A/N: again, TW for a brief mention of suicide, and domestic abuse.

She didn't want him to be suspicious, so when he dropped his hand to rest gently, possessively on her thigh, she didn't tell him stop.

She didn't want to believe the worst of him, because that was something Olivia would've done. Lindsey didn't need to see the world as a dark and terrifying place; Lindsey didn't need to assume the worst of everyone she met. Lindsey could have faith in the goodness of the people around her, so she tried not to listen to the voice in the back of her mind, the voice that had already branded Paul a killer.

She didn't want to be alone, so when he offered to help her take Gabe inside she didn't tell him no.

Riley was staying with his grandparents for the long weekend; they were making the drive to Kansas City in the morning, taking Riley to Great Wolf Lodge, and the boy had been beside himself with excitement, and Paul seemed pretty excited, too, at the prospect of three nights without his son, three nights to spend uninterrupted in Lindsey's company. The visit to his parents felt like some kind of test, an attempt to gauge how serious she was about committing to Paul, to being in his life, being his partner or girlfriend or whatever, an attempt to gauge how well she fit in with the people who mattered most to him, and seeing as Carole had kissed her cheek and told her come back any time as she was leaving, seeing as how Paul couldn't stop smiling every time he glanced her way, she figured she'd probably passed. Proven to him that she was good, that she was normal, that she wouldn't embarrass him.

The thing was, though, that Paul had failed her test; whatever his reasons, whatever the truth might have been, he'd lied to her. That was a dealbreaker.

Except that she felt a little guilty about that, about considering breaking things off with him on account of his lie, because she'd done nothing but lie to him since they met. Lied about her name, where she'd come from, what had happened to her; every detail she'd given him about her life, of which there were precious few, had been a lie. She had her reasons for lying; maybe he did, too. Maybe it wasn't as bad as it seemed.

It seemed pretty bad, though.

She put Noah to bed herself, left Paul alone in the kitchen while she carried Noah up the stairs, tucked him in, brushed his soft hair back from his forehead with a gentle hand. All of this, everything she'd done, had been for him; every sacrifice she'd made had been undertaken in the name of keeping him safe. That meant protecting him from her, too, from her wary, untrusting heart. Paul could be good for Noah, couldn't he? A father already, a man who always spoke kindly to his own son, a normal, decent, nice man, Paul could be a good example for Noah to follow as he grew up.

I'd rather he turn out like Elliot, she thought, though she immediately dismissed it.

Paul could be bad for Noah, too. If Paul had anything to do with his wife's death…even if he hadn't orchestrated it, he still could've played a role. His own mother thought Amy's problems had begun before Riley was born. Had Paul ignored the warning signs? Had he failed to support her, to be there for her the way she needed him to be? Had he learned from those experiences, or would he abandon Olivia, too, leave her to fight her battles alone?

I need to know the truth, she thought as she left Noah's room on silent feet. She needed to know what had happened to Amy Johnson, and she needed to know why Paul had lied. The truth would guide her, help her make this impossible decision.

She wanted to take a few minutes, splash some water on her face, think her way through the conversation she wanted to have, decide how best to approach Paul, marshal her arguments and gather herself before she broached the topic of Amy's suicide with him, but Paul gave her no such respite. Though she'd asked him to wait in the kitchen, asked him to pour them each a glass of wine so it would be ready when she finished up with Gabe, he'd chosen to loiter in the corridor outside Gabe's bedroom instead.

"Paul," she started to call his name, started to tell him she wanted to talk, but he didn't give her the chance.

He smiled at her, bright and wide, and before she could take another step he was on her, strong arms wrapping around her, soft lips pressed hard to hers in a kiss more heated than any they'd shared so far. It caught her by surprise, the passion in his touch, the possessive way he held her, one of his hands dropping immediately to her ass, rocking her into him while his tongue surged into her mouth.

Who knew he had it in him? She thought in wonder. Honestly, she was kinda impressed. She liked a man who knew what he wanted, liked it when her man wanted her, unequivocally, hungrily, and it would've been so, so easy just to give in. Let herself turn to putty in his hands, let the heat of his kiss burn away her fears, work out some of the anxiety thrumming through her between the sheets. Until now Paul had been gentle more than anything else, tender and soft and a bit boring, left her a little disappointed not because she didn't come but because she didn't come the way she wanted to. The thought of him letting go a little, taking her a little harder, going a little farther than he had up 'til now was an exciting one.

But it felt wrong. She couldn't do it, couldn't let him sweep her off her feet, not when thoughts of his dead wife were floating through her mind, not when she was troubled by so many unanswered questions. Questions about Amy, and what drove her to do what she had done, questions about how a woman could've put her son to sleep, kissed his forehead and then walked away from him knowing she'd never see him again. Questions about Paul, and what he'd done, and what he hadn't done.

"Wait," she murmured breathlessly against his lips, even as his heavy bulk pushed her into the wall behind her, even as one of his thighs pressed eagerly between her own.

"Don't wanna wait," he growled back. "Want you."

He dropped his mouth to the curve of her neck, to the same place where Elliot's lips and teeth had once left a bruise, and sucked her skin hard between his teeth, and it felt so, so good, but it also felt so terrifyingly wrong that she pressed her hands hard to his shoulders and began to push him away.

"We need to talk," she said, but he didn't go easily.

"We'll talk later," he said, something dark flashing in his eyes, though she couldn't say for sure whether that something was desire or anger. "Right now, I'm gonna fuck you."

It was just the way he'd said it. The words might have been sexy, coming from someone else. Someone she trusted, someone she knew. If Elliot had said it, she might have gone weak in the knees, might have decided he was right, might have wanted him between her thighs more than she wanted any conversation, but when Paul said I'm gonna fuck you a chill lanced through her, and she needed his hands off her at once.

He pressed into her again, but this time she was ready; she twisted her body away from him, wrenched herself out of his grip and retreated a few steps down the corridor, running her fingers through her hair and trying to get her breathing under control.

"What the hell's going on with you?" Paul grumbled, adjusting his pants over his half-hard cock and pouting at her as if he were a child and she'd just stolen his favorite toy.

"I need to talk to you about Amy," she said.

The change that came over him then was immediate, and profound. That pout of his turned into something else, something grim and furious, and he strode forward, crowded her as he stared down at her, hard and unflinching.

"Who told you her name?"

What happened to my nice midwestern boy? She wondered as she stared up at him in sorrow. The man in front of her was a stranger, and she wanted him out of her house at once. Whatever had happened to Amy, the face Paul showed her now was not the face of a man she could trust in her home, with her son.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket and she reached for it reflexively; she'd been on the job too long, at the beck and call of duty for so many years that she had yet to break the habit of responding immediately to every message she received.

"Seriously?" Paul demanded, incredulous at her decision to read an incoming text just as they danced at the edge of a cataclysmic confrontation.

The text was from a number she didn't recognize.

It's El. Can we talk?

Christ, his timing.

The phone buzzed again before she could decide who to respond to first, Elliot or Paul.

See? He said. I can be normal. I'm not gonna just show up with no warning. Any more.

Come over, she texted back. Now.

There was no doubt in her mind that she could handle Paul on her own, but she was likewise certain that he would not give her the answers she sought. She would need help to uncover the truth about Amy's death - to investigate Amy's death - and for that she needed her partner. It would bother him the same way it bothered her, she knew; Elliot was as much SVU as she was, and he would want to find justice for that woman, the same way he'd wanted to find justice for every woman who'd come before her. They were the same like that, Elliot and Olivia.

"Who the fuck are you texting right now?"

"What the fuck happened to your wife, Paul?" Olivia fired back, tucking the phone back into her pocket. Elliot would come to her, she knew. He'd come because she asked for him.

Wouldn't he?

"What happened to your husband?" he was still standing way, way too close; she'd managed to shield the phone from his view, but now he was just towering over her, and though she wanted, very much, to retreat, she didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he scared her.

"He got drunk and crashed his car," she lied with an ease that shocked her. "Your turn."

"She killed herself. There, you happy?"

"Why did you lie?"

"Jesus, Lindsey," he scrubbed his hand over his face, and as he did some of the tension left his shoulders. He was getting himself back under control; when he dropped his hand he just looked like Paul again, like a sweet, normal guy who'd had his heart broken, and the difference between the two faces he'd shown her tonight frightened her more than shouting and fists ever would.

I don't know him at all, she thought. I never did.

"It's not…we'd just met, and it's not an easy thing to talk about. I was going to tell you, but we've been dealing with your problems and I didn't want to add on. It's not like you ever asked about her. You never ask me anything about myself."

That was true. Lindsey never asked Paul about his life before they met, never asked about his parents or his wife or his work. Lindsey might have been swayed by the earnestness in his expression, might have felt a little bit guilty, a little bit responsible.

Olivia didn't, though. Olivia knew better, and Olivia saw things now that Lindsey could not, had not seen. It was as if a veil had been removed, and the truth was now glaring at her plain as day. Every time Paul had insinuated that she needed help, that she couldn't take care of herself, her son. Every comment he'd made about her weaknesses, about how she couldn't cook, about how she let men take advantage of her. Even now; dealing with your problems, he'd said, placing the blame for his untruths on her. The whole time; he'd been manipulating her the whole time, and she was through with letting him.

"I think you should leave," she said.

Paul didn't like that.

"Lindsey, come on," he said, dropping his hand to settle on her waist.

"Get your hand off me," she said, pulling back from him, though his grip didn't let her get far. "I want you to go."

He didn't move his hand. He kept it right there, anchored on her waist, and reached for her with the other. Probably he meant to touch her face, stroke her cheek or brush back her hair, but he had revealed the truth of himself to her, because when she told him to stop, he didn't.

Elliot would've stopped.

Her hand cracked across his face, sharp and hard, the sound of her palm striking his cheek echoing loud as a gunshot in her ears. He recoiled from her with a pathetic cry, cradling his cheek in his palm, glaring at her petulant as a child.

"I told you not to touch me," she snapped at him. "Get out of my house."

"You're crazy," he said.

I'll show you crazy, she thought, and stepped towards him with a menacing intent, wishing like hell the Marshals had let her have a gun. Fists would have to do, if it came to that.

It didn't, though; Paul was a coward, in the end. He turned away, and beat a path out of the house, and Olivia followed him the whole way out, slamming the door closed behind him and locking it for good measure. She watched him through the windows, and as he faded from sight she went door-by-door, making sure every entry to the house was locked. Then she went to her closet, and picked up the small baseball bat she'd bought for Noah - she was thinking about starting him in Little League next year - and then she went to the kitchen. She dug around in her catchall drawer, picked up a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, and then slipped out the back door.

With a sigh she sat down on the back stoop, and pulled up the feed from her front door camera on her phone. Watching the grainy footage of the street, unblinking and on high alert in case Paul decided to come back, she balanced the bat on her knees, and tucked a cigarette between her lips.

I'm almost there, a text from the number she now knew was Elliot's flashed across the screen as she stared intently at her phone.

Thank God, she thought. Thank God.