A/N: this chapter references things from Chapter 25.

There's a mustiness to Olivia's apartment that he notices as soon as he enters. That, and the smell. Two and a half weeks later, the sense that something has been burning still lingers in the air. The cleaning crew will no doubt sanitize the place ahead of Olivia's return – if she ever chooses to – but they're not due until Wednesday.

It's the sight of her living room that makes him gasp. He was not sure what he expected, but it wasn't this.

The place is trashed. Furniture is overturned; objects are scattered across the floor, many smashed; a pile of books lies in a heap in front of a bookcase; open bottles of liquor are out on the kitchen counter. There's an overturned floor plant, the dirt forming a mess on a white area rug. And in the middle of the room, an armchair lies on its side. Next to it, on the floor, are scraps of duct tape and bits of other debris Elliot can't identify. The floor and rug are stained with blood in three different spots. It's most concentrated around the chair, but it tracks to the living room, and then on down the hallway.

The blood is also in the bedroom: on the floor and staining the naked white mattress. As he stands, staring at the mattress, he finds himself wondering what kind of analysis was done in the lab to determine what body part this blood came from.

And then he tries to unwonder it.

Her dresser drawers are open, her underwear in bunches on the floor. She will no doubt want to burn all of this. He turns away, feeling like he's violating her just by standing here.

Inside her closet, he searches for the black dress she described, which she intends to wear to the Mayer funeral tomorrow. It's a simple sleeveless linen with a scoop neck. He locates it at the back of her closet, smelling it, trying to detect if it's been touched by Lewis. To his relief, it smells like fresh laundry detergent. As he holds it up to the light, he worries that she will feel self-conscious in it, because the scoop neck will no doubt expose several of the burns on her upper chest. He wonders if she thought of that when she told him to get it. He scans her closet for a dress that might serve as a Plan B, but can't find anything appropriate. He stands, deliberating what to do, then decides to leave it alone. He folds the dress over his arm and resumes his search for the other things she wanted.

Maybe, he thinks, she'll decide to skip the funeral altogether.

He has no reason to wander into the kitchen area, but he does, and then immediately regrets it. Cragen had mentioned the pan on the stove, but the second he lays eyes on it, he feels bile rise up.

The pan is still right there on the front left element, blackened and charred, a wire hanger laid inside. On the counter next to the stove is a second wire hanger, its hook mangled from melting. There are also several pennies and what looks to be a mail key.

He is a former Marine and also no stranger to grisly crime scenes, but he can't help the image that spontaneously appears in his mind: that of his beautiful partner, sitting in her own armchair, tied up and completely helpless, being forced to endure senseless cruelty inflicted by these everyday items, which only a warped, psychotic mind would ever think to use as objects of torture.

The thought of the sheer terror she must have felt is unbearable.

On the left side of the stove is a power drill. He picks it up, hits the button and is startled by the intensity of its whir. He shuts it off, chucks it back onto the countertop like he's allergic to it.

"Oh my God," he wheezes, bending over, clutching his knees. A stream of saliva drips from his lip, onto her tiled floor. "Oh Jesus, oh Jesus."

He cannot imagine how frightening it must have been to be threatened with this thing.

And then he hopes to God that that's all it was: a threat.

He takes a full minute to compose himself and then forces himself, through sheer willpower, to move on. He doesn't have the luxury of letting his emotions overcome him. He needs to wrap this up. She is in his apartment, eight blocks away, where he vowed not to leave her alone for too long. Even if she can handle it, right now, he can't.

Back in her living room, he goes to her mantle, where there are several framed photographs, all smashed. The first is a picture of Olivia with her mother, circa 1998, he estimates. The second looks to be of Olivia at her graduation from the Police Academy, around 1993, also taken with her mother. Olivia is beaming, but her mother sports only a tight smile. Olivia's hair is dark, long, wavy. Her enormous eyes gleam with pride and emotion, and she stares into the camera, one hand clutching her diploma, the other, her mother's shoulder. Elliot stares at the photo intently, trying to think if this is indeed the youngest he's ever seen her.

My God.

He is bowled over by how sexy she was. He wonders if it wasn't a good thing that he didn't meet her for another six years, when his hormones were more under control, when he was more inclined to get to know her, rather than spend every waking moment fantasizing about putting his hands on her. Not that he didn't spend his share of time doing that during their partnership. During his marriage.

Much to his surprise, the third – and last – photo, is one of him and Olivia, taken around fifteen years ago. Her hair was still shoulder length and dark, so it must have been during their first year together.

And that's all she has. He wonders if Brian ever commented on this display. On why Elliot's here, and he's not.

The photos are not on her list of stuff, but he thinks he'll bring them to her anyway.

That is, until he catches a whiff of them. He puts them to his nose, and immediately pulls them away, his face crinkling in disgust.

Did that bastard … urinate on her pictures?

He goes to the desk at the far end of her living room. He opens the middle drawer, which she warned him is packed with junk, hunting for the ATM card for her second checking account. All of her other cards have been cancelled and deactivated, but since her rescue she hasn't had the energy to request new cards. He opens the lower drawer and finds the camcorder he's been searching for.

He turns it around in his hand, studying it, marveling at how ancient it looks. Just as she said, it's still got its memory card in it. He's dying to sneak a peak.

When he gets back to his building, he makes a pitstop to grab his mail, which he hasn't checked in days. With a stack that looks to be mostly junk in hand, he heads upstairs to his apartment. He opens the front door to find Olivia sprawled out on his couch, fast asleep, her hand dangling an inch above the floor. There's a pile of opened greeting cards on the coffee table, and another pile of unopened ones on the floor beneath her hand.

He stands for a second, staring at her, wanting so badly to take her in his arms, to hold her, to kiss her.

Letting her sleep, he goes to his kitchen island to pour himself some water and sift through his mail. After tossing out the junk, a plain white envelope remains, containing a handwritten letter in black ink on a single page of loose leaf paper.

Dear Detective Stabler,

Or should I say, EL-LI-OT. That's how Olivia sounds when she calls your name in her sleep. Did you know that? She moans it. But it's unrequited, isn't it? You never fucked her. I could tell: she was way too desperate. Not that you haven't thought about it, I'll bet. I saw the photos she keeps of you. That's you in them, right? Not her so-called boyfriend. She pines for you. I can tell you from personal experience, it's worth it. Best fucks I ever had. And oooh, those luscious lips … Here's a tip, Elliot: better if she's got a little booze in her. Oh wait. Not sure you'll want to now. Damaged goods, right? Hehe. You don't know the half of it! If you're as attractive as she seems to think you are, you're better off moving on.

Please give her my regards and tell her I miss her. I'll see her when I get out of here.

W.L.

He grabs the envelope it came in, which he had tossed aside. It's postmarked May 27, a few days after Olivia's rescue, from a mailbox on the Upper West Side, a few blocks away, but a yellow label suggests it first made its way to his old house in Queens, from which it was forwarded here, to his little one-bedroom on West 107th Street.

His immediate urge is to tear it up, in tiny pieces, before she gets a whiff of it.

Then he stops himself. He considers that this is evidence. And then that it's a threat. It's not inconceivable that Lewis would know about Elliot's existence. He saw the photo on her mantle, and it is plausible that Olivia muttered things while she was unconscious.

But it's shocking that, amidst the drug and alcohol-fueled chaos of her abduction, that Lewis had the wherewithal to find an address, memorize it and use it days later from a jail cell. And then, what? Find a chump or a guard inside to bribe or threaten and have it snuck out and mailed from two blocks away from her apartment?

Thank goodness Kathy and his children no longer live in that house.

Frowning, he composes a text to Cragen.

Far as you know, Lewis is in his cell, right?

As he's about to hit 'send,' he reconsiders. Alerting Cragen about this letter could trigger a new layer to the investigation. It means that Lewis knows more about Olivia than any of them had realized. It means he went through her things, possibly her computer.

It means he might have gotten hold of the camcorder. It means Elliot has to check the contents of that memory card before he hands it over to Olivia.

If Elliot sounds the alarm now, it only creates more trauma for her.

As long as Lewis is behind bars – and Elliot knows there is no circumstance under which Lewis could get out without him and Olivia hearing about it – she is safe. The letter Elliot has received is ugly, brutal, humiliating. But it's just a letter. It's just words on paper. Elliot can tear it up and erase its existence. He can ensure the violation never touches her. There's plenty of evidence to convict Lewis on the facts alone. Whatever admission is contained inside this letter is superseded by the physical evidence, the testimony. These words are circumstantial anyway.

He turned in the gun. At great cost to Olivia, to her privacy and emotional wellbeing, he and Amaro did the right thing. Her gun – and the fluids and the blood that belonged to her – are part of the public record.

He won't violate her trust again. He won't violate her.

She has been humiliated enough.

He stalks to his bathroom, stands over the toilet, his fingers poised to tear up the letter.

Then he reconsiders.

If Lewis is acquitted on the rape charge because she couldn't remember it, Olivia will hang on to that for the rest of her life. Even if he's convicted on his other crimes – and Elliot can't imagine he won't be on something – she will never feel whole if she can't get justice for herself.

He goes to his kitchen, quietly pulls out a Ziploc bag and places the folded piece of paper and the envelope inside. He goes to his closet and buries the baggie deep inside a moving box full of junk.

If – and only if – there is an evidentiary need for the letter, will it ever see the light of day again. And only if he has shown it to Olivia first. He won't blindside her.

He brushes his teeth and grabs his razors and buries them deep in his closet. When he emerges from the bedroom, he approaches the coffee table, where she is still fast asleep in the same position in which he left her. In front of her is a plain white greeting card filled with blue ballpoint handwriting.

Dear Detective Benson,

When I heard on the news about your abduction, I was heartbroken. Five years ago, you went above and beyond the call of duty to catch the man who raped me. I never forgot how hard you tried and how much you cared about my case. During especially rough times I have thought about you and some of the things you said to me and it always helped me get through the day.

You can't imagine how happy I was to learn of your rescue.

Sincerely,

Kelly Sun

Elliot nudges her awake. "Liv?"

She stirs. "Mmm … What time is it?"

"Nine-forty. Do you want to come to bed?"

She squints, stretches two arms in the air. "It's kind of early."

He laughs. "Well, you were asleep."

As she musters to sit up, he plops down next to her on the couch. Her tousled hair is adorable.

She seems to suddenly remember why she's here, and where he's just come from. Her face darkens. "Did you … um, were you there?"

He lays a hand on her wrist. "I got everything."

"How did the place look?"

He shakes his head. "It looked … " What to say? How honest to be? She's not a child. "It looked … like a crime scene."

She grimaces. "They haven't cleaned it?"

"Wednesday."

"Wednesday," she repeats. She nods. "Wednesday. Okay."

"Liv, don't even think about going there – "

"I'm not." She stops him, cups his wrist. "Believe me, I'm not interested in going back there."

He nods at the pile of greeting cards on the coffee table. "How many have you gotten through?"

She shrugs. "A few. I never knew … how many … I always thought all these women forgot my name the minute their case was closed. I mean …"

"They forgot my name," he says. "But never yours. You've made a difference to people."

"I always thought when we couldn't make the case, or the guy was acquitted, that I'd failed."

"You can't fail at something you have no control over. Those women recognized how much you cared."

"I guess … I never thought it was enough."

He nods at the coffee table. "Do you want to open some more? They seem to make you happy."

"They do."

She reaches into the plastic bag on the floor and pulls out an envelope at random.

"Wow, this is a long one," she comments, as she pulls out a sheet of cream-colored bond paper, completely full with elegant black cursive.

Reading over her shoulder, his eyes widen as he recognizes what this is.

Dear Olivia,

I am writing to you guessing that you don't know who I am. For years, my family and I have resisted contacting you, for fear of bringing you pain. But that changed last week when we watched the news coverage of your kidnapping. When you were found alive, I decided I had to take a chance and reach out. Sometimes life's trajectory hits an inflection point, and this felt like one of those times. I hope you can forgive me if this was the wrong decision. And if you choose not to respond to this letter, please know that my family and I wish you all the best in your recovery and hope you are able to find peace.

My name is Deborah Stern, and I was ten years old in 1972, when you almost became my sister. My family and I have wondered about you for over forty years, ever since my parents lost their year-long battle to adopt you. We knew that you went on to college, but very little beyond that, and we've hoped and prayed that you have had a happy and fulfilling life.

In October of 1970, when you were 20 months old, my father found you alone outside the synagogue where he was the rabbi. You had apparently been wandering the streets by yourself for several hours throughout the night. My parents took care of you while the police worked to identify you. It took two days to locate your mother, and during that time all of us – but especially my mother – fell in love with you. We didn't even know your name.

I was the oldest, followed by my four brothers. My mother had always wanted another daughter, but was no longer able to conceive, and I had begged her for a sister. My youngest brother Jeff, who was five at the time, had also wanted another sister. So you can imagine how your sudden appearance in our lives felt like a gift from God.

You were only with us for a few weeks that first time, but you came back to us, again and again, over the course of the following year and a half, and each time our bond with you grew stronger. Every time you were returned to your mother, both of my parents were devastated. They loved you like their own and also feared for your safety. I don't know what kind of relationship you had with your mother, but I suspect you are aware of her problems with alcohol and that, though she loved you deeply, she struggled to take care of you. It was for this reason that my parents fought for permanent custody, and, ultimately, tried to adopt you. I don't think they ever truly got over losing their case.

There are more details to share, but I will let you decide on your own terms if you want to contact me.

I hope this letter does not bring you pain; this, of course, is not my intent, especially as I imagine you are dealing with a lot right now. Rather, on behalf of my family and me – and especially my parents, who are now in their early eighties – we would love to meet you. It's been over forty years, and though you probably have no memory of them, my parents never stopped loving you.

Sincerely and with love,

Deborah Stern

917-555-2222

Olivia sits back. Her mouth is ajar, her eyes stunned. "Is this for real?"

Though Elliot knows that it is, he, too, is caught by surprise. "It would be awfully cruel to fabricate a story like this, don't you think?"

"Yeah." She sits back, rereading the letter silently, her palm on her heart.

When she's done, he nods at the envelope. "There's something else in there."

Olivia opens it, looks up in surprise. "It's a photograph."

Elliot peers over her shoulder at the film-grain image with its white borders, its faded, slightly blurred colors the hallmark of 1970s photography. In its center is a dark-haired little girl wearing a white dress with butterflies and a silver cone-shaped paper party hat, clutching in one hand a gray and white hippopotamus stuffed animal. The little girl is in the midst of blowing out the candles of a birthday cake, her cheeks puffed out and her exotic dark eyes bulging in sheer delight. The cake is elaborately decorated, and Elliot can just make out that its pink frosting reads, Happy Birthday Olivia. In the center of the cake is a number 3 pick. Seated on the girl's left is an older girl of about ten or eleven with dark curly hair and glasses – likely Deborah – and on her right is a little boy of about six, clapping his hands with excitement. Next to him is an older boy, staring at the cake in anticipation. Standing over the kids from behind are what appears to be the parents, both in their late thirties. The mother, a petite woman with shoulder length wavy brown hair and deep brown eyes, is hunched over the little girl's shoulder, laughing, as she attempts to help her blow out the candles. The father, a tall, slim man with sandy brown hair and a cropped beard, is standing next to his wife, smiling.

Olivia flips the photo over. "Olivia's third birthday. February 20, 1972," she reads.

She looks up at Elliot, her eyes brimming. "Could that really be me?"

Elliot takes the photo from her, pretends to scrutinize it for authenticity, though he already knows the answer. "I think it is." He hands it back to her. "What do you think?"

"I've never seen a photo of myself as a child."

"Never? Your mother didn't own a camera?" He's a little incredulous. His mother has an entire bookshelf filled with album after album of his own childhood photos.

"She did, but …." Olivia pauses, as if trying to think how to put it tactfully. "… she wasn't that kind of mother."

"That's definitely you," he affirms, squinting again at the photo. He smiles. "You were so cute."

"I look so happy," she comments wistfully, still staring at it. She reaches out, touches the image with her index finger. "They actually made me a party."

"It was your birthday," he says. "And they loved you."

Unable to curb her emotions, she sniffles. "But … how could I … have never known about this?"

He hesitates, choosing his words carefully. "Liv, if your mother had to fight for custody of you, it makes sense that after she won she wouldn't have told you about this."

She seems to mull this over. "I don't … I don't know how to … what to … think … t-to … I mean …"

He takes her hand in his. "Hey, listen. Why don't you leave this alone for tonight? Give yourself a bit of time to process it. You don't have to decide anything tonight."

"Yeah."

He pauses. "Do you want to come to bed?"

"You mean, your bed?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Or we could go back to the hotel."

"I'm … " She shakes her head sheepishly. "Honestly, I'm too tired."

"Okay, then." He pulls her up, hugs her to his side, and they traverse the short corridor to his room.

He wishes he could take this moment at face value. After what he saw tonight, just the fact that she is alive, ambulatory, willing to sleep in his bed with him, is a miracle.

But he's distracted, on alert: Lewis is aware of Elliot. He is incarcerated, but still writing letters, finding ways to smuggle them out. He is going to elaborate lengths to stalk Olivia.

God help her if Lewis ever gets out.