The blue-and-white lights reflecting off the wet pavement of the Brooklyn street felt like a personal assault on my vision. Eighteen hours ago, I was in that apartment building. I was kissing your forehead, telling you to have a good shift, watching you take the coffee I made you. Now, that same building was wrapped in yellow tape, and you were sitting on the cold concrete stoop, shaking.

I parked the unmarked car too fast, ignoring the siren wail still ringing in my ears. I needed to be a cop. A professional. I couldn’t let the sheer panic clawing at my throat show. If anyone saw what I was feeling, it would kill us both, not just destroy our careers, but invite the filth I hunt to rip apart your life.

Elliot Stabler was standing near the entrance, holding a steaming cup of coffee that he probably wasn't drinking. He saw me and didn't smile, just tightened his jaw; that look he gets when it’s bad, when it’s personal.

"McKenna," He said, handing me a clipboard I didn't want. "It's a bad one. No sign of forced entry. Whoever it was, they knew what they were doing. She's hurt bad, but she's talking," Elliot continued, keeping his voice low. "Bullet went clean through, likely broken ribs. Paramedics are waiting on her to finish the initial shock-sit."

I nodded, fighting to keep my voice steady, professional, as I flipped through the notes. "Any ID on the perps?”

"Two guys," Stabler said, looking toward the building. "No masks. They knew exactly where the cameras were, avoided them, and took out the feed in the hallway before they even touched the door. They went straight for her, Tim. It was professional. Either you’ve got a leak in the department, or they’ve been staking this place out for a long time."

He looked at me, letting the implication hang between us. Miguel Olivas. The case that was consuming my life, the one where you held the keys to all the secrets. If Olivias was targeting an Evidence and Property Control Specialist, he was looking for a way to destroy evidence or blackmail his way out of the cell.

"Nothing was taken," Elliot continued, his voice dropping. "They weren't here to rob her. They were looking for something specific. Files. Evidence. They wanted her to tell them something."

"I'll talk to her," I said, my jaw tight. "I’ve worked with her on a dozen transfers. She knows me. She’ll talk to me."

Walking over, I had to force my legs to move slowly, making sure my face was a blank slate of official concern. I crouched down in front of you on my haunches, so I’m eye-level with you. I pull out my notepad and pen, the tools of a professional, creating a barrier of "official business" for the benefit of the dozen pairs of eyes watching us.

"Hey," I said, keeping my voice firm, professional. I looked into your eyes, trying to convey a thousand apologies and all the love I couldn't say. "It's Detective McKenna. I'll be the one taking your statement.”

I leaned in just an inch closer, my eyes searching yours, pleading with you to understand the distance I was keeping.

"I know this is hell,” I whispered, my voice firming up. "I know you're hurt, and I know you're tired, but you know how this works. I need to know everything you remember, from the second they entered, to the moment they left.” I demanded softly, leaning in. “Did they ask for a specific case file? Did they say anything about Olivas? Did they mention the department?"