February 7th
Evening
"Get up," Victor barked; his voice, devoid of any compassion, forced a fresh wave of panic through Olivia's chest, as did the realization that her mouth was now duct taped.
Olivia's head swam as her captor's iron grip jerked her upright, the abrupt movement sending a sharp sting through her already aching muscles. The pain from her bruises and cuts was still raw and her legs felt like lead, the strain of standing making every step a monumental effort. She struggled to keep her bearings, stumbling as she was dragged across the floor.
Her limbs felt uncoordinated, stiff from the cold concrete beneath her feet and the cramped space where she'd been confined for what felt like eternity, even though it had only been…what? Eighteen hours? A couple days? Her mind, foggy with fear, couldn't fully process the reality of her situation. Where was he taking her? Was it time for something worse?
Olivia offered no resistance as she was dragged upward through the narrow basement stairs. Her foot was twisted at an unnatural angle, swollen and bruised, the sharp edges of the shattered bones digging into her broken skin. She stumbled more than once, her body unable to balance on the damaged, bootless limb. During those brief moments of reprieve from the handcuffs, when she had been forced, in humiliation, to use the cat litter, Victor had allowed her—though the permission was more implied than explicit, as he simply watched with cold indifference—to remove her boot from her rapidly swelling ankle before it became impossible to do so. Now, each step sent sharp jolts of pain through her, her vision blurring as she struggled to remain upright. Her breath came in ragged gasps, and the pain consumed her, making it almost impossible to think clearly. She fought to push it away, but with every movement, every shift of weight, the pain would flare anew.
"Move," he commanded, his tone harsh and impatient.
Her throat tightened as they reached an exit, and the sudden blast of cold February air was like a slap to her already battered skin. She gasped in a futile attempt to draw in breath, her body reeling from the shock of the frigid night.
Olivia could feel the icy air seeping through the thin fabric of her clothes, her skin prickling from the cold. When she had left the precinct yesterday-was it only yesterday?-she had dressed with her usual practicality for the February chill. Her long, dark pea coat, a deep charcoal grey that almost blended into the night, had been buttoned against the biting cold, her matching wool toque pulled down over her ears. It was a look she'd worn countless times—sharp, functional, and effortlessly stylish. She couldn't remember how or when they had been taken from her, but she clung to the desperate hope that perhaps they had been left behind, a clue for someone to find. Elliot would recognize them, she was certain of that.
As it was, Olivia was woefully underdressed for February in New York. The silk of her cream-coloured blouse, now wrinkled and clinging to her damp skin, felt fragile and too thin against the chill in the air. Her muted teal blazer, which had once draped elegantly over her shoulders and made her feel composed, professional, now hung limply from her frame, its edges scuffed and smeared.
Olivia stumbled, limping, into the alley, her legs threatening to give way. Her chest was tight with fear as she was dragged toward a rusted van parked at the far end. She couldn't focus on anything but the cold steel of the van looming closer, her mind reeling at the possibility of being confined again.
You'll never survive a second location. The thought surfaced, sharp and unbidden.
You survived it once before. This time, the voice in her mind was Elliot's, steady and resolute. She latched onto it with every ounce of strength she had left.
Victor shoved her into the back of the van without hesitation, the smell of cigarettes and old upholstery overwhelming her. She collapsed onto the cold floor, curling her knees to her chest instinctively, though it gave her no comfort. She shivered uncontrollably.
He slammed the door shut with an unsettling finality, the echo of it reverberating in the pit of her stomach. Olivia's heart raced as the van engine started, the vehicle lurching into motion, the oppressive, suffocating darkness closing in around her.
She had no idea what was coming next, but she was certain it would only get worse.
They stalked the alley in silence, the frigid February air biting at their exposed skin. Their breath fogged in the dim glow of a nearby streetlamp, and the wind funnelled through the narrow passage, carrying the metallic scent of damp concrete and decay. Munch, his gloved hand gripping a flashlight, scanned the narrow path, his eyes following the faint drag marks that snaked deeper into the shadows.
Elliot crouched near the scuff marks, his fingers brushing the disturbed grit and finding it cold to the touch. The chill settled in his bones."No wonder she didn't show up on the traffic cams," he said, his voice low and tense, breath puffing out in uneven clouds. "She wasn't driven away. They dragged her—somewhere close."
Munch adjusted his scarf and aimed his flashlight down the path. "Drag marks lead straight to that side door," he noted, nodding toward a rusted metal entrance half-hidden by a sagging dumpster. The building loomed over them, its windows boarded up, and frost glittering faintly on the cracked brickwork.
Elliot was already moving, his hand reaching for his gun, the leather of his gloves creaking as he gripped it tightly. The door was locked, the metal rimmed with ice, but a solid kick from his boot splintered the frozen frame, sending the door swinging inward with a metallic groan.
Inside, the temperature seemed to drop even further, the cold air settling heavily in the dimly lit interior. The walls were slick with condensation, and their breath misted before them as they moved. The stench of mildew and decay mixed with the sharp tang of old paint.
"Stay close," Elliot muttered as they started down the corridor.
"Close? Trust me, I'm glued to you," Munch replied dryly, his flashlight slicing through the gloom. "Nothing says true partnership like breaking and entering."
The word hit Elliot like a jab to the chest. Partnership. It was the reminder he didn't need—of Olivia, of how much he'd failed her already. He swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as he pressed forward, trying to focus on the task at hand.
Munch caught the flicker of pain in Elliot's expression and immediately regretted his choice of words. "Sorry," he muttered, his tone softening. "Bad timing."
Elliot gave him a sharp look but said nothing, his focus entirely on the next door ahead. They moved methodically, checking each room. Most were barren, their floors littered with broken glass and debris. Then they found the staircase.
The basement wasn't as cold as the main level, but it was damp; it contained the kind of chill that seeped into their bones and stayed there. The walls were bare concrete and jagged stone, glistening with icy dampness. At the bottom of the stairs, Elliot stopped short. His flashlight froze on a dingy mattress in the centre of the space. The stained fabric was unmistakable, and dark blotches marred its surface.
"Blood," Munch observed quietly, his breath clouding the air as he stepped closer. His usually sharp tone softened, the gravity of the scene pulling him into silence.
Elliot's gaze shifted, the flashlight catching the glint of something near the mattress. He crouched and picked it up—a black leather belt, stiff from the cold. A heavy grey coat lay discarded nearby, and a boot a short distance from that. His chest tightened as he recognized the items instantly. They were Olivia's.
Elliot swallowed hard, forcing his mind to push past the dark implications of her discarded coat…and belt. He couldn't let himself dwell on why they had been removed or what it might mean—those thoughts would paralyze him, and Olivia needed him focused, not unraveling.
As he moved through the cellar, his boot sunk into something gritty, its texture foreign underfoot. He halted immediately, instinctively pulling back, and Munch frowned, his flashlight playing over it. Elliot's gaze dropped, and he took in the small pile of cat litter scattered across the floor. He stood still for a beat, frozen in place, before the scent hit—pungent, sour, lingering.
He blinked, his mind slow to process what he was seeing. The litter wasn't just scattered—it was carefully placed, mounded in a deliberate way.
"That's not for a cat," Munch said grimly, his voice nearly a whisper.
The grim reality of what that pile of litter represented sank in, and Elliot swallowed back bile as his stomach churned. He didn't need Munch to spell it out. His fists clenched, the icy air feeling heavier now, suffocating.
His fingers twitched as his mind continued to piece it together. She'd been here. Trapped. Alone. Tears sprang to his eyes as he imagined his strong, proud, independent partner reduced to such small, desperate acts of survival. A bathroom reduced to a makeshift corner. Not even a proper place for the simplest human needs.
"She was here," he said, his voice rough with restrained fury.
Elliot's eyes lingered on the litter for a moment too long, as if trying to decipher the full story behind it. It felt like the moment had expanded—everything around him suddenly felt suffocating, too close, too real. The cold of the room, the mattress, the bloodstains, her clothes, the litter—it all crashed into him, reminding him of the one thing he couldn't escape. He'd failed to protect her.
Munch's eyes swept over the room, catching a faint blood trail leading towards the stairs they hadn't noticed on their way down. "But she's not now," he replied.
Elliot's flashlight tracked the trail, and he straightened, his breath steadying as his resolve hardened. "Then we find where they went," he said, his voice unwavering despite the cold that bit at every word.
Elliot sat in the dimly lit break room, the harsh fluorescent light above humming faintly. His phone felt heavy in his hand, not from its weight but from the call he was about to make. He thumbed Kathy's name in his contacts, his chest tightening as the line rang. He hated this—hated the toll his job took on her, on them. But he couldn't do this any other way. Not with Olivia missing.
"Hey," Kathy's voice came soft but steady, as if she'd been expecting the call. It made him ache even more.
"Hey," he replied, his voice rougher than he intended. He cleared his throat, sitting forward on the edge of the chair. "Listen, uh... I'm not coming home tonight. Probably not for a few nights. I need to stay at the precinct until—until we find her."
There was a beat of silence on the other end, just long enough for Elliot to brace himself. Kathy always chose her words carefully in moments like this, and her quietness was a knife.
"I figured," she said finally, her tone terse. "You don't need to explain."
Elliot exhaled, the air heavy in his lungs. He leaned his elbows on his knees, gripping the phone tighter. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "I know it's not fair, leaving you like this. It's just—"
"I know," Kathy interrupted, and there was no anger in her voice, just a quiet hurt that stung more than any argument could have. "She's your partner. And you'd expect her to do the same for you."
Elliot nodded, even though she couldn't see him. His throat felt tight.
"I'll call when I can," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "And tell Eli—tell him I'm sorry too."
"I will," she promised. Another pause, and then, softer: "Just...take care of yourself, okay? You're no good to her—or us—if you're not."
Elliot closed his eyes briefly, nodding again. "I'll try," he said, though they both knew it was a lie.
When the call ended, the silence of the precinct felt heavier. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the phone in his hand. He should feel grateful for Kathy's support, for her grace. But all he felt was the gnawing guilt of someone who could never seem to be in two places at once.