"You're stalling," Paul murmured impatiently from the doorway behind her.

He was right about that; she was stalling. Dragging her feet, trying to buy herself a little time.

She couldn't confront him out on the street, with her toddler in her arms; she'd needed somewhere safe to put Noah down, to protect him from whatever was coming, and she needed a goddamn weapon. A knife, the baseball bat, something she could hold in her hands and use to keep Paul at bay if the conversation became as dangerous as she feared it would. She had a theory, about Paul; it was Paul who wanted a baby, not his wife, and Paul treated Riley like a little prince. That boy adored his father, and Paul had done nothing to make Olivia suspect he was abusing his son - and certainly his parents didn't suspect him, either, given the interactions Olivia had witnessed between the family at Thanksgiving. Maybe it was just women Paul had a problem with; maybe he wouldn't want to hurt Noah, no more than he'd been willing to hurt his own son. So far her theory seemed to hold water; Paul had not objected to her request to take their talk into her house, and he'd stood back and let her get Noah settled in a corner of the living room, tucked away safely behind a baby gate, without complaint, but now that was done and Paul was ready to get down to business.

"I'm just making sure he's all right," she answered mildly, but Paul could see that her son was perfectly content, sitting on the floor surrounded by his toys, and she no longer had an excuse to linger.

Here we go, she thought. She wanted to get Paul as far away from Noah as she could, and so she left the living room, closed the gate behind her and set off for the kitchen with Paul hot on her heels. She didn't like turning her back on him, but she got the sense that Paul wanted to talk; if he meant to hurt her, he wouldn't do it until he said his piece.

"So," he began as they entered the kitchen. Olivia stepped around to the other side of the island, keeping the expanse of counter between them, and for the moment Paul seemed satisfied with that.

"Were you ever gonna tell me the truth, Olivia?" he asked.

"What is it you think I need to tell you?"

That was what she needed to ascertain first; she had no idea what Paul knew - or thought he knew - or how he knew it, and she didn't dare speak until she was certain of where things stood.

"We can start with the fact that you're dead," Paul said drily.

Shit. It wasn't just that he'd overheard Elliot's too-casual use of her last name in the backyard, then; Paul knew more than just her name. He knew who she was.

I'm so fucked, she thought.

"Obviously I'm not," she replied, very, very quietly.

"You need to be more careful," he said darkly. "It was ridiculously easy to find you."

"How -"

"Marshall," Paul answered coolly. "I saw that son of a bitch leaving here the other morning, and I decided to follow him. He's got a nice little house on a nice little street. His wife - his real wife, not whoever the fuck that other woman is - called him Elliot. I had his address, all I had to do was look up the county property records. Elliot Stabler and wife, Kathy Stabler. I Googled him and what do you know? He's a cop with a pretty partner named Olivia Benson."

That explained it, she thought; that explained how he knew her name, but it also explained his black eye and busted nose. It was clear Paul had recently been in a fight with someone - someone who probably got the better of him - and if he'd followed Elliot home, if he'd been close enough to hear Kathy's voice, it was probably Elliot who'd broken his face. A sickly sort of pride surged through her at the thought, but it was not enough to drown out the rising tide of her horror.

Olivia reached out, pressed her palms flat to the island, let it hold her up as her knees threatened to give way beneath her. So much for Omaha, she thought; so much for the quiet little life she'd been trying to build, so much for justice for Amy Johnson, so much for her dreams of a future with Elliot. It was all ruined, now, over before it had ever really begun. Paul knew too much; even if they put him away now, there was nothing to stop him making contacts in prison, sharing her home address with people who'd gladly hurt her. Olivia Benson was already dead, and now Lindsey Duncan was dying, too.

"Here's what I don't get," he said. "Is what the fuck are you doing here? No way they went to all this trouble to put you undercover to catch some guy who offed his pathetic wife. You hiding from somebody, Olivia? That cartel the papers said killed you, you hiding from them?"

"Did you kill your wife?" she asked. She needed a plan, needed to keep Paul talking long enough for her to find her way out of this mess, and besides, she really did want to know. It mattered to her, what happened to Amy Johnson; she couldn't turn her back on a victim, even with her own life hanging in the balance.

"Who gives a shit?" Paul asked in a voice that was coldly, viciously devoid of concern. "Nobody misses her."

"Riley -"

"Riley doesn't even remember what she looks like. He doesn't need a woman to teach him how to be a man. What about your boy, huh? Whatever his name is? What kind of man do you think he'll be, growing up without a father?"

A better one than you, she thought.

"Or maybe he does have a father. He kinda looks like your asshole partner."

"He's not Elliot's," she said. That was not a conversation she wanted to have with a murderer, but she wanted to keep him distracted, didn't want him to notice that she was drifting off to the right, inching closer to the back door and the little baseball bat she kept there. It wasn't the most effective weapon, but it was close to hand - unlike the knives, all of which were closer to Paul than to her - and if she was fast enough and strong enough she could do some damage with it. Break a wrist, shatter a cheekbone, take out an ankle, maybe. It was better than nothing.

"You really are a whore, aren't you?" Paul sneered. His insult had no effect on Olivia; she knew the truth. Knew the truth of her son's origins, and knew the truth of her own heart, and she would not be shamed by a low life like Paul.

"What do you want, Paul?" she asked him carefully. "So you found out who I am. What does it matter?"

"It matters because now I got a pair of cops sniffing around, asking questions about my wife. You know your partner called her sister?"

No, she hadn't known that; the sister was on Elliot's list of witnesses to interview, but Olivia hadn't talked to him since early Saturday morning, and she hadn't realized he'd already made the call. What had he learned? Was she ever gonna find out, or was she gonna die right here, twenty feet away from her son?

"If Amy killed herself, we both know you've got nothing to worry about -"

"Oh, cut the shit. Let's be honest with each other, Olivia. All you've done is lie to me from the moment we met. At least tell me the truth right now."

"You first."

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I killed her. You know how easy it is, to make a murder look like a suicide? It's gonna be a little harder with you - " he reached beneath his jacket and pulled a gun from the waistband of his jeans, and Olivia's heart began to race - "but I think I can figure it out."

He pointed the gun right at her, and she froze for a moment, weighing her options. If he wanted this to look like a suicide he couldn't shoot her from the other side of the island; he'd need to be closer to her. He wanted her to move, to bolt, to make it easy for him, and so she did not take a single step.

"Poor sad cop, all alone, career over, no friends, married lover who's never gonna leave his wife and his five fucking kids for you. You're as pathetic as she was. No one will be surprised you killed yourself. They'll just be surprised it took this long."

"And what happens then, Paul?" she asked. "Elliot's already looking into you for Amy's murder. You think he's gonna stop if you kill me?"

"I think he'll be grateful I took you off his hands," Paul said. "His life'll probably be a lot easier without you in it."

He's got no idea how true that is, Olivia thought sadly. Life would be so much easier for Elliot once she left. He wouldn't be torn in opposite directions, wouldn't have to choose who to love and who to leave. He'd finally be able to be the kind of man, the kind of father, he'd always wanted to be, the kind of man he never could be so long as she was around, taking him away from the ones who needed him most. He'd be free.

But Paul was wrong, too. He was wrong, to think Elliot would give up, to think that the case would die with her. Whatever else he was, Elliot wasn't a quitter, and Olivia's death would galvanize him. He wouldn't stop until he brought Paul down, whatever the cost.

"Can we do this now, please?" Paul asked, stepping towards her with the gun in his hand, pointing straight at her.

Paul's back was to the living room; he wasn't pointing the gun anywhere Noah. As long as Olivia drew his fire away from that room her boy was safe. The noise was probably going to scare the hell out of him, but she couldn't stop it now. But what could she do? Paul was too far away for her to make a grab for the gun herself. To disarm him, she'd need him close, and he'd want to be close, anyway, probably wanted to shoot her in the head, put the gun in her hand after and make it look like she'd done it herself.

You better pick the right side, she thought bleakly, remembering Lewis and a game of roulette and the splatter of blood across her face. Strangely, in that moment the memory didn't fill her with shame or fear; if anything, it inspired a sort of righteous indignation. How dare he, she thought, how dare this useless, cornfed motherfucker believe, even for a second, that he could succeed where others had not? He had no idea who she was, what she had survived; Lewis and the cartels and a host of unrelenting horrors had all come for her, and she had walked away from every battle victorious and alive. If William goddamn Lewis had not killed her, she could not - would not allow - Paul fucking Johnson to end her in her own kitchen.

Fuck it.

She shot off to the side like a rocket, and Paul lunged for her, but she was too fast and the distance between them was too great. Her hands were on the baseball bat before he touched her; she grasped it hard and spun on her heel, twisting back around, towards him, with as much force as she could muster, and he hadn't been expecting that, hadn't been expecting her to move towards him, never even saw the bat; for one split second, shorter than a heartbeat, she had the upper hand, and that was all she needed. The bat cracked across Paul's face so hard and so fast she heard the bones in his cheek shatter, and the gun clattered uselessly away from him as he screamed and raised his hands to staunch the bleeding from his already battered nose.

Idiot, she thought, grabbing hold of him and ramming her knee into his balls. His legs buckled and she hit him one more time, slammed her fist into the ruins of his face, and then she pushed him away, left him stumbling back against the counter while she dove for the gun. He recovered fast, started to dive towards her, but pulled back quick; she caught hold of the gun and rolled over onto her back, pointing it up at him from the floor.

"You wouldn't," he slurred through bloody lips.

"Try me, motherfucker," she answered.

He looked at her, saw the grim determination in her eyes, the professional grip she held on the gun, and his shoulders sagged.

He was, in the end, a coward. He actually started to cry.

"Hands above your head," she barked, and he complied, sniveling. She kept her gaze steady on him, kept the gun steady in her right hand, and with her left she reached retrieved her phone from her pocket, and pulled up the contacts.

The phone rang twice, and then the call picked up.

"Jackie," Olivia said breathlessly, watching Paul unblinking. "I need your help."