Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Client in your office.”

Elliot curses as he closes the door behind him, startled, turning to glare at the room’s sole other occupant.

Jet’s expression is as flat as her voice, and she’s not quite looking at him, as though she’s too distracted by the screen in front of her to bother. Once he might have gotten offended, but by now Elliot’s realized that Jet’s just always like that. Two years in and he’s yet to witness a single situation shock her.

He’d start a betting pool, if there was anyone else around here to run it with.

“Thanks,” he manages around a mouthful of his bagel, pausing to brush the crumbs off his tie before he pauses with his hand on the doorknob to his private office. He turns back to Jet and finds her staring at him — or, his direction, at least — for once, still looking unimpressed. “Anything I should know?”

She shrugs, laconic as ever.

“You’ll see.”

Elliot blinks, squints at her, and then decides he doesn’t care enough to fight her on it, shaking his head as he twists open the doorknob to let himself into the office.

“Sorry about that,” he says to whoever’s waiting inside, awkwardly maneuvering himself out of his jacket and shaking it out, hanging it on the coatrack before turning to find himself faced with —

“Hi.”

The kid offers him a nervous smile. He’s young; nine years old, or maybe ten. Definitely not older than twelve.

Too young to be here on his own, definitely.

Elliot stands there for a moment, frozen in place, tempted to just walk right back out and make Jet deal with it.

Not that she’d do any better. Jet’s not great with children — or people in general, honestly. The age isn’t really the problem.

“Hey,” Elliot says, with that in mind, walking over to seat himself behind the desk, wincing immediately when he realizes he can barely see the kid over the folders piled haphazardly all over his desk. He pushes himself back to his feet, comes back around to lean against the side of the desk instead. “Can I, uh. Can I help you with something?”

“You’re Elliot Stabler, right? You’re a private investigator?”

“That’s me.”

Elliot squints at the kid, wary. He’s half-expecting Jet to burst in any moment now, maybe holding that enormous camera she’s always got on her, and admit the whole thing’s a prank. Wildly out of character for her, sure, but he can’t think of any other reason she’d let an elementary schooler come sit in his office all alone. Surely even Jet can see this isn’t a paying customer.

“How old are you?”

The kid bristles.

“I’m nine,” he says, a defensive tone already sharpening his voice. Elliot’s first instinct is to snap at him to get out, but he holds his tongue. Watches the kid for a moment instead: his wide eyes, his desperate posture. The way he keeps twisting his fingers together in his lap.

“You got a name?”

“Noah.” The kid — Noah — leans toward him as he says it, urgency transforming his expression. “Noah Benson.”

Elliot stills.

Noah put enough emphasis on the last name that it’s clear he thinks Elliot knows him, or is at least counting on Elliot making the connection. And he is, at least he thinks he is, he just —

He didn’t even know she had a kid.

“Your mom wouldn’t happen to be — ”

“Olivia Benson,” Noah fills in for him. He’s leaning in his chair again, whole body tilted towards Elliot, that same air of urgency still pulling him forward. “You know her, right?”

“Did she tell you that? Where is she?”

Elliot can barely hear his own voice over the roaring in his ears, and Noah’s frowning, now, looking confused; it’s clear that wasn’t the reaction he was expecting when he said Olivia’s name. Elliot watches as he squirms a little, wriggling his hand into his pocket to pull out a slightly crumpled envelope. He holds it out silently until Elliot takes it, finally, hand trembling as he opens it to reveal a neatly folded newspaper clipping — his own advertisement, he realizes when he unfolds it — and a scrap of paper, probably ripped off a memo pad. There’s a phone number scribbled on it, but it isn’t his. He stares at it for a few seconds, scraping his brain, but he’s pretty sure he’s never seen it before.

It’s written in her handwriting. Elliot would recognize it anywhere, even now, after all this time. It makes him think of post-its stuck to folders, of memos slid across the desks while they were both tied up on the phone, lunch after??? scrawled out in a rush.

“Where did you get this?”

“It was next to Mom’s bed. I took it before anyone saw.”

Elliot’s hand is still shaking, he realizes dimly, as he brings it up to scrub at his face. He doesn’t know why his damn hand won’t stop shaking.

He hasn’t spoken to Olivia in twelve years.

“Does she know you took it?”

Noah’s expression shifts again, crumpling in on itself, and Elliot’s stomach sinks at the sight, sinks even further when Noah shakes his head.

“Noah?”

“She doesn’t know anything.”

“What?”

“That’s why I’m here. She’s missing.”

The force of it hits Elliot like a physical blow, throws him so embarrassingly off-balance that he has to flail one arm out and brace himself on the desk.

“What do you mean, missing?”

“I mean she’s missing!” Noah’s voice rises, high and thin, muted panic sliding into real distress. “And no one will tell me why, everyone keeps lying to me — ”

“Okay, okay,” Elliot says, voice low and placating, trying to ignore the way his heart’s rising rapidly in his throat, threatening to choke him if he doesn’t keep it down. He forces himself to focus on Noah instead, keeping his eyes on the kid’s panicked face. He doesn’t work with victims so much anymore — this job is cheating spouses and insurance disputes, mostly, he found out after taking his first few clients — but the instincts are still there, and it feels natural as anything to lean forward, to make sympathetic eye contact. To try to make himself seem as small as possible. Non-threatening. It always came easier to Olivia than it did to him, but he could manage alright. “I’m listening, okay? I’m listening. Why don’t you start from the beginning, huh? Do you remember the last time you saw her?”

Noah sniffs, rubs an angry fist against his eye.

“On Tuesday,” he croaks, finally. Elliot winces — it’s already Saturday — but Noah keeps going, undeterred, still rubbing at his face. The surrounding skin is all red. Elliot’s own hands clench into fists, fighting the urge to reach out and make him stop, the way he would with one of his own. The way he used to with Lizzie — she was always picking at her nails, at her hair. Her skin, sometimes: she’d lock herself in the bathroom for hours and come out with angry splotches all over. Kathy would fret over her at the dinner table but she’d just sit there, stony-faced and unknowable, giving nothing away. “She was there when I got home from school. She made spaghetti for dinner.”

“That your favourite?”

Spaghetti night was always a hit for the kids, Elliot remembers. Kathy used to get this garlic bread that came frozen, so all she had to do was wrap it in foil and put it in the oven, and the kids loved it so much she’d have to buy two or three at once, eventually, to keep them from brawling at the table.

God. He’s thinking about all of it, now. He has to stop.

Noah nods, oblivious to Elliot’s turbulent memories, so Elliot tries to focus on him instead. He can see some of Olivia in the kid’s face, now, and even more in his expressions. His mannerisms.

His eyes are a clear blue, though. Nothing like hers.

“She said it was ‘cause she was so busy lately,” he recounts. “She wanted to make it up to me.”

“Do you know what she was so busy with?”

Noah shakes his head.

“She doesn’t usually tell me about work,” he says, a hint of annoyance creeping into his tone. “Says it’s not for kids.”

Elliot can’t fault her that. He never used to talk about work with his kids, either. He didn’t even like talking about it with Kathy. It felt too twisted, bringing that shit into their house. Maybe he should have. Maybe it would have helped. Maybe —

It doesn’t matter now, he reminds himself, repeating the now-familiar mantra. The past is the past. He can’t change any of it.

“Did she leave the house that night?”

Noah shakes his head again. His fingers are picking at the material of his blue jeans, now, nails digging into the fabric.

“She was still home when I went to sleep.”

“And what time was that?”

“I dunno, like nine? Just my normal bedtime.”

“What about the next morning?”

“The next morning she was gone.”

Elliot’s hand clenches again, gripping the edge of the desk tightly enough that his forearm starts to tremble. It’s the kind of thing Olivia would have noticed immediately, back when they were partners. Funny. Years of forcing himself to stop thinking about her, trying to excise her from his life completely, and now this kid — her kid — is sitting in front of him and it’s all rushing back, the ache just as strong as the day he left.

“What time did you wake up?”

“I dunno.” Noah shrugs, frowning as he tries to remember. “The usual time, I guess? Seven? I thought maybe Lucy was supposed to come, but when I called her she didn’t know what I was talking about.”

“Who’s Lucy?”

“My babysitter.”

“Right.”

Elliot nods, trying to picture it. He wonders if she’s still in her old place — she can’t be, not with a kid and a —

Wait.

“What about your dad? He wasn’t home?”

Noah squints at him.

“I don’t have a dad.” He sounds suspicious, like he thinks Elliot’s fucking with him. Like Elliot’s supposed to know that already. “I was adopted.”

“Right.”

Elliot remembers the look on Olivia’s face when she told him the adoption agency had rejected her, devastation clear as anything. It made him ache, seeing her in pain like that, so deep it felt like it was his bones.

He wonders what happened to change their minds. Wonders if it’s been hard on her, working full time with a kid at home. Wonders how much time Noah spends with that babysitter.

Wonders, suddenly —

“Who’s supposed to be watching you right now, kid?”

Noah flushes, averting his gaze. His shoulders slump, the classic posture of a kid about tell a whopper; Elliot doesn’t bother giving him time to try and answer.

“Babysitter know where you are?”

Elliot swears under his breath when Noah shakes his head, sheepish; he shouldn’t have gotten so caught up in Noah’s story. He should have thought of this from the start — a nine-year-old kid comes in here alone, the first thing Elliot should have asked was who was taking care of him. He raised four kids, for god’s sake.

He used to be a goddamn cop.

“We should probably give her a call, huh? Let her know you’re alright?”

Noah frowns. He’s gripping the seat of the chair with both hands, forearms shaking with the effort, like he thinks Elliot’s gonna reach down and pull him up by force.

“You don’t wanna go see her?”

Noah hesitates, gaze wary, but Elliot holds his position and doesn’t move. Posture open, easy. You can tell me anything. I’ll wait. He remembers this much, at least.

“I’m staying with Aunt Amanda and Uncle Sonny,” Noah says, finally. “But I don’t wanna sleep there, I wanna sleep in my own bed.”

Elliot winces. If his mom — if Olivia — is missing, there’s no way he can stay at his apartment.

“Well, I don’t know if that’s possible,” he admits. Noah’s scowl deepens. “Somethin’ wrong with your aunt and uncle?”

He wonders who they are, how Olivia knows them. She must have met them after he left; he doesn’t recognize the names.

“No,” Noah admits. “But I don’t like being there. They’re just acting like everything’s fine, it’s freaking me out.”

“They’re probably acting like that for you,” Elliot points out. “So you don’t get scared. I’m sure they’re doing everything they can to find her.”

He hasn’t met these people, has no idea whether that’s true or not. But if Olivia trusts them, he’s gotta hope it is.

“They’re probably worried about you, too,” he adds, watching Noah carefully for his reaction. “Do you know their phone number?”

“Mom made me memorize it,” Noah mutters, eyes on his shoes.

Elliot reaches for the phone on his desk, lifts the receiver and raises his eyebrows at Noah meaningfully until Noah gets the hint and starts reciting the numbers, reluctance obvious in his voice.

He holds out the receiver as soon as it starts ringing; it barely makes it to the second ring before a woman picks up, her voice tinny through the speaker. Noah had obviously been planning on refusing, but at the sound of her voice he winces and reaches for it.

“Hello? Aunt Amanda?”

Elliot watches the red flush crawl up the back of Noah’s neck as he listens to her response.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m — yeah. I’m okay.”

Noah chews at his lip, scuffs his feet on the floor. Winces at whatever his aunt’s telling him on the other end of the line.

“I’m in Queens,” he admits, finally, lifting his head to make eye contact with Elliot. Elliot nods at him, offering silent support even as his aunt exclaims something, incredulous. When Noah widens those big blue eyes towards him, helpless, Elliot sighs and holds out his hand for the phone.

“Hi,” he says, interrupting the woman mid-sentence. “This is Elliot Stabler, I’m with Noah right now. I’m — ”

“I know who you are,” she interrupts him. She has a southern accent, which Elliot wasn’t expecting, and it’s hard to tell through the fuzz of the connection, but she doesn’t sound particularly impressed. “Liv’s old partner.”

Elliot pauses, lets the implications of that run through him — she knows who he is. She knows who he is to Liv.

He winces, clears his throat.

“Right.” He can’t help but feel keenly aware of Noah’s eyes on him, wide and expectant. “Well, I guess he found my number with Olivia’s stuff. Came out to ask me a few questions.”

There’s a long pause, and then —

“You expect me to believe that?”

“Well, it’s the truth, so. Yeah,” Elliot says flatly. He’s drumming his fingers on the desk as he speaks, trying to keep himself calm. There’s a familiar energy starting to course through him, the urge to stand up and fling on his coat, storm out of the office and — he doesn’t know. Track Olivia down himself, somehow. Find her, wherever she is, and pull her back here with his bare hands.

“What was Olivia doing with your number?”

Now there’s the question.

“Not sure,” Elliot hedges. “Noah said he found it in the apartment, I don’t know why she had it.”

“She call you recently? Contact you in any way?”

The woman’s — Amanda, Noah’s Aunt Amanda — voice has sharpened, now, zeroing in, exactly the way Elliot would in her position. He doesn’t like having the attention turned on him.

“No,” he bites out, pushing down the rising anger as best he can. “We haven’t spoken in twelve years.”

“Fuck,” Amanda mutters. She sounds tired, all of a sudden, before she remembers herself and her voice strengthens again. “Alright, well. Looks like I’m coming out to Queens.”

It’s not fuzz he’s hearing, Elliot realizes, it’s the sound of the TV, and when he strains his ears he can hear the familiar sound of kids’ voices underneath it, arguing over god knows what.

“I can bring him to you,” he blurts out. “You sound busy.”

Noah’s posture perks up, his shoulders straightening. Elliot raises his eyebrows at him, a silent warning not to get his hopes up.

“I don’t know….”

“Liv knows — knew me,” Elliot presses. “I woulda trusted her with my kids when we worked together, no question. I know she’d do the same for me.”

“Presumptive of you,” Amanda says, voice flat and unimpressed. Elliot grimaces, has to push the anger back down again. “That was twelve years ago. You don’t know anything about who she is now.”

“I know she had my number saved,” Elliot counters. “I know she was gonna call me. And Noah’s already here, anyway. I might as well drive him back.”

Amanda sighs, the sound of it crackling through the phone speaker. Elliot grips the edge of the desk and waits.

“Fine,” she mutters, finally, and Elliot breathes out a sigh of relief. Noah’s eyes widen in a silent question and he nods, mouth quirking in a smile when Noah grins in response. He fumbles on the desk for a piece of paper as Amanda recites her address, wedging the phone between his ear and his shoulder so he can scribble it down, eyes on Noah’s eager face the whole time.

“She was real worried about you, kid,” he says as he sets the receiver down, tearing off the slip of paper with Amanda’s address and then leaning over to open the second drawer, fingers feeling for the tape recorder. He shoves it into his briefcase as he stands, then reaches back for his coat and shrugs it back on. “Giving her the slip like that.”

Noah makes an apologetic face as he stands, obediently following Elliot out towards what passes for the front desk. Jet raises her eyebrows when she sees the two of them, a silent question in her expression.

“I’m gonna drive Noah here back home,” Elliot announces. “And then when I get back we’re gonna have a conversation, alright?”

He lowers his voice meaningfully at the end of the sentence, but Jet either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.

“Sure,” she says flatly, and then, “Can you pick up coffee on the way back? We’re out.”

Elliot scowls at her, only holds his tongue from snapping because he’s got the kid there next to him, eyes glancing back and forth between the two of them, taking everything in.

“Sure thing, Jet,” he says tightly. “Anything else you wanna request?”

She just shakes her head, already turned back to her computer screen, focus totally absorbed by whatever she’s been searching. When Elliot starts to move towards the door Noah doesn’t follow him right away; he turns back to find the kid gazing at the computer screen interestedly, craning his neck to get a better look.

“Noah,” he snaps, then has to force himself to soften his voice when Noah jerks his head towards him, eyes widening, expression a little too close to fear. “Let’s go,” he says, more gentle this time. “Your aunt’s waiting, remember?”

Noah’s nose wrinkles, but he trots after Elliot dutifully enough, smiling when Elliot gestures for him to hit the buttons in the elevator — he hasn’t grown out of the urge to be helpful, thankfully. Olivia’s probably got a year or two of that sweet childishness left, maybe, before the inevitable preteen resentment starts to set in.

She better get back here soon, so she doesn’t miss any more of it.

In the car Noah buckles himself in dutifully, looking interested again when Elliot takes out the tape recorder before he starts the engine.

“What’s that?”

“So we don’t lose any details,” Elliot explains. “I can’t write while I drive.”

Noah’s eyes go wide.

“You’re really gonna help me?”

“Sure,” Elliot says, smiling over at him. He feels overly aware of his own heartbeat, of the blood pumping through his whole body. It’s the feeling he gets before a fight, usually, or right before he does something else he’ll regret.

He’ll probably regret this, too, but that doesn’t stop him.

It almost never does.

In the car on the way to the apartment Noah recites everything he can remember, clearly thrilled to be considered important enough to merit recording. When he’s finished Elliot reaches a hand out to stop the tape, glances over at him and makes another decision.

“You got your apartment key on you?”

Noah’s mouth drops open in confusion, just for a split second, before he snaps it closed and nods.

“How far is it from your Aunt Amanda’s, do you know?”

“Like ten minutes,” Noah says eagerly, clearly catching up with the plan. “Are we gonna go there? Are you gonna look for clues?”

Elliot winces. He didn’t mean to get the kid’s hopes up, but he does want to see the apartment and he can’t think of any other way to get in there. From Noah’s explanation it doesn’t sound like it’s been roped off or anything — it doesn’t sound like there’s even an official investigation at all, which makes blood pound at his temples — but even Elliot isn’t stupid enough to let himself get caught breaking into a missing detective’s apartment. With Noah there at least he’s got the excuse that the kid forgot something when he was packing, that they needed to stop back and get it.

“I don’t know if we’ll find anything,” he warns Noah, flicking on his indicator to follow the kid’s directions. “I just want to check it out, alright? That’s all.”

Noah nods fervently, enthusiasm clearly not checked in the slightest.

The building has a doorman, but he knows Noah well enough that he doesn’t question Elliot’s presence, nodding them both through without a hassle. Elliot glances back at him as they move towards the elevator, frowning at the lack of real security. Did someone else walk in that night? Or did she leave on her own? Was she meeting someone? Was she —

“Elliot?”

Noah’s voice jolts him out of his thoughts; the elevator door has opened.

“Right,” Elliot smiles at him, trying to look normal. “Sorry, kid.”

When Noah produces the apartment key Elliot nudges him out of the way before he can use it, holding out his hand until Noah hands it over and he can open the door himself.

He enters slowly, ears strained, but the apartment is silent and still, probably exactly as Noah left it. It’s a far cry from the one bedroom Olivia lived in the whole time they worked together — the living room looks like something ordered from a catalogue, matching pillows and a soft grey blanket thrown over the back of the couch. Someone must have taken out the trash, because all Elliot can smell is the scent thingy she’s got plugged into the wall. It’s homey, sure, but in a way that doesn’t match his memory of her.

While Noah heads to his bedroom to get whatever it is he needs — he mentioned something about a blanket, Elliot thinks — Elliot pokes around the living room, peering at framed photos to try to get an idea of this Olivia’s life.

There are family photos of her with Noah, group photos with people who must be her coworkers. He recognizes Fin there, and John. Cragen, of course. There’s a photo with her Noah in front of the Eiffel Tower, Noah hardly more than a toddler. The smile on her face is so luminous Elliot can’t quite catch his breath, looking at it.

Her hair’s gotten long, he thinks dimly, his hand shaking again as he lifts the frame. She looks so different, but her eyes are the same. Looking at her he swears he can hear her voice.

He barely hesitates before opening her bedroom door, letting himself in as easily as he would as perp’s, back in the day, but he does pause in the doorway to take it in. It reminds him of the living room — well-decorated, clearly expensive, but more impersonal than he’d expect. The walls are painted a dull shade of blue, but the blankets and pillows are all white. Elliot remembers her old place being cluttered, bordering on messy, but in this room there’s nothing on her dresser but a jewelry box and a lamp. Her bedside table isn’t much better — another lamp, identical to the first, and a phone, still plugged in. Elliot slides the first drawer open and lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding when he finds it full, like she’d just swiped all her junk in and closed it. Neat on the surface, but a mess underneath.

He’s stupidly relieved: she hasn’t changed as much as he thought.

He pokes through the mess, but most of it really is junk — paper clips, pens, half-empty tubes of hand cream. More lip products than any single person could possibly need, chapstick and lipstick and little metal containers full of god-knows-what. It isn’t until he digs almost to the back of the drawer that he finds a memo pad, flipping through to find it half full. He shoves it into his briefcase without a second thought.

If it were a perp’s house — or a suspect’s — Elliot would move to the drawers, next, open them and rifle through to check for secrets. The first few times he felt like a real fuckin’ creep, running his hands through strangers’ underwear drawers, but the unfortunate truth is that people do hide their shit in there, more often than not. Sock drawers, too, like that isn’t the first place someone would check.

But Olivia’s not a suspect, and Elliot flinches back from thinking of her as a victim, and on top of that he doesn’t want Noah to come in to find Elliot inspecting his mom’s bras. He moves to her closet instead, sliding the door open to find it packed full to bursting, an absurd number of leather jackets taking up at least a quarter of the space.

“Jesus,” he mutters, but he’s smiling, too. She’d deny it back then, but Olivia always did like to buy clothes. Sometimes it felt like he never saw her in the same shirt twice.

He tugs down the shoeboxes on the top shelf, tips the lids off to check, but all he finds inside are shoes.

“Elliot?”

“In here!” he calls, sliding the closet door back shut. He turns just as Noah appears in the doorway, a blue comforter clutched in his arms, dragging behind him on the floor. It’s printed with something — little animals in rocket ships, Elliot realizes, fighting back a grin when he makes out a set of cat ears. “Got everything you need?”

“Yeah,” Noah says, adjusting his grip on the blanket. He frowns, taking in his mom’s room. “Did you find anything in here?”

“Nah,” Elliot declares, clapping a hand on Noah’s shoulder with a smile. He pauses before he closes the door, though, looking down to get a better look at Noah’s face. “Why? Anything look different from normal? Something missing?”

Noah’s face screws up, thinking about it, but in the end all he does is shrug.

“I can’t really tell,” he admits, a little quieter than usual, like he’s ashamed. “It’s hard to remember.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Elliot says easily, giving his shoulder one last squeeze before he lets go. Noah blinks up at him, his eyes far too trusting given that they only met that morning. “Go on and wait in the living room, alright? I’ll be right out.”

While Noah’s dragging his comforter down the hallway Elliot ducks into the bathroom, opening the medicine cabinet to take in what’s inside. Toothpaste, floss. More tubes of cream than two people could possibly need. Dayquil and Excedrin on the highest shelf, shoved in next to two orange prescription bottles. Elliot shoves them in his pocket without stopping to read the labels, conscious of Noah’s presence in the other room.

He pokes into the kitchen just as quickly on his way back to the living room. It’s obvious someone cleaned up — Noah’s Aunt Amanda, maybe — because when he opens the fridge the perishables are all gone, nothing left but condiments. The cabinets don’t give him much, beyond a rundown of Noah’s taste in cereal and Olivia’s taste in tea; Honey Nut Cheerios and English Breakfast, respectively. He smiles when he finds an open roll of Oreos shoved in behind the tea, hidden neatly from Noah’s view.

There’s another closet in the hallway — towels, probably — but Noah’s hovering impatiently in the doorway, now, arms obviously getting tired, so Elliot doesn’t stop to check.

“Lemme get that,” he says as soon as he’s close enough, making sure to get the edges as he lifts the comforter from Noah’s arms, careful to keep the hem of it off the floor. “Nothing else you need? Toothbrush? Pyjamas?”

“I brought everything already,” Noah says, shaking his head, and when Elliot fumbles the key out of his pocket he takes it eagerly, locking the door behind them with way more focus than the task requires.

He’s quieter, though, than he was on the way from the office. He lets himself in on the passenger’s side as Elliot wrestles the blanket into the backseat, and by the time Elliot opens the driver’s side door he’s silent, but buckled in and ready to go. He keeps his eyes on the windshield as Elliot eases out onto the road, mouth twisted into a small frown.

Kids are funny, Elliot thinks, stealing glances out of the corner of his eye as he drives. Overly familiar one moment, withdrawn the next. Maybe it’s finally catching up to Noah that he doesn’t actually know Elliot, not really. Maybe he just misses his mom.

“I think there was something missing,” Noah says, finally, as Elliot waits to make a turn from the left lane. “In the living room.”

“Yeah?”

He’s careful to keep his voice even, as though it’s not a big deal, not wanting to freak Noah out.

“One of the picture frames,” Noah says. He’s fully turned away from Elliot, now, staring at the car next to them through the passenger’s side window.

“Do you remember which picture?”

Noah only shrugs.

“Some of her work friends,” he says slowly, like he’s trying to picture it in his head. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Do you remember the last time you saw it? Was it there that night?”

Elliot shies away from saying the night she disappeared, and honestly he isn’t sure whether it’s for Noah’s sake or his own. He guesses it doesn’t really matter either way.

Noah only shakes his head.

“I dunno,” he mumbles. He sounds genuinely upset, now, face still turned resolutely towards the window, but the light changes before Elliot can think of something to say.

“Shit,” he mutters, squinting at the street sign to make sure he’s where he wants to be. “Am I going the right way?”

Noah sniffles, rubs a hand under his nose.

“Yeah,” he says, coughing to clear his throat. “I think it’s the next block.”

“You ready to see your aunt?”

“She’s not really my aunt.”

Elliot breathes out a laugh.

“Yeah, I figured.”

Weirdly, that’s what gets Noah to turn, eyes back on Elliot, a curious expression breaking through his gloom.

“You did?”

“I knew your mom back in the day, remember?” Elliot shoots him a quick grin before he gets back to squinting at building numbers. He’s on the wrong side, he realizes. They’ll have to cross the street after he parks. I knew all about her family, he almost says, catching himself just in time. He doesn’t even know how much Noah knows about her family. Most of it isn’t the kind of shit you’d want to tell a kid. “I knew a lot about her,” he says, instead, trying to ignore the way using past tense makes him feel.

“Oh.”

For a long time Noah says nothing — long enough that Elliot finds the right building, pulling the car into an open space and then turning back to face him.

“This it?”

Before Noah can say anything a blonde woman comes bursting out the front door, waving and yelling, and answers the question for him.

“Aunt Amanda?” Elliot asks knowingly, grinning at Noah’s pained wince.

“She’s really mad at me, huh,” he says, his hand moving towards the seatbelt buckle exaggeratedly slowly.

“You’ll be fine,” Elliot declares, still smiling, when Noah meets his eye with a dubious expression. “She was just worried.”

Elliot looks up and out the window to find the woman gesticulating at them, waving impatiently for Noah to cross the street.

“I’d pick up the pace, though,” Elliot amends. “If I were you.”

When Noah finally works up the courage to let himself out of the car Elliot follows him with the comforter, hustling them both across the street while the road’s still clear.

“Noah, what the hell?”

Elliot keeps his expression neutral as Amanda pulls Noah into a rough hug, then holds him at arms’ length by his shoulders to inspect him for injuries. What she expects to find, Elliot has no idea; the kid sat in an office, and then in a car during afternoon traffic. It’s not like Elliot took him to a gunfight.

He clears his throat to get her attention, widens his stance when she finally looks his way.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

The woman cocks one eyebrow as she parrots his greeting back to him, a distinctly unimpressed expression on her face. Her accent is even more noticeable in person, even just with that single syllable. There’s an opening for her to introduce herself, but she doesn’t take it. She just keeps staring at him, instead, silently waiting for him to go first.

“I’m Elliot Stabler,” Elliot grits out reluctantly, shifting the comforter to one arm so he can hold the other out for a handshake. “Nice to meet you.”

“Amanda Rollins.”

Her grip is just as firm as he’d expect, fingers digging in way too deep, but Elliot doesn’t take the bait and squeeze back, forcing himself to play nice.

“Sorry for the hassle,” he offers belatedly, distracted: a man has followed Amanda out, two little girls in tow. Noah’s eyes light up when he sees them, drifting towards them as soon as the man waves him over.

“My husband,” Amanda explains, casting a glance behind her to make sure they’re all together. She doesn’t have to introduce the girls: they’re obviously her daughters, small and blonde just like their mom.

“Nice-looking family,” Elliot comments, watching carefully for her reaction. Now that he’s seen her in person, there’s no doubt in his mind she’s on the force: the posture is a dead giveaway, and the bad attitude backs it up.

The compliment doesn’t quite land, but she doesn’t seem offended, either. Just — uncomfortable, mostly. Her shoulders tighten. The smile she gives him isn’t particularly sincere.

“Thanks.”

There’s another long pause before the husband wrangles the girls long enough to come closer, angling for an introduction.

“Dominic Carisi,” Amanda says, nodding her head in his direction. “The girls are Jesse and Billie.”

Carisi shifts the little girl on his hip to free up his hand, holds it out for a quick shake.

“Nice to meet you, man.”

He’s not as frosty as his wife, but there’s still something there; the easygoing tone of voice doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Tension runs through Elliot’s shoulders, his arms. He tries not to let it show on his face.

“That Noah’s?” Carisi gestures towards the blanket. “I can get it.”

He has to set the little girl on the ground to reach for it — she pouts but lets him, attaching herself to her leg instead — and then he retreats with one last nod, ushering the girl back to Noah and her sister, offering Elliot one last nod before he herds the kids towards a maroon station wagon parked a little further down.

“Look,” Amanda says, her focus back on Elliot. “I know you used to be a cop, and I know you guys used to work together. But you should probably just stay out of it, alright?”

She obviously catches the way Elliot bristles at her statement, raising her eyebrows almost as if she’s daring him to disagree.

“Noah seemed worried,” Elliot says instead, doing his best to keep his voice casual.

Amanda lets out a slow breath.

“He’s a kid,” she says, after a beat that goes on just a hair too long. She doesn’t sound like she means it.

“Kids are smart,” Elliot counters. “They pick things up. You work with Olivia, right? You know as well I do.”

“Worked,” Amanda corrects him immediately. “I’m off the force now.”

“Oh?”

Her words are neutral: the way she says off the force, it’s not clear if it was voluntary or not. She’s young for a retirement, but with two kids in the picture … hard to say for sure. Elliot watches her carefully, trying to read it in her expression, but her general demeanour is surly enough that he genuinely can’t tell.

“Must be nice to have more time with the kids,” he comments, finally. He tries to keep his own voice just as neutral as hers, knowing full well she’s reading him just as closely as he is her.

Amanda smiles.

“I guess you’d know.”

It takes everything Elliot has not to flinch back — or worse, lunge forward. Her husband and kids are right down the block, for god’s sake.

Olivia’s kid is right down the block.

He offers her maybe the fakest smile he thinks he’s ever managed, instead. He thinks longingly of stopping by the gym on the way home, swinging at a punching bag for a while to get it out of his system.

“Noah has my number,” he says tightly. “If you need anything.”

Amanda tilts her head, like she can’t possibly imagine what Noah might need from Elliot. His posture tightens even further, impossibly, until he’s genuinely not sure how he’s gonna make the drive back. One jackass cuts him off and he’s gonna blow, he’s sure of it.

One more barbed comment from Amanda and he doesn’t know what he’ll do.

“Alright,” is all she says, thankfully. “Thanks for making the drive out here.”

She seems genuine enough about that last part, at least. Elliot gives her a nod, then her husband. For Noah he manages a real smile, at least, bolstered a little by the genuine enthusiasm when Noah energetically waves him goodbye.

Elliot feels like he should say something, promise to follow up later or whatever, but Amanda and her husband and her goddamn kids are all staring at him, and it’s not like Noah’s actually a client. The kid’s nine. So all Elliot can do is turn back to cross the street, let himself into his car, and sit there for a second in silence, swimming through the fog in his brain to try and figure out the fastest way back to the office.

There’s a knock on the car window while he’s still sitting there; Elliot startles, badly, and jerks up to find Amanda right there, hunched over and staring him down through the glass.

“Jesus,” he mutters as he fumbles to roll down the window. “You need somethin’?”

Amanda’s silent as a ghost, for a long moment, just looking at him. There’s still that same vague expression of disgust on her face, like he’s done something to personally offend her, but then she shrugs her shoulders, clears her throat. Digs a card out of her pocket, first, and then a pen, uses the backseat window to scribble something on it before she hands it to him.

“Look,” she mutters. “You used to be a cop. You know how it is, right?”

Elliot looks down at the card. It must be her old one, from before she retired — she’s crossed out the phone number and written a different one. Her home phone, he presumes, unless she’s taken up a new job.

“I told you before, you should probably get out while you still can,” Amanda continues. She’s turned away as she speaks, squinting at something in the distance. “This isn’t gonna get you anywhere good. But I’m not stupid. I know you’re not gonna let this go. So if you keep looking, and you find anything, just — give me a heads up, would you?”

“And why would I do that?”

Amanda’s mouth twitches. Elliot doesn’t know her, but he can read her anger just fine. He wonders if she and Olivia got along, if they channeled it the same way, or if they butted heads. Both, maybe. Back when it was him and Olivia, it was both.

“I worked with her for a long time, too,” Amanda says, finally. “Just as long as you did. I know a lot of things you don’t, and if you’re stupid enough to dig into this you’ll need it.”

She’s looking at him directly, now, with an intensity to her gaze that Elliot doesn’t quite know how to read. She’s trying to tell him something, he’s pretty sure, a hidden message in her words, but he’s totally out of his depth. He has no way to decode it.

He nods anyway, offering her a tight smile. On the other side of the street Noah’s talking to her husband outside the car, a forlorn expression on his face; the girls must already be buckled in. Carisi looks up, obviously searching for Amanda. When he spots her his face creases in a frown.

“Your husband’s waiting for you,” Elliot says, nodding towards her car. “Keep the kid safe, would you?”

Amanda turns towards her husband, takes the first few steps and then stops. Digs into her pocket one more time. Whatever’s clenched in her fist, Elliot can’t see it; he doesn’t even really process what she’s doing until she’s already dropped it into his lap and turned back around, leaving him alone in the car once more.

It’s another business card, this one crumpled into a tiny ball. It takes Elliot a minute to unfold it, swearing to himself as he tries not to rip any of the edges.

There’s nothing scribbled on this one, by Amanda or anyone else. Just the name of a motel outside the city — a real shithole, by the look of it — and a phone number for the front desk. Manager’s name is Jim Barnes. Elliot flips it over, smoothing it flat against the steering wheel, but there’s nothing on the back, either.

He glances up, hoping to get one last glance, but Amanda and her family are already gone.

Traffic is miserable, like it always is, and by the time Elliot lets himself in he’s scowling, mood even worse when he finds Jet exactly where he left her, not even bothering to look up and greet him when he walks past her.

“Get in here, would you?” he hollers from his desk, frowning at her as she slumps in to lean against the doorframe.

“You didn’t think to warn me that the ‘client’ was a nine-year-old kid?”

Jet shrugs. She usually plays music when she’s alone, but it must be the end of the tape: all Elliot can hear is the sound of her gum.

“Money’s money. Didn’t you tell me that once?”

“Yeah? And you think a nine-year-old has got money to spend?”

Jet’s eyes narrow, then, her gaze catching on the notepad and tape recorder on Elliot’s desk.

“You’re taking his case?”

“That surprise you?” Elliot snaps. It’s not even noon and he’s already got a stress headache forming. He wants to hit something. He wants a fucking drink. He doesn’t fucking know what he wants. “You let him in, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, ‘cause you told me I’m only allowed to kick people out if they give me a bad vibe,” Jet says slowly. She’s moving closer, now, craning her neck to try and read Elliot’s notes. Elliot doesn’t bother hiding them — having been reliably informed that his handwriting is completely illegible, he’s not particularly worried.

“Are you serious?”

“I always am.”

“And that’s supposed to make me less pissed off?”

“You don’t seem pissed off.”

“No?” Elliot pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to will the headache back. He ran out of the ibuprofen he usually keeps in his desk, he remembers as he reaches for it, letting out an aggrieved sigh as he leans back in his chair, ignoring the shriek of protest coming from the back wheel. “How do I seem to you?”

“Doesn’t matter. What did the kid want?”

Wisely, Jet chooses to abort that thread of the conversation, veering them back to their original topic. Her dark eyes are intent with interest, even if she’s still not quite meeting his eyes, and, like he always does when she gets that look on her face, Elliot feels himself start to cave.

“His mom’s missing,” he admits grudgingly. He picks up the notepad in front of him, reads off it directly just to mess with her. “Last seen four days ago. Made him dinner and put him to bed, no trace of her the next morning. Kid says he thinks the cops are trying to cover it up.”

“And how would he know that?”

Elliot sighs, drops the pad back onto the desk.

“She’s a police detective,” he says, using the fingers on his left hand to start listing off the reasons. “It hasn’t been reported, the son wasn’t questioned. He’s staying with a family friend, says he heard her making a weird phone call last night. He came here because he found this in his mom’s desk.”

Elliot digs the newspaper clipping and the note out of the stack on his desk, hands it over for Jet to inspect. She frowns.

“Whose number is this?”

“I don’t know,” Elliot admits. There’s a whole list of things he doesn’t know, right now, and he can feel the familiar itch at the back of his neck. The urge to dig in and get to the bottom of it, to get all the facts laid out straight. “Kid didn’t, either.”

Jet hums, thinking.

“If she’s a cop, she could be undercover,” she points out, making herself comfortable with her ass perched on the edge of his desk. Elliot scowls, but doesn’t swat her off.

“If that was it, they would have dealt with the kid,” he counters. “Either let him in on it, or told him a better cover story. Apparently his babysitter was as shocked as he was, when O — when his mom didn’t come home. And the woman I met earlier was acting real weird. Like she knew something, but she wasn’t sure she could tell me.”

Jet raises an eyebrow at the slip, but doesn’t push it. She braces her hands on the desk instead, tilts her head back to stare up at the ceiling. What’s up there to look at, Elliot couldn’t possibly imagine.

“You’re gonna take the case, aren’t you.”

It isn’t a question.

“Kid can’t pay,” Elliot hedges, taking another sip of coffee.

Jet narrows her eyes at the ceiling, like maybe the water stain up there’s really pissing her off.

“But you are gonna take it.” Elliot grunts his agreement, reluctantly, and Jet’s frown deepens. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

Elliot sighs. Picks up the pen he’d abandoned when Noah let himself out, taps it on the edge of the desk. Huffs out another breath. Jet may not be looking at him, but he feels the weight of her attention just the same. Knows she’s working through it her head, arranging and rearranging the pieces until she gets it just right.

Knows there’s no point in keeping the truth from her.

“I know — knew her. The kid’s mom.”

Jet’s eyebrows furrow. When she first asked him to take her on, he was skeptical. He wasn’t sure she was motivated enough to make a good private investigator: he didn’t trust her flat affect, or the way she doesn’t quite meet people’s eyes when she speaks. But Jet cares a lot, he’s come to realize, and she’s tenacious when she wants to be. When she digs her claws in she doesn’t let go.

“We used to work together,” Elliot says, to answer her silent question. “Before I, ah. Left.”

Left is something of a euphemism, but Jet lets it slide.

“This is personal, then,” she says flatly, cutting straight to the chase, as always. She tears her eyes from the ceiling, finally. Focuses on the desk in front of him instead.

“She was my partner,” Elliot explains. “I gotta at least — I gotta make sure she’s okay.”

“You had ten years to make sure she was okay,” Jet points out. Coming from anyone else the cruelty would be deliberate, but he knows Jet’s genuinely trying to understand. He hates that he has to fight back the irritation anyway. “You never mentioned it before.”

Elliot’s face is burning; his skin feels uncomfortably tight.

“It wasn’t important before,” he lies, like Olivia hasn’t been important since the day he met her. Like he doesn’t feel the absence of her every day, right along with his own children, even though he knows he has no right to her. He never did.

He aches anyway.

“Okay,” Jet says, accepting his words at face value: for all her stubbornness she still trusts him, at the end of the day. She’s so young, Elliot thinks, not for the first time. When they met he thought she really was a kid, not much older than Noah. She’d sworn she was twenty-two, dug her ID out of her pocket to prove it, but the fact that she knew he’d ask, that she had it ready to show him, honestly just made him feel even older. “Any suspects? Husband?”

“She’s not married,” Elliot says. “Kid’s adopted, dad’s not in the picture.”

“She seeing anybody? Boyfriend?”

“Her son said no.”

Jet snorts, and Elliot pauses where he’d been scratching idle notes in the margins of his notepad. Squints at her, bemused.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You said he was what, nine?” Elliot nods, suspicious. He doesn’t think he likes where this is going. “I mean, I don’t know, I’m not a single mom. But if she dated a guy she’d probably want to vet him first. Take him on a few dates first, make sure it’s gonna stick.”

Elliot grimaces. He was right — he didn’t like where it went.

He doesn’t really want to think about Olivia dating, even after so many years. Doesn’t wanna think about her eating Italian with some jackass in a suit and tie, smiling at him over a plate of spaghetti. Kissing him goodnight. Maybe even following him to his place, if she got a sitter for the night.

He shivers, shaking his head to clear it. Jet’s squinting directly at him, for the first time since they started this conversation: she’s getting suspicious again.

“What’d you say her name was?”

“Olivia Benson.”

Jet’s brow furrows, her mouth twisted into a thoughtful frown.

“Name sounds familiar….” she mutters, twisting a lock of hair around her finger, and Elliot frowns. How the hell would Jet know Olivia’s name?

“You never had anything happen, right?” His stomach twists at the thought, a stab of anger shooting through him. He’s pretty sure the answer’s no, pretty sure he’d know if it wasn’t; he ran a background check, pulled her nonexistent criminal record when he hired her, but suddenly it seems important to ask. “She worked — we worked sex crimes. You ever have to report anything like that?”

Jet shakes her head, and Elliot lets out a slow breath of relief.

“It’ll come to me,” she says, voice still a little remote. “I’ll figure it out.”

Well, Elliot has no doubt about that. It’s why he keeps her working for him — one reason, anyway. The reason he’s most likely to say out loud. Jet’s stubborn, independent. He doesn’t think she needs to hear that he worries about her, thinks of her like one of his own kids.

His only kid, in some ways. The only one who’ll let him in her life.

Christ, that’s depressing.

“It’s not high priority,” Elliot lies — badly, if the look on Jet’s face is anything to go by. “You’ve still got that other case, right? The Ballards?”

“Ugh.” Jet’s whole face contorts with distaste. “She’s not fucking cheating on him. I could camp out there every night for a year and I still wouldn’t get a photo of it, because it’s not fucking happening.”

“Makes good business,” Elliot points out, although privately he agrees: it’s gone way past reasonable, at this point, Jet staying out all hours of the night while the hopefully-soon-to-be-ex-Mrs. Ballard does absolutely nothing whatsoever to violate her pre-nup. Controlling piece of shit. Elliot hopes she fucking leaves him.

“Whatever. I’ll look into your thing tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow afternoon,” Elliot clarifies. “You’re gonna be up all night, go home and get some goddamn sleep before you come in.”

Jet just shrugs, like it doesn’t make a difference to her either way. At her age, Elliot guesses it doesn’t: she keeps the coffee pot full all day and night, drinks the shit like it’s water. Elliot can feel his acid reflux flaring up just thinking about it.

She heads out around seven with the keys to Elliot’s shitty Honda, tossing him the usual dry promise to bring it back in one piece. It’s one of her rare attempts at a joke, he’s pretty sure, but the first few times she took it for stakeouts he really did spend the entire night on edge, fidgeting and constantly glancing up at the clock. He still gets nervy sometimes, to be fully honest, even though logically he knows all she’s doing is parking the car and sitting in it. It’s been months, and the worst that’s happened is she’s left him to deal with her soda cups in the cupholder the next morning. How she’s drinking all those extra large Diet Cokes without needing to get out to piss every fifteen minutes, Elliot has no idea.

He has no intention of asking her about it, either. Some mysteries are better left unsolved.

He waits til she’s gone to reach for the tape recorder he used with Noah in the car earlier, dragging a notepad over and rewinding the tape to start from the beginning. Jet types up transcripts when she’s listening to recordings, always gives him a Look when she catches him doing it like this. She can’t believe the old geezer’s made it this long, probably, although so far she’s been at least respectful enough not to voice that particular judgment out loud.

He doesn’t bother with a full transcription, just makes note of the most important parts, pausing and rewinding the tape every once in a while to make sure he gets the details right.

There was a message on the answering machine when we got home, but Mom freaked out and deleted it.

Do you know who left the message?

He said he was a reporter.

Why would a reporter want to talk to your mom?

I dunno. She called him a bad word.

Yeah?

Yeah. Said if I repeated it I wouldn’t get my allowance.

Elliot snorts and hits pause on the tape, leaning back in his chair and trying to imagine it. Olivia as a mom. Does she help Noah with his homework? Does she take him to baseball practice, or soccer games, or whatever Noah’s into? Does she bake cookies for the PTA bake sale? Kathy used to, for all the kids. Hard as he tries, Elliot can’t picture Olivia doing the same.

Is she strict about bedtimes? About snacks? Elliot used to tease her about what she ate, swore she had the worst diet of any grown woman he ever met, but the truth is after the divorce he didn’t fare much better. He wonders if it was the same for her, if she had to teach herself all the basics. He makes a mean lasagna, now, even if there’s no one else at his place to eat it and he has to freeze the whole thing. Did Olivia figure something out, too, or does her kid live off pizza and Chinese, just like she did when he knew her?

Fuck.

He told her she’d be a good mom, once, swore it was true even as she shook her head and tried to deny it. It hurts like hell that he didn’t get to see it happen. Hurts worse that it was his own goddamn fault.

Elliot sighs and leans forward, hitting play on the tape. Noah’s voice filters out once more.

Oh! I remember now. He said it was for ‘the anniversary.’

Anniversary of what?

I don’t know. I told you, Mom got really upset. She didn’t talk to me the rest of the night. I had to do my homework by myself.

Elliot frowns as a sour pit forms in his stomach, twirling his pen so aggressively it slips from his fingers and skitters across the floor.

Does that happen a lot? Elliot hears himself ask on the tape. Your mom not talking to you?

Silence, then a burst of staticky fuzz. Noah shifting in his seat, probably, the nylon of his windbreaker scraping against the car’s upholstery.

Not really. She gets quiet sometimes, that’s all. When she’s sad.

She was sad? You said she was upset.

Another fuzzy crackle.

Same thing, I guess.

It’s weirdly insightful for a nine-year-old. Either that, or Olivia’s changed fundamentally since he last saw her. Maybe motherhood has softened her, but Elliot can’t picture it: when she was vulnerable she never liked to let it show.

It unsettles him, that whatever was going on with her was bad enough even her kid could pick up on it.

“Figured out where I know her from,” Jet announces the next morning, the door slamming behind her as she lets herself into the office. Elliot pauses where he’d been about to pour a fresh cup of coffee, trying to catch up to what she’s talking about. “Your client,” Jet clarifies, and then, when Elliot’s still staring at her, “The cop? Olivia Benson?”

Elliot’s hand jerks involuntarily, coffee all over the desk before he can stop it.

“Shit,” he mutters, reaching for a wad of napkins, grimacing as he dabs at the mess. When he looks up again Jet’s just staring in his general direction, chewing distractedly at her bottom lip. It’s weird, even for her — usually she wouldn’t hesitate to raise her eyebrows, pointed and judgmental. Maybe even laugh a little, on a good day.

Elliot’s stomach drops as he realizes that whatever she’s about to tell him, it isn’t going to be good.

“Maybe it’s better if you just read it,” Jet says tersely after a prolonged silence, holding out a manila folder. Elliot feels a flicker of irritation cut through the haze of panic — she couldn’t even stand up and bring it over? — but he chucks the soaked napkins and walks over to take the folder from her anyway, tucking it under his arm instead of opening it and reading it right there.

It’s stupid — it’s only paper, but it feels like a living thing. He swears he can feel it pulsing, like that — the heart, beating from under the floor. Elliot remembers reading the book in high school, laughing with his buddies in the back row to cover how bad the idea of it freaked him out.

He had the weirdest fucking dreams for weeks, afterward. He never mentioned them to anybody. Not even Kathy.

He didn’t want her to think he was weak.

“I must have seen it on the news,” Jet offers into the silence, as Elliot debates whether it’s worth it to try again with the coffeepot. “I think I was still in high school.”

High school: what feels like another lifetime, to Elliot, was only a few years ago for her. He winces, as he often does, at the reminder of just how young she really is, and then the implications of what she said really sink in. Whatever happened to Olivia, it was bad enough to make the news. His stomach gives another lurch.

“I’m gonna — ” he gestures uselessly towards his office door with his free hand. Jet swallows hard and nods, eyes huge, just watching him as he makes his retreat. Like an animal, he thinks, shaking his head. Licking its wounds in private.

He doesn’t actually remember reading it, afterward. He doesn’t remember slamming his palm against the desk, either, but he must have, judging by the sting. His pulse roars in his ears as a prickle climbs up his spine, vision going black at the edges as he tries to hold it together.

Jet’s right outside, he reminds himself. If he screams, she’ll hear it. If he breaks something it’ll scare her. If he —

Elliot breathes in, slow, through his nose. Lets it out through his mouth. Tries to find something to focus on.

Jet’s got her tape playing again; Elliot strains to hear it through the door, all his effort on trying to make out what the lead singer’s screaming, not letting himself think about anything else. Not about Olivia’s kid, trying to sleep under his rocketship comforter, wondering about his mom. Not about Olivia herself, god knows where. Not about Olivia ten years ago, terrified, —

“Stabler?”

Elliot blinks. It’s silent, he realizes dimly. Jet must have switched the music back off.

“Stabler.”

“Yeah,” he croaks, wincing at the harsh scrape of his voice. “Yeah, I’m — You need something?”

He looks up, finally, to find Jet hovering in the doorway, awkward and young-looking, eyes huge in a pale face.

Dark, like Olivia’s.

Christ.

“No,” Jet says after a long moment, and it takes him a while to realize she’s answering his question. To remember that he even asked a question at all. She doesn’t offer anything else, just stands there. Waiting.

“I’m okay,” Elliot says slowly, trying to arrange his face into an expression that’ll reassure her. Judging by the way she’s still staring, shoulders tensed and wary, he doesn’t quite manage it.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say,” Jet says, finally, and it’s a useless sentiment but it’s honest, at least. The helplessness.

Elliot feels helpless, too. It rolls through him, sickens him, makes him want to —

“It’s fine,” he rasps. The pulsing heat is still roaring through him, the near-crippling urge to destroy something, anything.

Someone, anyone.

But he’s too late; the man has been dead for a decade, and when Olivia needed him Elliot was nowhere to be found. It makes him want to kill someone. It makes him want to kill himself, a thought he hasn’t articulated this clearly in years.

“I really thought she’d be better off without me,” he confesses. “I convinced myself — I thought, it had to be like that, right? I thought — ”

Jet stands there, frozen, his unwilling witness. He doesn’t have anyone else to tell. He can’t even remember the last time he set foot in a confession booth.

Probably around the same time he was thinking about killing himself.

“I think she’s the one who needs to hear that, not me,” Jet says, finally, and Elliot bites down on his own tongue so hard he swears he can taste blood.

She slinks out of the room after a few minutes of dead silence, slapping the doorframe on her way out, and for a long time he just sits there. He doesn’t know how much time passes like that, until he’s picking up the phone almost without realizing what he’s doing, digging Amanda’s card out of his pocket to dial her number.

“Hello?”

“What did it mean?” He doesn’t even think to introduce himself, just barrels forward. “That business card you gave me. The motel.”

There’s a long pause. Elliot waits, knowing Amanda heard him just fine. Knowing she’ll know exactly who’s calling.

“Are you calling from your office right now?” is all she asks, finally. Her voice sounds tense. Careful, like someone’s listening to her. Maybe it wasn’t her home number after all.

“Yeah,” Elliot answers. “Why?”

“Maybe we should meet somewhere instead,” Amanda says, not offering anything more than that. “I’ll come to you.”

She hangs up as soon as she says it, leaving Elliot alone in his office, staring at the ivory plastic handset. It seems heavier than usual, somehow.

They walk to a diner three blocks from the office, greasy and unpretentious, the waitress too exhausted to care that all they plan on ordering is coffee.

Elliot sits as the coffee’s poured, offering the waitress a tight nod that’s as much a dismissal as it is a thank you, focuses in on Amanda as soon as she’s walked away.

“You gonna tell me what’s goin’ on?”

Amanda sighs, tapping an unpainted nail against the formica surface.

“I found the card on her bedside table,” she says, eyes cast out the window. “When I went to pick Noah up.”

“Who called you about Noah?”

“Noah did,” Amanda says with a wry smile. “He said that’s what his mom told him to do if anything ever happened. Babysitter was freakin’ out, but when I showed up she calmed down. She knows me and Liv used to work together, I think she assumed I’d call it in.”

“But you didn’t.”

Amanda hesitates.

“No,” she says, finally. “I didn’t. I didn’t — I didn’t know who’d take the call, you know.”

Elliot doesn’t, not really, but he nods anyway.

“Do you think it was planned?”

Amanda shrugs, then shakes her head.

“I don’t — maybe.”

If she were a witness he’d be putting pressure on her, letting her know the stakes, but Elliot doesn’t bother with any of that. Amanda knows how these things go; she’d try the exact same thing, if she were in his position. She knows the stakes just fine.

“What about the card?”

He focuses on the facts, instead, aiming to get as many details out of her as he can.

“I mean, I thought it was weird, obviously, but at first I just figured it was something from work.”

“At first?”

Amanda’s silent. She’s playing with one of the packets of Sweet’n’Low, flipping it between her fingers, back and forth and back and forth and back and —

“You know what happened to her, right? Ten years ago.”

Elliot’s mouth goes dry. Just the reminder makes his blood pressure rise, pulse starting up at his temples. He has to focus on his breathing, slow and deliberate, to keep himself in the moment.

“I do, yeah,” he admits reluctantly, his ears only ringing a little bit as he speaks. “My employee pulled the file.”

“You didn’t hear it back then?” Amanda frowns. “It was all over the news.”

Elliot winces, knuckles tightening around the handle of the mug.

“I wasn’t … doing great,” he hedges. Understatement of a lifetime. “At the time. I didn’t hear much of anything back then.”

Amanda’s head tilts, eyes studying him carefully. Detective, Elliot reminds himself. Retired or no, some habits fade quicker than others.

Some don’t fade at all.

“I always wondered,” Amanda says. “The way Liv talked about you … I couldn’t tell if she hated you or not, at the end of the day. Sometimes I felt like I had to hate her for you.”

“Well, thanks for that.”

“I never had any time for men who walk out on women,” Amanda says flatly. “Or for the women who defend them. And I never pictured Liv as that type, you know? It pissed me off, to see it.”

The back of Elliot’s neck starts to heat, an angry flush crawling up.

“Who the hell are you to — ”

“Relax,” Amanda interrupts, not at all intimidated by his anger. “How the hell was I supposed to know any different? It’s not like you were there to change my mind.”

“Right,” Elliot grits out, reminding himself, yet again, to just keep breathing.

“She said you were one of the few men she could trust, though,” Amanda offers, after a moment. “Back at the precinct, when it started getting really bad.”

Elliot swallows hard.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Amanda nods. “It pissed me off, hearing her say that. Was it like that, when you were there?”

“What do you mean, ‘like that’?”

Amanda squints at him, like she’s trying to figure out whether he’s playing oblivious or genuinely just stupid.

“Cragen was alright,” she says, finally. “But the guys who came in after him….”

Elliot’s stomach twists at the look on Amanda’s face, everything she’s obviously leaving unsaid. None of it good.

“That why you left?”

“I left ‘cause I got shot,” Amanda says bluntly. “Coverin’ a witness.”

“Shit,” Elliot murmurs. He catches himself giving her a belated onceover, like some evidence of what happened will magically appear now that he’s looking for it.

Amanda catches him looking, too, eyebrows raising in clear amusement.

“Gut shot,” she says, answering his silent question, and Elliot winces in sympathy.

“The girl I was covering was due to testify against two employees in the DA’s office,” Amanda explains. “NYPD called in Internal Affairs to investigate, they claimed the witness made an outside call. That she was tied up in a drug running scheme and none of it was related to the rape case.”

“What’d the witness say?”

Amanda’s expression goes flat in an instant. Her fingers tighten on the sweetener packet still clenched in her fist, and Elliot knows what she’s going to say before she says it.

“The witness couldn’t say anything,” she tells him, each syllable clearly enunciated, “because she was pronounced dead on the scene. Sixteen years old. And then it was just — over. Just like that.”

“Shit,” Elliot repeats.

“Shit,” Amanda agrees, voice as dead the girl. “I wanted to go back, but….”

Elliot waits her out. He finds himself more patient, now that she’s giving him something to work with.

“My husband works in the DA’s office,” Amanda says, finally. “I have two daughters. It was just….”

“Too much to risk,” Elliot fills in, and Amanda nods her agreement.

“I felt awful, leaving Liv,” she says. “But my family has to come first, you know?”

“I do,” Elliot says, ignoring the way the words make his stomach twist.

“I told myself it’d be fine, that Fin was still there, but then he left, too, three months ago. Retired, same as me.” Amanda shakes her head as soon as she’s said it, lip curled in something that’s not quite a smile. “Liv said she was happy for him, but….”

She looks away, chewing at her lip.

“But?” Elliot prompts, not really sure he wants to hear what else she has to say.

From the look on her face, Amanda isn’t really sure, either.

“I dunno,” she says, finally. “Not even a week after his retirement party and she’s taking a goddamn gang hit, calling me up to watch Noah like it’s no big deal. Me and Sonny had him for a week and a half, and when I went to drop him off I was almost scared to leave him there.”

“Why?”

It’s hard to even get the word out, his mouth is so dry.

Amanda lets out a slow breath, rubbing one hand over her mouth.

“There were wine bottles in the sink,” she says, finally, reluctant to meet his eyes as she speaks. “And they gave her pain meds when they discharged her from the hospital. But I wasn’t sure, you know? You know Liv. I wasn’t gonna say anything unless I was sure.”

Defensive anger rises like bile, threatening to choke Elliot where he sits.

“What are you implying? That Olivia was — ”

But he can’t even make himself finish the sentence. Amanda doesn’t look vindictive, or cruel. She mostly just looks tired.

“Takes one to know one, right?” she says, with a smirk that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Maybe that’s how we made it so long working together.”

Elliot doesn’t like the sound of that.

“Noah didn’t mention anything,” he says, half a defence of Olivia and half a justification for himself.

Amanda shrugs.

“He never said anything to me, either,” she says. “But kids protect what they know, and she’s all he’s got. Growin’ up god knows I never told anyone what was goin’ on in our house.”

Elliot’s stomach has turned sour, the coffee he just took a sip of settling about as well as a cup of battery acid. Olivia used to bring up her mom with her shoulders squared, already bracing for impact. She hated to be vulnerable, even with Elliot: he mostly found clues in the things she didn’t say. The things she let slip without realizing.

An addict’s an addict, Elliot, he remembers her murmuring in the car, once, when they were locked in all night with their eyes on the building across the street. Mom of two with a pill problem, desperate for cash; they were staking out the sister’s place, trying to wait her out. Olivia thought the husband would leave the woman when they found her;Elliot wasn’t so sure. At the end of the day she’s a liar, and she’s always going to be a liar. How could he ever trust her again?

It was a harsh thing to say, and Elliot didn’t really agree with her, but he didn’t try to fight her on it. From the shake in her voice it was clear who she was actually talking about. Olivia didn’t talk about her mother much, and after Serena died it wasn’t ever anything good. He hadn’t wanted to push.

He wants to, now. Wants to find her, wherever she is, and grab her by the shoulders, shake her until she says something that makes any of this make sense.

“I don’t….” Amanda interrupts his spiraling thoughts, eyebrows furrowed like she’s trying hard to say it right. “I don’t think she was out of control. But I think she was getting desperate, maybe. And you know what desperate people are capable of.”

He does; they both do. Right now he really wishes he didn’t.

Amanda clears her throat.

“I never finished telling you about the goddamn card,” she realizes, breathing out a tense laugh.

Elliot smiles, or at least he tries to. He’d forgotten, too.

“It’s in Long Island,” Amanda says, like that’s supposed to mean something to him. “Right by the beach house where he — where we found Liv. When she was abducted.”

“Fuck,” Elliot breathes out, pushing himself against the back of the booth, rubbing one hand against his mouth. “Do you think — ?”

“I think it’s wrapped up nice and neat,” Amanda says carefully. “She disappears right around the ten year anniversary, motel card by her bed. Internal Affairs investigates, finds her badge and gun in one of the rooms. Footsteps to the beach, maybe, or maybe even her — ”

Amanda can’t make herself finish the sentence, but Elliot hears it anyway, loud and clear.

Footsteps to the beach, maybe, or maybe even her body.

Elliot wonders, vaguely, if he’s going to throw up. His own body feels very remote, all of a sudden. Like none of this is really happening to him.

“You call the motel?” he forces out.

Amanda nods shortly.

“No one matching Liv’s description,” she says, and Elliot lets out a slow breath of relief. “But there’s still time.”

“And you’re, what? Just waiting for it to happen?”

Anger starts to rise up Elliot’s throat, neatly replacing the terror.

“No,” Amanda snaps. “Jesus Christ. I’m fucking trying, alright? But my hands are tied, and if Liv left on her own….”

Elliot raises his eyebrows, waiting. Challenging her to say it out loud.

“If she left on her own, I’m not sure she wants to be found.”

Jet’s itching to leave when he gets back to the office — she’s got another goddamn stakeout scheduled, he remembers. He’s gotta get her off that case. She snatches the keys out of his hand with an impatient huff, reminding him so much of Maureen in her teen years that he has to take a step back, clearing his throat in discomfort as he waves her off.

In his office he calls the number on the back of the motel card, just to be sure. Tells the manager he’s looking for a woman who matches Olivia’s description. Outstanding loans, he explains. You know how it goes.

The manager doubles down that he hasn’t seen her, mentions he’s already gotten a few calls earlier in the week.

“She must owe a hell of a lot of money,” he says doubtfully. “I never had so many people call me up lookin’ for the same customer.”

“More than one?” Elliot asks, a prickle running up his spine.

“Sure,” the manager — Barnes, Elliot remembers, Jim Barnes — says, obviously eager to talk. “There was a Southern lady — she was easy to remember, obviously — and then a man, a few days ago. Couldn’t tell you much about him, sorry. He sounded a little bit like you.”

So, a middle aged guy from New York. Not exactly narrowing much down.

“Appreciate it, man,” he says, and then he hangs the phone up so aggressively it rattles the entire desk.

In the morning he arrives before Jet — not a surprise, given that she was out all night — and works alone until she crawls in around eleven, lugging her enormous camera when she pokes her head in his office, scowling.

“I miss anything?”

“Nah.” Elliot shakes his head, taking in her exhausted appearance. “You coulda come in later, if you wanted.”

Jet shrugs around a jaw-cracking yawn.

“I woke up,” is all she says, stretching her arms over her head like a cat before she retreats to her desk, curling up immediately in her desk.

“I’ll let you know if I need anything!” Elliot calls through the open doorway, mostly just to be a shit.

“Please don’t!” she yells back immediately. She’s totally hidden behind the bulk of her computer monitor, but Elliot grins at her anyway.

He doesn’t listen, either, ducking out an hour later, showing up at her desk with a paper bag under his arm and a takeout cup in his hand.

“You busy?”

Jet looks up, eyes narrowed, as Elliot sets the cup on her desk. It’s just bodega coffee, not really any better than the stuff they brew in the office, but he’s hoping the donut he puts down next to it will make up for it. Judging by the way Jet’s eyes keep straying towards the pastry, he’s hit the mark.

“Not so much, no,” she admits, tearing her gaze from the pink icing with visible effort. “You need something?”

Elliot hesitates for a few seconds, last minute doubts threatening to creep in, before he sets his shoulders and grimaces, digging into his pocket and setting the two pill bottles he stole from Olivia’s bathroom on Jet’s desk. He hasn’t looked at them since he dropped Noah off, too much of a coward to even try and read the labels.

“Can you figure out what these are for?” he asks, aiming desperately for nonchalant. Jet reaches for them slowly, like she thinks it’s some kind of trick, peering at the labels in silence.

“Looks like a sleep aid and a mood stabilizer,” she says, finally, and Elliot blinks at her in surprise.

“How the hell do you know that?”

Jet frowns.

“If you thought I didn’t know, why’d you ask me?”

“I thought you were gonna look it up and get back to me.” Elliot can feel a flush creeping up the back of his neck, his temper threatening to flare up along with it. Stupid — it’s obviously not Jet’s fault. “Is there anything — does anything seem weird? The dosage, or the amount?”

“That, I do have to look up,” Jet admits, fiddling with the bottle where she’s set it back on the desk, pills rattling inside as she rolls it along the edge. There’s no way she missed who they were prescribed for when she read the label, but she doesn’t bring it up herself. With anyone else Elliot’d think they were being tactful, but with Jet — hell. He has no idea. Maybe she just thinks it’s too obvious to mention.

“It’s for the Benson case,” he says, just in case. He doesn’t want her to think he’s trying to hide it, or something. “Found ‘em in her bathroom.”

“Bold move to take them with you,” Jet comments mildly. With good reason, Elliot admits, begrudgingly. It’s exactly the kind of shit he’s warned her against repeatedly. “You don’t think that’s gonna come back and bite you in the ass?”

“I’ll deal with it when it happens,” he says with a shrug. Honestly, he has bigger concerns right now.

“You getting anywhere with the case? Or are these a last ditch effort?” Jet holds both bottles up as she asks, shaking them for emphasis.

Last ditch? No. Elliot frowns, shaking his head. He’s got leads to follow — the motel card, the reporter who called the house, the gang hit Amanda mentioned. Fin, who just retired. The missing photo. It’s just that it’s harder than usual to untangle them, figure out where to start. Elliot works methodically, usually; he and Jet have that in common. It’s embarrassing to admit he’s having so much trouble getting to it.

Even more embarrassing to admit why.

“Her son said a reporter called the house a few days before she disappeared,” he says slowly. He clenches and unclenches his fist as he speaks, trying to focus only on the feeling of it. The sharp ache in his knuckles, followed by the immediate relief of release. “But she deleted the message, and he didn’t catch the name of the paper.”

Jet makes a face. Her thumb’s still rubbing along the edge of the pill bottle. Elliot watches it move for a few seconds: chipped black nail polish, the kind Kathy would never have bought for any of his girls. Ragged cuticles. Wrists so thin it makes him uncomfortable to look at her, sometimes. Knowing how easy she could break in someone’s grip.

“Guess you’re calling around to all of ‘em.”

“Yeah,” Elliot snorts, pulled out of his trance. He’s not looking forward to it.

Jet shrugs, oblivious, already distracted again, picking up the donut and holding it up in a lazy salute.

Back in his office, Elliot pushes aside the files for several recent cases. Given that all of them require more mind-numbing overnight surveillance and not much else, he’s not particularly excited to dig in.

Elliot focuses on Olivia instead.

“Hi, yes, ma’am. My name is Chester Lake. I think I received a call from one of your reporters? It was regarding an Olivia Benson. We used to work together. No, I — no. I must have been mistaken. Thank you for your time.”

Elliot sighs, fighting the urge to slam the phone back down, letting it rest on the receiver instead. That’s the third news outlet he’s called, and none of them had any idea what he was talking about. He crosses it off the list in front of him a little too aggressively, watching dispassionately as the pen tears right through the page.

Christ. He needs a cup of coffee — or a cup of something stronger, honestly, although that’s a vice he tries to avoid, these days.

One more call, and then he’ll get up. Pour himself a coffee, bug Jet for a little bit.

“Hello?”

Elliot had forgotten he’d even dialed.

“Yes, hello!” he barks into the line, startled and way too loud. “Hi, yeah, my name Chester Lake. I received a call from one of your reporters last week regarding a former coworker. I’d like to call him back, but I seem to have forgotten his name — you wouldn’t happen to know who’s writing a story about an Olivia Benson, would you?”

“You mean Jude Miller?”

He’s so ready for a denial that it takes him a moment to register what the woman’s actually said.

“Uh, yeah,” Elliot says in a rush, posture straightening automatically. “You happen to have his number on you? I’d like to get in touch with him.”

“I can do you one better,” the woman says smoothly. “I’ll transfer you to his extension right now, if you want?”

“Yeah, yes, that’d be great,” Elliot says. “Thank you — I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Linda Forrester,” she says, not sounding at all offended. “It was no problem at all, Mr. Lake. Was there anything else you needed?”

“No, no, this is great, Linda. Thank you again.”

“No problem at all. Just give me one moment, alright? I’m connecting your call right now.”

Jude Miller has an easygoing personality, more laidback-sounding than Elliot would expect from a reporter. He won’t give away any details over the phone, but agrees to a meeting quickly enough that it’s obvious that under that relaxed exterior he’s pretty desperate for some answers of his own.

In person he’s as unassuming as his voice made him sound; light eyes and light brown hair, the kind of bland generic office attire that wouldn’t be out of place in an insurance office.

His handshake is firm, though, when he stands to greet Elliot in the diner.

“First things first,” Miller says, eyes flicking Elliot up and down as they take their seats. “You’re not Chester Lake.”

Elliot goes still, surprised despite himself. Miller’s direct when he speaks, not cagey like Amanda and Fin were, and Elliot’s not naïve enough to think that makes him trustworthy, but he respects it nonetheless. Welcomes the change of pace.

“I’m not,” he agrees, but he hesitates before offering anything more. Miller cocks his head to the side, eyes piercing, like he’s trying to look right through him.

“Then what are we doing here?”

Straight to the point.

“I want to know why you were harassing Olivia Benson.”

“What?”

Miller blinks, looking genuinely surprised; Elliot’s spent enough time around scumbags that he likes to think he can tell the difference. He hopes he can tell the difference.

“You called her, left voicemails on her home phone,” he says slowly, watching Miller carefully for his reaction. “Her son said she was upset.”

“That was a misunderstanding.”

“A misunderstanding?”

Elliot’s heard that one before, plenty of times. It’s almost never true. He lets his skepticism bleed through into his tone, raising his eyebrows to show Miller he’s not buying it.

“Who are you? Why were you talking to her son?”

Elliot’s hesitant to share the truth with Miller; not before he’s gotten Miller’s side of the story.

“She’s a friend,” he says, finally. It’s true enough: she was, once. She used to be his best friend. “I got worried.”

“Look.” Miller meets his eyes again when he speaks, frank and forthright. “I was handed the assignment from my supervisor, alright? He wanted in-depth, emotional, you know the drill. I figured she’d already agreed to it, from the way he was talking to me. He made it sound like a done deal.”

“But it wasn’t,” Elliot fills in, remembering Noah’s recounting of events.

“No,” Miller agrees. “At first she just dodged my calls, and I figured — hey, she’s busy, right? Single mom, full time job, whatever. But then one night she picks up, and she is just — irate, is the only word to describe it.”

“Her kid mentioned she was upset.”

“She was beyond upset,” Miller confirms, rubbing at the scruff on his chin. “I was so shocked, I didn’t even know how to respond. I tried to explain it to her, but I don’t think she was even listening. She just kept yelling at me to back off, to stop harassing her and her kid. I felt like a fucking monster.”

It goes against Elliot’s entire lived experience to feel sympathetic for a reporter, but Miller’s radiating nothing but sincerity, slumped on the other side of the table, looking miserable.

“So the next day,” Miller continues. He’s speaking more slowly now, like he wants to get it right. “The next day, I go straight to my supervisor, explain the situation. I tell him it was all a big mistake, that we shouldn’t run the story. That unless there was something he wasn’t telling me, I didn’t see the point of digging all that up. It wasn’t like she was starting some foundation, or an initiative, or whatever, right? She was very obviously not willing to talk about it.”

He pauses again, takes a sip of his coffee. Stares out the window for a long few moments, as though there’s much of anything out there worth looking at.

“But?”

“That’s where it got weird. My supervisor effectively told me that we were running the story no matter what, and that if I wasn’t going to write it, someone else would.”

“So you agreed to write it.”

“So I agreed to look into it,” Miller corrects. “And I did. I looked into why the hell my boss was so dead set on running the damn article.”

“And?”

“And I dug up call logs for multiple calls between high-level management and the NYPD,” Miller reports. “Evidence of a few meetings. It didn’t make any sense. Why would the NYPD be pushing the story? I mean, you know what happened to her, right? It doesn’t exactly look great for them. It took them four fucking days to find her, and when they did she’d already subdued the guy herself. And then after all that trouble, they couldn’t even keep the guy behind bars.”

Elliot pushes himself back from the table, braces himself with his hands as rage and grief roil in his stomach. Tries not to let it show on his face.

“It took a lot of convincing, but I got Benson to agree to meet with me again,” Miller says. “Figured whatever the hell was going on, she wasn’t in on it. Not after that phone call.”

“How many times did you meet with her?”

“Four, maybe five? She was real twitchy about it. Didn’t want anyone to know.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“Last week,” Miller says. “Tuesday night. She hasn’t contacted me since then.”

“Fuck,” Elliot mutters. Miller’s expression sharpens.

“Something happen?”

“I’m not just her friend,” Elliot admits. “I’m a PI. No one’s seen her since Tuesday night.”

“Fuck,” Miller breathes out in agreement, scrubbing his hand against his chin. “You think she cut and run? Or — ”

“I don’t know,” Elliot says quickly, before Miller can voice the thought out loud. He’s not superstitious, but —

Okay, yeah. He’s superstitious. Feels like if he hears it, it’ll come true.

“I’m trying to figure it out,” Elliot continues. “So any information you can give me about that night would be helpful. Time, location. Whatever you got. And an alibi, too, if you’ve got one.”

He digs out a memo pad from his pocket as he speaks, slides it across the table. Miller takes out his own pen and uncaps it, starts scribbling right away.

“Wherever she is, I hope you find her in one piece,” Miller comments as he writes, eyes focused only on the paper in front of him. “‘Cause it’s going to be a hell of a lot harder to blow the whistle if the whistleblower’s dead.”

Back at the office Elliot stares at the paper, willing any of it to make sense. The bar Miller said he met Olivia at is a thirty minute walk from her house; he said they only talked for about ten minutes, and they both left by 10:30. Swore Olivia sipped half a glass of red, and that was it. Said he offered to walk her back but she refused, so he settled for waiting til she made it to the end of the block.

And then what?

Did she make it back home? Did she check in on Noah, gently tug that rocketship blanket back under his chin?

Did she open another bottle of red? Did she leave again, find another bar?

Surely not. Not with Noah in the apartment. But something must have happened, either in the apartment or before she got there.

Elliot sighs, closing his eyes, trying to picture what happened. But there are too many holes. Too many parts of her he still doesn’t understand.

He sighs, lifts his head again. Picks up the phone and dials a number he really, really doesn’t want to call.

“Fin? Hey, man, it’s Elliot Stabler. No — don’t hang up. It’s about Olivia. No, she didn’t — have you heard from her lately? Anything at all?”

There’s a long pause, then —

“If I had, you really think I’d be telling you?”

Elliot takes in a deep breath, lets it out. Reminds himself that he paid for everything in this office, and he’ll be paying for replacements if he breaks any of it.

“I think you’d be telling someone who wants to help her, yeah.”

“You think I don’t?”

I think you left her, Elliot almost snaps, catching himself just in time. He left her too, and he knows that what he did was worse.

“Amanda said she was surprised you left.”

“You talked to Rollins?”

It’s hard to tell with him, most of the time, but Elliot’s pretty sure Fin’s genuinely surprised to hear it. He and Amanda must not be in touch.

“A couple of times, yeah.”

“Man, what do you think you’re doin’?”

Elliot chooses to ignore Fin’s dismissive tone of voice, rolling his eyes and forging on like he didn’t even hear him.

“If I asked to meet in person, would you say yes?”

Another long pause. Elliot’s hand is resting on the desk as he waits for Fin to respond; he watches the veins in his own forearm as he clenches his hand into a fist, then lets it go. Clench, unclench. A little stronger every time, the tension in his body stringing tighter and tighter.

“Rollins say anything interesting? When you guys talked?”

Elliot raises his gaze to the wall in front of him, jaw set, fighting the urge to just bark at Fin to tell him what the hell’s going on. He doesn’t think he can stand the cryptic shit much longer: it’s not his style, creeping around in the dark. Telling half truths, leaving the rest unsaid. He was bad at it then and he’s bad at it now. No matter how much time passes, he still can’t get used to it.

“She didn’t say much of anything,” he says, finally, which is and isn’t true. “Why do you think I’m calling you?”

Fin meets him on a fucking park bench the next morning, side by side but staring straight ahead, like they’re characters in a goddamn spy thriller. He’s got a stupid hat on and everything. Elliot can’t stand any of this.

“Good to see you, man,” he lies, eyes on the hot dog stand across the path.

“You said you wanted to talk in person,” Fin says flatly, cutting straight to the point. “We’re in person, right? Talk.”

Elliot cannot overstate how much he wants to punch this man in the face.

“Amanda said you retired,” he forces out instead, still not looking at him. “How long ago was that?”

“Almost four months,” Fin says. “It’s what Phoebe wanted.”

“Phoebe?”

Elliot doesn’t remember Fin having anyone, back in the day, but then he guesses even they weren’t exactly close confidants.

“My old partner,” Fin clarifies. “We … reconnected.”

It takes a moment to get it, but when he does, the irony is not lost on Elliot.

“Good for you, man,” he says, mostly meaning it. “I’m happy for you.”

Fin shrugs.

“I guess it was a long time coming. I’m gettin’ old, you know. Both of us are.”

Elliot can’t tell if Fin means himself and Phoebe, or himself and Elliot. He doesn’t bother asking for a clarification.

“How’d Liv take it?”

Fin shrugs again.

“She wasn’t thrilled,” he admits. “But she understood why.”

Elliot can’t picture it. Liv never took well to anyone leaving.

“Amanda said she left too, not long after,” he points out. “She told me a little bit. Didn’t give a lot of detail.”

“So you think I will?” Fin snorts, obviously unimpressed. “She doesn’t wanna tell you, she doesn’t wanna tell you, man. But she wasn’t fired, if that’s what you’re getting at. She left on her own, felt like she had to.”

“She said about as much,” Elliot says. “No one was pressuring her? Pushing her out?”

But Fin just shakes his head, slow, obviously not willing to elaborate.

“If they were, she woulda told you,” he reminds Elliot. “Or not. Her choice.”

Elliot lets out an irritated breath.

“And what about Liv, then? She was doin’ okay without you?”

There’s something there; Elliot can feel it. Something was happening at the precinct. Amanda didn’t want to talk about it, and Fin doesn’t want to talk about it, but Elliot’s sure, now, that they both know what it is.

The silence stretches out long enough that he really thinks Fin’s gonna leave him in the dark for real; he’s always been better than Elliot at keeping his mouth shut. Elliot thinks of that goddamn case, all those years ago, Fin and Liv undercover in a women’s prison. When they came back out Liv was covered in bruises and jumpy as hell, and neither of them ever let slip a single word about what happened.

Elliot wanted to strangle Fin, back then, and after the third or fourth time he asked about it, the feeling was almost definitely mutual.

“I thought she was gonna follow me,” Fin says, finally. He’s the one watching the hot dog stand, now. “Alright? I didn’t mean to leave her there. I thought — I thought there was no way she’d stay.”

“Why?”

“Nah, man. I ain’t stupid enough to tell you that,” Fin says, warning clear in his tone. “But I’ll say this much: I confronted her about it, when I found out she wasn’t taking the retirement package, and she said she ‘just had to finish something.’ But she wouldn’t tell me what.”

Elliot tenses, straightens on the bench, all set to demand Fin explain what the hell that’s supposed to mean, but Fin’s already shaking his head.

“That’s all I got, man. I can’t give you anything more than that.”

He stops at the bar Miller mentioned on his way back to the office, flashes a picture of Olivia he had Jet print off for him the day before. Lies and says he’s working a custody case. The bartender squints at it and then shrugs, says he might have seen her, maybe, but if she was there she didn’t do anything memorable.

“She woulda been with a guy around my age,” Elliot presses. “A little shorter. Grey eyes, light hair, glasses. Looks like an office worker. He said they each got one drink, but they left before they could drink them.”

The bartender squints again, thinking it over. He’s the kind of guy Elliot mistrusts on sight, long blond hair in a ponytail and a canny glint to his eye, but he’s obviously trying, at least, to cooperate.

“Sounds familiar,” he says, finally. “She ask for red?”

“Yes,” Elliot says, relieved, leaning forward in his excitement without even realizing he’s doing it. “That’s her. Nothing weird happened while they were here?”

“They were barely here at all,” the bartender answers with a shrug. “Had half a drink and then left. I opened a bottle of cab for no reason.”

“Right,” Elliot says. “Well. You think of anything, just give me a call, would you? Anything at all.”

He slides his business card across the bar, the one Jet insisted on reprinting as soon as he took her on. Swears the font she chose is more professional, or something.

“Sure thing,” the bartender says easily, pocketing it without a second glance at Jet’s hard work. “Hope you find her, dude.”

Elliot really fucking hopes so, too.

“Two things,” Jet announces when Elliot lets himself back into the office. She straightens in her seat as soon as the door opens, the effect not unlike a student receiving a classroom visit from the principal. Elliot smiles at her; the expression feels slightly unnatural, which isn’t a great sign. He pushes down the feeling, nodding at her to continue. “First, I got the info about those prescriptions.”

“That fast?”

“I’m very good at my job,” she reminds him.

“You are,” Elliot agrees easily. “You find anything weird?”

“Doses are pretty high, apparently,” she says, digging the bottles out of her top drawer and handing them over. “My friend said they’re the type of prescriptions you’d expect to see for a patient who’s already developed a high tolerance.”

“Someone who’s been taking them for a long time.”

“Right,” Jet agrees. “Doctor’s name is on the bottles, so I looked him up. Dr. Richard Brooks, practicing psychology at Brooks & Moore. They’ve got an office in Manhattan.”

“Thanks,” Elliot says, rolling the bottles in his hand before he tucks both into his pocket. “Anything else?”

“Not really.” Jet shrugs. “Both filled at the same time, the week before she disappeared, at a pharmacy near her house. Both about half full.”

“Half? After a week?”

“Less than a week,” Jet corrects him immediately. “She got them filled on Thursday. You said she disappeared on Tuesday, right?”

“Right,” Elliot agrees absently, not liking where this is going. “What would the side effects be, if she was taking a higher dose?”

“For the sleep aid? Sleeping a lot, probably,” Jet deadpans.

Elliot makes a face at her.

“Yes, thank you,” he snaps, not in the mood to play games. “And the other one?”

“Nausea, vertigo, confusion,” Jet lists slowly, squinting as she tries to remember. “Drowsiness, maybe? Blurred vision. Headache.”

“Those sound pretty noticeable,” Elliot says. “Her kid would probably have picked up on it, right?”

“I’d guess so, yeah.” Jet frowns. “But I doubt she was making a habit of it.”

“What do you mean?”

Jet chews her lip, eyes on the computer screen in front of her.

“I mean she probably took them with her,” she says, finally. “Either she was planning on being gone a while, or….”

Or she was planning on taking them all at once. Elliot lets out a slow breath, holding a hand up to cut Jet off before she can say it out loud.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “But in that case, why not just take the bottles?”

“That’s what’s weird,” Jet agrees.

Elliot frowns, turning that over in his head. The more he thinks about it, the more he doesn’t want to think about it anymore. Olivia waiting until Noah was in bed, then taking medicine to help her sleep. Olivia waking up the next morning and taking medicine to help her get through the day.

He forces himself to cut off that train of thought, to focus on something else instead.

“What was the second thing you wanted to tell me?”

Jet startles, like she’d already forgotten about him completely.

“Right,” she says, blinking. “A call came in while you were gone.”

Elliot sighs, presses his thumb to his right eye til it hurts. Opens it again and blinks, repeatedly, until his vision clears and he can focus on her properly.

“A client?”

Jet shrugs.

“Not anyone on the books right now,” she says, eyes on the screen in front of her. Now that he’s looking at her more closely, Elliot’s pretty sure she hasn’t moved since the night before. The circles under her eyes look darker than usual, two days’ worth of smudged makeup giving a raccoon-like affect, and when he drags one knee up to her chest, foot perched neatly on the edge of her computer chair, he realizes she’s wearing a pair of pyjama pants. Navy blue plaid, faded from one too many trips through the dryer. “Said her name was Maureen? I think she was pissed I didn’t know who she was.”

Elliot’s mouth had been open, all set to remind Jet about professional work attire; the words die right on his tongue and for a few long seconds all he can do is stand there, pulse roaring in his ears.

“... I take it you do know her, then.”

Jet’s voice is flat as ever, giving nothing away. Elliot wonders, not for the first time, how the hell she does it. He feels like he’s bleeding out constantly, emotions spilling wet and messy all over the damn place.

He clears his throat, testing, not sure his voice will hold when he speaks.

“You get a number?”

Jet holds out a yellow memo sheet, jagged at the edge where she ripped it off the pad too quickly, and Elliot snatches it without looking at her directly.

In his office he stares at it for what feels like hours, ignoring the press of the pill bottles in his pocket against his thigh, long enough that his vision starts to go blurry and strange at the edges. He grabs a pen from the cup on his desk, finally, and scrawls Maureen’s name and the date she called before tucking it under the phone.

It’s not the right time, he tells himself. He’ll call her when this is over.

He will.

He picks up the phone and dials Fin again, fingers tapping out an anxious beat against the desk as the call rings out.

“Tutuola.”

“I need a favour.”

Elliot doesn’t bother introducing himself, just cuts straight to the point. The sigh that follows is mostly just static.

“You’re on thin ice already, man, you know that right?”

Elliot swallows hard against the anger rising up, clenching his jaw so hard he swears he can feel the enamel on his back molars grinding to dust.

“It’s important,” he grits out. “I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t important.”

“So ask.”

“I need the phone records for a psychiatrist’s office,” Elliot rushes out, glancing around on instinct even though he’s in his own goddamn office. There’s no one around but Jet, and she always knocks first. “Brooks & Moore. I need to know if they were in contact with anyone at the NYPD.”

“This still about Liv?”

“Would I ask if it wasn’t? You know how shrinks are about patient confidentiality, they’re not gonna release anything without a fight.”

“I do know that, actually, seeing as I worked the job twice as long as you. But I’m telling you, that isn’t Liv’s shrink.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like, man. Her guy was this jackass doing appointments from his apartment. Some type of home office bullshit, I dunno. Charged out the ass per session, I know that much. Name’s Lindberg, Linden. Somethin’ Swedish.”

“There were meds in her cabinet,” Elliot says slowly, stomach sinking with every word. “Prescribed by a Dr. Richard Brooks. Mood stabilizers and sleep aids. Heavy doses.”

There’s a long pause, and then —

“Shit.”

Elliot chokes out an ugly laugh, more a reflex than anything.

“You think it was staged?”

“Either that or she was shopping around,” Elliot says. “And I really fucking hope it wasn’t that.”

“Shit,” Fin says again. Quieter, this time, but with more emphasis. “You and me both.”

“So you can help me?”

The silence stretches on so long he’d think Fin had given up on him, if it weren’t for the way he can still hear the other man breathing.

“Phoebe might know someone,” he says, at last, sounding reluctant. “She can get it for you, if I say it’s for Liv.”

“Shit,” Elliot breathes, relieved. “Tell her thank you, alright?”

“She’d prefer a gift certificate, probably,” Fin says dryly. “But sure. I’ll pass that right along.”

He’s restless after he hangs up with Fin, leg juddering up and down under the desk. He used to get like this when they worked overnights, sometimes, or when they were waiting on lab results; Olivia would raise her eyebrows when it started to get to her, not-so-gently suggesting Elliot make himself useful and pick them up something to eat.

He didn’t smoke back then, quit when he got back stateside. Kathy didn’t want it around the kids and honestly, Elliot didn’t either. He hadn’t wanted to be that kind of father. He was a worse kind, as it turned out, but at least his kids didn’t grow up playing on couches that stunk of stale nicotine.

Olivia smoked, sometimes, in the early days. Not often, or anything, just when she was particularly stressed about a case. She’d disappear for ten minutes, come back doused in a fresh coat of perfume and chewing aggressively on a stick of gum — it wasn’t hard to figure out where she’d been.

She never invited Elliot along. Never even mentioned that’s where she was going. He still doesn’t know if it was out of respect, or if he was included in the list of things she needed a break from. He never worked up the courage to ask.

The habit petered out on its own, anyway. By the time he left he’s pretty sure she hadn’t smoked in years.

He’s craving a smoke, is the point, and the problem with sitting here alone is there’s nothing really stopping him. He tries to put it off as long as he can, but the more he thinks about it, the slower time seems to pass.

“Fuck it,” he mutters, reaching for his overcoat on the way out. Jet’s not at her desk — she’d yelled something earlier, when she headed out, but Elliot wasn’t paying attention. Picking up … something. Prints? Dinner, possibly.

Coffee, more likely.

The temperature’s dropped, when Elliot gets outside. The sky’s cleared up by now, but the streetlights are bright the way they only seem to get when it just rained. The weather will be miserable in a few weeks but for now the cold feels good, clears his head.

Elliot ducks into the alley next to their building and leans his head against the brick, closing his eyes and trying to think about nothing.

Predictably, it doesn’t work. He thinks about Olivia, instead, wondering if she ever picked the habit back up. If she started ducking outside again like this, like she did when they first met. He can picture her so clearly, that first year. Black turtlenecks and black coats, dark lipstick stark against pale skin. She warmed up, over time; her hair got lighter, her clothes more casual. She stopped biting her nails, started painting them instead. Softer touches on the outside even as inside she toughened up, closed off more and more pieces of herself.

He’s so lost in thought he doesn’t even notice Jet creeping up next to him, jolting back to the present when her hand snaps in front of him, impatient. It takes him longer than he’d admit to realize she’s asking to borrow his lighter.

“Shitty habit,” he says, handing it over reluctantly. “You should know better.”

Jet raises a silent eyebrow at the hypocrisy, digging a green and white pack of menthols out of her bag and neatly tapping one into her palm. She lights it in a smooth motion, handing back the lighter when she’s done.

“I picked up another set of prints for the Ballard case,” she informs him conversationally — or what passes as conversational, with her. Elliot’s learned to take what he can get.

“Anything interesting?”

She snorts, shakes her head.

“Zilch. No surprises there.”

Elliot huffs out a laugh of his own.

“His money to waste, I guess,” he says dryly, bringing his cigarette up for another inhale.

“You getting anywhere with Benson?”

“Yeah, actually,” Elliot says, trying not to take offence when Jet’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “I talked to an old friend from the NYPD about the drugs. He agreed it sounded weird, he’s gonna get someone to look into it for me.”

“I looked into it for you.”

If Elliot didn’t know better, he’d think she was offended.

“Cop,” he reminds her. “Easier to pull phone records.”

It’s not, really, not without an open official investigation, and judging by the look she’s giving him, Jet knows that.

“Thought you didn’t want the cops involved.”

“I don’t,” Elliot snaps, surprised by the vehemence in his own voice. He was a cop, after all, for over a decade. Had a couple shitty partners, before Olivia, but a few good ones, too. He doesn’t remember the animosity Amanda alluded to, the corruption, but maybe it was always there. Maybe Elliot just didn’t want to see it. The remarks about Olivia mostly dried up, after the first few years she worked with him, but now he’s starting to wonder if they only quit saying that shit when he was around. He never reacted very well when he heard it. “But if this goes up as far as I think it does, we gotta get info from inside.”

“How far are you thinking?”

Jet frowns around another drag of her cigarette, her fingers trembling, just slightly, from the cold.

“Think about it,” Elliot says. “The meds planted in her cabinet, the story running at the perfect time? Disappearing all of a sudden, not even taking her kid — ”

“Maybe.”

“You don’t think so?” Elliot pushes, frowning at her ambivalence.

“I think it’s possible,” Jet allows. “But probable? I dunno. I know she was your friend, but….”

Elliot bristles as he drops his cigarette, stepping on it a little more aggressively than necessary to snuff it out. Jet watches him, silent, unmoved as ever.

“Let’s go inside,” she says, finally, dropping her own with a lot fewer theatrics. “It’s fucking freezing out here.”

She’s still wearing her damn pyjama pants, he realizes as they climb the stairs to the third floor, worn plaid flannel with her leather jacket on top. She looks ridiculous.

“You eat?” he asks as he unlocks the office door, holding it open for her to walk in first. Jet shakes her head, shrugging off the jacket and hanging it up before she drops down into her chair, immediately curling up with her knees to her chest. She looks more like a teenager than an adult employee; the chewed up stubs of her nails don’t help much. It’s late enough that Elliot doesn’t bother ribbing her for it. “Wanna order?”

“I’ll call,” Jet says flatly. “You always fuck it up.”

Elliot snorts, but doesn’t put up a fight. She’s got a whole thing about which vegetables are acceptable in which dish, and he can never keep track of when he’s supposed to ask them to hold the baby corn.

He’s digging through his desk drawer for the menu when his fingers brush against metal binding instead; he straightens with Olivia’s memo pad in his hand, takeout immediately forgotten.

His heart pounds, unsteady, as he flips through it. It’s mostly garbage — scribbles and doodles, probably while she was talking on the phone. The number for an electrician, a dry cleaner. Two separate hair appointments. A name that must be one of Noah’s classmates, with a date and NO PEANUT BUTTER underlined three times next to it. The back half is empty, nothing on the pages at all; she clearly hadn’t gotten that far. Except —

Elliot stares at the number written on the second-to-last page, frowning. He swears it looks familiar. He paws at the unruly stack of papers on his desk, shuffling them aside until he finds the envelope Noah gave him with the newspaper clipping. The memo’s still in there, scrawled in Olivia’s familiar handwriting.

It’s the same phone number.

“Dude,” Jet calls loudly from the other room. “The menu?”

She definitely doesn’t actually need it; they’ve both got the whole thing memorized, at this point. Elliot sighs and digs it out anyway, sliding the memo pad into his pocket as he stands.

“Don’t get the orange chicken,” he instructs Jet as he drops the menu on her desk. “Remember last time?”

“Vividly,” Jet winces, her face twisting up with disgust. “I’m sticking with the fried rice this time. Safer.”

“Egg rolls, too,” Elliot reminds her, edgy enough that he accidentally barks it out like an order.

“Duh.” Jet rolls her eyes and waves her free hand at him dismissively, already dialing with her right. “Yes, hello,” she says, waving even more aggressively until Elliot takes the hint and gets out. “I’d like to make an order for delivery.”

Jet shoos him out as soon as he’s finished eating; she’s already focused back on her computer screen, occasionally nibbling at a half-eaten egg roll on a napkin in front of her.

Elliot locks himself back in his office, digs the phone number back out of his pocket, and stares at it for a long moment before he picks up the phone and dials.

There are a few seconds of total silence on the other end when it stops ringing, long enough that Elliot wonders if maybe the call got dropped. Just as he’s about to hang up and try again, a woman speaks.

“May I ask who’s calling?”

Shit.

“Um, this — Jack. Jack Elliot.”

There’s another long pause.

“I think you have the wrong number.”

“Wait — ” Elliot tries, but the line clicks before he can even finish, and then it’s just him and the dial tone.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck.”

“All good in there?” Jet calls, and Elliot has to breathe for a few seconds before he can clear his throat and answer.

“Yeah,” he replies, voice raised to carry through the closed door. “I’m good! All good!”

All good.

It’s raining again the next morning, an icy drizzle, just windy enough that it creeps into every opening in his coat.

Jet has the car again so Elliot takes the bus, going from shivering and miserable to overheated and miserable in a matter of minutes, nauseous and pissed off when the it deposits him two blocks from the office.

He doesn’t bother stopping for the coffee on the way; Jet won’t be in for a few more hours, at least, and it always feels like a waste just to buy it for himself.

He lets himself into the office empty handed, instead, flicking on the extension cord that connects the coffee machine first. It’s another twenty minutes before he makes it to his desk, the answering machine’s red light flashing insistently as soon as he sits down.

Elliot sighs and plays the message, assuming it’ll be Mr. Ballard again, asking for updates.

Elliot, it’s Amanda. Call me back, would you?

The next message is from her, too, and the message after that.

It’s an emergency, okay? Call as soon as you get this, or I’ll assume —

But whatever she’ll assume, she keeps it to herself. The message ends, and there are no more after that.

“Shit,” Elliot mutters, scrambling to hit redial. The call rings out, the first time, his heart rising to his throat as he dials one more time.

“Hello?”

“Amanda?”

“Oh, thank god,” Amanda breathes out, a rush of static on the other end of the line. “You gotta get over here, I need you to take Noah.”

“What?” Panic floods through him, adrenaline jacking his heart rate up even higher. “Why? Did something happen, is he — ”

“He’s fine,” Amanda says. She’s speaking fast, like she’s trying to get it all out at once. “Someone’s been in the apartment, though. When we got home last night the lock was all scratched up.”

“What about you? The girls?”

“We’ll be fine,” Amanda says. A guilty thread creeps into her voice. “But I’m worried about Noah. I don’t know if they just wanted somethin’ from Sonny’s files, maybe, or — I don’t know. And I just can’t — I can’t have that happen again.”

Gut shot, Elliot remembers. Rehab had to be hell, coming back from that, not to mention the guilt of a dead witness. And now it’s her own daughters, those two sweet little blonde girls .

“It’s fine,” he reassures her. “I get it. Listen, my employee took my car, but it shouldn’t be a long wait, alright? I’ll come as soon as I can.”

“I can come to you,” Amanda offers immediately, and her urgency isn’t really making Elliot feel great about this. “Same place as last time, I’ll be there in under an hour.”

Amanda makes it in under thirty minutes — she must have been driving like a maniac. Elliot’s amusement at the mental image is short lived, cut off neatly by the look of fear on Noah’s face.

“Hey, bud,” Elliot says when Noah slides in next to him. He grins at the kid, easy, like there’s nothing to worry about at all.

Noah doesn’t buy it, that much is obvious, chewing nervously at his bottom lip in lieu of a response.

“He’s got his stuff in his backpack,” Amanda says hurriedly, not bothering to sit down with them. “I thought maybe you could get him out of town for a few days. Nowhere far, just — clear of here, yeah?”

“I got it,” Elliot reassures her.

“Hey,” Elliot says as she turns to leave, stopping her only a few feet from the table. “You gonna be okay?”

Amanda’s mouth drops open; Elliot tries not to take offence that she looks genuinely surprised he asked. She smiles, finally, tight but real.

“We’ll be fine,” she promises. “I still got my concealed carry permit.”

Noah’s watching the entire exchange with wide eyes, still silent, but he wrinkles his nose when Amanda comes back just to ruffle his hair.

“Don’t,” he whines quietly.

“Be good,” she instructs him, her words brusque but her voice warm. Noah nods, silent as he watches her go.

“What are we gonna do now?” he asks once she’s out of sight, a lot less happy to see Elliot than he was the last time they met.

“You hungry?” Noah shakes his head. “What about ice cream?”

“I didn’t have lunch yet.”

Elliot shrugs.

“Today’s already weird, right? I think we can make an exception just this once.”

Noah opts for vanilla, no toppings. In a bowl, not a cone, he informs the waitress seriously. Elliot gets strawberry with walnuts, grinning at the way it makes Noah wrinkle his nose. He keeps an eye on the door while Noah eats, but no one else comes in except two women on their lunch break; they take seats close to the front, chatting loudly the whole time, not even sparing a glance Noah’s way.

He keeps watching as they leave the building, but he doesn’t see anything that makes him want to look twice.

“We gotta walk back to the office for my car, that alright with you?”

Noah shrugs.

“I don’t have much of a choice,” he mumbles, and it’s obvious he isn’t really talking about the walk.

“This must be scary for you, huh,” Elliot offers as they start towards the office. Noah shrugs again. He’s got good posture, most of the time. Elliot never noticed until now, watching the slump of his shoulders with concern.

“I guess,” Noah admits. “I was kind of already scared, though. So.”

He says the last part quietly, and he doesn’t look up when he speaks. He’s embarrassed; nervous about Elliot’s reaction.

“Me too,” Elliot admits. Noah’s head jerks up to stare at him, visibly shocked; Elliot offers him a wry half-smile. “That really surprise you?”

“I mean, yeah,” Noah says baldly. “You’re, like. Grown up.”

“Grown ups get scared too, kid,” Elliot laughs. “Your mom never told you that?”

“I mean, she said it,” Noah allows. “I guess I just didn’t really believe her.”

“Your mom’s not a liar,” Elliot says. “And she’s always right. You should probably remember that.”

“Whatever.” Noah rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile playing at the corner of his mouth, too. Like he’s enjoying the banter as much as Elliot is.

They’re already at the building, somehow; the last few blocks just slipped past. Elliot strides forward to get the door, grinning at Noah as he holds it open.

“It’s busted again,” he says, when Noah tries to push the button for the elevator. “C’mon, let’s take stairs.”

The stairs are tucked into the corner of the hallway, at a sharp enough angle that when Elliot pushes the door open his view of the office is mostly blocked. All he can see are a pair of feet — Jet’s, he’s pretty sure, or else someone with the exact same taste in Doc Martens.

“Jet? That you?”

He rounds the corner and stops, one arm flailing out to catch Noah by the shoulders.

“What happened?”

Jet’s fine, at least physically; that’s the first thing Elliot registers. The rest falls in all at once: the door, slightly ajar. The faint smell of smoke. The look on Jet’s face.

“I didn’t see who it was,” she blurts out, voice overly loud and obviously panicked. Next to Elliot, Noah has gone completely still.

“You went inside?” Elliot reaches forward to help her up, and he doesn’t miss the way her fingers dig into his forearms, just for a split second, fingernails sharp and biting before she lets go and takes a step back. “Why the hell would you — ”

“I didn’t know,” Jet cuts him off, her fear crystallizing into anger. “I thought it was you in there, dipshit, I was gonna go in and yell at you to fucking smoke outside.”

Noah really shouldn’t be hearing this. He’s trembling, a little, Elliot realizes, when he steps back to check on him.

“Alright,” he says, taking a deep breath to calm himself down. “Alright, here’s what — Jet, is your stuff in there?”

“My computer, yeah,” she says, her voice sounding even more remote than usual. “My camera’s safe, it’s in my bag.”

“Anything you’re working on?”

“Just the stuff for you,” she says. “And the goddamn Ballard case.”

For fuck’s sake.

“That doesn’t matter right now,” Elliot says. Jet immediately nods her agreement, nose wrinkling just thinking about it. “I’m gonna go in there, see what’s missing. Take the important stuff and we’ll go.”

“Go where?”

“I don’t know,” he says frankly. “I’ll figure it out. Can you wait out here with Noah?”

Jet’s eyes flick over to Noah.

“Sure,” she says. “We can hang out.”

Elliot’s proud of her: her voice only shakes a little bit.

He enters the office cautiously; relaxing a fraction when he realizes the damage isn’t as bad as he thought. It’s mostly superficial: files disturbed, Jet’s chair overturned. The remains of a fire in the trash can.

Elliot’s office is mostly fine, strangely enough. Someone rifled through the top desk drawer and left it ajar, but his tape recorder is still stored in the bottom drawer, undisturbed. Elliot frowns as he grabs it, collecting the files related to Olivia’s disappearance and shoving them all in his case, before switching off the light behind him.

“We should probably hurry,” he says as he locks the door behind him, turns to find twin gazes staring up balefully from where they’ve parked themselves on the floor. “I don’t know how long ago they left.”

“You can probably just drop me off at home,” Jet says as she pushes herself to her feet, Noah following suit behind her.

“I can’t do that,” Elliot says immediately, looking her over one more time, just to be sure. “Whoever did this has all your personal information, now. I don’t want you to be alone.”

“So, what? I’m tagging along with you and the kid?” Jet’s nose wrinkles. “No offense,” she adds after a moment, angling towards Noah as she says it.

“It’s okay,” Noah says quietly.

“Just for a day or two,” Elliot promises her. “Until we figure out what’s goin’ on.”

“And you’re paying me overtime?”

“I am now,” Elliot grits out, sure he’s going to regret it. Jet’s shoulders relax, though, just a fraction, and finally she gives him a nod.

“We really do have to stop at my apartment,” she says, lifting her bag up in front of her. “All I have in here is my wallet and the camera.”

Jet comes out of her apartment building with an enormous backpack slung over one shoulder and a CD case in the other; she drops the latter onto the passenger’s seat before letting herself in next to Noah in the backseat.

“I’m not listening to your old man music,” she says flatly when Elliot picks it up with a questioning expression. “It’s that or silence.”

“I’m fine with silence,” Elliot bluffs, mostly to give her a hard time. He knows perfectly well she listens to the radio on stakeouts: the last two preset stations are hers.

It doesn’t work, of course; Jet just shrugs and accepts his decision, buckling her seatbelt and then looking forward expectantly, calmly waiting for him to start driving. Noah, on the other hand, lets out a quietly despairing sound, fixing an injured gaze first on Jet and then, when she doesn’t seem to notice, aiming it Elliot’s way instead.

“Just til we get out of the city,” Elliot amends, caving so fast it’s almost embarrassing. “I gotta be able to hear myself think.”

Noah only sighs in response, gazing out the window as the city passes by. It’s sunny today, and colder than it looks.

It feels cold inside the car, too, even as Elliot cranks the heat, silence spreading uncomfortably between the three of them.

“Do you think my mom’s dead?”

Elliot’s eyes snap to meet Jet’s in the rearview mirror when Noah asks, his chest tightening immediately at the desperation in the words. He’s pathetically glad Noah wasn’t asking him: the question was directed towards Jet, Noah’s voice low and secretive, the two of them cocooned in the bubble the backseat provides.

Do not fuck this up, Elliot pleads silently, wordlessly begging Jet not to say anything that’ll traumatize the kid completely. She’s never been good with stuff like this, human behaviour and messy emotions and —

“Of course not.”

Elliot gapes, forcing himself to keep his eyes on the road. Jet sounds as sure of herself as he’s ever heard her, confident and reassuring.

“Really?”

The thin thread of hope in Noah’s voice makes Elliot’s hands clench on the steering wheel; it’s agonizing, not being able to help him in any real way.

“Duh,” Jet continues, and Elliot silently apologizes, this time, for not trusting her to handle it. “Why would they keep trying so hard, if she was already dead?”

A little more morbid than Elliot would have gone with, maybe, but he guesses the logic checks out. Noah seems to agree, humming thoughtfully.

“Are they gonna keep trying, though?”

“Probably,” Jet says honestly. “But we’re trying, too, and I’m smarter than them.”

“You don’t even know who they are.”

“I don’t have to. I’m smarter than a lot of people.”

Elliot snorts softly. Jet’s eyes flick up to meet his again, dark and steady. Just a split second, and then she’s focused back on whatever game she’s got loaded up for herself. Tetris, or Mario, or whatever. She’d had the sound on, at first, horrible rhythmic chirping beeps, until Elliot got fed up twenty minutes into the drive and snapped at her to turn it back off.

He spots an exit sign, glances back again.

“You guys getting hungry back there?”

“It’s not dinner time yet,” Noah says immediately, which doesn’t answer Elliot’s question.

“So?”

“So I shouldn’t get too full,” Noah recites, wisdom obviously imparted upon him by an adult in his life. Olivia, most likely, although she never used to care about things like that. “Or dinner won’t taste as good.”

“Well, what about a drink?”

“No soda,” Noah says immediately. “Mom lets me have chocolate milk.”

Elliot huffs out a laugh.

“What about you, Jet? You feeling like chocolate milk?”

“Diet Coke,” she says flatly, not even bothering to look up. Elliot flicks on his indicator, pushing down the rusty paternal instinct to snap at her to say please .

In the gas station he gets a little plastic bottle of chocolate milk, a cheerful winking cow printed on the label, and then he pours a Diet Coke at the fountain, in one of those godawful styrofoam cups he’s always finding in his car. Grabs three bags of M&Ms and some Corn Nuts, just in case, and a pack of gum for himself.

“Twenty for the tank,” he says to the cashier, handing him the bill. “And I’ll get a coffee on the way out.”

“You know how to use the gas pump, right?” he asks Jet as Noah’s opened the door for him, handing her drink over right away before fishing the chocolate milk out of the bag for the kid.

“Yes,” Jet says slowly. Her eyes are already narrowed, like she knows she isn’t going to like what comes next.

“I’m just wondering, ‘cause when you take the car out you never do it,” Elliot says, teasing her a little, raising his eyebrows in a silent challenge. He jerks his head towards the gas pump, holds steady when Jet widens her eyes in disbelief. “Get it for me, would you? I have to check the map.”

Jet lets herself out of the other side, the picture of a sullen teen, narrowing her eyes even further as she unscrews the tank. Noah twists in his seat to watch her, looking interested; his mom doesn’t drive him around much, Elliot guesses, or maybe he’s just worried Jet’s gonna set the car on fire.

“How’s the milk?” Elliot asks, only half paying attention as he squints down at the map in front of him. “Taste okay?”

“It’s good,” Noah reports. When Jet opens her door he keeps watching her, like her newly revealed ability to fill the gas tank has completely transformed her in his eyes. Something about it makes Elliot’s chest feel heavy; maybe it’s the sincerity of the admiration on Noah’s face. Or maybe it’s the way Jet’s clearly still annoyed, but when Noah cranes his neck to peer at her Gameboy she tilts the screen so he can see.

Elliot drives for another hour before he feels himself getting tired, pulling off to stop at a diner just off the highway.

“This look good?” he asks Jet, who shrugs noncommittally. Noah, who’s climbed out of the car to stand next to her, looks a lot more dubious, but he doesn’t voice any complaints as the waitress seats them, takes their drink orders.

He gets plain milk, this time, the habit obviously ingrained into him, and asks for the mac’n’cheese when the waitress comes back for their orders. Jet gets a sandwich, but she doesn’t sound particularly enthusiastic about it: Elliot probably should have guessed she’d be a picky eater. He orders a cheeseburger and fries for himself, collecting the menus to hand them to the waitress with a friendly smile.

“Good-looking family.”

Jet makes a face, but Elliot just grins up at the waitress, the picture of a proud dad.

“They get it all from their mom,” he says easily, and it’s not quite flirting but it’s lose enough that Jet is visibly disgusted, Noah’s face twisted up in confusion as he glances back and forth between them.

“We’re on our way to meet her,” Elliot continues. He’s still smiling, feigning obliviousness. “Shouldn’t be much longer, now.”

“I still don’t see why I have to pretend to be your kid,” Jet mutters as soon as the waitress is out of earshot, arms crossed on the table in front of her.

“A dad with his two kids is forgettable,” Elliot reminds her. “A guy with a kid and a random twenty-something? She’d remember that, for sure.”

“She’s gonna remember you, too,” Jet points out. “If you don’t stop acting so f— so freaking weird.”

She corrects herself, surprisingly, casting a guilty glance in Noah’s direction.

“It’s okay,” he reassures her, the first thing he’s contributed to the conversation. “I know that word. Mom uses it on the phone a lot.”

Elliot barks out a laugh, surprised.

“I bet she does.”

“I have to pay her a dollar if I say it, though,” Noah says forlornly, his eyes widening immediately as he realizes the missed opportunity.

“Don’t worry, bud,” Elliot reassures him. “I had five kids, I wouldn’t have let you say it either way.”

“Five kids?”

It’s Elliot’s turn to pause, now, uncomfortably aware of the way Jet’s posture has straightened, her interest obviously piqued.

“That’s a lot, huh?” he says, aiming for casual.

“I didn’t know you were married,” Noah says. Elliot can’t tell if he thinks it’s a good thing or not.

“I’m not,” he says, before Noah gets any ideas. He only sounds a little bit testy.

“Your mom’s not married,” Jet reminds him, then, to Elliot’s surprise. He wouldn’t have expected her to jump in. “And she has you.”

“Oh.” Noah has to take a moment to let that sink in, head tilted to the side as the pieces reshuffle in his mind. “Right.”

“I’m divorced,” Elliot clarifies, wishing, quite fervently, that Jet was not present for this conversation. Even if she did back him up. “My kids are all grown up now.”

“Like Jet?”

“Most of them are even older than Jet,” Elliot says, a pang in his heart as he thinks about little Eli. His namesake who grew up without him.

“Wow.”

Elliot had forgotten how easy it is to impress an elementary schooler — Noah’s eyes are round as coins, his whole body leaning forward with interest. There’s no reason for Elliot to keep going, especially not in front of Jet, but for some reason he finds himself speaking again.

“I got married really young,” he says, voice pitched low, like they’re confidants. “Your mom was smarter than me. She waited til she was ready.”

“Mom never got married,” Noah says immediately. Then he pauses, considering. “I don’t think.”

“I meant you,” Elliot says with a chuckle. “She waited until the perfect time to adopt you.”

“You think so?”

“I know so,” Elliot lies confidently — he really has no idea. He still doesn’t know how she even managed the adoption at all. She didn’t quit her job, and she didn’t get married, so how’d she end up with Noah? “She waited a long time for you.”

Jet’s still watching him; when he chances a glance over, her eyebrows are furrowed in thought. It’s obvious she’s trying to work out what he’s said, a puzzle she can’t quite solve, but Elliot doesn’t know what part is confusing her.

“When will I be able to see her?”

Noah’s expression has fallen again, lower lip caught between his teeth.

“Soon,” Elliot promises, hoping against hope it isn’t another lie. He’s already let his own kids down, all five of them. He can’t let Olivia’s down, too.

He hopes that’s the end of it, that Noah’s curiosity is satisfied, but the kid picks right back up after the food is deposited on the table. He’s barely touched his mac and cheese before he’s setting the fork down and questioning Elliot all over again.

“How come you don’t see your kids anymore? My friend Lily’s parents are divorced, and she still sees her dad every weekend.”

“Their divorce was probably amicable,” Jet fills in again, her choice to join the conversation just as unexpected the second time. She doesn’t seem particularly interested in her sandwich, and Elliot can’t blame her — even from across the table he can tell the lettuce is wilted, the bread soggy and unappetizing.

Noah frowns.

“What does ‘amicable’ mean?”

“Friendly,” Jet says, voice neutral, not sounding at all irritated at having to clarify. “On good terms. Opposite of acrimonious.”

Acrimonious, Noah mouths, trying the word on for size.

“My divorce was perfectly amicable,” Elliot says, not sure why he feels like he needs to defend himself. It’s only stretching the truth a little bit; it could have been a lot worse. At the time both of them were doing their best.

It’s just that it turned out Elliot’s best didn’t amount to much, in the end.

“I don’t understand.”

Elliot clenches his fist, wishing he were literally anywhere else. He gets that it’s stemming from Noah’s anxiety, his concern about his own currently nebulous situation, but he wishes the kid would just stop bringing this up.

“Most of my kids were already grown up when their mom and I got divorced,” Elliot explains, throat so tight he can barely get the words out. “And I was, ah. Sick. For a long time. So I thought it was better if I wasn’t in their lives for a little while. I was scared it would hurt them too much. But then I waited too long, so by the time I was ready, they didn’t want to see me anymore.”

Noah’s eyes are wide, processing this new information.

“What about now?” he asks quietly. Jet’s eyes dart down towards him, brow furrowed with something that might be concern. It’s an unfamiliar look on her. “Are you better now?”

Elliot clears his throat uncomfortably.

“Yeah,” he croaks out, knowing he doesn’t sound particularly convincing. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

So why don’t you call your kids? is the obvious next question, but Noah just nods, slowly, and picks up his fork instead, finally digging into mac and cheese, his hunger apparently outweighing his curiosity.

For now, at least.

The same can’t be said for Jet: she looks pensive, arms wrapped around herself, dark eyes focused on the table in front of her.

“Have some fries,” Elliot says, unable to take it anymore. He pushes his plate in her direction until she notices and looks up. “That sandwich looks like shit.”

They get back in the car after dinner, drive for a few more hours before Noah starts squirming in the backseat and Jet stops responding to basic questions.

The motel Elliot chooses only looks a little seedy; the manager doesn’t blink an eye at Elliot’s request for a room for him and his kids, just tosses the keys over with barely a second glance.

“I couldn’t even get my own room?” Jet mutters as Elliot unlocks the door, giving the space a quick onceover before he lets them follow him in.

“You’re supposed to be my kid,” Elliot reminds her. Jet makes a face in response.

“I think you’re taking this undercover thing way too seriously,” she mutters, perching delicately at the edge of the bed closest to the bathroom. Noah toes off his shoes and then follows her a lot more hesitantly, clambering up on the other side like he’s not sure he’s allowed.

Elliot lets them hang out like that for a bit as he settles in on the other side of the room, trying to come up with a plan. When he looks up again they’ve both crawled up the bed to lean against the headboard, legs sprawled out in front of them.

The worst part, Elliot thinks, is that they really do look like a family. Noah’s borrowed one of Jet’s sweatshirts, he’s pretty sure: it’s big on him but it doesn’t look too bad. He keeps trying to rolling up the sleeves, but they slip down to cover his hands every other minute. Every single time, he frowns and pushes them back every time. Next to him Jet’s got her headphones around on her neck, and she’s done something to make herself look younger — washed off some of the black crap around her eyes, maybe, or maybe it’s something with her hair. She switched out her usual skirt for a baggy pair of pants while she was at her apartment, correctly recognizing that even undercover, Elliot can’t pretend to be the kind of father who’d let his teenaged daughter out in a miniskirt.

Some time after he sat on the bed she’d procured another Gameboy from her bag and handed it over to Noah without a word, and now the two of them are playing together in silence, side by side. A matched set.

The book Noah was reading lies abandoned on top of the comforter, its cover loudly proclaiming You Are A Monster! Dickie used to read that same series, Elliot’s pretty sure. The style looks familiar.

He feels a pull in his chest, looking at them, alongside the familiar rush of guilt when he thinks of his kids. His real kids, out there living their lives. Getting married, having kids of their own. All without him.

Dickie’s a grown man, now, long since outgrown shitty adventure paperbacks.

“Jet,” he says quietly, motioning for her to come over. She slides off the bed reluctantly, clearly suspicious of whatever he’s going to ask of her. “I need you to call a number for me.”

“You can’t dial a phone?”

“I already tried.”

“And?”

“And she hung up on me.”

“What makes you think I’ll be any different?”

“You’re a woman, for one,” Elliot says, prompting a violent and immediate eyeroll from Jet. “It’s just a hunch, alright? Can you try?”

Jet wouldn’t have taken the job if she weren’t at least a little bit curious, is the thing.

She reaches for the phone, just like Elliot knew she would, as behind them Noah creeps towards the bathroom with some pyjamas from his backpack, the sound of running water starting up a moment later. Jet fidgets while the call rings out, fingers tapping against the bedspread, her legs crossed at the knees and ankles both, an uncomfortable-looking imitation of a human Twizzler stick.

The ring cuts off to a tinny voice, barely audible from where Elliot’s sitting, and Jet goes suddenly still.

“Uh, hi, yeah,” she says hurriedly into the phone. “Who am I talking to?”

A pause, Jet squinting as she listens to the woman’s response.

“I got it from a friend,” she says after a moment. Her fingers have moved from the bedspread to the phone cord, tangling and untangling and tangling again. “She told me to call.”

“Yes,” Jet continues, eyes on the Gideon Bible on the nightstand. “Yes, that’s — no. No, my parents. Yes, I’m an adult. … Yes. Yes, that’s right.”

Elliot’s body aches with tension, strung so tight he might snap at any moment. Jet’s fingertips, wrapped around the phone cord, have started to turn blue.

“That would be great,” Jet says, eyes flicking up to meet Elliot’s, giving him a brief nod. She wrenches her hand from the cord and fumbles with the drawer of the bedside table, discoloured fingertips scrabbling to reach the pad of paper only to find herself short a pen. Elliot digs his out of his pocket, wordlessly hands it out to her. “Yeah, I’ll be there. Thanks.”

Elliot raises both eyebrows in a silent question as she hangs up the phone, nodding towards whatever she’s got scrawled on the pad.

“Whoever she is, she thinks I’m running away from my parents,” Jet reports. “Said her name was Deborah, but she was probably lying. She told me to meet her at this address at 6 PM tomorrow.”

Elliot frowns, squinting at the paper when Jet shows it to him. The street name looks familiar.

“That’s back in the city,” he reports. “We gotta turn around.”

“Is that okay?”

Both of them turn, startled, at the sound of Noah’s voice; Elliot hadn’t realized he was finished with his shower. He’s wearing his pyjamas, a blue cotton top over a pair of red plaid pants, his hair still dripping onto his shoulders.

“Sure it is,” Elliot says, smiling. “How long have you been listening, huh? I didn’t hear you come out.”

“Just for a minute,” Noah says, face still twisted up with worry.

“Teeth brushed, too?” Elliot asks, voice as cheery as he can get it. Dickie always used to lie about it; Lizzie would rat him out every time.

It was always so loud at night, the two of them bickering in the bathroom, Maureen’s voice cutting through the noise as she hollered at them to be quiet. He and Kathy would share dry smiles, silently agreeing to just let the drama play itself out. Some mess we made, huh?

They were still on the same team, then.

“Yeah,” Noah says, padding over to crawl onto the other bed. “There’s no floss in there, though.”

“Maybe we can pick some up tomorrow,” Elliot says, silently marveling that Olivia managed to raise a kid who actively asks for floss. “Wanna see if there’s something on the TV?”

Noah accepts the remote, looking skeptical; he probably reads books before bed, something neither Elliot nor Kathy ever really managed to enforce with any regularity. Hell, maybe he usually just does his homework and then goes to sleep.

This late, there’s nothing really appropriate for kids; to Elliot’s surprise, Noah skips past most of the late-night trash to settle on an old movie, black and white and grainy on the motel TV. It doesn’t seem like he actually wants to watch it: he turning over onto his side immediately, the blanket tucked up under his arm. Elliot wonders if he’s still got a toy at home, some soft friend he was too embarrassed to bring with him, or if he’s old enough to have outgrown things like that.

Jet narrows her eyes at Elliot, displeasure with the sleeping arrangements made clear from her facial expression alone, but when she comes back out of the bathroom after her own shower she walks to the other side of the bed Noah’s claimed without a fuss, taking the top pillow and wedging it between them before she lies down.

“I kick in my sleep,” she informs him. Her pyjama pants are dark purple, this time, dotted with tiny stars. “Sorry.”

“That’s okay,” Noah mumbles in response. The lights are still on, the TV still playing the movie he chose, but he already sounds drowsy. It must be the excitement of the day, Elliot thinks, or maybe it’s just late enough that the distractions don’t make a difference.

Elliot himself feels much too wired to sleep; he wants to stay up later, keep poring over the files he brought with him, but the look Jet shoots him clearly communicates that he’d better switch off the damn light.

He’s not sure who she thinks she’s fooling; he knows for a fact she has no particular bedtime to speak of, that she stays up all night even more often than Elliot does.

Still. Elliot figures they’ve put Noah through enough for one day and gives in, switches off the TV and then the light, and the three of them lie in silence for a bare few minutes before a small voice protests from the other side of the room.

“Can you leave the TV on?”

“Sure,” Jet answers, even though Elliot’s the one with the remote. He sighs and reaches for it, fumbles in the darkness until he finds the power button; the dim light when it switches on is enough for him to find the volume next, lowering it until it’s barely more than a hum.

He sits up for a while, watching; the movie isn’t one Elliot recognizes, but then, he’s not sure there are any he would. His mom never liked having the TV on: she was always getting paranoid about stuff like that. Subliminal messaging, or maybe she thought someone was watching her. Either way, all his old man ever watched was sports and the news, and when the kids got older and relinquished control of the remote, Kathy mostly went for newer stuff.

Whatever’s playing now isn’t anything Elliot would choose himself, or honestly even agree to watch, probably, on an ordinary day, but in the moment it’s kind of soothing. The slower pace, the accents that remind him of his grandma’s bridge friends. When he was really young he’d stay at her house, sometimes. She used to give him a single macaroon after dinner, he remembers, but on bridge nights she’d always give him two.

He sits through a few scenes, silence on the other side of the room, long enough that he thinks the two of them must have fallen asleep, until —

“Jet? Are you still awake?”

Noah’s voice carries across the room, loud and clear, as most children's whispers do.

“Yeah.”

Elliot knew she was bullshitting — she doesn’t even sound sleepy.

“Do you think what happened to Elliot happened to my mom, too?” Noah’s words tumble out in a rush; he’s obviously been working the thought over in his mind this whole time, again and again, until it turned sharp and scared him. “And now she can’t see me ‘cause she’s sick, like Elliot was?”

Jet pauses before she answers; Elliot doesn’t need to see her face to know she’s uncomfortable.

“I don’t know,” she says, finally. “Maybe. Did she seem sick to you?”

“I don’t think so,” Noah answers immediately, but he doesn’t sound entirely confident. “How would I know?”

“Was she acting weird? You know, different from usual? Headaches, sleeping a lot, anything like that?”

“Not really,” Noah says slowly, obviously trying hard to remember. “I think she was having bad dreams.”

“Yeah?”

Elliot’s entire body aches with the effort of holding himself still, fighting against the urge to stride over there and — he doesn’t even know. He wants Noah to stop talking and he doesn’t. He wants to hear everything he can about Olivia, suck the marrow clean off the bone. Every last drop.

“She says she gets them when she’s stressed,” Noah continues. “They were worse when I was little, I think. I don’t really remember.”

“I mean, I don’t know your mom,” Jet says, finally. “But it sounds like she was probably trying to protect you.”

“I wish she was protecting me like you are,” Noah admits, sounding a little ashamed of himself. “Here in the same room like you and Elliot.”

The pressure on Elliot’s chest is so strong it’s crushing him and he’s glad, suddenly, that Noah’s saying this to Jet instead of him. If he opened his mouth right now he’s not sure he could speak.

“Your mom seems really cool,” Jet says after a moment. “I’d miss her too, if I were you.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmhmm. You’re lucky.”

“Why? Is your mom not cool?”

The pause that follows stretches out long enough that Elliot’s not sure Jet’s going to answer at all.

“Not really,” she says, finally. Her tone is very even, but then, Elliot guesses that’s not really much of a surprise. It usually is.

“I’m sorry.”

He’s a sweet fucking kid, Elliot thinks, chest clenching so tight it’s hard to breathe. If they can’t find Olivia —

He cuts the thought off swiftly, not wanting to take it any further. Jet’s going to meet up with ‘Deborah’ tomorrow, and they’re going to get some answers, see where that takes them.

They’re going to find her.

In the morning Noah’s hair is a rat’s nest of snarled curls, his expression bleary and discontent.

“Tired,” he mutters, even though Elliot tried to let him sleep. He has a red pillow crease on his cheek. “When’s breakfast?”

“Whenever you put pants on, bud,” Elliot says, smiling. Noah narrows his eyes, unimpressed, but he stumbles toward the bathroom obediently enough.

“Good to know none of us are morning people,” he says to Jet, who’s slumped on her side of the bed, eyes half open and staring at nothing.

“Says the man who’s fully dressed and speaking,” she says, sounding just as annoyed as Noah had.

“Thanks,” Elliot says, overly sincere. Jet raises a questioning eyebrow. “For doing a good job with him.”

“You sound surprised.”

Elliot falters, caught, but Jet doesn’t actually seem offended.

“It’s fine,” she says with a shrug, bringing a hand up to cover her mouth as she yawns. She braided her hair to sleep, but now it’s all unraveled, pushed up more on one side than the other. One strap of her black tank top has slipped down a bony shoulder, she clumsily tugs it back up. “People say stuff like that all the time. It doesn’t mean I have to listen to it. Or care about it.”

“Very mature of you.”

“Maybe.”

“You don’t think so?”

Jet shrugs again. She may not be looking directly at him, but he can still feel the force of her focus.

“I think so, yeah. I’m not sure you do.”

“What?”

Elliot stares at her, at a loss, vaguely pissed off but not sure why, yet.

“Seems like you care a lot about what other people say.” She says it the same way she says anything — with a flat tone of voice, and no hint at all that she’s joking.

Elliot takes it the same way he takes anything — badly, his temper rising up too quickly for him to stop it.

“What?”

“Case in point,” Jet says, glancing up at him. She continues before Elliot can think of a response, the next words out of her mouth shocking him into silence. “We’re not that different, you know. It’s just that you care more.”

Elliot gapes at her for what feels like a full minute, struggling to process what she could possibly be talking about.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“My parents used to make such a big deal out of it, that I didn’t have any friends.” Jet doesn’t have any shame, stating it as plainly as she would facts about a case. “But that wasn’t really it. They were freaked out that I didn’t care that I didn’t have friends.”

“You think so?”

“You don’t have friends, either,” Jet points out. “All you care about is work, same as me. But you’re embarrassed about it, so people still think you’re normal.”

“Jesus,” Elliot mutters. He can feel the back of his neck burning, and the tips of his ears, but he can’t get mad at her without proving her point. “You never pull your punches, do you?”

“You knew that when you hired me.”

Well. Elliot guesses he can’t argue with that.

“I’m ready,” Noah announces, once again having appeared seemingly out of nowhere. Elliot has no idea how the hell the kid does it — his own moved like a herd of elephants, stomping and yelling everywhere they went.

“Great,” Jet says, heaving herself upright reluctantly. “I’m gonna go fall asleep in the shower. Don’t leave without me.”

“She’s funny,” Noah says, once she’s locked the door behind her. Elliot’s not actually sure she was joking, but he nods anyway.

He takes them out for breakfast after Jet’s out of the shower, and they all order pancakes: a half stack of blueberry for Jet, while Elliot asks for a full plate of plain with syrup. Noah shifts nervously as he orders chocolate chip with whipped cream, a dead giveaway that he wouldn’t normally be allowed. Elliot smiles, faintly, and doesn’t try to stop him.

They’re far enough out of the city that Elliot finds them a Walmart, lets Jet and Noah walk around and pick out whatever they need, taking their time until they can stop for lunch. They stretch out the day like that, lingering where they can, until it’s twenty to six and they’re in the parking lot of the restaurant, all three of them keyed up and ill-tempered from a whole day spent waiting.

“Me and Noah will wait in the car,” Elliot decides, when Jet asks him how she should play it. Neither Noah nor Jet seem thrilled at the idea, sending him twin scowls from the back seat. Noah shifts in his seat impatiently after Jet has let herself out of the car, slamming the door behind her and walking into the restaurant without a second glance.

“Is she mad at you?”

“No,” Elliot says, and then, at Noah’s skeptical look, “Maybe a little.”

“‘Cause you’re making her look for my mom?”

“No,” Elliot snaps, too harsh.

“But you’re making her drive around with us,” Noah points out. “She doesn’t want to.”

Elliot freezes, his whole body going still.

“Sorry,” Noah says, misinterpreting his silence. “I didn’t mean to — ”

“No, no — ” Elliot holds out a hand, motioning at him to be quiet. “I think I know that woman.”

Noah climbs forward to poke his head between the seats, craning his neck to get a better look at the woman in the parking lot.

“Isn’t that Mom’s friend?”

She turns, then, looking over her shoulder and giving Elliot a better view of her face.

“That’s Alex Cabot,” he says. Hell. He hasn’t seen — or thought about — her in years.

“She was in the picture,” Noah whispers excitedly, tapping at Elliot’s shoulder to get his full attention. “The one I told you about, remember? The one that’s missing. I remember now. It was her and Mom and some other lady.”

“Shit,” Elliot says, making a split second decision and unbuckling his seatbelt. “C’mon. We’re gonna go in and say hi.”

“I thought you said she wasn’t supposed to know about us,” Noah says, but he scrambles out of the backseat anyway, slamming the car door a little too loudly in his excitement.

“Well, that was before I knew I knew her,” Elliot explains, walking towards the door so quickly Noah has to jog to keep up.

Inside the restaurant he doesn’t bother waiting for the hostess, just cranes his neck until he sees a flash of pale blonde and strides towards the booth without hesitating.

“Hey,” he says, sliding in next to Alex in one smooth movement. Her body goes tense and defensive, a few tense seconds before she recognizes him.

“Stabler?”

“Got it in one,” Elliot says, grinning at her. There’s a manic energy humming through him, lighting him up like a livewire. “Long time no see.”

Across the booth Jet’s scooted over obligingly to make room for Noah, absentmindedly tilting her menu so he can see it, as though they aren’t both totally preoccupied by what’s happening on the other side of the table.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same to you,” Elliot parries back easily. Unlike Olivia, who softened with time and age, curvier and more feminine, Alex looks almost exactly the same. She’s as sharp as ever, both her voice and her appearance, and clearly unimpressed.

Noah’s just as clearly intimidated; Jet, on the other hand, is looking on with interest.

“I came because I got a call that someone needed my help,” Alex says, every word enunciated with precision. “I’m guessing you were behind that?”

Jet shrugs when Alex looks her way, unrepentant.

“We needed information,” she says. “Elliot said you hung up on him.”

“He’s not the type of client I usually accept,” Alex says, equally unapologetic. Elliot shrugs.

“I figured,” he says. “You doing advocacy, now? Running some type of battered women’s shelter?”

Alex’s mouth purses.

“Something like that,” she says delicately. Elliot should probably have expected as much: she’s a lawyer, or at least she used to be. She knows better than to give anything away.

“You talked to Olivia recently,” he says, forging ahead anyway. “She ask you for help, too?”

“You spoke to Olivia?”

Alex’s voice rises with alarm. Across the table, Noah’s eyes widen immediately; he’s clearly nervous about where this is going next. Elliot’s a little nervous too, now, not that he’d admit it.

“No,” Elliot says, nodding towards Noah. “I spoke to her kid.”

He watches as Alex puts the pieces together, eyes widening as she realizes just whose kid Elliot dragged in with him.

“She didn’t tell you?”

She asks Noah directly, Elliot seemingly forgotten as her whole body shifts to give the kid her full attention.

“Tell me what?”

It makes Elliot wince, the way he says it. Like the hurt goes bone deep. Alex’s face has gone very still, as though she’s only now realizing how messy the situation really is.

“I’m sorry,” she says, visibly choosing her words very carefully. “I don’t know how much I should say. But she was safe, the last time I saw her. I just assumed she’d taken care of everything at home, I didn’t realize how p— how cautious she was being.”

Elliot doesn’t miss the near slip; judging by the way Jet raises her eyebrows, she doesn’t either. Noah seems oblivious to that part, at least, although he clearly isn’t happy about the rest of it.

“So you do know where she is? I’m her son, why can’t you just tell me?”

Alex turns to fix Elliot with a pointed glare, unimpressed that he’s involved Noah like this, or maybe just that he’s not jumping in to soothe Noah’s feelings. If it’s the first one, Elliot doesn’t fucking care — he didn’t start any of this shit, and now he’s stuck trying to clean it up. And anyway, what the hell was he supposed to do? Leave the kid in the car with the windows cracked? Treat Jet like she really is his teenage daughter and send her out with a ten dollar bill, tell her to buy them both some ice cream while the adults talk? He’s on thin enough ice with her as it is.

“From what Olivia told me, the situation’s pretty serious,” Alex says, finally; always unwilling to sugarcoat, even for a kid. “If she decided not to bring Noah, I’m sure she had a good reason.”

“That’s a flawed argument,” Jet interrupts. Three heads turn towards her in unison, with three varying levels of surprise. “She made that decision with the information she had, but new information could change the best course of action.”

“It could,” Alex agrees slowly, visibly adjusting her impression of Jet.

“If they go out for a minute, will you tell me?”

“What?” Elliot barks, anger sparked immediately, tempered only by the matching expression on Noah’s face.

“Why?” Noah asks petulantly at the same time. Alex raises an eyebrow at Elliot, clearly unimpressed. Jet’s expression doesn’t even shift.

“There’s an ice cream place on the corner,” Jet continues, unphased. “I’m sure this won’t take too long.”

“Are you serious?” Elliot blusters, but Jet only shrugs, her meaning clear. Do it or don’t. A quick glance at Alex says she won’t talk unless he does.

“It was good to catch up,” he forces out reluctantly. “I wish it was under better circumstances.”

The smooth glass of Alex’s expression flickers, suddenly, the ripple of a stone hitting still water.

“Maybe next time,” she says, with a wry hint of a smile. She sounds about as tired as Elliot feels. He smiles back, the regret of missed years hitting him like a blow.

They used to be close.

He turns toward Noah, clears his throat.

“Let’s take a walk for a few minutes, huh? Leave them to talk for a second in private.”

“Why?” Noah repeats, desperation leaking into his voice. “I don’t want to.”

From the looks on their faces, Alex and Jet aren’t gonna be much help. Elliot leans forward on the table, tuning out everything but Noah.

“Do you trust me?” he asks, low and serious. No bullshit, the same way he’d ask an adult. Noah seems to register the change in tone, because he pauses before answering.

“Yeah, but — ”

Elliot shakes his head. “Do you trust me,” he repeats, just as grave as the first time.

“Yes,” Noah says, finally, reluctant but honest.

“Then let’s take a break for a sec,” Elliot says, sliding out of the booth to stand, letting out a relieved breath when Noah follows him without any more protests.

“I know you wanted to listen,” Elliot says outside. “And I know why. And I think you know why I didn’t want you to, right?”

“In case she said something bad,” Noah answers dully, arms crossed protectively in front of him. “You think she’s gonna say something bad about Mom.”

“I don’t know that for sure,” Elliot says honestly. “But … Noah. You know this is a serious situation, right?”

“Duh.”

Elliot smiles a little, despite himself, when Noah rolls his eyes, petulant.

“I promised I’d do my best to find your mom,” Elliot continues. “And I am going to do that. No matter what Alex says to Jet. But if she’s hurt, or sick, or — ”

“Sad,” Noah finishes, and Elliot hates that Noah knows exactly what he’s talking about.

“Or sad,” he agrees. “Maybe she’ll need a little bit of time to get better before you can see her. And I want you to be prepared for that.”

“And what if she’s — ”

Noah loses his nerve before he gets the word out, voice dropping low and hoarse. Elliot has to swallow hard, himself, fighting a flinch of his own at the thought.

“Then I will make sure nothing happens to you,” he says, as steady as he can. “Me and Amanda. Do you believe me?”

Noah’s eyes are wet with unshed tears; he sniffs, miserable and frustrated and sad, and rubs his sleeve against his nose so hard that when he moves his arm down it’s bright red, chafed and raw.

“I know,” Elliot says quietly. He really, really wishes he didn’t. “I know.”