acknowledging reality, he thinks grimly.
"Your gun was missing. And Amaro was troubled that you couldn't explain what had happened to it."
"Why? Anything could have happened to it over four days."
Bullshit, he thinks.
"Well, you'd been able to explain everything else. It seemed odd."
"So … everyone's known about this for days? The whole squad? Cragen? Barba? Was yesterday some kind of elaborate intervention?"
"No, of course not."
"I feel so stupid," she chokes out.
He pulls her closer, his heart going out to her. It's like she was raped in front of the entire stationhouse. "I promise you, Cragen had no idea until yesterday. Do you really think he would've let you listen to Viva's story if he'd known what was coming?"
"But … he questioned me all morning like he thought I was lying. And he asked me about the rape kit, like he knew it hadn't been done."
"The DNA results on the gun came back yesterday morning, right before we arrived."
"But … I don't understand. You told me you'd found it. How did he know about it?"
He hesitates.
"Because you and Amaro turned it in." She pulls away, takes a sharp step away from him, closer to the window. She gives a short laugh. "Of course you did."
"It was a Department-issued gun, Liv. And it was evidence of a vicious crime against you. It had to be turned in."
"But you both promised that you wouldn't." Her voice has been reduced to a squeak; she knows she's defeated. Whatever he says, it's public information now; there's no recourse to be had.
"I know. I'm sorry." What else can he say?
Disarmed by the admission, she pushes out air, leans towards the window. "But … I've trusted you. This whole time … I've been telling you these … private things … and – "
"Will you let me explain?"
She snorts. "I really need you to. Because if I can't trust you, Elliot, then I don't know what I'm going to –"
He cuts her off. "It was a mistake."
"A mistake?"
"We didn't think it through. Neither of us expected you to deny it so vociferously. We shouldn't have told you that we wouldn't turn it in. We gave it to Cragen on Thursday night, but we didn't say whose it was, or where we'd found it, or what was on it."
"So you just handed him a gun without any explanation?"
"Essentially, yes."
"But you knew he'd figure out it was mine in two seconds. And you knew he'd have it tested."
"Yes, we knew."
She's quiet.
"Would you have wanted us to cover up evidence that you were raped?" he asks quietly.
She considers the question, then dodges it. "You should have told me."
"You'd just thrown us out the night before. We were pretty sure you didn't remember it. It was a judgment call."
"I feel like I walked straight into an ambush yesterday."
He knew this was likely when he and Amaro made the decision, but the hurt in her voice still rocks him. The only choice now is to be honest and hope she understands.
"I know that's how it looks. But the DNA results only came back yesterday morning; I swear it was just a coincidence that Viva was reported missing the same day. Up to that point, Amaro and I had known there were fluids on it, and what those fluids were, but not whose."
She hears him out, but still seems doubtful.
"Liv, think about it. If Cragen had known about this for days, do you really think he wouldn't have checked on you sooner? Followed up on the inconsistencies in your story, made sure you got help and that you got proper medical attention?"
"I guess not."
"Amaro and I found the gun buried in the ditch, but we didn't know anything about how it got there. We assumed you'd buried it. I swear to you, nobody even knew Viva existed until yesterday."
She's silent, but he sees that she's at least processing his response. He takes a chance and steps towards her, latches onto her arm, hugs it to his body. "I would never, ever, do anything to hurt or embarrass you," he says. "And neither would Amaro. It's why nobody else was there yesterday. Not Fin, or Munch, or Amanda."
"He's a good partner," she murmurs.
"He is," Elliot agrees. He shifts on his feet. "Look, I'm sorry."
At this, she pulls back her arm, but it's only to turn to face him. She looks up at him, eyes gleaming. "You're the only person I've ever completely trusted."
"I know." He takes her hand, pulls it to his lips, kisses her knuckles. "And I promise, you still can."
And, for the first time since they've reconnected, she embraces him. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she clings to him.
Shocked by the affection but also the apparent forgiveness, he responds gratefully, his hands sliding up her back. "I love you," he whispers, his breath hitting the side of her neck.
"I love you too." Her voice breaks.
He holds her close, feeling her heart beat. He reaches upwards, runs his fingers through her hair. It's silky and soft, as he's always imagined it would be.
It happens too fast for him to process.
She flinches violently, jerking her head back, and wrenches herself out of his embrace.
"Don't touch my hair."
She spins around, once again facing the window, her shoulders heaving.
He stands, stunned, not sure what has just happened. "I'm sorry."
Stepping close enough to the window to see her breath on it, she recrosses her arms across her chest, crumpling into herself. She is breathing heavily, almost hyperventilating. At this angle, he can't tell if she's crying, but if she's not, it's only because she's fighting hard to hold it in.
"I should've …" But she trails off.
"What? You should've what?"
"Nothing."
He takes a step towards her, careful to keep space between them. "Liv – " he starts.
"I don't want to talk about it." She reaches to the back of her head and yanks out the pink elastic band holding her half-ponytail. Her hair falls around her face in clumps.
And so he stands. And waits.
Several minutes pass, and she seems, finally, to compose herself. Still facing the window, she swipes at her eyes. "I'm sorry, Elliot."
"Don't apologize."
"I don't want to talk about it," she repeats.
"Okay." He waits a beat. "Are you hungry?"
"A bit." Her voice is quiet and shallow.
"Do you want to get some breakfast?"
"Okay." He knows she's just telling him what he wants to hear.
"Liv," he starts. "Yesterday …. was an enormous shock. It's going to take some time to adjust."
"Adjust," she mutters. "Like jetlag. Sure." She abruptly turns around to face him again. "You must have things to do today, Elliot. You don't have to babysit me. Cragen's order was just for the night times."
He's spent enough time with her to know that she wants him to stay, but the rejection stings nonetheless. "Does it occur to you that I want to spend the day with you?"
Her eyes drop to the floor. "Don't you … don't you have to see your kids, or, um, or …"
"I spent the whole day with Eli on Friday, before I saw you. I see him all the time, honest. But yesterday Kathy took him to Fort Lauderdale to visit her parents for the week."
"What about your other kids?"
"They're adults, Liv. They don't want to spend Sundays hanging out with their dad."
"Hmph."
"Look. I'll leave you alone if you want me to, but I'd really love to spend the day with you."
She doesn't say anything. She trains her gaze on the carpet.
He waits.
"Tell me to leave, Liv." He's not sure what he'll do if she calls his bluff. He has no intention of leaving her here alone. And that was before the incident a few minutes ago.
Still, she's silent.
He takes a step closer, but is careful not to touch her. "I know I gave you a lot of reason not to trust me the last two years. But I swear to you, I'm not going to abandon you again."
She tucks her chin, her gaze laser-focused on the patterned carpet. She is listening, but still, she doesn't respond.
He closes the space between them but keeps his hands to himself. He thinks she's recovered from whatever spooked her, but he doesn't want to test that.
"Tell me to leave," he repeats. "I'll come back tonight to stay with you, or you can get the uni, and I'll understand either way. I deserve it."
He waits.
"Do you want me to go?"
He waits.
"No."
The hotel's restaurant on the ground floor abuts the open-plan lobby and is packed, but they manage to secure a corner table by the northern window, which faces 43rd Street. It is Sunday, and so the breakfast buffet is especially elaborate. In line twenty minutes ago, older couples and families with children buzzed around them, but Olivia was completely in her own world, except when a buffet chef offered her bacon and she almost gagged. At Elliot's urging, she populated her plate with fresh melon, scrambled eggs and toast, but he knows she was just humoring him.
For his part, he's already wolfed down his own plate of eggs, hashbrowns, toast and a full glass of orange juice, and is considering a second helping.
Her breakfast sits untouched.
In front of them, a rogue toddler with curly black hair and a firetruck dashes up the aisle and parks at the foot of their table. Without warning, he deposits the toy in Elliot's lap. "Truck!"
Elliot smiles, hands it back. "Thanks, buddy, but I think you should keep it."
A second later, an exhausted-looking mother arrives and scoops the child up. "I'm so sorry about that," she says to them. "Henry! We don't run away!" She whisks him away before either of them has a chance to respond.
"Cute kid," Elliot comments. "Glad to be done with the Terrible Two's, though."
Olivia, normally delighted by small children, doesn't seem to register the incident. She continues to stare into space, as she's done since they sat down. She hasn't uttered a word the entire breakfast.
"You okay?" he asks finally.
She doesn't appear to hear him. He reaches to her lap, lays a hand on her wrist. "Liv?"
She blinks, acknowledging him finally. "This is so surreal."
"What is?"
She gestures at the expanse of the restaurant. "This. Being here. With all these families on vacation."
"Is it bothering you? Do you want to get out of here?"
She shrugs. "I don't know."
He sighs. "Look, I think it may help to identify a few specific things to do today."
"Like what?" The question is hopeful, not sarcastic. The prospect of facing an empty, purposeless day frightens her.
"Well, if it were me, I'd start by getting a new phone."
She seems relieved by the suggestion. "Yeah. Yeah, okay. That's good."
But just as he's about to follow the comment up, Olivia's eyes widen in alarm. Before Elliot can react, she has sprung up from the table, in the process knocking over her glass of water and sending it crashing to the floor. She backs herself into the corner nook between the windows and the wall.
He whips his head around. At first, he sees the same faceless mass of boisterous, random tourists that have packed the tables around them. He files through the men's faces, wondering if any resembles Lewis, based on the few photos he's seen of him. But then he spots what she's really looking at: there's a trio of TVs hanging from the empty bar area in the center of the room, two playing sports, and the third set to CNN. Above the anchor's right shoulder are two photos laid side by side. One is of Olivia; the other is of William Lewis. The TV is on mute, but the caption at the bottom reads, in big bold letters:
BREAKING NEWS. Housekeeper and Daughter Found Alive in Case of Kidnapping and Torture of Decorated NYPD Detective.
Elliot jumps up from the table, approaches her, careful not to crowd her space. "Liv, it's okay. Let's just get out of here."
Luckily, nobody in the restaurant is paying any attention to the TVs. Still, frozen in place, he is afraid to touch her, lest she freak out. The busboy is already headed their way to clean up the broken glass; the last thing Elliot wants is for him to sense that something's wrong and draw in more attention.
"Come," he prods. He hovers his hands an inch from her arms. "Come, let's go outside."
Without saying a word, she lets him pull her away, lead her out of the restaurant area, through the lobby, out the revolving door onto Eighth Avenue, and into the sunny summer morning.
Outside, she stands like a statue in the middle of the packed sidewalk, as masses of people walk around her, like busy ant colonies bypassing an obstacle. She is breathing hard.
He bends his knees, tries to make eye contact. "You okay?" He waits, test-drives putting a hand on her shoulder. When she doesn't flinch, he cups her second shoulder, making her face him. "Liv? Tell me what you're thinking?"
"That I …" She thinks. "… feel so exposed." She won't look him in the eye, but at least she's responsive.
He sighs. "It might take some time for that feeling to go away. But it will."
Finally, she trains her gaze on him. "How do I … how do I go around, and do things? I feel like everyone's staring at me. Like they … know."
Sensing that she's now able to tolerate contact, he pulls her in. He can feel her heart racing. "But they're not. And they don't."
"They might," she argues softly, gesturing in the direction of the hotel. "I mean, it's all over the news."
"Then they know," he says simply. "They know that you faced a monster and survived, all so they wouldn't have to. They know that you're stronger and braver than they could ever be."
She processes his words, chuckles ruefully. "I wish I could just … go back to two days ago. I can't even remember what I was so upset about then."
He sighs, rubbing her upper arms. "Liv, you have to get some counseling. It's going to be a process. But you are strong enough to recover from this."
"But I need my clothes."
"What?"
She pulls away. "I don't have any clothes. All my clothes, and my things, and everything are in my apartment."
And just like that, she has worked herself into a panic.
"Oh God, I don't … I can't …. I can't go back there, but my clothes – "
"Well, why don't you – "
"And, I mean, all my papers, documents, my computer, I can't live in a hotel forever!"
"It's only been one night – "
"Oh my God, what's the date today?"
He thinks. "June first? No, it's the second. Why?"
"Oh my God!" she shrieks, pushing away from him. A startled passerby stops short, stares for a second, but thankfully moves on without comment.
"What?! What's wrong?"
"Oh my God!" she repeats. She grasps both of her knees, starts to hyperventilate.
"What? What!?"
"I didn't pay my rent!"
He pauses. "Well when was it due?"
"Yesterday!" Her expression is one of abject horror.
He has to actively resist cracking up; she is genuinely upset. He touches her shoulder. "Honey, it's okay. Take it from someone who's been late with bills their whole adult life. Nothing happens."
"But … I always pay it …. early … and I don't have my checkbook … and … all my clothes … everything's in the apartment …. but … I can't go back there! But I need things and – "
"Liv – "
" – and I'll have to go back there at some point – "
"Liv – "
" – I mean, the Department won't keep paying for a hotel – "
"Liv!" He shakes her. "Liv. It's the weekend. You can pay your rent tomorrow. You can do it electronically. Even I know how to do that."
"But I … always pay it before … I just forgot this time."
He cups both her shoulders. "Olivia, listen to me. Your landlord doesn't care if it's early. These are all minor things. You're still in shock."
"But – "
"There are a hundred ways to pay your rent. And you can buy some new clothes." He gestures around the expanse of Eighth Avenue. "I mean, this is Midtown. There's shopping all over the place. Why don't you buy a phone, and then some new clothes? It might help you take your mind off things for a bit."
The Verizon store on 42nd is predictably packed, and they wait a full ten minutes for a harassed-looking salesperson to help them. But the young man, who looks about eighteen, peppers her with inane questions: When was the last time she backed her phone up to the cloud? (answer: she has no idea); does she want the 16, 32, or 64-gig memory options (answer: blank stare); does she want it in black or white (answer: she doesn't, quote, fucking care).
Elliot's been heartened to observe, that, physically, at least, she appears to be healing. She is breathing well, and her walking gait is approaching normal. Still, whatever her claims, he doesn't kid himself that she is capable of any sort of exertion beyond a light stroll. He's seen firsthand how quickly things go south for her, and, as candid as she's been about talking about the attack, he's not under any illusion that she's ever fully honest with him about how she's feeling physically.
But her mental state is much less clear. Normally friendly and loquacious, she has been mute all morning, other than to offer the most spartan of answers to direct questions. And then, no sooner has she paid for her new phone (iPhone 5, 32gb, white) does she exit the store and leave the bag with her new phone and charger behind on the counter. Elliot grabs it and hurries after her.
Stepping out into the daylight, Olivia huffs on the sidewalk. "It was too packed in there."
"Yeah," he agrees. "You all right?"
"I'm fine." She points straight ahead, to a Gap store a block away. "Let's stop in there for a minute."
Inside the Gap store, Olivia mechanically wanders the floor, picks out two identical pairs of jeans, four loose t-shirts, two tops, a hoodie, a pair of pajamas, and, after disappearing for several minutes into the store's lower level, Elliot presumes, underwear and bras. She doesn't try anything on. They wait in line to pay for what seems like an interminable amount of time, listening to the grating chatter of the people in front of and behind them. And when the girl at the cash register asks if anyone helped her, Olivia stares into space.
When they emerge from the airconditioned store, a little after one-thirty, the stifling heat hits them full-on. As the day has progressed, the mercury has climbed, and, according to Elliot's Weather app, it's now 98 degrees in Manhattan. With humidity, it feels like 108.
They migrate north on Seventh Avenue for twenty minutes, slow as molasses, but, he thinks, steadily.
"Do you want to go to the park?" he suggests, as they cross 53rd.
"Okay." He thinks she'd agree to anything.
They make it another block, but the crowds packing the sidewalks only get denser, and the heat stronger. A shrieking ambulance barges down the avenue, snarled in a patch of traffic, blaring its siren obnoxiously right next to them. Elliot wipes the perspiration from his forehead, eyeing the newsstand a block up, from which he intends to buy a bottle of water.
He notices, then, that Olivia's gait has grown sluggish, and she hasn't uttered a word in at least two blocks.
"Are you tired?" He looks down for the first time in a full block. Her face is flushed and she seems to be teetering. He's alarmed by how lethargic she looks.
"Mmm …" She takes a step forward. A bead of sweat rolls down her cheek. She closes her eyes, opens them. "It's too hot."
"Liv," he says, shaking her shoulder. "Come, let's find a cool place to sit down, okay?"
He glances around the avenue and finds what he's looking for: directly across the street is a deli with seating. Grasping her around the waist, he waits for a lull in the traffic, and pulls her across. She doesn't object or even seem to be looking where she's going. He tries to hurry her – they are jaywalking and the next batch of traffic is about to barrel down on them – but she is dragging her feet.
Three quarters the way across the broad avenue, a sudden deadweight bears down on his arms. "Whoa!" he exclaims. "Liv, stand. Walk. Come on."
She regains her step, and they make it across the street safely as an annoyed cabdriver honks at them. He pulls her into the deli.
The blast of air conditioning as they enter is like a gift from God. It's pushing two o'clock, and so the place is mostly empty. He finds a table next to the window and sits her down. "Stay there. Let me get us some drinks and a snack, okay?"
Ten feet away, he grabs two water bottles and an orange juice from the refrigerated wall, then goes to the counter, buys a chicken sandwich, a banana, a nut bar. He pulls out his wallet to pay, but the man behind the counter, an Indian gentleman in his late fifties, shakes his head. "On the house."
Elliot looks at him quizzically.
The man points at the stack of newspapers to his right on the counter. Olivia's picture is plastered on the front page of the New York Ledger. "That's her, yes?"
"Yeah," Elliot acknowledges, a little wary.
"My wife has followed that story for days. She was very excited when the detective was found."
"Thank you," Elliot says sincerely.
Food and drinks in hand, Elliot traipses back to where she's sitting.
Elbows on the table, she is cradling her head, oblivious to his exchange with the storeowner.
She takes the water gratefully and demolishes half of it in a couple of gulps. He watches her drink. She puts it down, sighs in relief. "I'm sorry, I just got so tsizzy all of a sudden. Dizzy. It's the heat."
He frowns, pushes the sandwich in her direction. "You haven't eaten in two days."
She picks it up, studies it.
"Oh come on, Liv. It's just a chicken sandwich. I've seen you eat that a million times."
"It's not that. I haven't had an appetite. I feel sort of queasy."
"I know," he says gently. "But you have to eat anyway."
She takes a bite, chews slowly. But he sees she's genuinely struggling with it.
"Try the banana. It'll help balance your electrolytes."
She does as she's told. That, at least, she manages to eat half of.
He smiles. "Feel better?"
"A little, yeah." She sighs. "I'm sorry, Elliot. This is so embarrassing."
He slips out of his seat and into the one next to hers. "Listen to me. Forget about that. The only thing you have to focus on right now is to heal. You have to take care of yourself, okay?"
She reaches over, rubs his arm. "Okay."
"Do you want to go back to the hotel?"
"Yeah. I think I need to lie down."
Back in the hotel room, she makes a beeline for the bed by the window and collapses on top of it.
"Mmm ….." She hugs the pillow against her ear. "I'm so tired."
He sits down next to her, grasps her lower arm, rubbing it. Her skin is cold and clammy, and she is drenched in sweat. "Do you want some more water?"
"No. I just want to sleep."
He hesitates. "Okay."
He sits.
"Elliot," she starts, eyes still closed and body perfectly motionless, "I know you're not tired too. If you sit here for an hour watching me take a nap, I'll kill you."
He pulls away, stretching out on the bed, debating what to do. "Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
He considers this. At least she has a phone now. "Maybe I'll go check out the gym."
In the gym, he sprints a mile on the treadmill, then pumps the weights harder than he's done in months. It's both invigorating and a welcomed release for a series of emotions he can't quite name. He's glad he's alone in the room; he's having trouble keeping himself in check.
There's a communal TV in the room, set to CNN on mute. He hasn't noticed it until now, but as he perches on the bench in between reps, his eyes wander to the screen.
BREAKING NEWS: WILLIAM LEWIS CHARGED WITH FELONY RAPE. Manhattan DA Adds Charge after Housekeeper and Daughter Found Alive in Bizarre Kidnapping and Torture of Decorated NYPD Detective.
He slumps on the bench, morbidly fascinated, reading the closed captions, as up pops another picture of Olivia. The story doesn't explicitly reveal who was raped, but it's only a matter of time before that's the next piece of BREAKING NEWS. He winces, wondering if being in a hotel is the best place for them right now: at least in his apartment, there's much less of a chance of accidentally watching cable news. He's used to seeing various of his cases – and sometimes him and Olivia themselves – covered by local stations. But this is different. It's national news. And she is the story.
He used to hate seeing himself on TV. Even just for a second. He hated feeling like a spectacle.
On the other hand, if not for the coverage, he might never have found out what had happened. After two years of radio silence, it's not like she had reason to believe he might care.
A man of about thirty, short and blonde and muscular and fit, sporting a white tank, a strong tan and a wedding band, wanders into the gym and claims a treadmill. He busies himself getting his phone and his earphones set up, then steps off to drink from the fountain and grab a towel.
"I could swear I just saw that woman in the lobby," the man comments, gesturing at the TV. He steps onto the machine, starts the belt.
Distracted by the man's upper-crust English accent – the guy's a dead-wringer for a Southern California surfer dude – Elliot is amused. "Oh yeah?"
It takes another beat for him to fully process the comment. "Wait, how long ago did you see her?"
The Englishman glances behind him at Elliot, his feet planted on either side of the belt, letting it run. "I don't know. Ten minutes ago perhaps?"
"Only ten minutes ago? Are you sure?"
"I'm certain. Just returned from Cabaret with my wife. Stopped in my room to change and came straight here."
Elliot bolts. "Shit."