I find myself walking on the sidewalk, disconcerted as to which direction I am going, and suddenly find that my lack of emotion has to do with the fact that I could be accused of murder. With that accusation, I knew that it could manifest into a conviction, and, from that, my credibility would be completely shot. I could lose everything—my job, my family, Kassandra—all of it. As I took the long walk back to SVU—knowing that my mother could put me on mandatory leave—I found that I was falling further and further into despair.

. . .

Kassandra graduated with honors precisely two months later, with enough fanfare that I thought it was time to consider more permanent arrangements. With us now living full time in Westchester County, and the kids with us on a more permanent basis—and with Alexandrine fully understanding of the situation—I knew that time was nigh. Owen and Marcus had the twins that weekend, and I'd planned a little something romantic for Kassandra and me.

Now that the mandatory investigation into whether or not I'd committed murder was over—of which I'd been found not guilty—I was free to keep up my job as a detective at Manhattan SVU. I was saving that little piece of information until the romantic getaway, although I knew Kassandra was desperate to know. What with her job already lined up at the best hospital in the Westchester County area, we both knew that a proper celebration was in order.

With our things already packed in the trunk of the car, we said goodnight to Owen, Marcus, Alexandrine, my parents, Kassandra's parents, and the twins before getting into the car and driving off. The air was sunny and warm and Kassandra hung her arm out the window to catch some of the rays of the sun as we drove north along the I-87. I could sense that Kassandra was curious as to where exactly we were going; however, I'd managed to memorize that MapQuest directions, so I wouldn't need an explicit GPS. Of course, this irked Kassandra, because then she would not be able to guess where we were going and the notion that it irked her made me smirk and caused her to be tempted to demand to drive back home in the opposite direction.

I knew that the drive would be over an hour and, as such, encouraged Kassandra to get some rest as we drove. I didn't want her to be exhausted by the time we arrived at our destination; I'd planned the three-day weekend down to a T. The two of us would arrive at Glenmere Mansion—one of the romantic hot spots in New York—just before dinnertime, whereupon we would check-in, and order room service. It was the following day that Kassandra and I would walk around the beautiful Goose Pond Mountain State Park, taking in the beautiful scenery and enjoying the secluded area that seemed so quiet. That afternoon, we would have a spa day at the mansion, which would relax us up plenty for a candlelight dinner. Then, on our last day, Sunday, I planned that we would walk around town and buy Alexandrine and the kids some souvenirs.

I parked the car once we arrived at the mansion, and Kassandra was perfectly awestruck at what lay before the both of us. We each took our bags and headed inside towards the concierge, who smiled at the pair of us. I assumed he thought we were sisters or friends but it didn't matter to me—not today. I stepped forward slightly, for I'd been the one to make the initial reservation.

"Good evening," I said to the man, who nodded. "It should be one of your Deluxe Rooms, under the name Leia Beckett."

"Let me have a look," the man replies, turning to his computer and typing in a few things before nodding. "Ah, here it is," he says, nodding in approval before turning back to me. "I'll need a valid credit card or ID, Miss Beckett."

I smile at him. "No problem," I reply, delving into my purse and retrieving my wallet, and notice he does a double take when my detective's badge flashes momentarily from its customary place. "Here we go," I say, handing over my ID and flashing him another smile.

"Thank you," he replies, keying in some information onto the computer before nodding to himself. "I see here you've already put a credit card in connection to your room here," he says, lowering his voice automatically. "Ending with 3685, Miss Beckett. Is that the one?"

"That's the one, yes," I say, showing him my card.

"Wonderful," he says, completing the intake form before handing back my ID and turning around. He opens little cupboard doors with golden knobs at the back and fetches two platinum keys for us and hands them over. "You'll find your room on the second floor—room eleven."

"Thank you very much," Kassandra says before I give a wave to the man and we make our way towards the elevator. "He seemed nice."

"I don't think he knows we're together," I say, laughing.

"Probably thinks we're—I don't know—half-sisters or something."

I try and fail to stifle my laughter as we step into the elevator. "And now I'm tempted to tell him that we are..."

"Why?" asks Kassandra, perplexed, as I click the button for our floor as the doors shut behind us.

"To see the look on his face when I tell him we're sleeping together," I reply, and manage to peek at her.

Kassandra lowers her eyes, gritting her teeth to prevent her laughter from escaping them, yet failing miserably. "You're terrible..."

I step closer to her. "Is that why you fell in love with me?"

Kassandra peeks up at me. "One of the many reasons, yes."

I give her a half-smile, leaning in and kissing her. "Well, I do hope this weekend is full of other reasons. Ones that I'm delighted to hear about."

Kassandra rests her head on my shoulder briefly as the doors open before us, and I let her step out first. "I look forward to it," she replies.

. . .

"You're at risk of throwing away your career, Leia. I just hope you realize that before it's too late."

"That's it?" I ask, staring at my mother across the top of her desk. "That's all that Grandpa said?"

"He's worried about you," my mother replies, concern radiating through her face as she looks me up and down.

I scoff, leaning back against my chair, digging my shoulder blades into it, so as to cut myself off slightly from this line of questioning. "Gee, I mean, it was almost as if he was talking to a total stranger. It was as if I didn't matter to him. I just couldn't believe..."

"That he could do that line of work?" she asks, smiling ruefully. "Yes, my own mother was reluctant to allow such a thing."

I cock an eyebrow. "Even she couldn't tell Grandpa what to do, right? I mean..." I say quietly, leaning forward. "...they didn't have that kind of marriage or anything, did they?"

My mother tries and fails to hide her smile. "Not that I'm aware of. Other than their initial separation when I was very young, they didn't ever fall out of love with each other. They were very much in love, so far as I know." She nibbles her bottom lip, pushing various papers off to one side before centering them again; her brow puckers, almost as if she's holding something back. "Leia, it's just... I don't know how to say this..."

"Say what?" I ask. "More problems from Grandpa?"

"Always," my mother says, reaching up and massaging her temples. "Other than the unnecessary bashing he gave you earlier this afternoon, have you spoken to your grandfather at all lately?"

"At all? You mean...?"

"For pleasure," my mother replies, shrugging. "Or, you know, just to say hello. I mean, suffice it to say a lot's been going on lately, but I'm just curious..."

I straighten ever so slightly in my seat. "What aren't you telling me here?" I ask her, pondering it momentarily. "Is Grandpa all right? He's not...dying, is he?" I say, my voice automatically lowering as I say the controversial adjective. "I mean, he may have torn me a new one today, but..."

My mother smiles. "I know—you're compassionate, something you definitely inherited from my mother," she says, reaching out and clasping my hand briefly before withdrawing it.

"No, I haven't," I say, answering the unanswered question that was inexplicably hanging between us. "Why?"

"Ophelia's pregnant," my mother replied, naming my step-grandmother who couldn't have surpassed her mid-thirties.

I raise my eyebrows. "Wow," I say.

"All they know so far is that it's triplets, but apparently they couldn't get a clear picture in the ultrasound or something," my mother tells me, sounding slightly annoyed. "Oh well," she says, shrugging. "You would think by now that children wouldn't know how to play hide-and-seek until after they were born..."

I give her a small smile. "We're always hiding from something, aren't we?" I ask her, giving her a slight shrug.

. . .

I awake earlier than Kassandra on our second full day at Glenmere Mansion, and know that, because we're on vacation, she will likely want to sleep late. I decide to go for a run before she wakes up, and then cross my fingers that she will want to take a shower together upon my return. I pull on some jogging clothes that I'd hidden in the bottom of my bag, and pulled them on. After securing my hair in a tight ponytail on the back of my head, I popped in my earbuds and set my phone onto vibrate as I quietly left the room.

I took the elevator downstairs and slipped my room key into my pocket as I waved to the concierge on the way out the main doors and onto the back cobblestone path and towards a trail of trees beyond. My feet crunched ever so slightly on the gravel as my feet fell one after the other upon it, and soon I was in my stride. A mixture of Taylor Swift, Miley Cyrus, Katy Perry, Lady Gaga, and Sia pumped in my ears every three to four minutes, and I enjoyed the change of pace from the 1980's of which I'd grown so accustomed. It was almost as if I was part of Taylor Swift's monologue of Look What You Made Me Do, which was so in sync with what I did day to say, although I hoped never to be framed with someone else's gun.

Perfect crime, the phrase itself, stood out to me. It was one of the questions that had also stood out to me on the detective's exam. It had asked us what constitutes a perfect crime, and the whole "wearing gloves" thing, which so cliché, was just so textbook to consider. Of course, the microscopes or whatever was used in a situation like that were likely used to detect latex or cloth fibers of some kind. You know those woolen gloves random people promote on Pinterest that claim the cross stich is so easy to accomplish? Like those.

It is when my workout playlist stops and It's the End of the World as We Know It by R.E.M. fills my ears about fifteen minutes after I'd set out that I know that something is amiss. I come to a full stop then, just midway down the full length of the path, and take my phone out of its holder and see that it is my mother calling me and I swear under my breath. My probation period had been over about a week before Kassandra's graduation—where I'd been shamed into having desk duty from seven a.m. until six p.m. five days a week. However, even though I was now on vacation, I was, apparently, permitted to be contacted, and things were officially full-throttle—or, at least, they had to be, if my mother was resorting to calling me so early and when I was out of Manhattan proper.

"Good morning to you, too," I said, not even trying to keep the annoyance from my voice. "How may I help you?"

"I know, I know," she says, immediately apologetic. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah, I know you are," I say, leaning up against a weeping willow, which just about demonstrates how I'm really feeling right now. "Okay, spill it—spill it all," I tell her. "What's up?"

"There's a teenager here—a girl," my mother says. "Her name is Angel Porter, and there's evidence of self-harm. She won't speak to anyone except for me, and even I'm having a hell of a time getting through to her... Carisi's trying to work his charm, and it's not going to well..."

"How old is she?" I ask, turning and beginning to trudge back in the direction of the mansion, self-loathing setting in.

"Sixteen—or, she says she is. She's too thin," my mother tells me quietly. "I'm thinking she's bulimic or anorexic."

"Or she was starved!" I say, a little too harshly, even for me. "Sorry, sorry," I say, coming to a stop a short time later on the other side of the trees, where the path first begins. "Listen, Kassandra and I were on this trip..."

"Sweetheart, I understand—you're celebrating your divorce in full from Owen and her graduation from medical school."

"No, it's not that," I say, lowering my voice. "I was going to ask Kassandra to marry me tonight."

"Oh... Oh, honey... Well, I can see if Olivia can recommend someone, if you think that's best—"

"Kassandra has her degree, and her job at the hospital kicking in soon, so I'm going to bring her along," I tell my mother. "She's not going to be happy at our mini-break being cut short, but maybe when I tell her there's a child in need, she will want to help. I know this is police business, Mom, but you've brought in shrink's before..."

"What age range is Kassandra certified for?" she asks.

"Children and adolescents," I reply. "As young as three and as old as nineteen. As Angel is sixteen..."

"You're right," she allows. "Bring her in, then."

. . .

I approached the rehabilitation clinic with a significant amount of trepidation; I mean, logically, of course, I wanted to get clean. Factually, I was still in the mindset bouncing from I wasn't worth it and that I wanted to continue to feel the buzz of the alcohol. I stepped up to the clinic doors and turned halfway, waving off Owen with a halfhearted smile before opening the doors and lingering in the doorway, afraid. Finally, I forced myself completely over the threshold, and nearly stumbled towards what I assumed was the check-in desk.

"Excuse me," I said quietly as the woman in front of me hung up the phone. "My name is Leia Torrance..."

"Oh, yes," she said with a pleasant smile. She opened a file cabinet and looked through it before pulling out a file which was stamped LEIA TORRANCE in such a firm manner my eyes nearly watered. She opens it and skims through all the paperwork and nods to herself. "I see you've filled out all our intake forms online, and you've passed the background check. Okay," she says, opening a drawer in her desk and handing me another folder. "Inside you'll find a map to the entire facility, plus your key, which has your room number on it. Your schedule is inside there, too, plus a question and answer sheet," she says, and hands everything over to me. "Any questions?"

I shake my head. "No, I'm fine, thank you."

The woman smiles again and nods. "All right. Go ahead and head upstairs and you should find your room fairly quickly."

"Do we share rooms?" I ask, feeling stupid.

"No, the only time you'll seen anyone is during the therapy sessions, workshops, and mealtimes," she tells me. "In your bedrooms are a dresser, a bed, a mirror, a television with a Blu-Ray player, and shelf space. There's also a bathroom attached to every bedroom, so no need to look far."

I smile and nod. "Thanks again," I say, moving past the desk.

I head up the two flights of stairs and make a left into the hallway, before pulling out my room key. The number 345 is stamped onto it, and I continue down one hallway and up another, before finally meeting the 300 rooms. Finally, my room comes into view and I unlock it gratefully, stepping inside and savoring the click it makes behind me. The bed is a standard twin XL, the dresser is a dull pine with a mirror above it, and there are shelves along the wall beside the T.V. cabinet, plus a nightstand beside the bed.

The nightstand has a phone on it, which, upon further examination, connects to the front desk and all divisions of 911. I supposed that private phone privileges were in a place that could be easily monitored by the staff so as nobody could go wandering around looking for their next fix. The bathroom has a bath and shower attached, plus a sink with a second mirror above it, and a toilet. The bath mats are drab numbers you could get in the bargain bin at Target, and the floor tiles are an unimaginative aquamarine color.

I first decide to put my duffel on the bed and to unpack my bag, which I do in less than fifteen minutes. I put the socks and underwear into the top drawers, my shirts in the third drawer, and my pants—mainly jeans—in the bottom drawer. I've brought two different pairs of sneakers, one of which I shove at the bottom of my pants drawer, wary of thieves. I then fold up my duffel bag and put it behind the T.V. cabinet, whereupon I sit down on the bed and take a look at the schedule that the receptionist said would be in my folder.

It is nearly eight o'clock in the morning, and breakfast is at nine-thirty, and I know then that I'll have to try and make a go at eating. From ten-thirty until noon, I have an individual therapy session with doctor-in-training, Kassandra Stone. From noon until one-forty-five, I have lunch, and I noticed on the Q & A sheet that I'm allowed to return to my room at any time. From one-forty-five until three, I have group therapy, and from three until five-thirty, I have a workshop—cooking, the one I picked on the intake form. From five-thirty until six-forty-five, I have dinner and then from six-forty-five until ten, I have recreation, which can be taken in the swimming pool, watching T.V. in the common room or my bedroom, or reading in the library, to name a few.

I head downstairs for breakfast after a nap, giving myself ten minutes to find the cafeteria on the map. I select a bagel and homemade jam for breakfast, topping it off with some hot tea with lemon to calm my nerves. I spread the strawberry jam slowly upon my bagel, trying not to think about drinking as I faintly hear the clock in my ear every few seconds or so. I chewed my bagel slowly, wondering when I last consumed anything that didn't come in a bottle, and shook my head. How could I have let it get this far?

Not even looking at anyone else in the cafeteria, I dumped the last uneaten bites of my bagel and pulled out the map again as I headed out of the cafeteria. The therapy rooms were on the second floor, and it was about five minutes before my appointment with Dr.-In-Training Stone. She was supposedly in room 221, and I was pleased to see there was a whiteboard with her name on it, written in a happy pale green marker, complete with a flower magnet. I knocked on the door when the correct time came, and it came upon not half a moment later, and it took all I could not to gasp on the spot.

What stood before me was the most gorgeous woman I'd ever seen. She wore her bright red hair in large, abundant curls and her hunter green eyes were hidden beneath her black plastic glasses. She smiled her pink, lip-gloss covered mouth which I would bet money tasted the same as my jam on my bagel and put out her hand in a bright, yet efficient manner.

"Please come in, I'm Kassandra," she said.

"Leia," I said, clearing my throat. "Thanks," I said in my own tone of voice as I shook her hand and awkwardly stepped inside the room. "So... Should I just launch into my 'poor me' story, or should I give you some background on myself first?" I ask, moving to sit on the couch against the back wall.

Kassandra Stone blinked and moved to sit at the black swivel chair beside her desk and computer. "We can talk about whatever you want," she replied, picking up her clipboard and making an effort to smile at me. "Tell me what brought you here today, Leia."

I felt totally disloyal to Owen immediately as her eyes met mine, and I flushed then, lowering my eyes to my wedding ring and twisting it. "My family, I guess..."

"Your husband?" Kassandra asked, and I was shocked to hear half a grain of disappointment in her voice.

I nodded, keeping my eyes fixated on my diamond. "Yeah—he said I should try this for the benefit of our daughter, Alexandrine," I said quietly. "I'm the one who's with her most of the time; he's a resident at a hospital in TriBeCa so he's always on the go, so to speak..."

"How old is Alexandrine?" she wants to know.

Easy question—finally, I think to myself. "She just turned four in June," I reply with a boasting smile, finally having the courage to look at the mouth watering specimen in front of me. Speciwoman...?

Kassandra blinked, looking down at something she'd presumably written down to remind her of something. "But, on your intake forms, you listed your age as twenty-three—isn't that right?"

I nod. "Yes. I'm twenty-three."

"But that would have made you...?"

"Seventeen when I got pregnant," I reply, nodding. "I know. It all came as a shock to my family, but I didn't tell them until after I was eighteen. Then my husband and I got married... It was a complex relationship..."

"Complex?" Kassandra asks, curious. "What does that mean?"

"My mother and father actually fostered Owen, my husband, and his twin sister, Chelsea," I say quietly. "Suffice it to say, deception and I have quite a long history..."

"How did all that happen?"

I bring up one of my legs to the couch, resting my palm flat on my knee. "We all went to the same school, but we weren't in the same social circles... One day, my family was matched with Owen and Chelsea. I was seeing someone when they first started living with us, but Ulysses—my ex—and I got into it one night and Owen saw us. Ulysses was the captain of the football team and was about to assault me when Owen came to the rescue. We got together that night and never broke up, which was complicated because my parents wanted to adopt Owen and Chelsea but it's not like...you know..."

"Did they adopt them?" Kassandra wanted to know.

"They adopted Chelsea," I reply. "Owen made up some excuse about staying true to his family name and we successfully continued to hide our relationship. Then I got pregnant and moved in with Owen and then... Well, Chelsea figured out that Owen and I were together and having sex..."

"What did she do?"

"She blackmailed me," I replied simply. "Forced me to fork over cash in exchange for her silence." I shrugged. "It still hurts that my family kept her to live with them and not me... One adopted kid for another..."

"You were adopted?" Kassandra asks, flabbergasted.

I nodded. "I was. My adopted father was actually my uncle; I'm his younger half-sister's child. She was murdered and so my mom and dad took custody of me. This was after their honeymoon and my mom found out she was pregnant with my little sister, Felicity."

"Any more siblings?"

"Two younger brothers, Fin and Hunter," I tell Kassandra. "My family is just a jumbled bit of drama..."

Kassandra gives me a sympathetic smile. "Hey, we all have our baggage," she tells me gently. "Just takes the right person to talk to and have listen to every bit and piece that there is to know."

I nod. "Yeah, the right person..."

. . .

I dash up the cobblestone path and make my way towards the main doors of the mansion then, knowing exactly what I need to do. It's like breathing; you just have to do it to live. Breathe, I tell myself as I dash in the main doors and head inside, directly towards the elevators. I press the button fervently, and finally it arrives just in time for me to hop in and press the button to the correct floor and head upstairs to my room.

Once the doors ding and fly open, I dash down the carpeted hallways and unlock the room door. I open it and shut and lock it behind me, walking through the living room area and into the back, where the bedroom was. I hesitate in the doorway, and see Kassandra, her milk-white skin corresponding nicely with the white bed linen, her hair a wave of bright red on the pillow. I bite my lip, recalling again that first day we'd met, and how much I'd wanted her, but had remained faithful to Owen in body, if not in spirit, for my heart had belonged to Kassandra from the moment I'd laid eyes on her.

I went to the secret compartment of my duffel, and unzipped it as quietly as possible, taking out the black velvet ring box and approaching the bed. I took off my shoes and unzipped my jogging jacket, so that I stood before Kassandra in my tank top and skin-tight sweatpants. I took my hair down for good measure, so it fell down my back as I approached her, ring box hidden in hand, as I climbed up onto the bed next to her.

"Kassandra?" I asked, gently shaking her bare shoulder. "Kass?"

Her perfect eyelashes fluttered momentarily as she moaned ever so slightly as sleep came away from her. She sat up in the bed, pulling the comforter with her as she did, and locking her green eyes to mine. "It's not even eight," she moaned, and rubbed the last of the sleep from her eyes. "What's going on?"

"There's an emergency at work," I said.

"Dammit," Kassandra said, throwing back the bed clothes and stomping off towards the bathroom, her perfect ass getting the first glints of the morning sunshine within its dimples. "We're barely gone for two days and suddenly there's an emergency! Jeezus, Beckett! You're a mommy's girl and a workaholic!" she shouts, turning on the water to the shower.

I bite the insides of my mouth; why did she have to be so goddamned sexy when she was angry? Man, was it hot... Immediately, I stripped down and hid the ring box underneath a pillow and stepped into the bathroom with her, and she did a double-take at my body. Even after two years in love with me and four months of sleeping with me, she never got tired of my body. She ran her hands over it rather compulsively as I stepped forward, closer and closer to her, before dragging her hands away and stepping into the bath.

"I'm supposed to be mad at you," she says petulantly as I step in behind her, and pull the curtain around us. "And normally, I'd say no to duel showering, but we are in a hurry..."

"Please," I said, molding myself to her, pressing my breasts into her back and causing her to shudder. "Don't pretend you don't love it."

Kassandra's mouth drops at my wanton behavior, wetting her hair and moving aside so as I can do the same to mine. "Stop it, Beckett," she said, proceeding to rub shampoo into her scalp. "I mean it—you are so in trouble."

"It's a teenage girl," I tell Kassandra as I begin shampooing as well. "Her name is Angel, and there's evidence of self-harm."

"Poor girl," Kassandra says, compassion leaking into her tone.

"Exactly," I reply. "I've asked my mother if I could bring you along since you have your degree. Maybe you could talk to her."

Kassandra sighed, crossing the shower to rinse out her hair. "I'll talk to her—of course I'll talk to her. It's an obligation."

I smiled, looking up and down her backside, permitting myself a fondle as I walked by to rinse my hair. "I love you," I said over my shoulder.

"I love you, too," Kassandra replied.

We got out of the shower, toweling each other off and blow-drying our hair before pinning it up for the long drive ahead. We stepped back out into the bedroom, and I proceeded to grab some work appropriate clothes for the two of us. I grabbed bras and panties for Kassandra and tossed them over to her, which she managed to catch and step into, while she straightened out the bed. I bit at my bottom lip, watching her only when she wasn't looking at me, as I pulled on one of my suits and she a blouse and a skirt. Finally, as she moved to straighten the pillows, my stomach did a somersault as she felt beneath one, before withdrawing her hand in shock. She then dipped back underneath the pillow, this time bringing out the box and turning it over and over in her hands.

"Leia?" she asked, confused. "What's this?"

"Oh, a thousand pardons," I replied, crossing the room. I took the box from her and smiled at her perfectly shaking fingers. "Look, I love you more than anything, Kass—well, romantically-speaking," I said, tilting her chin up as she let out a delicious giggle. "Ever since the day that you were my therapist in rehab... Just wow, Kass. It took all I had not to grab you and throw you down on that couch, and it wasn't too long afterwards that you were thinking along those lines as well. I am so sorry I couldn't allow myself to let go and realize what is—that I'm a lesbian, who knows what I want. And I want you," I said, going down on one knee and opening the ring box with the back of my index finger.

The platinum band carried with it a two-carat circular diamond surrounded by expertly-cut emeralds on either side of it. It took all I had for me not to start sobbing the moment Kassandra did, as she shook her head in amazement. Was it my words, my honesty, or the sheer shock of it all that caused anyone getting proposed to to act this way? I didn't know...

"Yes, Leia," Kassandra said, wiping her eyes and offering up her shaking hand towards me. "Yes. I'll marry you."

I grin up at her, slipping the ring onto the appropriate finger before getting to my feet, embracing Kassandra, my fiancée. My fiancée. I had no idea how wonderful it was to attach that word to the woman in my arms, and I just didn't want to let go. I pulled back, and we shared our first kiss as an engaged couple, and it was in that moment that I felt complete.

"Angel," Kassandra said.

"Right," I replied.

. . .

We arrived back in Manhattan about an hour and twenty minutes later, heading directly to the SVU squad room. Kassandra's ring gleamed on her finger, and it felt good knowing that she was out in public with it, telling the world that she was taken, by me. Yet my own hand felt naked, so I knew that she and I would have to go ring shopping for me quite soon. Thankfully, it was business as usual after my mother apologized for cutting our trip short, and giving us a quiet congratulations on the engagement, followed by Carisi, who hadn't, unfortunately, gotten any further with Angel.

"Don't understand it," Carisi said quietly to us in my mother's office. "I like to think that I have a way with the young kids..."

Kassandra tries not to laugh, while my mother shakes her head.

I clap a hand on his shoulder. "Carisi, it's people who say 'have a way with the young kids' that clearly don't...have that," I tell him gently.

We stepped into the room where the likely frightened teenager was being kept, and I was pleased that there was a half-energy bar in front of her, along with some orange juice, half-drunk. Kassandra and I moved across the room, sitting in front of Angel, where I was able to put a face to the name for the first time. She was of Asian descent, with the traditional long, silky black hair which went down her back, although hers was full of tangles. She was shivering, even from underneath the borrowed police blanket, and I noticed her arms were riddled with cigarette burns and cuts from a razor blade.

"Hello, Angel," I said gently. "My name is Detective Beckett. This is Kassandra Stone—she's a psychologist. Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?"

"Don't mind," Angel replied, and I detected a British accent.

"Very good," Kassandra said with a smile. "We know that you're sixteen, Angel, but can you tell us what month you were born?"

"May," she replied.

"Do you know the date?" I asked carefully. "Your birth date?"

"May thirty-first," she said softly.

"So, you just turned sixteen," Kassandra said.

Angel nodded. "Yes."

"Very good," Kassandra said again. "Can you tell us where you were born? Was it somewhere in England?"

Angel hung her head slightly, almost as if ashamed. "Yes. In Tottenham," she said quietly. "Northumberland Park."

"Gang area," I whispered to Kassandra; I'm not sure if Angel heard. "How did you manage to get to Manhattan?" I asked.

"The gang—it traffics drugs," she said quietly. "Sometimes, on a freighter from Tottenham to Southampton. Then, the ships go into the harbor here... I couldn't take the life. I was a runner, I was. And because I was young and...pretty," she says, shuddering, "nobody ever suspected me. But I never did get mixed up completely, no sir. No drugs did I ever take."

"That's good, Angel, really good," Kassandra assured her. "However did you manage to get here undetected?"

"Wasn't for long," Angel said quietly. "One of the gang members must've called an associate over here. That's how they got me. Made me do things..."

"What things?" I asked softly.

"Play with me—for money," she said. "I was lucky if I got a few quid for what I was made to do. Sometimes, I got food. Sometimes, I got these," she says, showing us her arms with the burns and scratch marks, some barely healed, some nearly fresh like from days past. "That's if I wouldn't go with some of the men. Some of them were smelly, or they scared me..."

"You're safe now," Kassandra said softly.

"What were their names?" I asked her.

"Simon and Johnny," she replies without hesitation. "Simon Markham and Johnny Townsend. There be your men."

"Where can the police find them?" asks Kassandra.

"Harlem," Angel whispers. "You'll find them in Harlem, in the slums."