I’m already pissed enough as it is because I was called into the precinct at midnight for a runaway case. The complaint came from a close relative of the runway’s family, who says that there may have been some abuse that was right up SVU’s alley. Rollins has two kids, the Captain has a son, and they couldn’t reach Fin. So I was the only one fit for the job.

I sigh as I down some crappy takeout coffee, the patrol car I’m in basically crawling through the streets. I’ve got the basic description of the person, but it’s dark and it’s New York. You can never be too sure.

Eventually, I spot a person walking south while I’m driving north. They fit the bill — and then some. I put on the lights but not the sirens and I stop the car. My muscles begin to loosen up as soon as I step out onto the sidewalk.

“NYPD,” I say, flashing my badge. “Can I talk to you for a second?”