A/N: Posting schedule? What posting schedule? Yeah, it kinda went out the window this week again. Sorry, guys. :/ And I know everyone's getting antsy for some relief for Liv. I'm working on it, I promise. It might not happen all at once, but the wheels are definitely in motion. I don't think trigger warnings are necessary for this chapter, if that helps. Yay, Daph!

Chapter 23.

Come Little Children

. . .

"Well, Geeg, looks like you're hanging out with us girls." Daphne held her phone out to the dog, showing her the text as if she could actually read the short missive from Amanda: Bring Gigi, not Ham. Daphne didn't need an explanation for the request, and honestly, it was a bit of a relief. She loved Hamilton more than life itself, but the goldendoodle's energy level was off the charts and the thought of trying to keep track of him, plus a three-year-old and a three-month-old, gave her heart palpitations.

The sweet golden retriever was far more obedient, and Daphne knew firsthand just how loyal and protective she was. Gigi had faced off with that madman in the woods and ultimately helped rescue Olivia and Amanda. Daphne might not have witnessed that part, shattered and half dead as she was at the time, but she remembered well how terrifying and strong Thaddeus Orion had been. If the dog could take that on to defend her family, she would stop at nothing to defend the youngest members of her household.

Frannie and the Ham-ster would have to make do until everyone got back, because there was no way in hell Daphne could handle three dogs and two small children on the sidewalks of New York City. She'd be lying dead in the middle of traffic within the first five minutes. And she had already had more than enough close encounters with motor vehicles to last a lifetime.

"Okay, let's find your leash," she said to the golden, half expecting her to trot off and come back with the lead in her mouth. She was smart and well-trained enough to do it, but she was also unfamiliar with taking commands from Daphne, who didn't have quite the presence of an Olivia or Amanda Rollins-Benson. She was lucky to get Hammie to sit while she poured food in his dish, let alone train him to be as intuitive and gentle as Gigi. "Leash, leash, where's the leash?"

"Here, Aunt Daphy." Matilda, sweet little angel that she was, couldn't pronounce Daphne to save her life, but she located the extra-long walking lead for Gigi as if by magic. The little girl had the golden retriever's gift of insight and understanding as well, and she trotted the leather strap over to Daphne, saving her the added steps with her cane. Unlike big sister Jesse, who liked to hide the cane and snicker while Noah and Daphne searched high and low. "'Is is Gigi's."

"Tills, I am claiming you as my other godchild and taking you home with me, how's that sound? You wanna move in with Aunt Daphy and Hambone, and help keep us in line?" Daphne fluffed and bounced the coppery red ringlets that sprung from Matilda's head in every direction, like wild poppies. They were irresistible, those bright spirals, and Matilda was still young enough to revel in the attention. Daphne had learned the hard way that Noah was past the age of tousled curls.

Matilda deliberated for a moment, glancing back and forth between Daphne and Hamilton, who had appointed himself king of the sofa. He lay there now, sprawled on his back with all four legs cocked at separate angles. Badly in need of grooming, he looked like a shearling blanket tossed to the winds.

"No, thank you," said Matilda, a finger in her mouth as she gave an uncertain shake of the head. The most conscientious soon-to-be four-year-old on the planet. "I stay with mommies and sissies and bubby. You can live with us. Us'll adopted you."

Well, if that wasn't the most charming response possible, Daphne didn't know what was. She had never really considered herself the motherly type, and once she hit thirty-five, kids seemed to be off the table altogether. But spending time with the Rollins-Benson children always made her wonder what could be. Especially sweet Tilly. And baby Sammie was proving just as lovable, even if she did sometimes stare at Daphne like she was contemplating homicide. "I think your mamas might have something to say about that, sweet girl. But I appreciate the thought."

Nodding as though she understood, Matilda gave Daphne's knee a consoling pat. Then she asked the question Daphne had been dreading since she first arrived at the apartment after that frantic phone call from Amanda the previous day: "Where's Mommy and Mama? They come home soon? I want them, please."

It had been difficult enough lying to the older kids and dodging their eerily accurate suspicions ("Is one of them sick?" Noah asked while being tucked in the previous night, "Is it my mom? Is she in the hospital again?"), but looking into Matilda's hopeful eyes, bluer than the horizon where the ocean met the sky, and just as honest, was like lying in church. Walking up to the altar and thumbing your nose at God himself.

Daphne wasn't particularly religious, unless you counted worshiping hot middle-aged alpha females who carried guns, but even she didn't feel comfortable flouting divine authority like that. She tapped Matilda lightly on the tip of her nose, drawing her attention to the approaching fingertip rather than the eyes above. "They're still at work, Tilly Vanilli," she said, affection softening her tone from its usual sardonic glint. Jesse was the only Rollins-Benson kid she traded barbs with; the six-year-old gave as good as she got. "They'll be home just as soon as they can, okay? But I know they miss you so much and want to be with you too. "

That was about as close as she could get to the truth. She held her breath, half expecting Matilda to let out an indignant squawk like Sammie did whenever she realized her mothers had not returned yet, forcing her to make do with Aunt Daphy or Nanny Lucy. The baby clearly had her favorites—namely the ones who put boobs in her mouth instead of plain old bottle nipples—but Matilda showed a bit more decorum, nodding in resignation.

"In the meantime, we'll stop in to say hi to your mama on our way to the park." Daphne ruffled the curly head resting against her leg once more. It sprang up, ringlets bouncing, and Matilda flashed an equally buoyant smile before toddling off to collect her lovies and the little purse she didn't leave home without.

The child loved her accessories. She and Daphne were of the same ilk in that respect. Daphne had so looked forward to turning her favorite little ginger into a fashionista like herself—Jesse was a hopeless case, and thus far, Samantha's interest in clothes extended only to what she could gnaw on or poop in—but the future was too uncertain for such plans now. If Olivia didn't make it out of the predicament she was in alive . . .

Daphne couldn't even finish the thought, let alone guess at what it might entail. She'd only known the captain for two years, and she already couldn't imagine life without her in it. Losing Olivia would destroy Amanda and the kids. The family Daphne had quite unexpectedly found herself a part of, just by sheer dumb luck and the need to let Hammie burn off some of his energy at the dog park, felt as if it were slipping through her fingers. She was determined not to let that happen, although what she had to contribute was hard to say. There were no magic files for her to pull this time, the key to rescuing Olivia contained within, and it was too late to play target, distracting the bad guy while her friends got away.

It seemed the best she had to offer was superb childcare and free housekeeping services, for whatever that was worth. "Not a whole damn lot," she muttered to herself as she latched the leash to Gigi's collar, readied the stroller for Samantha, and stuffed everything she could possibly fit into the diaper bag.

She affixed her brightest Aunt Daphy smile for Matilda when the little girl returned, dragging almost as many provisions with her—you never knew how many dolls and stuffed animals you might need on an eighteen-block trek through the city. The cops assigned to the Rollins-Benson children's security detail probably thought Daphne was a loon, refusing to be driven the short distance to the one-six, rather than stumping her way down the street with a double stroller and a large dog in tow. But those cops would never understand that the city felt safer to her than being boxed in a car; cars were unpredictable, even deadly in the wrong hands. And every face she saw behind a windshield belonged to Orion.

Besides that, the younger kids needed some fresh air. Noah and Jesse had school to get them out of the apartment, to get their minds off their absent parents, but Matilda and Samantha were reliant on fun Aunt Daphne for distraction. Time to live up to her reputation as the spunky free-spirit who didn't let a simple thing like permanent disability get her down.

By the twelfth block, Daphne no longer felt spunky or free, and if her cane got caught in the spokes of the stroller one more time, she was going to scream. Luckily, Gigi was a pro at sensing and alleviating stress, and she paused every other block, making sure Daphne took a moment to breathe and center herself. They were close enough to Bryant Park to see the skinny vertical windows of the library, the horizontal slivers of interior lighting like mismatched rungs on ridiculously tall ladders. Though a relatively low building by NYC standards, its architecture always reminded Daphne of the song Stairway to Heaven.

She hummed a few bars of the Led Zeppelin tune until the calliope music from Le Carrousel drowned out the melody. "Horseys!" cried Tilly from her front-facing seat in the stroller, though the small carousel had yet to come into view. Girl loved her horses. Daphne had thought about taking the kid upstate to ride some real horses on her upcoming birthday, but she had the feeling there wouldn't be much celebrating by then. Matilda turned four in just over a month.

Would Olivia be healed enough for a party? Would she even be alive to see her sweetest child reach preschool age?

Yo, I know I'm a giant lesbian and all, and according to some, that's not your cup of tea, Daphne thought, unsure of how to start a prayer, it had been so long (yo was probably a bit informal, but it would have to suffice), but if you're really up there, I doubt you're the homophobic stick in the mud people make you out to be. I know you cared enough to make sure Liv and Mandy Lou got together, so you must be pretty disgusted by what's happening right now. I mean, Liv's one of the best people I know, and I can't imagine you want her to suffer like this. Look, dude—or dudette—can you just help her? And Amanda? For their kids' sakes, if nothing else. Please.

Please just don't let her die.

Amen. Hastily she made the sign of the cross, though she wasn't Catholic. She would have faced Mecca if she knew which direction it was in. Anything to better her chances of being heard and, despite the irreverence of her pseudo-prayer, being taken seriously by whoever was listening. Maybe she could even stop in at one of the churches on her way back home and light a candle for her friends. With Matilda and Samantha along for the ride, she could light two more. Three candles had to be worth something.

"We'll see the horseys after we visit your mama for a few minutes, okay, frilly Tilly?" The precinct had finally come into sight, and Daphne pointed it out to the little girl, leaning over the stroller handle so her hand was visible beyond the canopy. "We're almost there, just a couple more streets to go. Can you hold your horseys that long?"

A giggle from under the canopy was the cryptic reply, which Daphne took as a yes. Samantha hadn't made a peep from her bassinet-style side of the stroller since they left the apartment, but she had no more appreciation for Daphne's sense of humor awake than she did sound asleep. Gigi at least looked up wearing her signature golden retriever grin, and even if it was a pity laugh, it was better than nothing.

"Thanks, Geeger. I'm glad you get me." Daphne rubbed the dog's head and marveled once again at her obedience. Hamilton would have been halfway across the patch of lush green grass by now, chasing a stranger's frisbee, oblivious to the three small humans he was dragging behind him, the big galumph.

With Gigi they made it past the west lawn without a single tug of the leash or a break in their stride. She did release an ominous growl when a man in a red baseball cap stood up from one of the bistro chairs that flocked the lawn like a gaggle of spindly green birds and stubbed out a cigarette under the toe of his sneaker. Daphne didn't scold; the guy left his nasty cigarette butt right there on the sidewalk, he deserved to be growled at.

"Right on, girl," she muttered, sidestepping the smear of ash and tobacco, the paper crumpled up like the body of a dead insect. An exotic white beetle with a corklike abdomen. Or maybe not so exotic, since the ground was littered with their carcasses as far as the eye could see.

Daphne sighed, and decided against plucking up the trash and calling to the man that he'd forgotten his smelly carcinogenic pollutant, as if he'd left behind a set of keys. She'd been a New Yorker for a while now—lobbing sarcasm at perfect strangers was par for the course—but there was no sense in starting something, even if she did have a police convoy tailing her every move. She would save it for a day she didn't have such precious cargo to look after.

The litterbug and Daphne's distaste for smokers were soon forgotten as the park faded behind them, the chatter of a hundred people, tourist and resident alike, and the reeling carousel music dwindling into the background. Another wall of noise went up before them, thick as a concrete slab with a thousand more voices, honking horns, angry drivers and the fumes of countless traffic jams, as they neared the precinct.

Daphne waded into the hot, acrid stew, wishing she had approached from the far less populated rear entrance. It was meant for NYPD use only, with a chain-linked parking lot for the muckety-mucks, of which Captain Olivia Benson was one, and street parking for the lowly officers and detectives (Daphne had it on good authority that Liv often gave up her spot to her lower-ranking wife), but Daphne could have been granted civilian access at a word from Amanda. Especially with a captain's children on hand.

"Aunt Daphy, it's stinky," Matilda cried in dismay, her hand just visible outside the canopy, flapping like a tiny white flag. Mayday, mayday. "I don't like it, please. Mommy holds me now. You hold me now?"

The poor little kid was a lot closer to the ground and the smell that wafted up from the pavement, the way cooked-in odors lingered on stovetop burners and inside microwaves. Not to mention the lungfuls of exhaust she was probably getting with every breath. So much for giving the babies fresh air. There were only a few more streets left to go, and Daphne considered asking her to wait another minute or two, but she couldn't ignore that little hand signaling SOS. Matilda so seldom complained, it felt cruel to ignore her innocent request.

"Okay, Tillybean, let's pull over here and get you resituated," Daphne said, easing the stroller and Gigi aside to make room for oncoming foot traffic. Gigi stood guard next to Samantha's bassinet, which, rear-facing, canopy-topped, and elevated to waist height, kept the sleeping baby from sucking in much of the city effluvium that ambulatory adults and sensitive three-year-olds got by the faceful. "And Sammie, you just do you, girl."

"Need any help?"

It was one of the cops assigned to the kids, Daphne thought his name might be Montero, though he looked vaguely Asian. He seemed to be under the impression that Daphne's cane put her at old lady status, because he offered a hand any time she took a step without it. She appreciated his willingness to help, she really did, but a nice female officer, statuesque, about thirty or forty, would have been preferable.

"Thanks, I've got it," she said in her best deputy clerk tone, perfected by years of working with the public. Amanda always laughed when she turned on that voice. I think you missed your calling as a flight attendant, Daph, the detective liked to tease, of the bright but robotic cadence. Buh-bye, take care, have a nice day, buh-bye now. "She's lighter than some of the court dockets I've carried."

"Oh yeah? Which court do you work in? I don't remember seeing you around."

Great, now he was interested. Next he would be suggesting they meet for coffee someday during their lunch hour. Daphne unbuckled Tilly and hauled the little girl onto her hip, using the stroller handle for balance. She hadn't been exaggerating about the dockets—paperwork in general was surprisingly heavy, particularly when stacked—but thirty-one pounds of toddler, even a light, birdlike thirty-one pounds like Tilly, required some strength. Luckily, Daphne did extra curls at the gym. Keeping up the gun show for the ladies.

"Probably because we were both busy hitting on other women," she said. The sooner they got this part out of the way the sooner they could resume their roles as bodyguard and the guarded, and no, it would not be anything like the Whitney Houston and Kevin Costner version, thank you very much. "I'm gay and sort of . . . involved with another cop. Who's a woman. So."

Involved might be an overstatement. She and Kat were currently off again in their yearlong relationship, which had so many highs and lows she could no longer recall who was mad at whom, and whose turn it was to break down and call the other. Then again, maybe she would run into Officer Tamin at the precinct, strike up a conversation, offer some comfort. The thought of what was happening to Olivia, the memories it awakened of Meredith Ashton, made Daphne miss having someone by her side, holding her hand when things got rough.

"Ah." Montero gave a thoughtful pause. A tinge of humor was detectable when he spoke again, his voice not quite as level as he likely intended. "Well, I'm straight and married. To a woman. You won't catch me hitting on anybody but my wife. So." He smiled and flashed his wedding band at Daphne, her eyes going to that finger and then to him, abashed.

"See, Tilly, this is why I don't interact with the male species." Daphne offered an apologetic smile to Montero before turning back to her unofficial goddaughter. "Your Aunt Daph has no game with the fellas. Now, the ladies I got covered. I've been told I'm irresistibly charming. What do you think?" She gave her shoulder-length hair a toss, striking a supermodel pose from the shoulders up.

Tilly listened intently, almost as if she understood. Then she broke into a wide grin, squeezing Daphne's cheeks between her tiny palms to form even bigger fish lips. "Aunt Daphy, you so silly."

"That does seem to be the popular consensus, at least with most of my exes." Daphne spoke in all seriousness, despite her squished together lips. She opened and closed them like a guppy in a fishbowl, getting a giggle and a kiss from Matilda. "Except they think silly is spelled with a 'B' and an 'itch,' for some reason. Gigi knows what I'm talking about, huh, girl?"

"You might not wanna—"

"Bee and an itch," Matilda repeated in singsong, interrupting the warning from Montero. To the little girl everything was a song, and she made up her own tune now, with the lyrics Daphne had unwittingly provided. "Bee itch, bee itch. Ouchy, it's a bee itch."

Shit, Daphne thought, opting to keep that one to herself. Montero chuckled behind his hand, retreating a few steps to resume watching the group's six, as the cops called it. Daphne poked at the muzzle of Matilda's stuffed unicorn, which was bundled tightly in the girl's arms, along with her purse, a llama, and what looked like an avocado plushie. "That's a great song, Tills, but how about singing me a unicorn song instead? Something that's not so . . . itchy."

By the time they reached the precinct entrance, Matilda was on her fourth verse about a unicorn named Daphy, whose best friends were a llama and an avocado named Llama (pronounced Yyama) and Avocado (Cado). Montero swooped in again, prepared to haul the entire double stroller, baby Sammie and all, up the flight of stairs to the glass double doors. "Hey, Fisk, gimme a hand," he called to his young partner, whom he'd sent ahead as lookout for their little jaunt. He whistled shrilly, grabbing the kid's attention but also waking Samantha in the process. The baby blinked her eyes, got one look at the strange face above her, and began to howl.

At the exact same moment, Matilda gave a distressed cry of her own and peered past Daphne's shoulder, reaching out as if she wanted to be rescued from the arms that held her. "Aunt Daphy, I losted it. Go back, I losted my purse!" It was a comical exclamation to hear from the mouth of a small child, but Matilda was dead serious. One look at her tight, troubled face, and Daphne couldn't ignore the request. She knew well the panic of misplacing one's purse. Of course, hers was a Dooney & Bourke filled with credit cards, personal identification, makeup, keys, and the latest iPhone release, but a four-year-old's accessories were important to her too.

The men were staring at the squalling infant like a bomb they didn't know how to disarm—Fisk actually blanched a few shades lighter—and Matilda turned a pair of enormous blue puppy-dog eyes on Daphne, bottom lip quivering. Even Gigi was agitated, prancing and taking short, yipping hops on her front legs beside the bassinet. She had taken it upon herself to be the baby's guardian, and alerted the nearest responsible adult whenever the child cried. Apparently that responsible adult was Daphne, because the retriever pawed at her foot and whuffled a bark.

Okay then. Daphne took a deep, cleansing breath, blew it out, and zeroed in on Montero. She dealt with all sorts of loud, kooky people in family court, some of them bawling like babies themselves, she could handle two upset kids, an antsy golden retriever, and a couple of petrified cops. "You. Be a peach and run tell Detective Rollins we're out here, would you?" She hadn't wanted to go inside the precinct, anyway. Not with all those guns and testosterone milling around. And not with the chance of accidentally glimpsing the livestream of Olivia on a stray monitor somewhere.

Pointing out the baby to Fisk, she said, "Can you watch her for a second, great, thanks. Just rub the pacifier on her gums and see if you can get her to take it." The rookie nodded dumbly at the instructions, glancing too late at Montero, who had jumped at the chance to scurry upstairs and retrieve Amanda, rather than stand outside and play nursemaid for five seconds.

"Calm down, girl. We're taking care of your little one." Daphne stroked Gigi's head for a moment, settling her before stepping away to look for the losted purse. It couldn't have gone too far, Daphne remembered seeing it nestled in with the stuffed animals when she lifted them and Tilly from the stroller a few minutes ago.

"Okay," she said to Tilly, though actually addressing Fisk over the girl's head, "let's you and me go find that bag. I'm sure it's right around here somewhere, so it will only take a second. Meanwhile Officer Fisk will guard Sammie Grace with his life and rock her stroller very gently until we get back."

"Yes, ma'am," said Fisk. He gazed in terror from Samantha to the pacifier she was gumming angrily, to Daphne, and back again.

"Good man."

No sooner had Daphne lowered Matilda to the sidewalk, grabbed her cane from the stroller handle, and started off in the opposite direction with the girl than another man approached, dangling a tiny pink purse on a tiny gold chain. He hopped the curb with a long-legged stride, his Chucks smacking heavily against the pavement. Graceful he was not, and his sweaty hair formed a mushroom shape on top of his head, as if he'd just taken off a sweatband or a hat. He had rodentlike features—something about the ridge of his brows and that small clutch of teeth—but he wore a wide, friendly smile as he strolled closer.

Daphne hooked her cane over her elbow and scooped up Tilly anyway. She didn't care if it made her look like a nervous, overprotective white lady; right then she was a nervous, overprotective white lady, and a strange man, smiling or not, was invading her space. His expression did falter for a moment, but he recovered quickly and fell back a step or two, tipping a nod—of acknowledgment or apology, Daphne couldn't tell which.

"Think the little lady dropped this back there," he said, gesturing to a vague spot somewhere over his shoulder. He shook the purse at Matilda, shimmying the fringed piping, much to her delight. Disaster had been averted, justice was restored, Miss Matilda and her handbag were together once more. She reached out eagerly, rocking on Daphne's hip in an attempt to urge them closer. "Figured she might be looking for it before long."

Reluctantly Daphne edged forward enough for him to hook the chain over Matilda's arm when he glanced at her for permission. Up close he resembled her eldest brother a bit, especially around the jawline. Same build, too. He was the brother Daphne clashed with the most, but also the one who made her laugh hysterically whenever they were together. A glimmer of his humor sparkled in this guy's eyes too, and it put her a little more at ease. "Thank you," she said, offering an appreciative smile. "Now we don't have to cancel all those credit cards she's got racked up. Total shopaholic, this girl."

The man chuckled at the joke, which went unnoticed by Matilda. She was rooting through the coin-purse-sized compartment of her toy as if she were indeed confirming that all platinum was present and accounted for. "I know how that goes," he said, catching the toe of Matilda's little huarache sandal as she swung her feet, happiness restored. He gave the shoe a playful shake. "Got one about this age myself. Three, right? How many times she sucker you into riding the carousel back there?"

Daphne started to answer truthfully ("Horsey!" cried Matilda, bouncing on Daphne's hip like she was actually in the saddle), then caught herself wondering how he knew they had walked by the carousel. It was too far away for him to have followed behind just to return a play pocketbook. "A few," she said, a bit terse, glancing back at the precinct steps. Fisk had removed Samantha from the bassinet and snuggled her to his chest, a dopey, smitten grin on his face as he bobbed her up and down. "Well, I should get back before the officer finds out why you don't bounce a recently fed baby. Thanks for the—"

"Wait, are these the Rollins-Benson kids?" The man ticked his finger back and forth between Matilda and Samantha. "Are you the nanny?"

Gaze snapping to attention, Daphne eyed him warily, angling the hip with Tilly on it toward the precinct. She probably couldn't run with a kid in her arms—hell, she probably couldn't run anymore, period—but she would damn well try it if she had to. "How do you know who we are?" she asked, edging away a little at a time. He was very tall. She felt like a mouse in the shadow of a swooping hawk.

"I'm part of your security detail. Here to relieve one of the officers. Name's Porter. Marshall Porter." He released Matilda's sandal and offered the same hand to Daphne, dusting it awkwardly against his pants when she didn't shake it. "The two older kids in school? I was supposed to be assigned there, but I had a family thing. Guess you're stuck with me."

"Where's your uniform?" she asked in a brusque tone. She sounded like her mother telling off a rude client, but that was just fine with Daphne. Her mom was awesome.

"I'm a detective, not a uni," said Porter. "You'll be trading up."

"What about your badge?" Daphne had learned from Amanda to always ask to see a badge. Won't that piss them off? she'd inquired, forever dubious about questioning authority. She still got intimidated by some of the judges at work, particularly those without a sense of humor.

We're required to do it, Amanda had replied. The only ones who get pissed are the ones with something to hide.

"Oh, yeah. Sure." Porter sniffed, and though his smile may have tightened a little, he reached around to his back pocket. He brought forth a rolled up baseball cap and a leather wallet, unfolding the latter and flashing the silver shield-shaped badge inside. Amanda's badge was gold and blue, shaped like a sunburst, but the lower ranking detectives probably had less fancy insignia. Just in case, Daphne memorized the number at the bottom: 26037. "Never had to show my ID to a nanny before," he said, and chuckled lightly. "Feels like I'm being busted by Mary Poppins."

"I'm not the nanny," Daphne said, the tension of preparing to run—or die trying—beginning to dwindle. He had the proper credentials, and he definitely looked like a cop, big and oafish. No offense to Amanda or Olivia, who were neither of those things; but female cops were a different breed altogether. "I'm a family friend and the kids' godmother. But I protect them like my own." It was awfully big talk for someone who was only 5'1", but she meant it. She would claw anyone's eyes out if they messed with her favorite kiddos.

Too late, Daphne heard the threat in her head (claw anyone's eyes out . . . ), and the image of Meredith Ashton's eyeless corpse flashed before her, honey-blond hair shorn off in clumps, and she cringed. That seldom happened anymore, the ghastly visage of her murdered girlfriend coming back to haunt her, but when it did, it left her shaken to the core. Carefully she stood Tilly on the sidewalk, not trusting herself to head back toward Fisk on wobbly legs, her cane on her elbow, and the child in her arms.

"Ah, that explains the mix-up, then," Porter was saying, stuffing his badge and hat into his back pockets. His voice sounded far away. "They must have notified the nanny I'd be coming, instead of you. Sorry for the confusion. Hey, are you all right?"

"I'm okay." Daphne ignored the arm he offered as she turned. She started to protest when he took Matilda's hand, guiding the little girl along beside him as he followed, but Matilda accepted happily, even allowing him to carry Llama and Avocado to lighten her load. There was no sense in scaring the kid just because Daphne was being paranoid. She did a few of the deep breathing exercises that Olivia had recommended to her after the Catskills, and concentrated on getting her shit together as the three of them headed for the steps.

Then Gigi lost her goddamn mind. The golden gave an uncharacteristic growl, baring her teeth at their approach, and when Porter drew back in alarm, she lunged forward like the rabid dog in that Stephen King film. Her bark was so deep and sonorous, it reverberated down the corridor of buildings on either side, raising the heads of a few startled passersby. The grip of her leash was tied around the stroller handle, and the carriage rattled along behind her like an old stagecoach.

"Whoa, call off your dog," Porter said, scooping Matilda up to safety as Gigi snarled and spat, menacing him like an angry wolf. Actually, with her hackles up and all that white fur, she was more raging polar bear than wolf. Whichever beast she most resembled, Porter was sufficiently intimidated.

"Gigi! Calm down, girl!" Daphne's heart clenched at the sight of the stroller being tossed about so roughly, but Fisk followed close behind it, the baby still in his arms. She was squalling again, disturbed by Gigi's frenzied barking and the sudden jolt of movement. Officer Fisk kept her shielded to his chest, grabbing for the stroller with his other hand and trying to drag it and Gigi back toward the steps.

The dog had not calmed down as ordered, and was in fact, going even more spastic as Daphne and Fisk drove her back, doing their best to quiet her. She strained at her leash, stiff as a taxidermy creature, and craned her neck around Daphne's leg, roaring with all her might. Daphne caught the railing by the stairs just in time to stay upright, Fisk throwing an arm behind her back in reflex. Sammie screeched.

"Gigi!" Daphne yelled above the racket, but she was drowned out each time by more barking. Hamilton sometimes got a little out of control when he saw a squirrel at the park, but even his goldendoodle mania couldn't compare to mild-mannered Gigi's sudden outburst. At a loss how to handle her, Daphne stood back with Fisk, who looked partly dazed by the assault on his ears as well, and hoped the dog would wear herself out soon.

"What the hell's going on? Gigi, knock it off." Amanda barked the command with almost as much vehemence as the golden. She snapped her fingers and bounded down the stairs two at a time, barely appearing to light upon them at all, at that speed. She was faster than lightning, Amanda Rollins-Benson. A moment after appearing at the top of the steps, she was at the bottom and holding Daphne at arm's length by the shoulders. A distance to embrace a long-absent loved one, pulling them to your breast, or to shake someone whose sanity you were trying to restore.

Amanda did neither, but stood back from Daphne, pale and panting. To the casual observer it would have been difficult to tell who was propping up whom. At their feet, Gigi whimpered and pawed the ground like a horse at the starting gate, her obedience to Amanda at war with whatever was causing her distress. "Are you okay? Daph?" Amanda ducked down to peer in Daphne's eyes as if she suspected public intoxication of some sort. "What's wrong? Montero said you'd be in Reception, but I heard the ruckus out here . . . " She looked to Gigi, who pressed her face against Amanda's leg, gazing up with doleful brown eyes, and whining. Amanda rested a calming hand on the dog's head. "What got Gigi so stirred up?"

"I don't know," Daphne said, shrugging with her hands, instead of the shoulders Amanda was holding. She gestured weakly at the stairs, the building, Fisk and baby Sammie. "I was talking to the detective, we were all about to walk in, and then she just went off. Nearly pulled an E.T. with the stroller. I guess something spooked her. Maybe Fisk holding the baby, or Porter walking with Tilly? Has she ever acted like that before?"

"Not since we got her. She gets upset when Liv—" The rest of the sentence died on Amanda's lips as soon as the name was out. Clearing her throat, she straightened from the slight crouch she'd assumed to check on Gigi and glanced around at her infant daughter in Fisk's arms. Samantha's cries had quieted when Amanda shouted for the golden retriever to knock it off, and once the dog had mostly settled, so did baby. Officer Fisk had finally gotten the pacifier into her mouth. She looked like a bunny, curled up against him in her headband with the floppy little bow, the movement of her pacifier resembling a rabbit's twitching nose.

Amanda sniffed, swiped under her nose, took another glance around. A smile ghosted across her lips at the sight of Fisk walking Samantha to and fro in front of the bottom step, bouncing the baby like an old pro. "Is Tilly still in the stroller?" she asked, leaning forward for a glimpse under the canopy of the front-facing seat. A strange expression crossed her face and she jerked the stroller wheels sharply sideways, turning the whole thing for a better look at the empty seat. "Where is she? Did she already go inside?"

"No, Detective Porter's holding her." Her faded off, half-spoken, as Daphne looked over her shoulder, expecting to see the tall man standing behind her, a ridiculously cute ginger in his arms. And don't forget the toy menagerie. But the man—and Tilly and her lovies—were nowhere to be found. She scanned the pedestrians who flowed by like a never-ending river, searching for Porter's rodent face, Tilly's bright head and fairy-child beauty. Her heart took off at a gallop when she realized they were gone. "He was right here, I— she dropped her purse . . . "

"You let someone take her?" Amanda's voice was tight as a violin string about to snap. Daphne had played since fifth grade and felt a visceral reaction to the tension, wanting to duck and dodge before she lost an eye to the ricochet of wire. Amanda's fingers were steel rods digging into her shoulders. "What the hell, Daphne? Who was it? I don't know any Porter. Montero and Fisk, that's your detail. You're not to let anyone else near them. Where the fuck is my little girl?"

Facing down an angry Amanda was no less intimidating than facing down a charging bull, and Daphne had no available defenses. She couldn't crack a joke to defuse her best friend's rage this time. "She was right here, I put her down so I wouldn't stumble," she said, her tone reaching an even higher pitch than usual. "I-I don't know. I don't know, he said his name was . . . Marshall. Marshall Porter. He showed me his badge, it was silver, number 260—"

"Detective badges are gold, goddamit! I've told you that before!" Amanda shouted now, her pallid cheeks flushing blood red. Her scalp looked like a burn victim's underneath the pale blond hair, bleached white in the sun. Most frightening were her eyes, though. They were a cool glacier blue, warning of danger below the surface. Fire and ice could be a deadly combination. "What'd he look like? What's he wearing?"

"Tall," Daphne called after Amanda, who quickly mounted several of the steps, standing on tiptoe and craning her neck for a better view of the crowded sidewalks and streets. "Rat-looking face. Thinning salt and pepper hair. Jeans and a T-shirt, I think." She didn't notice men's clothes. "And a red baseball cap in his—"

"What?" The color drained completely from Amanda's face, and for a moment, she seemed near translucence. If not for the baggy NYPD sweatshirt and striped track pants, a pair of blocky white sneakers on her slender feet, she wouldn't have been visible at all. Daphne feared she might faint and pitch down the stairs, but she surveyed the area even more frantically than before, her eyes darting from one point to another at hyper speed. "Oh my God. Oh, Jesus Christ, Daphne. That guy's involved. He's one of the men who took Liv."

. . .