Chapter Sixteen

Elliot rested a hand on Olivia's shoulder and said gently, "Come on. Let's go outside so we can sort this out."

She looked around at her surroundings: front-loading machines, dryers, laundry baskets. She was in a laundromat somehow. Elliot's hand on her shoulder nudged her forward to the front door, and she glanced through the store windows at the colorful array of lights flashing outside, trying not to let them send her into a trance again. The stimulus was too much for her frayed psyche, and she dreaded going out into the chaos.

"Put your hands up when we go out," said Elliot. "We don't want any newbs with nervous trigger fingers making mistakes."

She nodded, raising her hands. She wasn't sure why she was being treated like a criminal, but she thought it had something to do with her gun going off. She prayed nobody would cuff her and take her away in the back of a patrol car.

Elliot held the door open for her, yelling at the throngs of officers with their guns pointed at her, "Stand down! She's unarmed."

Her breathing quickened, threatening to accelerate into hyperventilation, but she closed her eyes, her hands still high in the air, and consciously inhaled deeply. They aren't going to shoot me, she thought, and they'll listen to Elliot. He's the sane one.

The sane one. So what did that mean—that she was crazy? She had to put her thoughts on hold, though, and concentrate on getting through this. So she opened her eyes and put one foot in front of the other, ignoring all the official eyes on her until she advanced past them, and Elliot guided her to an awaiting ambulance.

"I'm okay, Elliot," she said, her voice quivering. "I don't need medical attention."

His breath warmed her ear, his hand still resting on her shoulder as he said, "You're in shock. Take a warming blanket."

She couldn't argue with that. Her hands shivered so hard and her teeth rattled so much that she could have just come from the Alaskan outback. A paramedic directed her to sit on the back of the open ambulance, and when she did, he draped a blanket over her. She shut her eyes, trying to block out the sounds of chaos surrounding her. She overheard Elliot talking to a uniformed officer, trying to speak quietly so nobody else could listen in. " . . . keep this on the down-low, okay? I mean, I know it's serious, but we can handle it in-house, right?"

The guy sighed. "I don't know, Elliot. I mean, for you, I'd like to, but a shot was fired, you know what I mean?"

"Call it an accident? She's getting help—I can attest to that."

"Well, and that's the other thing, Elliot," said the officer. "At the minimum, she should be on a hold in the psych ward."

"Nah, man," said Elliot, and she could almost see his head shaking. "How about if I promise to personally vouch for her the next few days? I'll make sure she has no access to a gun, and—"

"Do I get a say in this?" said Olivia, huddled under her blanket, her eyes still shut tight.

"What?" said the officer. "Do you even realize what you just did?"

"Hey," said Elliot in his most diplomatic voice. "Why don't you let me talk to her for a minute? C'mon, you owe me that much, man."

The guy cast Elliot one last scowl and then turned away. Elliot sat next to her and said, "That's Buzz. I once covered his ass when he went a little too rough in an interrogation. He's alright."

Olivia sat in silence, staring out at the anthill of police covering her vantage point, the noise of it all making her want to pull the blanket over her head. Elliot said, "How much do you remember?"

Her head still foggy, flashes of memories came to her in small chunks. Her body tensed up as they came. "I don't . . . I don't know, El. There's pieces—a man, I think he was after me . . . and I threw some punches, and—and drew my gun . . ." Her heart sunk all the way to her gut. "None of this really happened, did it?"

He brought his arm around behind her, resting his hand on her shoulder. "There was nobody there, no. Police were called by a concerned patron in the laundromat, said you were attacking a washing machine."

"Oh, God," she said, clenching the edges of the blanket. "I didn't hurt anyone, did I?"

"No," said Elliot, giving her shoulder a squeeze. "They cleared the place out, and—"

"And I drew my gun. In a public place." Hairs rose on the back of her neck when she realized the sequence of events that happened next. "I pointed a gun at you. I shot . . ."

She couldn't bear the thought that she had come close to killing her ex-partner, and she brought her hands to her face, covering her eyes in shame. "I almost shot you, Elliot. I wasn't trying to, I swear. I thought someone was behind you, holding you at gunpoint—"

"Shh," he said, massaging her shoulder to console her. "Let's just figure out what to do about this, okay? You heard Buzz, they want you in the psych ward."

Her muscles tensed at the thought of being locked up against her will. "I can't go . . ." But she thought of all the people who could have been harmed by her actions, and she said, "But maybe I should be locked up—"

"No, absolutely not," said Elliot, his tone definitive. "I think I can talk them into letting you go home as long as you surrender your gun and let me keep an eye out. But you'll have to get some serious treatment, to make sure this doesn't happen again."

She wasn't sure she wanted Elliot to babysit her, but then again, it was better than being locked up and having debilitating meds shoved down her. "I'm seeing my therapist already," she said, closing her eyes against the ringing in her head from all the noise.

"Well then maybe he needs to come more often."

"I'll see him every day if it will keep me out of the mental hospital." She turned to look at him, alarmed by the realization of how close she had come to blowing his head off. "Are you okay, Elliot? I'm so sorry . . ."

She touched the side of his face, looking for any signs that she had grazed him, but apparently it was a clean miss. His gaze bore into her, but his eyes showed no anger, only compassion and concern for her well-being. "Hey," he said, covering the hand that rested on his face with one of his own. "Nothing personal. I'm fine. Now let's make sure you are."

He caressed her shoulder again, and their knees touched in the space between them. He screwed up his face, like he had something he wanted to say but was afraid to bring it up. "Liv, about that phone call in your apartment—I wasn't talking to another woman. I swear it was just work. I'm not sure what you thought you heard, but—"

She shook her head. "I'm not sure about anything anymore. Apparently I can't trust my own senses. I would've sworn I heard you flirting with someone, but after today . . ." She looked down at her hands, which she kept nestled in her lap. "I guess I'm going to have to have a little faith in you."

He stroked the back of her head and said, "I promise you I won't violate your trust." His hand in her hair sent shivers down her back, and he said, "Does your therapist have any idea why this is happening to you?"

She nodded, her lips clenching. "He said it's from too many traumas. I just never thought something like this could happen to me."

Weariness crept over her now, and she just wanted to sleep. Savoring his fingertips on her scalp, she leaned her head onto his shoulder and sighed. He said softly in her ear, "You're a strong woman, Olivia Benson. You survived all those traumas—you'll get through this."

She closed her eyes and tried to let those words sink in, but she was beginning to doubt her own sanity, which made it hard to believe in herself and her ability to stay strong.