Whoever was in charge of filing and storing evidence boxes needed to be fired. He squinted at the piece of paper in his palm. He should have brought his glasses, but he hadn't anticipated the level of disorganization that had amassed before him. The harsh fluorescent lights flickered above him until one of the bulbs went out, effectively cutting the available light in half. "Great," he muttered. He held the paper further away from his face so he could make out the names scrawled there. The box he needed should be right where he stood. He stepped closer to the shelves and read the names jotted down in black Sharpie. He moved slowly, box to box, but the damn thing was nowhere to be found. Elliot looked around, but the evidence clerk vanished into the sea of boxes. He appeared to be on his own.

He shook off his irritation and continued to scan the stacks and stacks of box numbers for the one his team needed. It was a fool's errand; he knew that, but he couldn't listen to the AI guy chew his cereal for one more minute. He just had his suspension lifted, and assaulting the man would not be worth working with the idiots at IAB. No, he needed to play nice, and part of playing nice was getting the hell out of the building at the first available opportunity.

Searching in long-term evidence storage for a decade-old box that he wasn't sure existed wasn't how he wanted to spend his afternoon, but here he was.

After another ten minutes of futile searching, he decided to throw in the towel. He reached into his pocket and pulled his phone out to text Ayanna.

E: I can't find the damn thing. We don't actually need this right?

A: We have the digitized evidence, but if we have the physical evidence we might be able to retest for DNA.

A: So yeah. We need it.

E: If I can't find this thing in the next fifteen minutes I'm leaving.

A: Give it thirty minutes. We're grasping at straws right now.

Elliot groaned but did what he was told. He turned a corner and continued down the next aisle of boxes. None of the numbers made sense.

E: These numbers are so out of order, they shouldn't have even bothered numbering them!

A: Boxes should be labeled with the last names of those involved. Try looking in that section, but just read the names instead. Might be quicker.

There was nothing quick about this search, and he was starting to wonder if listening to Vargas chew would have been better than losing himself in this maze. He wandered around, only half-heartedly reading the names as he slowly walked by. As far as he was concerned, it was a lost cause, but Ayanna wanted him to keep looking, so that's what he'd do, but he didn't have to be happy about it.

Names and numbers ceased to have meaning for him, and the dimmed light was beginning to give him eye strain and a headache.

He decided to do one more sweep—after his previous three—before calling it quits. He walked slowly, letting his fingers trail along the box faces. He read the names as he passed, but his eyes were beginning to blur letters together. He blinked a few times and shook his head in an attempt to reset his brain. Three boxes later, a name finally stood out among the sea of cardboard. Unfortunately, it wasn't the box he was looking for.

O.Benson/ W. Lewis

May 2013

Box 1/2

Elliot's stomach sank as his fingers ran over her name written in black marker. He traced the O, but then withdrew his hand as if the surface had become blistering hot. His brow furrowed as he obsessively read the names over and over. W. Lewis. He wracked his brain, trying to find the name among his extensive catalog of offenders, but he came up blank.

He reached for the box but hesitated. Something in his gut told him he needed to back away, but he reached for the box anyway. He lifted the box, and the old cardboard bent under the force of his grip. A voice in the back of his mind was screaming that this was a stupid idea. Ignorance is bliss. But he felt possessed by an insatiable desire for answers. It wasn't a want. It was a need. His hands trembled, not from the physical weight of the evidence box but from its potential to emotionally wreck him. He took a deep breath. For a brief moment, he thought about opening the box right where he stood. For all he knew, it was something minor. It was probably some one-off assault in the course of duty. Things got heated in the interrogation room, and it wouldn't surprise him if a perp lost control and she had been on the receiving end. He could almost see Olivia making a big fuss about filing a report—they all hated needless paperwork—but Cragen would have insisted there had been too many witnesses to brush the incident under the rug.

He wanted to lean into his own optimism, but something about the box felt more significant than a simple assault charge. He felt an ominous premonition that whatever contents the box held would change everything he knew about the woman he loved. The thought was terrifying, but the box enticed him all the same.

He stared at the box now being held in his hands. He would need to check it out of storage. It wasn't what he came for, but he doubted anyone would look twice at his name on the log and stress about him checking out a box that had obviously nothing to do with organized crime. No one would cross-reference the number on the box, and he would return it before it was missed.

The evidence room clerk stood with his back to the desk, his phone tucked against his ear. From the sound of the overheard argument, the guy wouldn't be paying attention to Elliot anytime soon. He scrawled his name onto the log sheet attached to a clipboard that had probably been there since the nineties. After writing his name, he filled in the space for the date and his badge number. The final column was for the case number that was written on the side of the box. He set the box on the counter and turned it so he could quickly jot the numbers into the provided space. With the minimal paperwork complete, he gave the desk clerk a wave before returning the box to its previous position, tucked tightly at his side.

By the time he made it to his truck, his mind had all but forgotten the reason for his original search. The box felt heavy, and not just in the physical sense. For some reason, he felt like whatever the box contained was the reason Olivia kept holding herself back. He swallowed the nervous lump in his throat. He needed to know.

-000-

He wasn't sure how long he'd been driving—long enough for the sky to become dusky and pink. Periodically, the box caught his attention from its position on his passenger set. For years, that seat belonged to his partner. It belonged to Olivia, and the presence of an evidence box sitting in her place unnerved him.

His eyes returned to the road. He knew he could just go home and open the box in the comfort of his home, but he was still under cover, and he couldn't risk spending too much time in the city. At this point, if anyone came looking for him, he would be holed up in a shitty motel off the side of a highway, which would fit with the persona he had adopted. He could have returned to the bunk where he currently resides, but he wanted to keep the contents of this box away from any prying eyes. If there was any blowback, he wanted it to be directed at him. He wanted to keep Olivia as far away from his disastrous life as possible.

The glow of two overhead lights in the parking lot did little to illuminate the space. Most of the lot remained in shadow, which gave Elliot a feeling of ghostly anonymity.

He scanned the keycard and opened the door to his room. Once he flipped the light switch, his eyes swept across the small space. The accommodations were about what he expected them to be. A bathroom with a dingy shower sat at the far end of the room, the door left wide open. A queen bed was positioned in the middle of the room.

He wandered deeper into the room and let the door shut behind him. He noticed that one of the drawers on the small faux wood nightstand appeared to be permanently stuck half-open. He kept both hands on his box but took a quick look in the drawer. He half expected to find drugs, but to his relief, he found only a tattered copy of the Bible shoved inside. It seemed out of place here, as if some well-meaning Christian left it in the drawer as an attempt to save whatever lost soul passed through. The cigarette burns on the cover led Elliot to suspect that whoever had occupied the room previously was beyond redemption. Maybe he was too.

He shuffled across the carpet, keeping his shoes on. The place looked like an accidental needle stick waiting to happen. The brown shag carpet probably hadn't been replaced since the 1970s. He could only imagine what diseases he could contract from this impulsive, quick stay. He eyed the duvet cover suspiciously, not sure he dared sit on it. Didn't he read somewhere that hotels only rarely wash the comforters? He shuddered to think of when the last time the duvet had been sanitized. He tucked the box under his arm and used his free hand to flick the blanket onto the floor. The sheets appeared clean and tightly tucked around the mattress. It was probably the safest place to sit in the entire room.

He carefully set the box on the bed. His chest tightened as he eyed it warily. The box stared back at him like a pair of wide brown eyes. Broken, defeated eyes.

He shook the haunting image away and dropped himself onto the mattress next to the damn thing. He reached for the lid, but his hand stopped just as his fingers brushed the surface. He had to be sure he wanted to know before he lifted that lid. He had to be sure he could live with whatever it contained. He let out a long, slow breath. If she lived through it, then he could too.

With one more tight breath, he lifted the lid and set it on the bed next to the box. He peered over its edge, as if whatever the box contained might reach for his throat and choke the life out of him. He swallowed the tight lump, which began to swell in his throat.

His stomach turned. The box was filled with reports and plastic evidence bags. No one collected this level of evidence for a simple assault. Even an assault on a cop. His previous premonition grew stronger as his stomach acids ate away at his stomach walls. His palms began to sweat as the familiar feeling of adrenaline flooded through his system. With a pounding heart, he reached for the first visible item. He scolded himself for his overreacting nerves. She was fine. No matter what the box contained, he needed to remember that she was alive, warm, and breathing.

He pulled the first item out of the box, and it became very clear that his worry was justified.

What the hell?