"Remanded without bail," Carisi says, a triumphant look in his eyes. "You can rest easier tonight, Julia—since Duke Ross has no significant ties to the community other than his job, so he's going to be in the can until his trial date."

"Has that been set yet?" I ask.

"Next week," my partner replies, pocketing his cell phone. "Don't worry—we've been given permission to sit on him until then, provided that he has his court-appointed attorney present."

"Please tell me the attorney isn't a Buchanan," I say. "Big guy in the attorney game—a figurehead, if you will," I tell Julia.

"Nah, he's too far out of Ross's pay range," Carisi assures the two of us. "But Captain Beckett called, Leia—we need to get back to the squad."

"Your captain is related to you?" Julia asks as we move to leave.

"My mother, as a matter of fact," I tell her.

Julia grins. "Cozy," she replies.

. . .

"You sure had a hell of an upbringing," Kassandra says as we lay in bed together, just staring up at the ceiling in the darkness. "And you still don't know who your biological father is?"

"No," I say, shaking my head. "My mother donated her eggs to my aunt and then an anonymous sperm donor did the rest," I whisper. "Of course, at the time my aunt wasn't my aunt, so..."

"And you're sure she didn't ask your dad—her brother—to donate?"

"Half-brother and no. She was an odd duck, but not nearly that odd... Although faking her own death sure was icing on the cake," I say ruefully.

"Yeah, I just want to pick her brain for a while—try and figure out why she decided that was the best thing to do..."

"I think she didn't want me to think that she was imperfect," I say, which is the most logical thing I can think of, although nothing about the situation was logical at all. "Parents are seen as perfect in their child's eyes for so long that, once we notice their imperfections—it's too late. We already love them unconditionally and then we just think those imperfections make them-them."

"Maybe you should've been the psychiatrist," Kassandra says, moving over and putting her head upon my shoulder.

"Yeah, maybe I should've," I say, putting my arm around her. "God knows you and I are in similar lines of work—we obviously can't put names to faces but we can discuss certain aspects of our jobs."

Kassandra finds my free hand in the darkness and interlocks her fingers with mine in a moment of pure, unadulterated love. "So, how did your little discussion with Alexandrine go today?"

"Wasn't so little," I say, trying not to laugh. "I mean, trying to explain to your eleven-year-old daughter that your mother is dating her nanny..."

"What did she have to say about it?"

"She already knew, which is the crazy thing..."

Kassandra picks her head up, trying to catch my eye in the darkness. "We were so careful, per your instructions... How did she—?"

"Saw us kissing outside when we didn't think anyone was around," I reply, the laugh unable to escape my throat completely. "Of course, my initial question was did she think it was gross..."

"You didn't!" Kassandra cries.

I nod. "I did. And do you know what she said?"

"No, I don't."

"She said she didn't think it was gross, but that it would take some getting used to, so maybe we don't have to do it around her for a little while."

Kassandra laughs. "Really? She said that?"

"I swear, she did," I reply. "Of course, I said that I completely understood and that you and I would be very careful in the future."

Kassandra inches closer to me. "But not now, right?"

I shake my head, turning towards her and brushing her lips with mine. "Not now, right," I reply.

. . .

"Glad you're back," my mother says as we enter the squad room. "Heard about the remand—that's what we were all pulling for."

"Best case scenario," Carisi puts in.

"Well, put Duke Ross on the back burner for now," she says steadily, motioning us into her office and hesitating for a moment before nodding to the interview room just next door. "We caught another live one."

"One of Ross's victims?" Carisi asks, advancing towards the glass. "Did he manage not to kill one? Or was this just a witness?"

"Neither," my mother says. "New case—entirely new."

"What happened?" I ask, stepping forward. The victim was dressed up in what could only be described as flamboyant attire, but it was torn in some places, and their makeup was smudged. "Poor guy," I put in.

"Leia—you sure you don't want to rethink that statement?" Carisi asks.

"Why?" I ask, turning to look at him. "Why would I?"

Carisi sighs. "I'm pretty sure that's a woman."

I turn and look at the person sitting in the interrogation room then, just as they take off their wig of flowing blond hair, and proceed to run their fingers through their pompadour cut. "Nice try, Sonny," I say, flashing him a smile. "Want us to take a crack at him?" I ask.

"Please do," my mother replies. "I just got a hit on a child abuse case and Lavinia and I are going to take it. Carisi, you're in charge," she says, grabbing her coat and heading back out into the squad room.

"You're not disappointed?"

I turn and look at him. "Why would I be?"

"Your old partner working with your mom, I mean."

I shrug. "Business is business," I reply, stepping forward and opening the door to the interrogation room. "Hey there," I say, smiling at the young man and sitting down across from him. "I'm Detective Beckett, this is my partner Lieutenant Carisi. We're here to ask what happened."

"Blake," the guy replies, his voice hoarse, and I think then that he must've been crying, which was understandable.

"Nice to meet you, Blake," Carisi says, and Blake raises his eyes to his, clearly uncomfortable.

"Yes, I'm a drag queen," he says, narrowing his eyes, his fake eyelashes coming into contact with his cheeks. "What's it to you?"

"I'm sure you're great at your job," I say, managing a smile for him. "But it doesn't matter what your job is or your legal status is. All we care about is bringing the people who hurt you to justice."

"Why is your partner staring at me?" he whispers.

"Why don't I get us all a cup of coffee?" Carisi says.

"Water, please," Blake says softly.

"Sparkling or flat?" Carisi asks. "Or we also have standard bottles..."

Blake raises his eyes to Carisi, clearly not in the mood for jokes. "Very funny. A standard bottle will be fine, thank you."

I reach into my wallet and pull out a few singles before handing them over to Carisi efficiently, my eyes never leaving Blake's. "Go ahead and make it two," I say, patting Carisi on the arm as he takes the money and leaves the room.

"You two seem chummy," Blake puts in.

"You have to be when you're on the job with someone."

"Is he, like, your sugar daddy or something?" he asks.

I laugh, and it comes out as a loud snort, even causing Blake's perfectly plucked eyebrows to raise in shock. "Carisi? No. We're not each other's type, believe me. I mean, for him—I'm too young. And for me—he's a guy."

Blake suddenly seems more at ease. "Wait. You're gay?"

I nod, flashing him a grin. "Yeah. I got married right out of high school to my second boyfriend, we had three kids, and then wham-o. He's gay and so am I. It was all pretty funny how it turned out. But we mean everything to each other and the divorce got all finalized and the kids didn't suffer, thank goodness."

"Sounds like you've got it all figured out."

"Some days more than others." I hesitate, watching Blake fiddle with the feather boa around his neck, pulling it closer around his frame. "Do you think you could tell me what happened to you?"

Blake lowers the boa as the door opens again, and Carisi brings us back out bottles of water. "Thanks," he says quietly.

"I'm just going to do some paperwork in the office," Carisi tells me quietly. "Will you be okay questioning Blake on your own?"

"No problem," I reply, opening the bottle and sipping the water, knowing full well that he will be watching from the other side of the glass. "We'll be just fine. Have fun with your paperwork."

"Thanks," Carisi replies, leaving us alone.

"So, did this happen last night?" I ask Blake gently, gesturing to his torn costume, black eye, and bruised cheek.

"Yeah, at a club I work at—Fruit Saloon."

"That's an interesting name," I put in.

Blake shrugs. "Pays the bills. I make my own costumes, but my sister works at a local fabric store, so I get the rejected fabric. The D.J. has mad skills and plays anything from Gaga to Bowie. You work out one new routine a week and can dance to whatever song you want. That's when the fun begins..."

"How's that?" I want to know.

"Well, depending on how well your dance goes over, the more you get paid. Plus, all the drinks and tips you can get."

"Do you ever do private dances?" I ask.

He nods. "Yes, we have an exclusive suite of rooms through a door to the right of the stage—VIP's only. Each cubicle features something a little different; you make up your mind previously with the client what they want out of you, and then the money is exchanged and then you do what they ask. If you're ever uncomfortable in the cubicle, there's a hidden red panic button that goes off in the bouncer's domain and they come to save you, so to speak."

"What has made anyone uncomfortable?" I ask.

"If sex is off the table, and the clients take it too far," Blake replies with a shrug of his muscular shoulders. "If they bend you over on the bench and take you by surprise, then all you have to do is press the button. The bouncers come running and take the client out, and he's banned from the premises forever."

"No exceptions?" I ask.

"Well, banning can come in a few stages," Blake tells me. "Sort of a three-strikes you're out sort of thing, depending on the crime committed."

"Such as?" I ask.

Blake clutches the water bottle, leaning back in the chair, clearly used to this line of questioning. "If you specified no touching the merchandise and they touch you, and you don't like or want it, they're banned for three months. If they kiss you forcibly, then they get banned for six months. If they touch you anywhere below the belt without permission, banning is a year. And if they try anything fully sexual—actual penetration, stuff like that, or attempted penetration—they're banned for life and then the bouncers sometimes perform a citizen's arrest or they'll just call the cops and hold them for you."

I sit forward slightly, not wanting to scare him off, but becoming more and more desperate to get to the bottom of this. "Do any of the other performers press the panic button? Did anyone do so last night?"

"Candy Cane—a friend of mine who dances to Christmas music all year round—pressed it earlier this week. She does a great Mariah Carey," he says. "Anyhow, C.C. pressed it after one of the VIP clients tried to bend her over. When she said 'no', he stopped, but she didn't press the panic button—not until he tried to do it again, but she pleaded for him not to be banned, because he pays her so well and he was really drunk..."

"Did she tell you about it?" I ask.

Blake shook his head. "No the client was into voyeurism and asked me to watch through a peephole on the side of the cubicle," he replies, a look of disgust etching into his face. "Look, I'm all for people liking what they like, but I seriously didn't want to see any of it."

I put the cap back on my water bottle. "Is it in your contract? That you have to do things you don't like or want to do?"

He shrugs. "Not really. But it was a difference of three hundred dollars—I was a hundred and fifty short on rent this month. I live with my sister, and we pinch pennies as it is. This way, I could easily pay my half and set aside some for groceries. It wasn't a huge imposition—the client was so focused on C.C. that he didn't check very often."

I nodded. "Did anyone else press it recently?"

"Other than C.C. there were two," he replies. "The first one was Bella Berry, who does songs that she thinks are sweet—How Sweet It Is to Be Loved by You, I Want Candy—things like that," Blake explained. "B.B. pressed it after her VIP client tried to bend her over, too."

"Did this client request voyeurism, too?" I ask.

Blake shakes his head. "No, I promised one of the bouncers a dance after he got dared by his buddies. All the bouncers are sweet, and even though they're not supposed to fraternize with us, they do sometimes, but it never crosses any kind of line at all... I was giving the bouncer a dance when the panic button went off." He leans forward then, his voice dropping to a whisper. "There are cameras above the cubicles for the performers' own safety."

"Oh, yes, I see," I reply, nodding, the pieces coming together. "And the third performer to push the button?" I ask.

"Sassy Sparkle, who specializes in glam rock," Blake replies. "S.S. pressed it a day or two after B.B. pressed hers. The same thing again—the client tried to bend her over, and since it was three strikes, he was out."

"Just tell me one thing here, Blake... The one thing here that doesn't make total sense to me..."

Blake smiles a little sadly. "The fact that the VIP client wasn't banned when he should have been?" he asks.

I nod. "Exactly. That."

Blake sighs a little then, pulling his boa closer around him, bite marks covering his neck now covered up due to the thick feathers. "Bosses are notorious for being hypocrites, aren't they?" he asks. He lowers his eyes to his fake nails, some chipped and some pulled off entirely, likely due to a fight. "Follow my rules or I'll kill you, but I can turn around and do whatever the hell I want..." Blake stops talking then, taking the torn hem of his mini dress and attempting to pull it down over his torn fishnets, which do a poor job of hiding his bruised knees.

"Blake," I say, slowly, softly, "did your boss hurt C.C., B.B., and S.S.?" I ask him, my voice as gentle as possible.

Blake nods, lowering his eyes to his torn clothing, his eyeshadow smudged, along with his mascara, likely from crying. "Yeah..."

I nod, already suspecting the rest. "Was your boss the one who did this to you?" I ask him quietly.

He nods, a simple movement of the head. "Yeah..." He crosses his legs, then uncrosses them, in an effort to get comfortable, and fails miserably. "Without the cameras to stop him, he was able to take it much further..."

"How far?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

Blake raises his eyes to mine, pain behind them. "I think you already know the answer to that, Detective Beckett," he replies.

"Where did it happen?" I ask.

"Behind the club, last night, after my last dance."

"How did it come up?" I ask.

"I didn't have any VIP clients that night, so I decided to just grab my stuff, hop in an Uber, go home, change, and then meet my sister for a drink..."

"But your boss met you outside?" I ask him.

Blake nods. "Yeah. Yeah..."

"Can you tell me what happened, Blake?" I ask.

He nods, tears coming into his eyes and rolling down his cheeks. "The brick walls and the pavement of the alley were slick with rain—there was nothing to grab onto," he tells me, taking his hands off from around the water bottle and showing me—his palms are rubbed raw from attempting to grab something. "My boss told me that he was satisfied with my work output that week and gave me a check for a thousand dollars—it felt amazing. Sure, he'd broken his own rules, but here was half a months' rent..."

"He made you feel special," I say quietly.

Blake picks up his water bottle again, wincing ever so slightly as he squeezes it a bit too tightly. "I didn't know that he was literally buying me," he says quietly, almost as if he is loathing his decision-making.

"Blake, I need you to listen to me," I said, wanting to reach forward and take his hand but not wanting to encroach on his personal space. "You did nothing wrong. I don't want you blaming yourself..."

"But I let him!" Blake cried out, looking up at me, his eyes a mixture of hurt and pain as the tears continue to fall. "I let him do it..."

I shake my head at him. "It was not your fault," I reply. "Your boss was in a position of authority and took advantage of that. You have to understand that however you acted in the moment..."

"I..." He lowers his eyes to between his legs; it is a quick movement, before he shudders, ashamed again, and crosses his legs more tightly. "I got..." He runs a hand over his mouth, almost as if he wants to stop what he perceives to be damning words from escaping his lips. "I got...aroused..."

I shake my head again, lowering my eyes to the fading wood of the table between the two of us. "That is a normal reaction," I reply. "It doesn't mean you were asking for it to happen, Blake. I need you to understand that."

"He said it was like I was consenting," Blake wailed, putting his head into his hands and sobbing. "He said that because... Because I was so aroused that it was literally me screaming for him to do it..."

Son of bitch, I think to myself, personally wanting to take whoever his boss was and to slam him, hard, against a wall. "Blake, I'm sorry, I don't want to make you even more upset, but I really need specifics of what happened..."

He nods. "I know, I know," he says, calming himself down enough to stop his shuddering sobs before pulling his hands down. "My boss..."

"Yeah?" I ask, hoping my tone is one of encouragement.

"Marlowe Fairbanks, owner and founder of Fruity Saloon," Blake said, picking up his water bottle again and sipping it slowly. "It was a bit before midnight and I went outside after my last dance. Marlowe was out there having a smoke—he usually does that after a long night."

"Is the club twenty-four hours?" I ask.

Blake shakes his head. "No. We open at seven and close at three in the morning, but the performers are encouraged to arrive between four and five p.m. for mic and soundchecks and stuff like that."

I nod. "Okay. So, you just wrap up your final dance, you grab your things, go outside, and see Marlowe smoking. Then what happens? Did he give you the check before or after the assault?"

"Before," Blake replies, running his hands over his legs, the silk material of his dress attempting to cling to his ragged fishnets. "He said that he was so impressed with my weekly work output—I took on a couple of extra shifts to pay the bills—so Marlowe said that I deserved a raise. He said I would be making another thousand a month, which will certainly help..."

"And then what happened?" I ask, by this time gripping my notebook and writing down all the details.

"He's a tall guy—Marlowe—over six feet," Blake continues. "And strong—he works out a good six times a week. I was no match for him," he says, shrugging his shoulders. "I'm strong, but not that strong... He said that he liked this wig," he tells me quietly, more tears escaping his eyes as he picks at it, from where he placed it on the tabletop. "He told me he thought I was sexy... God, I can't believe his wife stays with him after all he's done..."

I raise my eyebrows. "Marlowe's married?" I ask.

Blake sighs. "Yeah. He's been with his wife, Poppy, since they graduated high school—brags about her all the time. She's an accountant and marketing executive for her own company, Fairbanks Financial; she does all the marketing mock-ups and accounting for the Fruity Saloon..."

"And she has no idea that her husband has been living a double life?" I ask, and continue scrawling down information, knowing that Carisi will be Googling Poppy Fairbanks as Blake and I speak.

"Not that I'm aware of," he replies. "Poppy's a nice woman. Comes into the club a few times a month, always giving us advice on our costumes—she modeled a little for extra cash during college, so she knows what she's talking about."

"Does their marriage seem stable?" I ask.

"More than. They have a great house; the kids are in private school..."

"Kids?" I ask, hesitating again.

"Marcos and Ophelia—twelve and nine. Both well-mannered..."

"And the house? You've been to their house?"

"They have a penthouse on the Upper East Side," Blake replies. "One of those beautiful old buildings, but the inside has an antique aesthetic but modern furnishings... We have a lot of company parties there—when the kids are with the grandparents, of course—and since they own a lot of space in the building, it's not like we're ever a bother to anyone..."

I write for a moment, the silence deafening, and Blake seems content to watch me as I scratch the pen against my pad of paper. "So, back to last night... Marlowe gave you the check, which made you feel special..."

"Yeah," Blake says, quickly growing pale. "He put his hands on my shoulders and told me how valuable an asset I was to the company..."

"Must've been a good moment," I put in.

"You would think, if he hadn't reached below the belt," Blake replies, biting down hard on his lower lip. "I pushed his hand away, saying that I wasn't for sale, and tried to give him the check back. But he pushed the check into my bag, saying that everyone was for sale, and that, since I worked for him, I belonged to him..." He hesitates for a moment, a new round of tears falling. "I said that he was going against the rules, and that he wasn't allowed to do that with me... He turned me around so that my back was to him, and he reached in between my legs and found me, and that's when it...you know..."

I nod. "I know. Go on."

Blake lowered his eyes. "He turned his head so that it was in the space between my neck and my ear, and whispered that because I was hard, that it was as if my body giving the consent for me," he says quietly. "He held me against the bricks with his weight, while one hand was between my legs, and the other covered my mouth so that I couldn't scream... But I just..."

"What, Blake?"

"I went numb," he replies, choking back a sob. "All I could think... I was just chanting to myself, I want to live, I want to live, the entire time, and I thought that if I let him do what he wanted, then maybe I could..."

"Make him happy, and promising the world, so that he wouldn't kill you," I say, having heard the story so many times. "I know."

"You sound like you're speaking from experience," Blake says.

I sigh. "Yeah, my first boyfriend got a little rough with me," I reply. "Let's just say if my second boyfriend didn't come along and break it up, then maybe I'd be dead in a ditch somewhere..."

"So he was your knight in shining armor," Blake replies.

I nod. "I guess, at the time, I thought so, too."

He sighs, looking up at the ceiling. "After he felt me go numb, he hiked up my dress so quickly that it tore," he says, barely above a whisper. "I tried to beg him to stop, but nothing did any good... I heard him unzip his pants, and I just knew, I knew what was coming but I didn't know how to stop him," he sobbed. "I just kept telling myself, Nothing lasts forever, nothing lasts forever, and that's when he tore through my fishnets and...put his inside me..."

I nod. "And what happened next?"

"It was all of two minutes, but it could've been two hours," he says softly. "And when it was over, he shoved me so hard against the wall that that's how I got the shiner and the fat cheek," he said. "I just waited for the squeaking sound of the back door closing behind him, and I pulled my dress down... It had stopped raining and I remember just walking up and down all the blocks for hours... The numbness didn't go away until about an hour before I showed up here. I called my sister and asked her what to do, and she said to come and see you..."

"Blake," I say, taking a chance and reaching across the table, and gripping his hand in mine. "You did the right thing by coming to us for help. Now, the next thing we have to do is head to Mercy Hospital. My ex-husband is a doctor there and he's got some pull, so we'll be moved pretty high up the list."

"Will there be a rape kit?" Blake asks.

I nod, understanding his reluctant tone. "Yes. In order to do the best investigation possible, we'll need to do one."

He nods. "And you can stay in the room with me?"

I give him a small smile. "Yes, if you want me to be in there, I can. It's hospital policy to make sure the patient is comfortable. And, if you like, we can call your sister and have her meet us down there..."

"She has work," Blake says, getting to his feet. "Besides, she knows everything anyway and I'd prefer not to have her all up close and personal."

"Understood," I reply. "Are your parents in the picture?"

"Mom died when I was a baby, Dad threw me out when I came out," he replies, pulling his boa more fashionably around him. "Miranda took me in after I graduated high school and we've been living together ever since. She doesn't care about my sexuality, so Dad cut us both off."

I give him a sympathetic smile. "Well, don't worry," I tell him. "I'll text Owen from the car, let him know we're coming, and get us on the schedule. You'll be well taken care of, I promise."

He nods. "I hope it's an improvement over last night," he replies.

. . .

Alexandrine was the one who told her father about Kassandra and me, and I was initially worried about the eventual outcome, but I really shouldn't have been. I mean, after all, Owen would justifiably have been branded a hypocrite for condemning me for moving on with someone of the same sex. Kassandra was out at school when Owen came over to pick up the kids, and the kids, having mistaken the time, were out with my mother at the time. I nevertheless let Owen inside, making him a cup of coffee and idly chatting.

"Had an interesting discussion with our daughter the other day," he said, taking the cup and thanking me.

"Rebecca?" I ask him playfully. "I was unaware that she had graduated from babbling to actual sentences so quickly..."

"Very funny," Owen says, sipping his coffee. "Marcus never fails to mention your witty humor and I tell him that was one of the reasons I fell in love with you in the first place."

I cock my head to one side, while it rests in my hands on the island beside him. "I mean... Was what we had love? I mean, surely, we loved each other, but was it head over heels...?"

"I like to think so," Owen replies. "I mean, it's certainly different than what I have with Marcus, and what you have with Kassandra."

I lower my eyes to my hands, before allowing my fingers to retreat into my palms, where my nails proceed to bite the smooth skin. "Alexandrine told you about me and Kassandra," I say, and it is not a question.

"Yeah, she did."

I sigh, straightening up and proceeding to make myself busy about the kitchen. "I mean, suffice it to say me telling you should've happened before our oldest opened her big mouth—something she does not get from my side of the family, by the way," I say, turning and looking at Owen, "—and telling you about it. I mean, please, it's an adult conversation..."

"That you obviously had with her."

I sigh, dropping the sponge I'd been using to clean the counters with before turning around and facing Owen. "Hey, look, I was confronted with the sudden information that Kassandra and I were caught kissing by our daughter and I felt it would've been unfair to tell her she was seeing things or that she misinterpreted what was going on..."

"I'm not accusing you, Leia," Owen said, giving me a smile. "Trust me, I'm not about to be named a hypocrite here. Sure, I would have appreciated a heads-up from someone who wasn't almost eleven and thinks she knows everything about everything, but still..."

I smile. "Thanks," I reply. "And you're not mad?"

"Mad? I'm thrilled!" Owen replies, lowering his cup of coffee and hugging me in an unexpected gesture. "I'm glad you found someone, Leia, really."

"And you like Kassandra?" I ask, pulling back and looking up at him. "I mean it's not like you'll be upset that she's around the kids or anything..."

Owen chuckles. "Hey, if anything, I'm glad you're dating a woman and not another guy, because then I won't have to compete for fatherly love."

"Back at you," I reply. "The opposite, of course. I mean, I don't want to risk the notion of Alexandrine or the twins calling someone else 'Mom'."

"Well, it's unlikely to happen, Leia. Really."

I stand on my toes and kiss him on the cheek. "Thanks for being so understanding, Owen—about anything."

"No problem," he replies. "And back at ya."

. . .

The rape kit had been assembled and taken down to the lab, and Owen upgraded Blake to priority one, saying he would stay on Blake and be a link between him and SVU. I thanked him, but after I'd seen Blake in an Uber home, and Owen came running to me, fear in his eyes. I was shocked at this display of emotion and willingly went to Owen's office, where he and I had had many a tryst over the years before the end of our marriage.

"Owen, what's going on?" I ask him.

"Marlowe Fairbanks is Blake's boss," he says, showing me the chart that had had a nurse fill out for him as a complainant.

I shrug. "Yeah...? What of it? I probably shouldn't even be looking at these in the first place, anyway," I say, shutting the manila folder. "A patient's medical records are none of my business unless they've been subpoenaed in an investigation or I've been given just cause or permission from the patient to look at them."

"Stop with this ring around the Rosie," Owen says, his voice firm. "I want you to look carefully at..."

"Owen, no!" I say, and shut the folder again, gathering up my blazer and putting it on before going towards the door. "I can't look at that because it would be dishonest, and I can't be with my cases, Owen, I can't."

"Can you be dishonest with me, Leia?" he asks.

I feel myself stiffen automatically before turning around and looking at him. "You know that's not fair, Owen."

"Then tell me what is fair," he says. "Taking a peek at medical records of someone who appears to be a total stranger, or your ex-wife's?"

I steel myself for appearing honest. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Owen, and I don't appreciate your tone."

"I'm not some suspect you can just whip in line with your say-so, Leia," Owen says firmly. "What's going on?"

I look away. "You wouldn't understand."

"You're right, because it doesn't make sense," he replies. "You had a hysterectomy and yet were able to have a miscarriage in my hospital. Are you fully prepared to explain yourself, Leia?"

"It's rare, but you can still get pregnant..."

"You're right, it is rare!" Owen says. "Which is why I did some digging for myself and you know what I discovered?"

"What?" I ask him.

"You have what's known as a double uterus—now a single one, due to that rather unfortunate hysterectomy," he replies.

"Drop it," I say, my strength returning to my voice again. "Yes, I had a miscarriage, but we're just going to drop it, do you hear me?! Because this information is not fair to Kassandra or to Marcus! Now, tell me what you wanted to tell me so I can get the hell out of here!"

Owen hesitates for a moment before opening Blake's medical records again, this time not showing me the chart itself. "Are you aware that Blake is telling you that Marlowe Fairbanks raped him?"

I nod. "Yes. Marlowe is his boss. Why does it matter?"

"Why does it matter?" Owen says, laughing sarcastically and taking one of his photographs from the shelf behind his desk. "This is a picture of Marcus's family reunion that I went to over the summer," he says, handing it over to me. "As you can see, I'm standing with Marcus."

I nod, taking the picture. "It's a lovely photo. But what's the point you're trying to make here, Owen?" I ask, looking up at him.

"Look next to Marcus."

"It's you."

"The other side," Owen says, slightly impatient. "Tell me who you see standing next to him. Your best guess."

I raise my eyebrows. "Marcus has a brother?"

Owen smiles tightly. "A twin—an identical twin brother. Next to that brother is his wife, Poppy."

"Poppy...?" I whisper, shocked, before looking up at Owen. "What are you saying here, Owen?" I whisper.

"I'm saying that Marcus's twin brother, Marlowe, had identical DNA to the man that could be my husband. I'm also saying that Marcus was supposedly out working last night, and yet the CCTV never managed to pick up any shots of him actually on the job."

I shake my head at him. "Oh, my god..." I whisper.

"Yes," Owen says, nodding. "Oh, my god."

"So our suspects have officially doubled," I say, looking down at the photograph then, and realizing there was no way to tell either brother apart.

"Yes," Owen replies, taking the picture from me and returning it to his shelf behind his desk. "And for your sake, you'd better hope it's not Marcus, because we have our kids to worry about."

I shake my head at him, shaking. "So help me, Owen, if I find out it is Marcus and he's so much as touched any of them..."

"But it won't be Marcus," Owen says firmly. "It won't be. It won't be, because you're going to figure out that it's Marlowe."

"I can't make up something if it's not true!" I cry out.

"DNA doesn't lie," Owen says simply.

"Neither do police," I say.

"Some of them do..."

I shake my head at him again, moving backwards to his office door, filled entirely with disgust. "Not the best of us," I reply, opening the door to his office and slamming it firmly and completely behind me.