A/N: Tired and stuck inside on a cold, snowy day, might as well post a new chapter! Thank you for the kind words last time. There's a fourth and final cover art for part four on AO3, check it out. Mild trigger warning on this chapter for depictions of a rape kit (not even sure that's an actual trigger, but hey, it got me, so maybe it is). Also, it's just a small glitch, but I didn't realize Rudy is a nurse at Mercy Hospital on the show, until after I'd already calculated distance and settled on Mount Sinai for Liv. Not even sure if Mercy is real or fictional, tbh, so just pretend it's one and the same in this 'verse. Or that Rudy is on loan to Sinai right now. Whichever is less of a continuity fail for you. Have a good weekend and happy reading.

Chapter 32.

Refrain

. . .

Before he even stepped foot beyond the curtain, Amanda knew that requesting Rudy had been a bad idea. An excellent nurse and a decent, likable guy all around, yes. But he was also massive, standing well over six-feet and leaning more toward the pudgy side than the svelte. Most people would call him a teddy bear, at least the ones who said that sort of thing. Amanda liked his gentle manner with patients, particularly the vics. Olivia spoke highly of him too, always preferring his sensitivity to SVU cases and his willingness to cooperate when they were dealing with hospital staff. Many rape victims were directed to SVU by "the big male nurse at Mount Sinai."

Olivia panicked the moment she saw him. Empath that he was, he didn't enter the room all at once, probably aware of his overwhelming presence in a small space. But the slow, cautious approach only prolonged the fear that radiated off of Olivia in waves. She became restless at a mere glimpse of him, her body gone rigid beneath the dull white drape they called a blanket. The shaking started again, at full force, until even the bed shuddered with it. Her breathing verged on hyperventilation as he neared, and she shook her head urgently, the words dying on her lips.

She kept her eyes closed, a hand over her heart, as Amanda took the nurse aside and requested a different aide, female this time. "Sorry, Rudy," she said in a low, confidential tone, her eyes fixed on Olivia. The captain was struggling through a deep breathing exercise, unable to inhale fully without a hitch in her chest or a spasmodic cough. "I hate to ask, but she's been through hell the last few days. You're one of her favorites, I think she just . . . needs to be around feminine energy right now."

Rudy's eyes were kind and deeply sympathetic. "No apologies necessary, Detective. I have nothing but respect for Captain Benson. What those animals did to her . . . " He cut himself off there, jaw clenched, his hand balling into a fist the size of a cantaloupe. Amanda considered that she might have underestimated his tough side, based on his tenderness with fragile patients. Right then he looked as if he could tear someone limb from limb with his bare hands. "May they burn in Hell. I'll send in another nurse. Este's here. She's who I'd want as my partner's nurse if I were in this situation."

By the time Amanda thought to ask how Rudy knew what had happened to Olivia, he had already slipped into the hall, his tread exceptionally quiet for such a large man. She didn't really have to ask, anyway. News travelled fast when a cop was missing or injured, and most of the civil servants in the city found out before it reached the general public. But how much did he know? Had he seen the video? It was unlikely, but not impossible. God, if the livestream had been leaked onto the Internet, anybody could watch it at any time, and they would never know—she or Olivia.

Tempted to run Rudy down and demand an explanation, it took all of her strength to stay put, to not let on how worried she was about anything besides what was going on in this room. Olivia had no idea her assaults had been recorded and that's how it was going to stay, at least until Amanda figured out how to tell her. Maybe it would be better to break it to her now, while she was still emotionally numb and detached, her gaze distant, eyes glazed. It might be easier to accept in that state than in full awareness, when it would feel like its own separate violation.

But Amanda couldn't find the courage to do it. Not while Olivia looked so shattered, so hollow. Amanda would not take advantage of that just to make her job easier. She pushed those concerns aside to focus on calming Olivia down, soothing her with promises of a new, female nurse, who had Rudy's stamp of approval.

As long as he didn't send back Deborah, AKA Nurse Karen, to demonstrate her incompetency once more. Amanda had been one snooty remark away from throttling the bitchy RN prior to Rudy's appearance. If not for her traumatized wife watching her, needing her so badly, she might have given it a try. She'd already killed three other people today—four counting Tamin, who would still be alive if not for her—why stop there? Maybe she would just start shooting anyone and everyone who even looked at her funny, including the new nurse, should she give Amanda lip.

Luckily, Este was as good at her job as Rudy professed, and within seconds of her entrance, she had Olivia swaddled in heated blankets, the lights dimmed, and the curtain pulled for extra privacy. But even with her prompt and efficient treatment, the hours still ticked by as the examination for internal injuries—which took precedence over evidence collection—led to a series of tests and x-rays that revealed what Amanda feared was just the tip of the iceberg: two fractured ribs, a mild concussion, a shattered molar, and a broken cheekbone.

The ribs were the worst of those particular miseries. They caused Olivia a tremendous amount of pain the more she moved, and according to the radiologist, it was rare for the lower, more flexible ribs to break. "That's one hell of a kick," he said absently, admiring the image after Olivia summed up the cause in a single word: kicked. (She was gradually devolving into monosyllabic responses with each new diagnosis.) Amanda wanted to punch the guy's lights out for his indifferent attitude toward his patient, but it was that very indifference that seemed to put Olivia at ease in his presence. He only had eyes for the photos of her bones, not her.

"You're lucky, Mrs. Rollins-Benson," he stated on his way out of the room. "These types of breaks sometimes cause the spleen to rupture. You would have needed emergency surgery if that had been the case. As I said, you will want to follow up with a dentist about that tooth." And with that, he straightened up his folder of scans and saluted with it as he exited. Don't let the door hit you in the ass on your way out, Amanda thought after him, deliberately choosing not to say it aloud. Olivia didn't need any more negativity or sarcasm from her right now; positivity might not be her strong suit, but for her wife's sake, she would try.

"Lucky," Olivia muttered, slouching in her wheelchair. Occasionally she spoke to case files under her breath like that, usually while shaking her head and whispering some form of Christ's name at the atrocities she found on the page. Sometimes she sounded as if she were praying. It occurred to Amanda then that she didn't know if the captain really believed in God, or not. How strange that they had never discussed something that could make or break a relationship for most people. And now it didn't even matter. They had no place for any god in their lives after this.

In the elevator, on the ride back to the first floor, Olivia gave a small hum as preface, like her lips were sealed around the words she meant to speak, and tried to look over her shoulder. Only her eyes were able to turn in that direction, glancing sidelong and up at Amanda, her neck stiff. The radiologist had warned that zygomatic fractures could be particularly painful. "Tilly . . . you said she's okay, right?" Rather than doubting the answer, she sounded more like she genuinely couldn't remember it. "And the baby? Noah and Jesse?"

Amanda skirted the wheelchair and knelt down next to it, taking some of the strain off Olivia, whose hands were balled in her lap. Amanda rested her hand on top of them, lightly chafing the backs with her thumb. "Yes, darlin', they're okay. Tilly's safe. They all are. They've got a protective detail, police and feds, and Daphne's with them. You know how she is—small but mighty. She'll kick anyone's ass if they bother our babies. She loves those kids almost as much as we do."

It was only a slight exaggeration. Daphne did love the kids dearly, and given the chance to kick Matthew Parker's big, oafish ass, she would probably give it her all. And she was tougher than she looked. There just wasn't a Matthew Parker for her to contend with anymore. His brains were splattered all over a shipping warehouse in Jersey, and they would likely have to ID the body through fingerprints or DNA, because no one would be able to recognize the pulpy mess where his face had been. Not even his prison sweetheart, Sondra Vaughn, who Amanda hoped would at least be thrown by the news of his death, if not devastated. (Knowing that cold-hearted bitch, she wouldn't even bat an eyelash.)

The temptation to tell Olivia about Parker's grisly death, plus that of the other men, was strong, but Amanda didn't know whose conscience she would be assuaging more with the information—her own or Olivia's—so she kept that to herself for now as well. Perhaps later she could look into her wife's too-wide brown eyes, desperate for some truth to hold onto, some meaning in the face of senseless tragedy, and tell her there were five fewer rapists in the world today. Just not now, while Olivia gazed down at her with that forlorn expression, so unguarded and childlike it almost made her cry.

"I know those . . . those men told you a lot of awful things were gonna happen, and baby, I don't blame you one bit for being scared. I've been going outta my mind with worry and fear the past three days too. But they lied to you, Liv. They were just trying to wear you down and make you easier to control." Amanda cupped her hand to Olivia's cheek, careful not to touch the small gouge there, the myriad bruises. Her heart ached when Olivia rested in the cradle of her palm, too weary to hold up her own head anymore. "I've got you now, and I'm telling you they ain't gonna touch you again, or the kids. Ever. Trust me?"

Olivia gave a nod so light, Amanda felt it rather than saw it. They held each other's gaze for a moment, Amanda trying not to let her intense guilt for the captain's current state show—she would be damned if she'd make this all about her—Olivia searching, as if the key to undoing three days of horror lay somewhere behind Amanda's eyes.

"They were going to sell me," she said in a small, confiding tone that reminded Amanda of very young vics when they disclosed. Often, women who suffered especially violent attacks regressed to a childlike state of mind, unable to cope with the experience any other way. The brain's defense mechanism and the most heartbreaking thing Amanda had ever seen when it was Olivia doing the regressing. "For sex. There was a buyer . . . that's why they took me. We should find out who. We'll always be in danger if not."

Of course she was still thinking like a cop, in spite of the mind-altering trauma. Amanda would have laughed, but she was afraid she'd burst into tears instead. She opened her mouth to say she knew who had orchestrated the attack, then she realized Olivia would want to know the identity, and she clapped her jaw shut. How did you tell the woman you loved more than life itself that she had been brutalized because of your mistakes? Because you couldn't exercise some goddamn self-control and keep your wallet or your zipper closed?

For the first time since finding her wife alive, Amanda realized she might yet lose her. Eventually, Olivia would need to hear that Vaughn and Murphy were involved in trafficking her, and then it was only a matter of time until she connected the dots back to Amanda. After that, Olivia would hate her. Never trust her again. Divorce papers, custody battles. Their family, so lovingly and intricately woven together, suddenly torn asunder. Amanda the Fuckup strikes again.

The scenario would have taken her to her knees if she weren't already there. And lucky fucking duck that she was, the elevator dinged its arrival on the first floor, doors parting like clouds letting in the sun. She didn't question it. If these were the last days she got to spend with Olivia, she was going to put everything she had into them and make sure Olivia had the care she deserved. The care Amanda owed her. Maybe if she saw how determined Amanda was to be there for her, Olivia would stay.

"Let me worry about that, 'kay, baby?" Amanda stroked Olivia's cheek in lieu of a kiss and slowly got to her feet, careful not to make any startling movements. "You got the whole NYPD and a bunch of feds working on your case too. We'll find the— the guy. All you need to do is take it easy and let me and Este and the doctors look after you. Just sit back and try to relax, there you go. No one else is gonna hurt you."

She saved the lie for last, after she stood behind the wheelchair. The rape kit was up next, and it would undoubtedly be painful. They always were, whether physically or emotionally, and with the extensive bruising and tearing Olivia was bound to have, following such violent penetration, the pelvic exam would hurt, perhaps tremendously.

Amanda had almost talked herself out of subjecting Olivia to the kit at all by the time she wheeled her back into the exam room. But, regardless of evidence collection, Olivia would still require the pelvic to assess her injuries. She would still have to go through the pain and embarrassment anyway, and maybe some of the discomfort could be alleviated by knowing she was contributing to the capture of a so-called uncatchable man. The camera had never really got a clear shot of Gus Sandberg, and having his DNA on file might make all the difference in finally nailing his ass to the wall.

It had cost Olivia her dignity, her body autonomy, and nearly her life, but she might help bring down one of the worst and most elusive criminals in the city.

Of course Amanda couldn't say any of that out loud without tipping Olivia off about the livestream, so she took a deep breath for both of them and rolled the wheelchair toward Este, the white-haired nurse who awaited their arrival, ready to draw the privacy curtain shut around Olivia immediately. She was pretty for an older woman, with a kind face that had mastered the art of smiling only when it was appropriate, and never too much.

How she managed to keep the sweet grandmotherly attitude as a SANE nurse, Amanda didn't know, but she was perfect for Olivia. Non-threatening, efficient, and discreet, not to mention Olivia's soft spot for old ladies. They were always fond of her too, and Este was no different. She apologized with absolute sincerity each time Olivia winced, she made sure to untuck as little of the blankets as possible so Olivia could stay warm, and she described everything she did beforehand to avoid any nasty surprises.

"Did we get some good news, I hope?" asked the nurse as she and Amanda assisted Olivia from wheelchair to bed. She was strong too, able to keep the captain just as steady on her side as Amanda did on the other. They got Olivia safely onto the bed, and when an answer still hadn't come, Este looked to Amanda with concern. "That bad?"

"I think she's just really exhausted," Amanda said, busying her hands by tucking the blankets in tightly around Olivia to keep from stroking her hair, arms, face, hands. She'd probably already lost them some touch DNA with her inability to remain hands-off between x-rays and on the elevator. Fuckup. "Two rib fractures, a cheekbone fracture. Concussion. And the tooth's going to need work." She cast an anemic smile of apology at Olivia, who may or may not have been listening. It was hard to tell while she was so unresponsive. "But at least the weaker shoulder is okay, right, Liv? And your wrist."

That had seemed like a minor miracle, the discovery that both sites of Olivia's previous injuries were relatively unscathed this time around. Strained, obviously, from being yanked, twisted, and bound, but nothing requiring surgery or a sling. She'd hated that goddamned thing. The memory of it, of how frustrated Olivia had been wearing the cumbersome sling to work for weeks, filled Amanda with sympathy. Without thinking, she reached for the formerly broken wrist in Olivia's lap, intent on stroking it.

The moment her fingers grazed Olivia's skin, just exposed in the cocoon of blankets, it was as if she'd delivered an electric shock with the taser stick. Olivia gave a sudden jolt, her arms jerking like they were attached to pulled strings. She cringed back, waiting for a blow that didn't come. Amanda gasped at the reaction before she could stop herself, but she quickly waved it away when reality sank in and Olivia looked as though she were about to burst into tears over her mistake. "No, hey, it's okay. That was my fault. I shouldn't be grabbin' on you right now, darlin'. I didn't think. I'm sorry, shh."

Actually, seeing her wife flinch away from her and cower in fear had been equivalent to taking a bullet in the gut. Amanda felt her star-shaped scar pulsing like it was hot and alive. But she couldn't let the pain show, not right now. She'd witnessed similar reactions in countless victims, maybe even experienced a little of it herself after the assault by dear old Chuck. She knew it wasn't personal, that Olivia didn't mean to reject her. The captain would probably have the same response to any type of unexpected touch just then, be it a feather, a drop of water, or Amanda's fingertips ghosting by.

And yet.

Este rescued them from the awkward moment by unboxing the rape kit onto a sterile tray. "Are we still wanting your wife to stay?" she asked in a delicate tone, accompanied by a delicate glance.

At first, Amanda couldn't figure out what the hell the nurse was talking about. Why would she bring her wife to the hospital, insist on a rape exam, stand by Olivia's side the entire time, and vet every member of the hospital staff who treated her along the way if she didn't want Olivia to stay? Just as she started to answer, she realized that Este hadn't been speaking to her. Up until a few seconds ago, Amanda would have felt confident answering the question for Olivia, but now she waited anxiously for the reply.

"Yes." A hand emerged from under the blankets and sought out Amanda's, held unnaturally at her sides, afraid to make another wrong move. Olivia tried to interlock their fingers, grimaced in pain, and drew their enfolded hands to her chest instead. "I need her to stay with me. She's a cop too, she can help with evidence collection."

Bolstered by the request, Amanda brought her other hand up slowly to warm the back of Olivia's. But the expression she turned on Este was one of concern. Olivia had already informed the nurse earlier that Amanda was police and could be present for the examination, both as a wife and an officer. It wasn't like the captain to forget and repeat herself. A mild shake of the head from Este, discouraging undue worry, put Amanda at ease, but only a little. Now that the kit was arranged and ready for sample gathering, she understood why her wife hadn't wanted it. When it was you or someone you loved in the stirrups, you couldn't just switch it off for the job.

You felt every single pluck, scrape, swipe, and flash. Every degradation. Amanda had never subjected herself to one personally, opting instead to wash away all the evidence from the Patton assault, praying it would just be forgotten. For a while it had been. Was she forcing Olivia to hang on to the horrible memories even longer, by putting her through this? And for what, a stray hair that might get them a serial rapist-killer's DNA? It wouldn't get them a location or a guarantee that Gus would be caught and sent to prison. If you really thought about it, Amanda was no different than the men in the shipping container, forcing Olivia to lie back and be violated all over again.

She should be the one on that hospital bed, bruised and shivering and traumatized beyond measure, beyond hope. She should be the one dead behind the eyes, because that's how she felt inside. Cold and dead, heartless and cruel.

"You don't—" Amanda's voice hitched, for she was already too late. Este had torn the wrapper from the oral swabs, explaining what they were used for (as if Olivia didn't know that), and held them poised in front of Olivia's hesitantly parting lips. Less than an inch away, and if Amanda stopped it right then, they would see what a monster she was, how she just wanted Olivia examined to assuage her own guilt. To make up for how thoroughly Amanda had already failed her.

"You, uh, don't have to open up all the way if it hurts you too much, baby," she finished softly. They were both looking at her, thrown off by the interruption, and she was quite sure Olivia would have seen right through her ruse at any other time. Now she merely nodded, thinking she understood, trusting that Amanda had only her best interest at heart. She scrunched her eyes shut as the swabs went in, but Amanda kept hers wide open. That would be her punishment for this—having to watch every single moment of Olivia's suffering, just like the livestream.

"Ow," Olivia whimpered when the cotton swabs came into contact with a tender spot inside her cheek. Her respiration began to speed up, more ragged with each breath, her eyelids crinkled so tightly it appeared there was nothing behind them. Amanda half-expected the eye sockets to be empty when it was over. She couldn't get Meredith Ashton's eyeless face out of her mind, even in the bright room, her wife's bruised, swollen, tear-stained face clearly before her.

"Do you need me to stop?" Este asked, brow furrowed in concern at the pain the oral swab—one of the less painful steps in the kit—was already causing.

Of course she needs you to stop, Amanda thought, her voice verging on shrill inside her own head. She had a guy's cock crammed down her throat in prison and just spent three days with dicks in every orifice. She hates letting people put things in her mouth. So, Este, what do you think? Would you need to stop?

"Jus' do it." Olivia managed to sound as if she were gritting her teeth, though they remained slightly parted, lips open just enough for the bare minimum of access. She squeezed Amanda's hand until it hurt, which wasn't very much, in her weakened state; nevertheless, Amanda's knuckles were still puffy and tender from beating Matthew Parker, and even a little pressure was plenty. Amanda welcomed the pain. A few throbbing fingers were only a fraction of the discomfort Olivia must be feeling.

Luckily, Este was a pro at oral swabs, and she skimmed the circumference of Olivia's mouth with a practiced motion that took all of five seconds. "You can close for a second, dear," she said, the moment she withdrew the cotton-tipped sticks. She turned to the instrument tray and rubbed the sample onto the evidence slide in a circular pattern. "I'll give this a minute to dry, then we can do the buccal. That should be all I have to do in the mouth."

"Thank fuck," Olivia muttered. She traced her tongue around her gums, looking as if she'd tasted something sour. Carefully she probed at her broken back tooth, hissed, shied away from the sensation like she was about to be backhanded. When she noticed herself being watched, she straightened a little defiantly, but lost all her confidence just as quickly. "Sorry. I'm . . . uncomfortable having things in-inserted in my mouth."

"That's perfectly all right. I'm not usually someone people are too thrilled to have around for long." Este nodded to the evidence collection tools arranged next to her. "And I've had plenty of F-bombs dropped on me in this room. Believe me, I've said it a few times myself."

It was difficult to imagine angel-faced Este saying fuck, but Amanda liked that she was willing to cop to it. Especially since Olivia was probably chastising herself internally. She tried so hard to always be professional, and police captains weren't supposed to swear in front of the public. It was an unwritten rule—and precious few followed it—but Olivia took it to heart, like she did with pretty much everything else. "You don't have to be sorry," Amanda said, gently buffing Olivia's hands with her own. They were still so cold. "Nobody minds if you cuss, baby. You go ahead and say whatever the hell you want. Anybody says shit about it, I'll kick their ass."

A wan half-smile drifted across Olivia's face, fading out before it came to fruition. "My tough girl," she said, either the thought or her voice drifting away, unfinished. She brought Amanda's hands up and rested her forehead on back of them, very much resembling a penitent begging forgiveness and prayer. When she spoke again, it was muffled by her downturned face and the blankets. "I just want this to be over. Wanna go home and see the kids. I'm so tired, Manda. It hurts. I just . . . want . . . "

Whatever else Olivia wanted she exhaled with a heavy sigh—or a soft sob—and leaned into the shoulder Amanda guided her toward. "I know, darlin'. I wish it was over too. But you'd still need to be patched up and feeling a little better before you went home. The kids'll be thrilled to see you no matter what, but you wanna make sure you're okay for them, dontcha? We'll get this exam over with, get you all cleaned up, and hopefully we can go home tonight, before they're in bed. You wanna help me tuck in our babies, sweetheart?"

God, it felt dirty using the kids like that, but she had to get Olivia through the examination somehow. The captain would absolutely take care of her health for their children's sake, if not her own. She would do anything for those kids, same as Amanda. "Yes," she breathed, a sound so soft it almost got lost in the folds of Amanda's shirt. It was not a word she'd had occasion to say much of in the past few days, and it had a strange inflection, as if she were asking instead of affirming.

Three days, and she'd forgotten how to consent.

"Yes, I want to tuck them in," she repeated with a bit more resolve. But even when she lifted her head and prepared for the buccal specimen, it took several attempts to open up long enough for Este to swab the insides of her cheeks with the little brush. That would give the kit examiner her DNA for comparison, ruling it out from the perp's—or perps', in this case.

It was only a small comfort, or perhaps none at all, for Olivia gagged harshly when the brush swirled around the other cheek. Had there been anything in her stomach, she would have emptied it into her lap. As it was, she retched for a moment, then began to cough and clutch at her side. Trying to muffle it just made it worse, and she hacked and wheezed until tears poured from her eyes, mucus leaked from her nose, and her face flushed blood-red.

"She needs water. Can't hardly swallow." Amanda heard the hillbilly in her voice on the word swallow (as in, "Hey, Mandy, heard from Travis in first period that you like to swalluh" and, scrawled on the inside of a stall in one of the Loganville High boys bathrooms, the script suspiciously feminine: for a good time call 'er, easy ass amanda'll swaller). She'd learned to curb that pretty quickly after moving to New York, but it still crept in when she was excited or pissed off. Or scared shitless. "Breathe, baby. Gimme some goddamn water, will ya?"

The last part she snapped at Este, who was already hurrying for the plastic carafe on the overbed table that had yet to be rolled anywhere near the bed. It was the same pink pitcher that Amanda had seen in every other hospital she ever stepped foot in, and it made her inexplicably angry. Who the fuck's brilliant idea was it to make the water pitcher the exact same color as the puke basins? Did they think sick people and rape victims were too dumb to notice those things? Her wife was anything but dumb, and she noticed everything.

Except for right now, when she could barely catch her breath, let alone care about the color scheme of some stupid plastic dishes. Amanda patted her on the back rapidly, struggling not to dissolve into a panic herself—outwardly, anyway. Inside, she felt as helpless and frightened as she had watching Jesse fight for every bit of oxygen her small lungs could grasp after the bee sting incident that put her in the hospital. As a mother, it had been her worst nightmare: the inability to help her child. As a wife, it was like the world was coming to an end.

She was ten years old, holding her unconscious mother's head in her lap, a puddle of blood beneath them growing ever larger. It seeped into the grout between the bathroom tiles like one of those Satanic symbols that some possessed character etched into the ground in a horror movie. Those symbols always required a blood sacrifice, and even back then, Amanda had known it was a curse she'd been born under. To watch the people she loved suffer and bleed; to hold them in her arms while they breathed their last.

The curse of being hers.

"She shouldnta had to wait this long," Amanda said in a clipped tone as she helped Olivia sip from the plastic cup Este brought over. She knew it wasn't the RN's fault—if Amanda hadn't talked Olivia into the rape kit, she could have hydrated much sooner—but it felt good to have someone besides herself to blame. Turns out the old Amanda, who had learned from Daddy at an early age to always have an accomplice to pin it on, wasn't as dead and buried as the new Amanda believed her to be. "It's ridiculous how long all this shit takes. Easy, baby, you'll make yourself sick."

But Olivia was pushing the cup away, not trying to tip it and take larger gulps. She dragged her hand across her wet lips, which smacked when she opened them, panting heavily. "Not her fault. Thought I could wait. Cou— cou—" She held her side and shook her head, unable to finish the couldn't without mouthing it. Her coughs were weaker, muffled behind closed lips, but each one brought with it a stab of pain that Amanda recognized from months of guarding her own gunshot wound from every laugh, cough, sneeze, even a strong belch or two.

"That's all right," said Este, dismissing the barely audible reprimand with a wave. She'd wheeled the table and carafe over, parking them at Amanda's side, before returning to her tray of sealed swabs, stainless steel instruments, and paperwork. "I agree with your wife, SOECs are extremely invasive and time-consuming. I understand your frustrations." She directed that one at Amanda, head tilted in sympathy. "I'll do my best to get it over with as quickly as possible. We're past the oral part, so she's good to sip water as needed. Just try to take it slow, honey."

Throwing someone else under the bus wasn't much fun when they were rational and sided with you. Este must have dealt with her share of frantic, angry spouses in her line of work, just like Amanda. Normally, Amanda hated being handled, but she got the impression the nurse was sincere and really did care about Olivia's comfort and well-being. The honeys and dears helped too. Anyone who spoke to her wife that sweetly, without patronizing or flirting, was an okay person in Amanda's book.

"I'm . . . " Amanda couldn't form the rest, giving an apologetic nod of her head in the nurse's direction instead. It seemed ludicrous to say she was sorry while the only person whose feelings she cared about right then was in such pain, but she was also aware of Olivia watching her over the brim of the cup, hoping she would cut Este some slack. She circled Olivia's back with her palm, trying to soothe the residual coughing and tilt the water just enough for a sip, not a baptism.

Este saved Amanda from finishing as she looked up and took a deep breath, preparing to make sincere amends. "No apology necessary, Mrs. Rollins-Benson, really," said the nurse, shooing at the air. She'd begun unfolding the white sheet the vic was supposed to stand on while they undressed. Amanda had been so eager to get Olivia off her feet and into the hospital bed, she'd forgotten about collecting trace evidence. The clothes, which Olivia hadn't been wearing during the assaults anyway, were still in a pile on the floor where Amanda had left them. "You and your wife have both been through a significant trauma. Strong emotions are to be expected right now."

If you only knew, Amanda thought. She offered the closest thing to a smile she could muster, but it dissolved as soon as Olivia coughed through her nose, water dribbling from the cup onto her gown. Amanda eased the brim away from her lips and dried them with a corner of blanket. "Better?" she asked, trying not to let on that she was keeping the water at bay so Olivia wouldn't gulp it all down at once. She had to do the same thing for Frannie Mae sometimes on hot days or after a run. Didn't make her feel near as guilty then.

"So thirsty," Olivia sighed, but dropped back against the upraised bed, no longer straining forward to pull from the cup. Other than a couple light huffs, the coughing seemed to have subsided. Now she just looked drained, as if the hacking fit had sapped her of what little energy she'd regained at the hospital. She was shaking almost as much as when they first arrived. "Cold. Wanna sleep."

Amanda touched her fingers, front and back, to Olivia's forehead and the cheek that wasn't fractured. She expected the skin to be cold and clammy, like it had been a couple of hours ago, but it was surprisingly warm. Hot, even. It could be all the heated blankets, and Olivia's body heat, which naturally ran high. Still, that didn't explain the shivering. "Gotta stay awake for a while yet, sweet darlin'," Amanda murmured, stroking Olivia's brow with her thumb, hand resting atop her dark head. She signaled to Este with the other hand. "Should she still be shivering like this? Feels awful warm to me."

"Her core temp was very low when you brought her in. It can take a bit to get that back up." Este spread the sheet on the floor next to Olivia's discarded clothes. Carefully she picked up the NYPD sweatshirt and transferred it onto the thin paper. "She might just feel warmer to you now, compared to how cold she was earlier. Some patients develop a slight fever after being warmed up from hypothermia too. We call it rebound pyrexia. It's usually nothing to worry about."

Finding no comfort in the explanation—Amanda knew what her wife's body temperature should feel like, goddammit, and "usually nothing to worry about" was a far cry from not being worrisome—she started to protest. Then he appeared, and she momentarily lost her train of thought.

Just a small clink, silver against tile, but to Amanda it sounded like a gunshot. The St. Jude medal she had taken off of Carlos Riva. She'd forgotten all about it, buried deep inside the pocket of her track pants, and now glinting like a spotlight on the hospital floor, like all her sins laid bare.

Take a sad song and make it better . . .

Turning this way and that to see what had fallen from the pants she was holding, Este spotted the medal next to the sheet and reached down to pick it up with a gloved hand. "Hang on there," Amanda said too loudly, startling Olivia and the nurse as she scurried around the bed and swiped up the necklace before Este could claim it. Here she was, already breaking her promise not to leave Olivia's side. "Sorry. This is mine. I, uh, forgot I left it in there. Put my clothes on her, and . . . yeah, just plumb forgot."

At a quick glance she noticed that the clasp was magnetic and hadn't been destroyed when she yanked it from Riva's sweaty dead neck. She looped the chain around her own neck, the magnets cinching together by themselves with a phantomlike tug that felt somewhat final, somewhat fatal
(You have found her, now go and get her)
and returned to Olivia's bedside without giving the nurse time to protest. The nearly empty plastic cup stuttered in Olivia's grasp, and Amanda rescued it from tipping onto the blankets. She put the water aside and warmed her wife's hands, cupping them in hers and blowing into the cracks, chafing lightly, as if she were soothing Sammie's delicate skin.

Perhaps it was Amanda's imagination, but she felt more in control with the necklace on. Calm, almost. The weight of it against her chest seemed to anchor her to the ground, so she no longer felt like she might go flying off into space. The movement you need is on your shoulder. The lyric made sense now. She kissed Olivia's knuckles, disregarding the grime and God knew what else caked into the creases. What could it hurt? Olivia was as much a part of Amanda as her own flesh and bone. The song said it all: Remember to let her under your skin, then you'll begin to make it better.

"Oh. All right," was Este's only comment about the confiscated jewelry. She gave it a curious glance, hanging there on Amanda's stolen flannel shirt, but folded her thin lips without a word and finished shaking out Olivia's clothes over the sheet.

Next, she would fit the folded sheet into an envelope, place it in the kit, and put the clothes in a paper bag for the police to test. Had to be paper, not plastic, or else the DNA might get destroyed. Amanda hated those bags; they reminded her of the brown bag lunches from grade school. Except these you didn't open up anticipating the bologna sandwich or PB&J your mama had packed that morning. These contained mementos of the worst day of someone's life—ripped blouses, skirts smeared in cloudy white stains, track pants soiled between the legs with blood.

Underwear was collected separately, a whole step unto itself, the holy grail of the rape kit. But Este would have to skip that step this time, since Olivia's underwear was somewhere in Jersey, torn to ribbons inside a shipping container. Amanda was about to say as much, when she noticed Olivia staring at the medallion on her chest. No sign either way to whether or not she recognized it, but the intent expression was unnerving, and Amanda gently caught her hand when it reached out for St. Jude.

"Doing okay, baby girl?" Amanda asked, tucking the necklace inside her shirt with a casual sleight of hand while Olivia's eyes were drawn to hers. They were a murky, muddy brown that couldn't quite focus on their target, and Amanda got the feeling the medal had been forgotten the moment it was out of sight. "Aw, sweetheart. You're so exhausted, aren't you?" She didn't need an answer—it was written all over Olivia's weary face—but it concerned her that her wife barely seemed to register the question. "Liv? You with me?"

"I should be giving my statement," Olivia said in a colorless little voice that would have been a monotone, had it any volume behind it. She looked up at Amanda questioningly, as if she really wasn't sure of her own observation. "Shouldn't I? You n-need to record it in case there's a trial, don't you, officer?"

Amanda cringed, not at being referred to as officer, but at the mention of recording Olivia's account of the assaults. She meant writing it down, of course; she couldn't possibly know how accurate her word choice was. (Could she?) The officer part was strange, but Amanda chalked that up to shock and sleep deprivation. And Olivia wasn't wrong: Amanda was the assisting officer for the exam, responsible for the collected evidence and taking the victim's statement. Normally, she would be listening to an account of the rape that had brought the vic in right now. Only, this time she didn't need one.

"It's okay, darlin'." She buffed the backs of Olivia's hands with her thumbs, watching the subtle shift of skin that somehow reminded her of the ever-changing sands on a shoreline. Any excuse not to make eye contact. "You don't have to give a description. I'll write it out for you later. I know what happened well enough to— I mean, I was there when they grabbed you up, and I got a good look at the place they kept you in. I can piece it together from there if you don't—"

"You saw it, didn't you?" Olivia sounded more lucid than she had since Amanda found her in that hellhole. And sure enough, when Amanda glanced up in surprise, Olivia was staring back with sudden eerie clarity. She might have been a blind soothsayer who gained sight just long enough to deliver a dreaded prophecy. "There were cameras, I thought . . . I couldn't see them, but the kid kept talking to someone. They turned my face that way." With resignation she let her head drop back against the pillow behind her. "You saw, didn't you?"

"Liv, I—"

"How much?" Olivia didn't raise her voice to interrupt or demand an answer, but the inquiry was so matter-of-fact it cut Amanda off all the same. Olivia hated being lied to, no matter how awful she already felt, no matter how well-meaning the lie that was told. That's what happened when you grew up with a mother who lied to you just as often as she breathed, Amanda supposed. Sort of like hating when women made excuses for abusive men because you'd grown up listening to that same shit your entire life.

Goddamn Serena Benson. Goddamn Beth Anne Rollins. And goddamn Amanda, for perpetuating the lies and the violence, the addiction and its repercussions, in Olivia's life. Once again, she was unable to look her wife in the eye, and it was that very avoidance that gave away the truth she wanted to hide.

"Oh my God," Olivia husked, growing restless on the bed. She moved her feet as if she were marching inside the blankets, or trying to kick them off. When she tried to throw aside the corner wrapped around her shoulder, she hissed in pain, slumped back against the pillow, and gave a feeble whimper of frustration.

"You saw the whole thing," she said tearfully, turning a watery gaze to the ceiling like it was the sky. The place where people always looked for answers to impossible questions. "Didn't you?"

. . .