A/N: Hey, guys. I know you're probably all tired of hearing me apologize for missing updates, but I am sorry for the long delay on this one. I'll spare you the excuses, 'cause at this point I think my brain is just refusing to accept that the story's almost over and has shut down all executive function to survive. IDEK. I did manage to make four different album covers for the soundtrack, a la Tortured Poets Department, so I haven't been totally slacking. They can be found at the bottom of this chapter on AO3, along with the link to the Spotify playlist. I want to do a short write-up about the songs and how they fit into the story, or how I envisioned them playing out in the scenes, but I'll have to save that for the next update (if there's interest, that is). For now, I'll say that some of the music goes a little harder than what I would normally listen to, but that's what I wanted for the overall sound. Kind of raw and abrasive, like the fic itself. There's some soft and sweet in there to even it out, though. Now, onto the chapter. Lots of references to old cases from the show in this one. Pretty sure they're all memorable enough on their own, but let me know if you need me to point you to the right episodes (which I will then Google, because I can't remember the titles and ep numbers—hey, gimme a break, there's like 5,000 episodes! lol). Oh, and there's a new cover art on AO3 too; just FYI that not everyone pictured will be making an appearance in the fic, some are only there in spirit.

Chapter 62.

Captain's Requiem

. . .

You are one big-ass hypocrite, blondie. Placing the cell phone face down on her desk, as if that might conceal what she had done, Amanda sat back in her office chair and stared at the device in stunned silence. It wasn't like she'd called in the nuclear codes or something, but she had taken a pretty big chance, made a big decision without consulting Olivia first, and it could very well blow up in her face.

At best, she was undermining her own argument that they should talk things over before going ahead with an idea, especially one that affected the other person; at worst, she could set back Olivia's recovery, which had already hit plenty of bumps lately: her panic attack at work and continued anxieties there, the death of her old friend Meg Hawthorne, turning fifty-five, her wife being a jealous, inflexible jackass in therapy. Bad dreams, countless triggers, volatile emotions. What if resurrecting an old case and springing it on her over dinner had the opposite outcome Amanda was hoping for?

The first attempt already had to be scrapped. Avery Capshaw, the girl who had been gang raped by her boyfriend's BX9 buddies when she was sixteen. The boyfriend was forced to watch the assault, and Avery was convinced he would be angry at her for experiencing involuntary orgasms during commission. Amanda remembered the case well, largely because she had tried to talk the girl down from the ledge of a building, only to watch her jump when she failed at making a connection. Luckily, an emergency air cushion had already been deployed and Avery survived the fall (Amanda would never forget the look on her face right before she leapt, though); eventually she moved on to pursue art, and Amanda really thought the girl stood a chance of having a normal life, with her parents' support and a shit-ton of counseling.

But when Amanda called the last known number for John and Lydia Capshaw, hoping they could point her toward their daughter's current whereabouts, she got an earful from longtime divorcé John, who hadn't heard from his ex-wife in years and thought his twenty-five-year-old daughter was probably in rehab again. She'd picked up a nasty meth habit that destroyed his marriage and her artistic aspirations, it seemed.

God knows I love my little girl, Detective, he said, sounding rather unconvinced of the declaration, if you asked Amanda, but the person she became after those bastards . . . I can't handle that. My little girl died that day. They killed her.

Amanda had ended the call and promptly deleted the number from her phone. She cleared her browser and interdepartmental search history as well, just to be safe. Olivia wasn't a snoop like her, but it was better to be safe than sorry. Better to ask forgiveness than permission too.

Raegan James produced even worse results. The young woman, already highly unstable to begin with, before she was ever raped by four men on a boat, had died of an overdose just a year ago. Sleeping pills. Her widower said she "never was right" after the assault and its failure to go to trial; that she lasted only a few months into their marriage on her bipolar medication before giving it up, in favor of her "party-girl ways."

Amanda lost that number and file too.

More promising was the call to Amelia Albers, a former ensign in the U.S. Coast Guards, who had been raped by her lieutenant and two fellow Coast Guardsmen, while a third held her down. She was doing well for herself these days, married and raising two young daughters, both of whom had military aspirations of their own. Her relationship with her father was still going strong, she said, his and her brothers' support and pride in her a daily reminder that she had survived. But she was reluctant to revisit "the darkest moment of [her] life"—one that her husband knew little about, her daughters nothing—even if it was for Olivia Benson, whom she called a hero and savior.

"Please tell her I have such deep respect and appreciation for her, but I don't think I can dredge all that up. Not if I want to stay sane for my girls. I will think about it, yes. You're welcome, Detective. I'm sorry I couldn't be more helpful."

There was no sense holding her breath on that one, Amanda told herself. Still, she had saved the number to her contacts, under the single name of Albers.

The name Aschler, Jennifer, better known among avid child pornography fans as "Lacy," popped up during Amanda's search, just a few lines below Albers. It had been mighty tempting. If anyone could talk to Olivia about having her rapes recorded and made available for public consumption on the internet, it was Jenny. But the young woman's mental health had been shaky, at best, when SVU happened upon her by accident nine years ago. By the skin of her teeth, she'd regained custody of her then-six-year-old daughter, and won millions in restitution payments from men who had downloaded video and images of her abuse. It was enough money to put both girls—Jenny hadn't really matured past the age of ten or eleven, thanks to her extreme abuse—in the lap of luxury for the rest of their lives . . . or destroy them entirely. The daughter, Maddie, would be about fifteen by now, and if Jenny had managed to hold it together for her little girl, Amanda didn't want to turn their lives, no doubt as precariously balanced as Maddie had been on that balcony the first time Amanda met her, upside down with an unexpected call.

That number Amanda saved for a last resort.

She found success in the most unlikely of candidates for her sit-down with Olivia: the college girl turned porn star, Evie Barnes. Amanda had never expected to hear from Evie again, after watching helplessly from the sidelines while she returned to playing RoXXXanne DeMay, embittered by lack of support from her parents, an ugly trial, and expulsion from Hudson University. Her rape had been filmed by the perpetrators too, and passed around like a popular party drug at a rave.

When Evie answered on the third ring, Amanda was so surprised she'd blanked out on an appropriate response to the soft "Hello?" at the other end. Then she launched into her pitch with the lightning speed of a car salesman trying to make a hard sell. It was a wonder that Evie hadn't hung up on her halfway through, but by the time Amanda finished, so out of breath she was almost panting, the girl had still been on the line.

"I'll talk to her. When do you want to meet? I have to pick up my son from school at three o'clock, but I'm available any time after that . . . "

And just like that, Amanda had an impromptu therapy session scheduled for Olivia at five o'clock, with a young woman who very well might paint a bleak and discouraging portrait of life after gang rape and severe exploitation. Evie did have a son—that was promising. She hadn't sounded particularly depressed or spiteful either. In fact, she sounded pretty normal, maybe even sort of happy? Or maybe Amanda was hearing only what she wanted to hear.

In any case, the meeting was set up, and now there was just one more bit of business to attend to. Amanda tapped the glass dome that encased Mr. Chips the taxidermy chipmunk, and said in a low voice to the stiff little critter, "Welp. Here goes nothing. Wish me luck." Mr. Chips remained as stoic as ever, offering not a word, not even a minute, supportive chitter for his old friend. Amanda sniffed, got to her feet, and rounded her desk, sights set on Olivia's office.

"Some help you are," she muttered to the chipmunk before shuffling off to invite her wife to dinner.

. . .

The invitation turned out to be the easy part. Only after they were seated at a table in the back of their favorite Greek restaurant, away from the crowd in front, did Amanda realize Olivia probably thought an olive branch was being extended—Amanda was ready to swallow her pride, talk it out, and give her blessing on the beaucoup bucks of one Alexandra Cabot. Nothing could be further from the truth, but when Olivia requested a table for two ("Um, make it three, actually," Amanda put in to the concierge) and glanced furtively at the other diners at their tables as they passed, the ice around Amanda's blue-collar heart began to melt. Olivia had set her fear aside to come here and listen to what Amanda had to say; the least Amanda could do was be open and receptive in return.

"Three?" Olivia gazed at the chair opposite the one Amanda pulled out for her, wariness in her face and tone. She was even more on alert when Amanda took the seat next to her, instead of sitting across the table like she normally would. "Is someone going to join us?"

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, I invited . . . someone. She should be here any minute." Amanda checked her watch and gave the restaurant a once-over before settling into her own chair, though the entrance was in full view, and no one at the other tables seemed to have recognized them. "Don't see her yet. 'Course, it's been a while, I guess she probably looks different now, especially considering the industry she chose."

"What industry? What are you talking about? Amanda, who is it?"

The questions, asked with slight annoyance, brought Amanda back to the present from her sudden stroll down memory lane—or whatever you called the image of a young woman disrobing and gliding, sylphlike, into the midst of several muscular men who were already sprouting massive erections. It was a little too similar to some of the scenes from the livestream, to be honest, and Amanda was happy to focus on something else.

"Okay, darlin', hear me out. Do you remember Ev—" No sooner had she opened her mouth to say the name than its owner walked through the front door, propping a pair of sunglasses atop her head.

At a distance she looked as Amanda remembered her: slender, petite, baby-faced. But when she spotted Amanda's waving hand and made in its direction, the years became more and more evident with each approaching step. Of course she had filled out some; she was barely eighteen when Amanda last saw her, and presumably she'd given birth since then. Her bust-size, however, had increased so dramatically, it couldn't possibly be natural. The hair had undergone a transformation as well: once full-on Bettie Page, it was now more pageboy, and dyed a trendy ash-toned balayage. Her fingernails were long enough to cause damage, but attractive enough for display. And yet, in spite of all the youthful touches, her smile was a bit tired.

Warm, but in a world-weary sort of way, like a grandmother who had survived a war. And lost some loved ones along the way.

"Detective Rollins," she said, extending a hand for a clasp rather than a shake. Her movements were a bit stilted, but that was probably just nerves. A lot of people were uncomfortable around law enforcement, particularly if their careers were on the unconventional side. "Sergeant Benson. Wow. How long's it been, like, eight or nine years? Oh, I got pregnant with Timothy right after I left school, and he's about to turn eight, so I guess closer to nine, right?"

Olivia stared at the young woman who was holding onto her hand as if they were about to join in a hora. She didn't seem to recognize Evie at all, not that she should, after nine years and hundreds, maybe even thousands, of other cases. Frozen like that, it was hard to tell what she was thinking—beyond utter confusion—and Amanda hurried to cover for the awkward, lengthy pause.

"Actually, it's Captain Benson now," she said, getting up too fast and knocking her hip on the table. Didn't hurt, but the place settings danced. "I'm still Detective, though. Well, Detective Rollins-Benson. Me and Liv are married." Inwardly she cringed, aware that it should be Liv and I, but plowing ahead too quickly to go back and fix it. "Liv, this is—"

"Evie." The absence of a last name probably meant Olivia didn't remember it, but she had retained the important information: the first name and the courtesy to stand when greeting an old acquaintance. "My God, look at you. You're all grown up."

Evie laughed, the chin-length bob flaring at either side of her face, though her head stayed relatively still. Amanda didn't recall hearing much, if any, laughter from her nine years ago, but it sounded like the laugh of a young girl now. She hadn't lost that. "Yeah, not so mousy anymore," she said, shooing Olivia and Amanda back into their seats. She pulled out the chair across from them without needing to be invited, and took a moment situating herself and the large shoulder bag she carried. "I'm glad you remember me that way, though. Before I was Roxanne, I mean. Most people can only see me as her. It's nice just being Evie."

Boy oh boy, less than five minutes in, and they were already talking porn. Amanda had really gotten ahead of herself with this one. She tried to think of a segue for a less loaded topic, but nothing natural came to mind. So, Evie, how'd you get knocked up so young, all that unprotected sex for the camera? Hey, Evie, what's your advice for a victim of gang rape whose humiliation was filmed for the viewing pleasure of countless strangers? You've obviously kept yourself up well, how much exactly do you make per film, Rox? Or do you prefer Miss DeMay?

In the end, Olivia saved Amanda the trouble of finding the right words, as she usually did. "I just remember a bright, sweet young girl who needed someone on her side. I was so frustrated by the outcome of your trial. The ones that never receive justice are the ones that stick with me the most. How have you been since— you have a son?"

"Yeah . . . Oh. Yeah, I do." Evie looked as though she'd been interrupted mid-reverie, and turned to rummage through her bag. "Trying to quit," she said sheepishly, putting aside the vape pen she retracted. Next came a slim leather wallet and a tube of mascara. Then a cell phone, which she unlocked and swiped through, until it revealed a selfie of her with a little boy about Jesse's size. They were both wearing extra-wide and cheesy—but genuine—grins, and the kid had about fifteen cowlicks in his white-blond hair and almost as many missing teeth. He looked like Dennis the Menace, a cute but holy terror. "That's Timothy. Timmy. He's got ADHD and can be a handful sometimes, but I love him to pieces."

"He's beautiful," Olivia said with total conviction. The boy could have had four eyes and fangs, and she would have said the same thing, Amanda knew, but it was accurate in this instance.

"Very cute," Amanda added, smiling dutifully. She was glad Evie enjoyed motherhood, whether or not it had been an intentional decision, but she hadn't set up the meeting so they could coo over babies either. "We've got some about that age, but I'm sure you want to get home to your guy there, so I won't drag out the photo album."

The comment earned her a funny look from Olivia, but Evie took it in stride, shrugging a shoulder and resting the phone face down on the table. "He's home with his dad. They were going to do 'boy stuff.' Probably don't even notice I'm gone, honestly."

A waiter coming to take orders rescued the three women from another awkward silence then, and while Olivia made her selection (spanakopita, which she would likely pick at and bring home as leftovers that never got eaten) Amanda practiced inside her head what she would next say to her companions. She was so engrossed in the imagined conversation, she missed the perfect window of opportunity, after Evie ordered gyros of some sort and the waiter promised a quick return with the drinks, and instead smacked headlong into the pane.

"It's very good to see you, Evie, and I appreciate you taking the time meet with us," said Olivia, drawing the words out a little more than necessary, her eyes cast sidelong at Amanda, "but I must confess, I'm not sure what my wife had in mind when she invited you here. We're not typically in the habit of socializing with former SVU clients. Care to explain, love?" She looked Amanda square in the eye that time, and there was no question: she knew exactly what the dinner was about.

"Holy shit, you didn't tell her?" Evie went momentarily wide-eyed, but recovered quickly and cupped a hand to her mouth, as if abashed by what had come out of it. "Sorry, trying to cut back on the language. For Timmy. But I just— I assumed you'd discussed it with her already." This was for Amanda, though not as accusatory as the aside from Olivia.

They were both staring at her now, and Amanda had little choice but to jump right in. It was her way, after all. "Okay, so . . . I didn't have a lot of time to plan this out, which obviously wasn't the brightest move on my part, but, Liv, I knew you probably wouldn't agree if I suggested it. And I just really wanted you to hear what Evie has to say. Y'all have had some similar experiences, and I think it'd be good for you to see that it is possible to recover from them."

Never mind that Evie was, oh, about twenty-eight years Olivia's junior, and had the resilience of youth on her side; that she had gone willingly back into a life of exploitation and portraying rape as entertainment. Never mind that she might still be a wreck, unwed mother (she wore no ring) of a rotten little boy, and quite possibly an active porn star (Amanda had googled her beforehand and didn't see any recent film credits—nothing past 2017). Never mind that nine years were unaccounted for, and Evie could have experienced any number of degradations or traumas to regale them with.

And Amanda had chanced it just because the girl sounded cheerful on the phone. Dear Lord.

"I am so angry with you right now," Olivia said to her, murmuring from the corner of her mouth. Under the table she pulled her hand away from Amanda's, dropping it into her own lap. To Evie, she offered a thin, apologetic smile. "I'm sorry you got roped into this. She's right, I never would have agreed to it if I'd known what she was planning. You're under no obligation to discuss anything private or sensitive with me, Evie. You shouldn't have to relive—"

"No, it's okay. I came because Amanda told me—" Evie, bless her heart, caught herself about to put Amanda even deeper into the doghouse, and backpedaled quickly. "Well, she didn't go into a lot of detail. Just that you'd had a really bad time not too long ago and she wondered if I might have some insights about what the recovery looks like for . . . people who've been through what we've been through. I'm here because I want to be, Serg— Captain, I swear. I'm fine talking about it now, and I could tell she cares a lot about you and just wants to make sure you're okay."

Olivia's dubiousness softened a little, the frown lines at her mouth and forehead following suit. She didn't reach for Amanda, but neither did she brush away the hand that squeezed her knee.

"That's all I want, Liv. That's all that matters to me. I'm sorry I sprung it on you like this, but I just . . . I had to get you here somehow. Please don't hate me, darlin'."

Olivia sighed, but eventually her hand slid closer until it burrowed lightly under Amanda's, curling up there to hide. "I don't hate you. But next time please tell me, so I'm not completely blindsided."

It would have been so easy to bring up the therapy session and how unfair that had been to Amanda, you wanna talk about blindsided, I'll show you blindsided! But Amanda pushed those thoughts away—that was the daughter of Mean Dean Rollins shining through, always needing to be right, always demanding to have the last and cruelest word, because if you couldn't beat 'em you dragged 'em down to your level—and scooped Olivia's hand into hers, placing it in top. She didn't care about having the upper hand anymore; she cared about Liv.

"I know. I will," she said, and meant it.

By the time the meal arrived, Evie had described her downward spiral after getting expelled from Hudson and watching one of her rapists walk free: riskier and riskier pornography shoots, a drug habit to deaden her senses and inhibitions ("Sometimes I worry that's what caused Timothy's issues," she said in a haunted tone), an overdose that nearly killed her. Amanda's stomach was churning too much to enjoy the falafel, and as suspected, Olivia had picked maybe two bites of spinach and feta from the middle of the puff pastry on her plate, then set her fork aside.

"And I still kept going back, regardless. By that point I thought it was all I was good for, you know?" Evie had built herself a fine-looking gyro of lamb, feta, tomato and tzatziki, which she had no problem making her way through as she spoke. She brought the wrap directly from plate to lips, with no pretense of meeting halfway or ducking to catch an escaped morsel. "I guess, for a while there, it kind of was. I wasn't a very good mom back then. I was still so angry. I actually kind of resented Timmy for being born, how crazy is that? He was unplanned and—"

A sideways glance at Olivia revealed a faint smile that could be mistaken for polite attentiveness, but Amanda saw past it to the queasiness underneath. She was on the verge of asking Evie to stop, in hopes of salvaging the rest of dinner, then getting the hell out of dodge with her wife, when the younger woman's voice took on a softer, nostalgic quality.

"—ended up being the best thing that could have happened to me. He was around eight months when I started getting the tingling in my arms. That's all it was at first, just pins and needles. But within a month, the pain was so bad I couldn't even lift my baby. I literally almost dropped him a couple times." That admission slowed Evie's appetite, and she put down the remaining bites of gyro, shuddering. "Finally I went to the ER. Found out I had some pinched nerves and two vertebrae were misaligned. My brainstem was injured too. The doctor told me if I kept having rough sex, I'd end up paralyzed. Or brain damaged. Maybe both."

"Oh my God," Olivia breathed. "Christ," Amanda said at the same time.

Evie nodded. She contemplated the hunk of lamb and pita, as if she might finish it off, but opted for nibbling on a french fry instead. "Yeah, it was pretty awful. He recommended emergency surgery, I was that close. I didn't have anybody to watch Timmy, not anybody stable anyway, and I thought I might lose custody." A catch in her throat prompted her to reach for the Diet Coke she had yet to touch. She toyed with the straw after taking a sip. "Then, out of nowhere, my mom called me. It felt really . . . well, almost like an answered prayer, if you believe in that sort of thing."

I don't, Amanda thought. On the outside, she smiled through folded lips.

"I told her what was happening, or about needing the surgery at least. She came down right away. I thought it would be weird being together after everything, but it turned out we were both really happy to see each other. She didn't even ask about my work." Evie took another ponderous sip before returning the glass to its water ring on the table. "She probably just didn't want to have to tell my dad, but it was nice getting to just be her daughter again. She stayed for the whole thing, too: surgery, recovery, physical therapy. I ended up having a rod inserted to stabilize my spine. Hence the poor range of motion."

The girl turned side to side, demonstrating her inability to turn her head without moving her entire upper body. She threw in a little joke, switching her arms back and forth at the elbows in a stiff robotic dance as she faced them again. "And, you know, I'd like to say I got out of the adult entertainment industry right then and there, but I did try to go back. Nobody wants to watch someone who looks like they're under the Petrification curse having sex, though. There were too many stunts I couldn't do anymore and the work just wasn't available, so . . . I quit."

Amanda shifted nervously. There was a huge difference between leaving porn because you were physically unable to perform at the same level and deciding to retire from law enforcement because you were emotionally incapable of handling the work, but still. If she could see the comparison, vague or not, Olivia surely could as well. She laced her fingers with Olivia's larger but somehow gentler ones. They settled in, as if fitted perfectly for the grooves between Amanda's fingers. If only she had the gift of psychic touch and could read the thoughts connected to the warm palm in hers.

"I was pretty low for a while after that," Evie said. "But I was able to hold my son again, and we'd bonded a lot more while I was recuperating. That helped me through the rougher spots, and then, actually, I remembered what you had said, Captain Benson. About how important it is to get therapy and work through the trauma. I hadn't really done that, like . . . at all, at that point.

"So, I checked out the free clinic near my apartment. Just to see. I wouldn't say the first therapist I got was great, but she left after a while, and then I started seeing Steph. Oh my God, she helped me so much. We did all the things: CBT, EMDR, ACT, neurofeedback, you name it we tried it." Evie chuckled around a mouthful of french fries. Her appetite had been restored. "Of course, I had a lot of mental health junk to work through because of my job, but that improved once I started digging into the trauma. It was scary, I won't lie. I kinda . . . "

She glanced up from beneath heavy eyelashes, giving the impression that she was ducking her head, though it was a movement she likely couldn't achieve. Her eyes were on Olivia. "I kinda used you as my inspiration. My ideal of the person I wanted to be like when I recovered. You just seemed so . . . I don't know, fearless when we first met. Strong. Unstoppable. I guess it's a little silly, but it gave me a goal to work towards. Not that I think I'm anywhere near as badass as you are. But you definitely kept me motivated."

At the word fearless, Olivia tensed and looked as though she might cry. A long time ago that had been the word that inspired her, so much so that she wore it on a chain around her neck, the same way she wore their children's names now. It was the ultimate compliment for someone like her, who valued courage and standing up for what's right, but it had developed a sharp edge—for now it was a reminder, too, of what had been taken from her. Amanda blinked, surprised to find her own eyes full of tears. She feigned interest in probing the bed of rice on her plate with a fork until they had passed.

"I'm honored that you held me in such high regard, Evie," Olivia said, her quiet tone hard to decipher. She had always been modest and a little embarrassed when someone started extolling her virtues, but that was when she'd known she possessed them. It didn't even seem to register anymore, as if she were commenting on an unknown third party. "And that I could be part of your healing process. I'm afraid I'm not so fearless these days, though. What happened to me . . . it showed me just how stoppable I really am."

"Aw, Liv, no." Amanda shook her head, ready to list all the ways that wasn't true. But Evie beat her to it, and maybe that was better. Sometimes hearing it from an outsider, instead of someone who loved you and was apt to sugarcoat, made a stronger impression.

"I know it feels that way now. But you have to give it time. I'm still getting my life back together in some ways myself, and it's been nine years. A lot of my baggage came from doing porn, so it's different, but not entirely." Evie swirled a fry in a dollop of ketchup and chewed it contemplatively. "You know, another one of the things that helped me was something else you said—that what happened to me doesn't define me. It's true for you too, Captain. What happened to you doesn't define you. And look at me now. If that scared eighteen-year-old nobody can get her power back, based on a few words from you, imagine what you can do for yourself."

Holding her breath, Amanda slid a sideways glance at her wife. Thoughtful silence had passed over the table, and she didn't want to spoil it with her big, twangy mouth. If nothing else, Olivia was considering Evie's reasoning, and that was a good sign.

"How do you . . . " Olivia hesitated, biting her lower lip. Although it was a cute habit, its recent resurgence—or rather, the cause behind it—detracted somewhat from its charm. "Forgive me for asking, but . . . how do you cope knowing your assault was recorded? That anyone could have watched it and seen you being violated so horrifically?"

Under the table, Amanda's hand gave an involuntary twitch. She hoped Olivia either didn't feel it or attributed it to Amanda's restless nature. No indication was given.

Evie looked around the restaurant for a moment, at the busier tables toward the front. Her full lips curved into a faint smile. "Kinda like this. Avoiding people and places that make me uncomfortable. Staying low-key. That's some of the reason I changed my look after the porn. I didn't want to get recognized, especially when I'm with Tim, so I changed my hair, my glasses. Not to go all Clark Kent on you, but it really works. I hardly get recognized anymore, and when I do, it's as Roxanne, not the Hudson rape video girl. Awful as it sounds, interest fades after a while. It's also sort of comforting, though."

No one seemed too convinced by the last part, but they each nodded. There was always some newer, more heinous tragedy coming along to outdo the old, and that was just a fact. Sooner or later, Olivia's attack would be forgotten too, if there was anyone still alive who had gotten a sick thrill from her video.

"Paranoia does get the best of me sometimes," Evie said knowingly when Olivia surveyed the room, a bit dubious. "But Timmy and Hunter can usually pull me out of it. When they're with me, I'm focused more on them than on myself. After a while, you just kinda trick your brain into not worrying as much, if that makes sense."

"It does." Olivia nodded, and this time it was sincere. Amanda could tell by the way she drew their joined hands closer to her abdomen, as if already keeping Amanda near, for the comfort Evie had described. "Hunter is your . . . "

Evie gave a light laugh and an errant little wave of her hand, presumably in response to her forgetfulness. "Boyfriend, sorry. Well, fiancé technically. We've been engaged forever, but haven't found the right moment to make it official yet. He's a former adult film worker, like me. That's how we originally, uh, met. I know it sounds sketchy, but it's not. He's a really good guy and he loves Timmy like he's his own. And he's got his own money, so I know he's not after mine."

"Always a plus," Amanda said, toasting with her water glass.

"Amanda," Olivia said, but there was the tiniest hint of amusement behind the scolding. And Evie laughed again, so no offense had been taken there. Amanda sipped her water innocently, earning her a roll of her captain's big brown eyes.

"It's true, though. I doubt if I would have trusted him nearly as much if he hadn't been around before the settlement money." Ruminating on a fry, Evie caught the questioning looks on the faces of both women across the table. "Oh right, I didn't get to that part yet. Yeah, so, I took the production company to court for my injuries. Didn't think it would do much good, but some of the other actresses backed me up and threatened to come forward with their own complaints. I guess the company decided they would rather buy me off than get a reputation for not taking care of their stars. The settlement was enough to cover my medical bills and keep me and Timmy going for . . . quite a while. It's actually more money than I know what to do with."

Well, that explained the Birkin bag.

"Wow. Good for you, Evie." Olivia, who had very little interest in discussing wealth most occasions, sounded fairly impressed. She was all for survivors getting their due in court, even long after the fact, if it meant the person(s) responsible had to own up to their mistakes. Or at least pay through the nose for them. In Evie's case, it was probably as close to justice as she would ever get. "That must take a big weight off your shoulders. Knowing you can provide for your son."

"Totally. He's going to a great school now, where they know how to work with kids who have developmental disabilities. I used to worry how he would turn out, but now I'm pretty sure he's going to be okay. More than okay." Evie smiled, and the conversation flowed naturally between the three of them from then on, each of them brightening as they chatted about their children. There was even talk of setting up a play date for Timothy, Noah, and Jesse.

They were waiting on containers for the leftovers—less than a quarter of Olivia's spanakopita was gone, prompting the waiter to inquire if something was wrong with the meal—when Evie studied them rather fondly. "I still can't believe you two ended up married," she said. "I don't mean that in a bad way. You're great together. I just had no idea when we first met that you would join forces and become, like, this ultimate lesbian power couple."

"We didn't either," Amanda said, chuckling. She snuck a peek at Olivia, breathing a sigh of relief when she laughed along. Laughing in public might seem like a small step, but to Amanda, who missed the throaty, mirthful sounds her wife made when she was genuinely amused, it was huge. "Huh, babe?"

"Nope. You hadn't quite worked your magic on me yet. But in my defense, you were a bit of a handful." Olivia lifted their clasped hands and chucked Amanda on the chin with her own knuckles. "Still thought I might have to send you packing back to Atlanta. Ponytail, pickup, and all."

"Sorry you didn't?"

"Not even a little."

They exchanged small, almost coy smiles, and Amanda saw a faint ray of hope, in the form of Olivia's sweet girlish expression. It felt like they were flirting again, right down to the butterflies that flitted inside her belly. Maybe staging this sit-down hadn't been such a bad idea after all. She winked at Olivia, giddy as a child when it was returned.

"Aww." Evie sounded like she was watching nuzzling kittens from outside a pet shop window. "Okay, it's official. You guys are coming to my wedding—whenever that is. I want this . . . " She made a circular gesture at them, fingers splayed. "Vibe. Juju. Whatever you got going on. I want it at my wedding."

After a moment's thought, Olivia said, "Love, sweetheart. It's called love."

. . .