KINTSUGI
follows "Ohana" and "Moving Day"

               ***August 23, 2024***

"Liv in her natural environment," Alexandra Eames Goren quipped fondly, peering in the window of the captain's office for the Special Victims Unit at the 16th Precinct to see Olivia Benson paging through paperwork and occasionally initialing documents. In her dark-rimmed glasses, she looked more like a university instructor than a police detective.

"She's missing her pendant," Robert Goren observed instantly from behind her. "She wore it for months, but I haven't seen it lately."

"She loaned it to a friend who needed some of the comfort it gave Liv. She must still have it."

"Just like her," Bobby said with a little smile. "Did...the giver mind?"

Alex shook her head, knowing they were dancing around the gift-giver's name. "I don't think it was a problem. They know Liv."

Their adopted daughter stood on tiptoe, peering into the office. "The compass was so pretty, though."

"Don't ask about it, Min. You could knock for us, though."

Olivia Goren never did things by halves. She gave several sharp raps on the door, then opened it before Benson could respond. "Hullo, Captain Benson!

Benson put down her pen and smiled broadly. "Hello yourself, Olivia Two." When she opened her right arm in greeting, the blond child in her lavender shirt and blue slacks with rainbow-stained sneakers ran to hug her. "How's Noah?"

"Noah is fine. He's at ballet today. How's your summer been?"

"Too hot and too many storms! Sunday was dreadful. But the rest has been brill! We stayed at Lake George a fortnight ago—did you see it on my blog? We had an excursion boat ride and drove up to Fort Ticonderoga, where the British and Americans fought the French in the Seven Years' War." She made a face. "The French lost."

"Well, that time they did. But they came back to help the colonists win the Revolutionary War," Benson responded, amused. "And we read that blog entry. Noah wants to visit, too."

"You must! You'd both love it," Olivia promised. "May I go back out to the bullpen and look around?"

"Go ahead, but remember not to touch anything. I'll be right after you. No, no, don't come in." The last was addressed to Alex and Bobby, both dressed for warm weather in a short-sleeved blue blouse and black denim slacks, and an open-necked mint-green polo shirt and light tan khaki cotton trousers, respectively. Instead, she rose from her chair, tucking a manila file folder under her arm as she did so. "I'm taking a break."

"A break!" Alex teased. "You know what those are?"

Benson chuckled, but when she joined them in the doorway, she asked soberly, "You guys make out okay on Sunday? I saw the news reports about the floods."

"Tree limbs down everywhere and we lost power for about seven hours," Alex answered gravely. "We spent Tuesday cleaning up both yards. Abbi's vegetable garden was ruined. Both lawns will need reseeding. But I won't complain—two dozen homes north of Main Street had roof damage, and Oxford and Southbury were hit so hard. It's a good thing school hadn't begun."

"We got off easy." Bobby nodded, looking rueful. "On Wednesday at Big Brothers, all the kids were outside to help clean up the storm debris. We had a window broken at the facility, nothing worse."

"I'm glad," Benson said sincerely, then asked a bit more lightly, "And what brings you into the city today?"

"Reassuring Liz and Jack that we're fine, along with a regular visit." Alex was puzzled by Benson's diversional chit-chat; she'd called them after all, to ask if they'd drop by, so what was she circumventing? "We stayed overnight this time, at my brother's. We just finished lunch with Lizzie and Steve and, before that, fed the insatiable book appetite of my two bibliomaniacs–"

"You sound more like them every day," Benson responded.

"One learns the vocabulary of the usual suspects," bantered Alex in return.

"We spent a half-hour in Macy's, too," Bobby interjected. "Min's going through a growth spurt. They had winter coats on sale."

"Please don't mention growth spurts! Noah's already showing hints of the infamous 'teen appetite' I've heard so much about. I had a call from Elliot yesterday, and I mentioned it to him. He tells me it just gets worse."

Alex nodded. "I remember my brother: Jack ate like a horse and stayed the size of a greyhound. Half a chocolate chip cookie, and the scale thumbed its nose at me."

Bobby had apparently become restive about when the other shoe would drop. "So what was it you called about, Liv?"

"Well–" They were surprised when she still hesitated, for Benson was noted for taking matters head-on. "I was hoping," she admitted, "that you could help me."

She paused as they watched Olivia explore the Special Victims Unit squad room, her hands clasped behind her so she wouldn't be tempted by anything on the desks.

"Your workspace always amazes me. My old office was like a rabbit warren in comparison," Alex said approvingly, to break the silence.

"The old squad room was friendlier, though," Benson said with nostalgia, looking around the bright, open area that served the Special Victims Unit.

Alex teased gently, "Maybe you just miss the company?"

When Benson flashed her a pointed look, Alex added, "I mean, John Munch was always good for livening up your day."

"Yes, he was. I miss him," Benson admitted wistfully, then stepped aside as two uniformed officers departed, the older man bidding her farewell by name. The spacious area was sparsely occupied: three people were at their desks, one tapping away at his laptop, the other two women comparing notes from case files. The remainder of the detectives were out in the field.

Bobby's attention was drawn to a far corner where notes concerning a series of attacks were being posted on a magnetic whiteboard by a uniformed young woman. His eyes flicked from magnet-tacked photos to notes in dry-erase marker: "bandana mask over eyes and nose" and a terse "grunts, no speech." He cocked his head to the side when he saw the police sketch artist's drawing of the square face of the suspected perpetrator, based on the reports of the three victims whose photos lined the top edge of the whiteboard. The violence and humiliation the women had endured made his expression darken as he scanned the evidence. Each victim had reported briefly spying a strange round mark on the lower portion of the man's right cheek, but none had seen the details. Wispy marks on the right cheek of the sketched face suggested this, as per the note in black below.

"It's a tattoo, surely–" he murmured aloud.

"Yes," Benson said, smiling at Bobby's inability to remain uninvolved in law enforcement puzzles. "That's what we're thinking."

"But what if it's a brand?" he continued thoughtfully.

"A brand?"

He stepped forward to examine the photos more closely. "There's a specific rage here. A thirst for retribution. Look at the coarseness and thinness," and he thrust his left forefinger at an image of a prickly length of cording, "of the rope used to bind the victims. Their attacker wanted them to feel pain. This shot shows that he hogties his victims in a style used by old-school cattle ranchers," Bobby said, tapping the photo of lacerated skin on arms and ankles, "indicated in each case by the angle of the rope burns. Could he have been branded at one time, either by choice or force? If by choice he may have a fetish involving brands or branding, perhaps extended to a connection with cattle ranching."

The young officer, a sharp-eyed Latina fresh from the police academy, with an oval face and hair scraped back into a businesslike bun, was gazing at him with sudden excitement. "As if he were raised out West or worked on a ranch? I thought about that; my great-grandfather was a vaquero...and CSU did log a torn square of leather marked with the Greek letter 'psi' using pyrography. There's also the mask, a clear tie-in with old-time bandits. And so far his victims have all been of the same body type—dark-haired, warm-complexioned, buxom, and fairly tall. If he were branded by force, could this be his revenge on a particular woman who did this to him?"

"A mother, stepmother, or another type of custodial figure would be my first supposition. Possibly a controlling former girlfriend or spouse." Bobby nodded. "You may have hit on something, Officer–"

"Lozano, sir." She glanced at Benson, her face animated. "Captain, perhaps I could search the database for crimes committed with similar M.O.s in states west of the Mississippi?"

Bobby cautioned, "You might widen that search parameter since cattle ranches exist elsewhere. Both Florida and Georgia have–"

"Bobby," Alex said fondly, "I think Liv can manage her own investigation."

"No, no," Benson said with a pensive expression. "I appreciate the input. And Officer Lozano, those are excellent insights. Note those observations on the board, please, and once you finish, conduct research in that area. And thank you."

"Yes, Captain," the officer said, printing in red marker, "Are ligature marks related to hogtying/ranching? Brand mark? Possible Western/ranching connection? Abuse victim?"

Alex reminded her, "I'd rather Min not see any more crime scene photos, please," although the child seemed more absorbed in the FBI wanted posters.

"I'd forgotten Lozano was finishing up," Benson apologized, then called out, "Olivia Two, come on! What I want to show you is this way."

Olivia scampered in their wake as they navigated a newly painted passageway. Benson's badge permitted them access through double doors, then they made a sharp turn. Lining the uniformly grey corridor were numbered single doors that led to interrogation rooms; she directed them into the first observation room instead.

"Oh, no," Alex said impulsively upon looking through the observation window. "Please tell me he's not a victim. Or even worse, one of your suspects."

"No," was the relieved response, "although he is a victim, but not of violence." Her shrewd eyes were on Bobby, who was drawn to the window like the proverbial moth to the flame. Olivia also peered through the window; her eyes grew wide, and her hand stole into her father's.

On the opposite side of the glass, a small boy sat in one of the metal chairs next to the interrogation table. His unruly, almost black hair obscured his face as he bent over what looked like a paperback book. His round, wire-framed eyeglasses were perched at the edge of the table beside him. When Benson sharply rapped the glass with her knuckles, the child's head shot up, and he shoved the glasses on as if they could help him peer through the two-way mirror that, on his side, reflected a thin, light olive-skinned face, a sharp nose, and a pair of arresting hazel eyes. He wore a stained plaid button-down shirt, and under the table, they could see dirt-streaked jeans and begrimed classic Chucks sneakers as his feet bounced up and down.

"That footwork looks familiar," Alex said fondly, and she saw Bobby flash a smile, his eyes never leaving the boy. "So–"

"Hang on," Benson explained, "it's a long story. He's Randall Shaw, from Wilton, Connecticut. His father, Sterling Shaw, has been a guest of the State of New York for the past twenty months and will be for the foreseeable future. He's a dealer of oxycodone and any number of other opioids. One of his products was cut with such a strong percentage of fentanyl that in 2021 it killed a college student and his fourteen-year-old sister. The fourteen-year-old's parents attended Shaw's trial every day and told the newspapers that their son was an adult and had made his own decision, but that Shaw deserved the death penalty for their daughter. A few of his buddies gave him up in exchange for a plea deal.

"Carisi has an entire dossier on Shaw. Age thirty-five, sweet talker, good at deception, career con man. He convinced his wife and later his son that he worked at a New York brokerage firm, leaving every morning and arriving home every evening in a suit, carrying a briefcase. His real 'office' was an old warehouse near the piers. Let's say Mrs. Shaw was stunned when he was arrested. She was even more stunned when he was convicted because he'd assured her before the trial that it was 'mistaken identity.'"

Benson extracted the file folder from under her arm and paged through it, stopping at an 8x10 photo of a woman. She had a heart-shaped, almost childlike visage, with large dark eyes, a thin nose like Randall's, and pouting lips, the combination topped with short, dark hair in what Alex remembered being called a "Dorothy Hamill cut."

"Rosalind Shaw, age thirty," Benson introduced in a kindly voice. "Until a little less than a year ago, she'd coped with her husband's incarceration—until a cutback at Wells Fargo, where she was a bank employee, left her unemployed. She was desperate for rent money, so she let one of her husband's friends—his 'best friend' Hank—talk her into selling," and her slender fingers described an inch of space between thumb and forefinger, "'just a little pot,' in Manhattan, 'where the money was.' He found her a regular spot, a list of existing customers, and she was in business."

"Fin's had dealings with Hank Sorelto. Calls him a 'slick SOB who could sell ice to Siberians.' Rosalind was no match for him. Hank told her there was nothing to worry about; no one would get hurt—that 'pot was legal' now. Her sales earned her the bare minimum, so she and Randall weren't quite making ends meet. When Hank got wind of it—and since now she trusted him–"

"He set her on the path to hell?" was Alex's bitter retort.

Benson nodded in agreement. "Persuaded her into adding a few 'party drugs' to her inventory. The stuff he told her 'spoiled rich kids got into.' She would be causing little harm. 'Just like alcohol.'"

"She was that naïve? Was she brought up in a convent?" Alex asked, aghast.

"Pretty close. Small Pennsylvania town with rigorous religious parents. Homeschooled. She met Shaw at seventeen. By the time she was eighteen, she was married to him and pregnant. The outside world was a revelation to her, and she never quite got wise to its ways. Her husband used that naivety to his advantage.

"Her tenure as a dealer didn't last long. Two uniforms found her in an alley on May 16, presumably having overdosed while sampling her product—or that's what it was intended to look like. They think Hank—or his buddies—got to her because the post-mortem indicated a strong possibility that the dose wasn't self-administered. While it was a poor attempt to divert the police, someone did a good enough job that there are no firm suspects. In the meantime, she's been at St. Vincent's for the past three months, in a coma."

"What was their motive?" Bobby asked from the window.

"Rosalind had apparently been indiscreet with who she talked to. Word on the street was she was feeling guilty and was going to flip on Hank. But that's all we have—hearsay."

"What's Mrs. Shaw's prognosis?" Alex asked.

Benson eyed Olivia. "Guarded."

"And who cared for Randall while she pushed on the street?"

"That's a trick question. Randall did. No one here knew she had a young son living unsupervised until the New York State Police forwarded a report about a middle-schooler hitchhiking on I-95 in June. We have only bits and pieces from various sources. The Wilton police were told by the neighbors that Randall was accustomed to caring for himself since his father went to prison because his mother started working longer hours—and because Shaw's arrest had made her more emotionally fragile. After she was laid off, the neighbors hardly saw her. They presumed she was working nights.

"Instead, Rosalind used Randall's love for school to persuade him to stay at home alone. I think he was doing so well with his teacher this year that she felt it was feasible. She decided to save money by not commuting during the week and sleep on a friend's sofa in Washington Heights instead. The Wilton folks remember how proud she was that Randall was such a responsible kid for his age—she would brag that if you gave him written instructions, he would follow them to the letter. When the Wilton police searched the apartment, they found his mother's written schedules Scotch-taped to the kitchen cabinet doors. Randall warmed up his meals out of cans, did his own laundry, and, amazingly, got himself to school daily."

Alex bristled. "She left that child on his own, five days a week."

Benson nodded, her expression equally troubled. "But he never missed a day of school. The teachers saw no neglect—he was always bathed, in clean clothes, and had his lunch with him. When Rosalind stopped coming home, he managed alone until the end of the school year—June 7—when the grocery money ran out. Only after he exhausted all his options did he look for her—he had the address of her friend's apartment for emergencies." Benson shook her head. "Noah does so much for himself already, but I kept thinking of him in the same situation and couldn't help but admire Randall's resourcefulness. Carisi heard about his case, asked if I could help, and brought him here."

"Couldn't they place him in a foster home?" Alex asked. She expected Bobby to be asking more questions, but he was still watching Randall, hardly blinking, squeezing Olivia's hand. In turn, their daughter looked from her father to the little boy to her mother, chewing her lower lip, her eyes troubled.

"He's had four so far. He spent thirteen days in two different foster homes; sixteen in another. He was happy in the second one, with an older couple, the Carstairs, until Mr. Carstairs fractured his leg in three places and was placed in traction. Mrs. Carstairs couldn't be with her husband in the hospital and care for Randall, too, so she requested that DCF retrieve him. I was told she cried when she called."

Bobby pivoted abruptly to face them. "Behavioral problems?"

"No reports on that front at all, unless you think a child with his head stuck in a book is a problem." Benson smiled briefly, knowing she'd named more than one person of that description nearby.

"I've been making calls since eight this morning; I've spoken with his school, a few neighbors, a bodega owner that he 'borrowed'—the owner's words; he seemed fond of Randall—a can of soup from the night before he left home, and the proprietor of a little indie bookstore near the Shaw apartment. They all told me the same story: nice kid, shy, a 'little odd,' a lot restless, loves to read, likes school, quiet unless he's telling you about something that interests him.

"His teacher, Willa Deenie, gave us the most useful information. She says he's not the best at social interactions with his peers but isn't aloof, either. He relates more to adults than children. Well-behaved, even eager in the classroom, a good student—fidgety and awkward on the playground. No violence or gross misbehavior on record. The three short-term fosters commented that he was so quiet that they 'couldn't reach him.' I think he simply didn't care to be reached.

"The one thing almost everyone mentioned was Randall's fascination with mystery stories and law enforcement. He told me that his mom was a big crime series/mystery movie fan—they've watched mystery series and films together since he was seven years old and dissected the plots together."

Alex was stunned. "And she still didn't realize–"

"She had faith in Sterling. After all, Sterling was her husband, the man her parents told her she must 'cleave to.' Her helpmate. He loved her. He shared marriage vows with her. He would guide her properly, as any dutiful husband would. And, by extension, so would his friend." Benson's voice was laced with cynicism and regret. "Those were the words Sonia—the 'friend' whose sofa Rosalind was sleeping on—used in describing her. My impression is that she was a 'friend' just for free weed."

Alex muttered imprecations under her breath.

"As for why Randall is sitting in the interrogation room, he asked permission. He wanted to sit there for 'just a little while' so he could see what it was like." She looked wry. "I can't say I approve of his reading material. I wouldn't recommend it for Noah. Any guesses about the nature of the book?"

"Judging by your reaction," Bobby returned, glancing back at her, having witnessed how reluctantly—but curiously—Randall sampled the volume. "I'll venture a not-so-wild guess at...true crime."

"Mindhunter, to be specific," answered Benson. "He hasn't read much of it, but he's fascinated by the concept. He found it in a little free library outside Norwalk during his hitchhiking trip."

"Not exactly reading material for his age." Alex glanced again at the boy, who was gazing around the interrogation room as if he were memorizing it.

"Eames," Bobby said softly, turning back to the window, "what do you see?"

She and Benson moved to his left side. "On first glance? Don't laugh, but I thought of Harry Potter. The description in the opening chapters of the first book. I read it to my nephew Eddie when he was about eight," she added for Benson's benefit. "The untidy dark hair. The glasses. The distinctive eyes, although they aren't green. Neglect and abuse by his guardians. I always had it in for his aunt and uncle."

Bobby asked, "He's...how old, Liv? Min's age?"

"Small for his age. He was eleven in January," Benson supplied.

"I see me," Bobby said, bowing his head. "The kid with his head in a book, the hungry one with wrinkled clothes because who knew when his mother had last taken care of him. Soon he learned to use the laundry room so the kids at school wouldn't tease him, and to make sandwiches and cook dinner."

Benson explained quietly, "His clothes are dirty because he escaped custody before Carisi brought him to me early this morning. He was on the street last night. Someone tried to steal his backpack. Two uniforms heard him screaming as he fought back to protect the books inside. He has six, and he guards them with his life."

Absorbed in their conversation, the adults had not noticed Olivia sidle out the door of the observation room; now they were startled when the door to the interrogation room opened and then closed and Olivia's honey-blond head appeared. She halted about a foot from the metal table, her hands clasped behind her back.

"Hullo," she said in a bright voice. "What are you reading?"

The youngster had looked up furtively when she entered. Now he glanced up once more, not meeting her eyes. "You wouldn't be interested."

Olivia, impatient with his assumption, whipped out her favorite weapon, vocabulary. "That's being presumptuous, isn't it? You automatically thought I wouldn't be interested, although I offered an interrogative statement to elicit information."

Randall looked up again, and now he tried meeting her eyes—she had her head tilted slightly to one side, the ploy she'd picked up from Bobby—with his intense ones. It was difficult for him. "It's...n-not a book a girl would like."

There was a straight-backed metal chair opposite him, and Olivia flopped down in it. "Presumption number two." She crossed her arms in front of her, frowning. "Are you misogynistic?"

He stared now, blinking. "How old are you?"

"Ten," she admitted. "I'll be eleven in a month and entering eighth grade."

"You skipped?"

"'Year acceleration' is what it was called at my boarding school, but yes. Twice. Now, what are you reading?"

Randall held up the tattered book. "It's about an FBI profiler, but you probably don't know what that is."

Her observers expected an indignant complaint about presumption number three, but Olivia only said with a shrug, "Oh, I know that book. My papa has it. He owns several of the author's books." She paused, and both Alex and Bobby realized it was for theatrical effect. "Of course, my papa has met the author in the course of his work."

The boy put the book down, eyeing her sideways. "Your father," he repeated deliberately, "knows the man who wrote this book."

"Yes, of course," Olivia responded mildly, as if every little girl's father knew a former profiler from the BAU unit. "Papa's Robert Goren. He works for the FBI."

Randall went very still. "You're serious?" he finally asked weakly.

"Why would I lie to you?" she asked curiously. "We haven't even been properly introduced." She extended her right hand, and Randall shook it awkwardly, making the name bracelet on her wrist dance. "I'm Olivia Goren, and my papa is Robert Goren, who used to be partners with my mama, Alexandra Eames, in the Major Case Squad here in New York. After that, Papa joined the FBI, and Mama transferred to the NYPD's Homeland Security joint taskforce. That's how she met Captain Benson. Mama works on an NYPD advisory board now, and Papa lectures, and we live in Milbury, Connecticut. That's not too far from Wilton; we've passed through it on the way to Norwalk to see the aquarium and the history museum."

"Then how come you sound British?"

"Maman was Australian, and I was at a British boarding school for two years—although I was born and lived in Paris until over a year ago. Maman and my father were killed in an automobile accident. She made a will, asking Mama and Papa to be my guardians. So now I'm here." She indicated his book. "Is that what you like to read, true crime?"

He jerked his head aside, looking upset. "No, this is my first. I only read a little bit; it's kinda...rough. I like mystery books and TV, and police stuff."

Olivia leaned forward as if sharing a secret. "I didn't say reading that book was bad, Randall. I just asked. At my old school, my friend Renata has read all of Agatha Christie. Mama likes Tony Hillerman and Craig Johnson."

He hugged himself, and his agitation diminished as he talked about his favorite subject. "My favorite books are all mysteries. I like The Three Investigators and the Hardy Boys. I even like old mystery books where they still have cars with running boards, whatever those are, and telephone operators. I like Leaphorn and Chee. That's Tony Hillerman. My mother and I watched a TV series called Dark Winds, based on his books. It was on AMC, and there were two different stories. The books take place on a Navajo reservation, where Joe Leaphorn is a Navajo Tribal Police officer and Jim Chee–"

"Um, Randall," she said kindly, "I know."

Randall ducked his head. "I do that."

"Don't worry. Papa does it, too." Olivia settled back in the chair. "Mama calls it his 'annotations.' I know about Leaphorn and Chee because I love books, and so does Papa. Mama likes books, too, just not as much as we do. We just moved house—it's a long story—and it's got a true library, an entire room lined with bookshelves." She motioned with her hands to indicate space.

Randall's eyes lit up at the idea before he lowered them again, and she continued with more confidence, "Papa works in the library, preparing his lectures. You see, he's a criminal profiler, too, just like Mr. Douglas—only Papa was mentored by a man named Declan Gage. Oh! I didn't mention that there are four bookcases in the parlors, too, as room dividers, and those are full of fiction books. I have bookshelves in my room with my favorite books, and there are cookbooks in the kitchen. Mama says we look like a branch of the public library."

In the observation room, Benson gave a low chuckle. "Perfect."

Randall peeked up at her. "You're lucky. My mom sold most of our books at a secondhand store right after Christmas so we could eat." He looked down at his hands, wiggled in his seat, then met her eyes obliquely, his throat bobbing. "Can...can...can you introduce me to your dad? So I can ask about profiling?"

"You've already asked. He and Mama are right behind that mirror with Captain Benson."

Randall's eyes opened wide. "Why? Why did Captain Benson bring your parents here?"

"I...don't know," the little girl said, shrugging, although she'd worked it out when Bobby began asking about him. "Captain Benson thought you were...interesting, though. Maybe that's why–"

She stole a look at the mirror, as if for direction or protests, but no input had yet come. "She thought you were resourceful in taking care of yourself after your mum disappeared. She used that very word, 'resourceful.' That you did a good job until your money ran out. Captain Benson has a son about your age, Noah. He has dark hair like yours, but it's curly. He does well at school, like you. Maybe you remind her of him, and- You see, you can't keep–" Olivia floundered, then said truthfully, "Well, you're just a kid like me; you need someone to look after you, even though you did such a good job feeding yourself and going to school."

"It...wasn't hard," he said, head bowed again, eyes fixed on his hands. "I went by my mom's schedule. It's easy when it's written down. During the school year, I get up at 7 a.m. I wash my face, comb my hair, and dress for school. Then I have oatmeal with maple sugar, a glass of milk, and a fruit cup. When I finish eating, I walk to the school bus, which comes at eight. I make my lunch the night before: a bologna or ham sandwich, fruit, celery sticks with crunchy peanut butter, and a small bag of chips. At night I open a can of soup and microwave it and eat it with crackers and bread and butter, then wash the dish and spoon. I watch TV and take a bath and go to bed at nine and set my alarm for seven. Simple. I had to keep to the schedule because Mommy–" He stopped, blushing, embarrassed at having used the childish word, sputtered, then continued, "My mother said that if I didn't, everyone would know she was leaving me alone, and if someone knew she was gone, they would take me away from my school and Mrs. Deenie, and Mrs. Deenie knows me, and I wanted to go to school. I love school—at least with Mrs. Deenie, I did. I have to go to college, especially if I want to be a profiler like in the book."

Olivia, to comfort him, confided, "I like school, too. My favorite teacher last year was Brother Ambrose for history. But it's dreadful being alone, don't you think? After Maman died, I thought I'd be alone, too." Olivia chewed her lip for a moment. "Randall, didn't anyone notice you were alone on weekends?"

"I rode my bike to the library and stayed all day on Saturday. That's what I usually did on Saturday afternoons anyway, because Momm- my mother would see her friends Stella and Marjolin on Saturday at the nail salon. The librarians would bring doughnuts or muffins that day, and then they started bringing sandwiches, so I didn't have to worry about food on weekends."

Bobby murmured, "I don't suppose the Wilton police talked to anyone at the library? It sounds as if someone there caught on."

"Then I would borrow a book to read on Sunday and watch mysteries on TV." He looked mournful. "We had DVDs of good shows like Columbo and Monk, but we had to sell them, too. I miss them."

Olivia finally hazarded, "You know you'll have to stay with someone, right?"

His eyes flashed up. "I was in foster homes. Nobody likes me."

"Did you try to like them?" she asked simply.

Surprised by her question, he paused only a second or two, and then words flooded from him. "No, because it was almost all horrible. Mr. Heggen and his wife were sports-crazy, and they thought a boy wanted to play sports. They had a son, Stanley, and he nagged me. I hate sports. I can't hit a baseball, and I don't want a concussion from football! I saw that on the news. Concussions make you stupid, and I don't want to be stupid.

"Mr. and Mrs. Carstairs were nice. I would have stayed with them, but he broke his leg and had to go to the hospital. Mrs. Carstairs said she was sorry to DCF because she liked me.

"Ms. Phillips kept saying, 'You need to come out of your shell, Randy,' and dragged me to an awful concert. It was so loud. I hate loud places. They make my brain fizzle." He momentarily clapped his hands over his ears and made a face. "And I  hate being called 'Randy.' It's a dumb nickname. The other couple, the Stantons, smelled bad. They smoked pot and smelled like skunks. I called them 'the Skunktons.' Besides," he added resentfully, "people don't like me. I'm weird. The Heggens said so. So did my dad."

"Your dad?"

Randall squirmed in his seat. "He said I wasn't a real boy. That real boys play sports, not read books."

"That's not true!" Olivia answered indignantly. "Papa reads all the time, even though he plays catch and basketball with the boys at Big Brothers. He said people always thought he was weird. Once, someone he worked with called him a 'whack job.' Even Mama said he was an acquired taste.

"Some kids at school think I'm odd because I read so much. And I like museums and history, instead of mooning over designer clothes or Taylor Swift or who won on American Idol." Her nose wrinkled. "Taylor Swift is a nice lady who donates to charity, so she's okay, but I don't know why it's called American Idol. If you have an idol, it should be someone smart, like Katherine Johnson." She bit her lip, then added fondly. "Sometimes Mama doesn't know what to make of Papa and me. But she loves us anyway. So maybe she's a little weird, too."

In the observation room, Alex chuckled but also blinked hard. "Oh, Min–"

Bobby said soberly, "He'd be a completely different personality from her."

Alex glanced at Benson, nodded, and agreed, "With a different set of problems to deal with–" She gazed thoughtfully at the boy's bowed head, thinking of the nephew she had carried for her sister. "Still, if anyone can understand him, Bobby, it would be you."

"Can you deal with another me?" he asked bluntly.

Benson activated the intercom. "Olivia Two, please report back to me."

It was Olivia's turn to look sheepish as Randall stared at her. "Captain Benson calls me that because she's an 'Olivia,' too. Back in a tick."

She wore an owlish look when she returned to the observation room, then swiftly glanced at Randall, who had closed the book and was now leaning back in the metal chair, looking lost. "Am I guessing wrong? You want us to take him home, Captain Benson, don't you? Because there won't be sports people or people who smell, but Papa, who would understand him?"

Benson's eyes twinkled, and Bobby shook his head. "Min, you can always cut it down to the bone, can't you?"

"When Carisi told me about him, you were the first people I thought of," Benson confessed.

"That had occurred to me," Bobby said dryly.

"But you're right, sweetie," Alex added. She beckoned with her hand, then led them out of the observation room and down to the double doors. "It's a big undertaking, though, so we need to talk. It's not as simple as just taking Randall home. He's not a puppy."

Bobby rubbed his neck as he did when he was perturbed. "Because maybe it's fun to speak to Randall now and surprise him about the things you know and the people I know. But once we take him home, he's still a boy who's been abandoned. His trauma may run very deep. There may be times he acts out, makes you angry, or makes you cry. To do our best for him, we may have to rechannel that behavior into something more appropriate, which he may resent."

"He'll need extra attention, too," reminded Alex, smoothing Olivia's hair, "and that means when you run in all excited about a tennis game, or a joke Jacob told you, or when Todd in the upper school has Sister Mark Anthony up in arms again, we might not be able to deal right away with it."

Olivia chewed her lower lip. She knew all too well that she was the apple of both their eyes and loved the attention. "It will bother me. And maybe I'll regret it. And maybe I'll even be a brat about it, like with Leo. But...Randall didn't have Maman to look out for him, and I did." She looked pensive, and Alex and Bobby flashed back on the child who had held herself together during her parents' funeral. "Mr. Volpe talked once about passing it forward. He did that for us, didn't he? He left us the house, so now we have room for Randall. Maybe it's our turn?"

Benson said gently, "Olivia Two, you're going to make me cry."

Olivia took a deep breath, then answered, "I'll probably regret it tomorrow, Captain Benson. But I vote for Randall."

Bobby looked sideways at Alex. "You'll have to cope with three odd ones instead of two, Captain Eames."

Alex teased, "I remember you at Major Case, Agent Goren. Sometimes you were practically an odd couple." She cocked her head at Benson. "Liv, I believe we're unanimous."

"It's like the Star Trek song," Olivia added.

"The...what?"

"Donna Hastings hooked her on Star Trek last summer," Bobby explained, "during the tour. We watched the original series, the animated series, and some of The Next Generation. Since then, we've had all the other treks, including the new one, Exploring New Worlds–"

"Strange New Worlds, Papa!" Olivia corrected him with a sigh. "You remember everything else! They did a musical episode, Captain Benson. Everyone sang their true feelings aloud, and there was a verse–" And here she sang in an unselfconscious treble,

"We work better
All together; we overcome
Our obstacles as one."

"That's what we do," she told Benson simply as she looked at her parents. "The three of us."

"Well, now we see what Randall thinks of the plan," Benson said with a smile.

"All Papa needs to hook him," the little girl said confidently, holding up her left forefinger, "is one profiling story."

It would eventually take two, along with Olivia asking innocently, "Do you like Star Trek?" and not being surprised when Randall brightened and launched into an explanation of why his favorite character was Spock. But before Randall was approached with the idea, Bobby asked Benson, "And our next move?"

"You get his things and take him back to Milbury. There isn't much—what's in his backpack is all he has. He even needs underwear and socks. I contacted Connecticut DCF—I  did a little negotiating and I'm pretty certain your friend Ruth Dunbar will be assigned this case—and you have a cash advance. I can send it to Alex through Venmo. I was reminded several times to tell you to make sure you keep the receipts—the bursar was very firm!"

Bobby looked amused. "How long before we got here did you contact DCF?"

Benson smiled. "When he arrived first thing this morning. Do I look that guilty?"

"Yes," Alex responded decidedly. "Bobby saw himself, I saw my nephew with no one to love him, Min saw another kid who was once in the position she was."

"You can say no," Olivia Benson reminded them.

"Just Bobby," Alex said, quoting him, "'rescuer of helpless birds, abandoned dogs, and small children.'" And then she added, "And that goes for me, too."

Bobby met her eyes fondly, then flashed a smile at Benson before strolling toward her office, where Olivia had commandeered Benson's chair, swinging her legs back and forth, and Randall stretched out in one of the guest chairs beside a bulging, begrimed backpack that, to Alex's eyes, looked half his size.

He had barely cracked the door open when Randall bounced from his chair like a rabbit. "Are you Olivia's father? The profiler? Please–"

"Randall...this is my father, Robert Goren," Olivia interrupted calmly, which seemed to remind the boy to take a breath.

Bobby extended his right hand and, abashed, Randall shook it hastily, looking intimidated by his six-foot-four bulk. "Please, Olivia said you were a profiler, like in my book. Like on that FBI show and Grace in Waking the Dead. Can you tell me about it? How do you do it?"

Bobby answered truthfully, "Well, first you go to a university. You take psychology courses, and sociology is helpful as well. Classes in criminal justice, of course. Next, you apprentice with people who...um...follow the discipline. I was in the Army, in CID." Bobby took a few steps into the room, with Randall following like a puppy. "That's the criminal investigation division. The bulk of the process lies in observing and interviewing people. You have to speak with them, look them in the eye," and even Alex and Benson could see Randall flinch slightly, "and interpret what their demeanor tells you. How they move. How...certain gestures give them away—tells, they're called. Not only what they say, but how they say it. Sometimes it's what they don't say. Then there's 'affect.' What attitude–"

He closed the door.

"I can keep looking," Benson said, low, "for someone with experience with neurodivergence—that is, if you want me to. Do you think Olivia's therapist might take him on? You could ask Ms. Dunbar if DCF will help with the fees."

"We'll see. Does he truly need underwear and socks? He has that little?"

Benson nodded. "I inventoried his backpack. It's sad. There are four pairs of underpants and socks in poor shape, another pair of pants, four t-shirts, one belt, and his school shoes. A windbreaker. He sleeps in his mother's old t-shirt and a pair of her shorts. Five juvenile mystery books and a Sherlock Holmes novel. A kids' wallet with a few singles and a printout of a photo of him with his parents. He looks like he's about six in the picture. They all look happy. Maybe it was before Shaw started bullying his son."

"It sounds like everything I've ever read about homeless kids."

"He is homeless. The landlord tossed most of what was left in Rosalind's apartment but took photos beforehand. There wasn't much left except for clothes and a bare minimum of furniture. Rosalind had pawned everything of value, including her engagement and wedding rings. There are a couple of small items left for him."

Alex expelled her breath. "Do you think he's on the spectrum? We'd need to have that professionally diagnosed to find the best way to help him."

"Knowing Bobby, he has references in his library you can consult." Benson smiled. "I'm no psychologist, but I can tell you what I've witnessed: an anxious boy who's never lived up to his father's expectations, but conversely, someone whose mother depended on him heavily for emotional support."

Alex said wryly, "Sounds like someone else I know."

Benson's face softened. "I've talked with him on and off for the last six hours, and he's been sweet-tempered in general but occasionally opinionated, as you noticed when he spoke with Olivia. I think he'll be honest if you ask him what triggers him. He gave me a long explanation of how loud music makes him feel because he and Carisi passed a man playing blaring music on the street on the way here. Noise-dampening earbuds might help. I've been told they're good for children and adults sensitive to loud noises."

They returned their attention to Benson's office, where Bobby now occupied a third chair, his hands in motion as he told Randall a story. Randall listened rapt while his knees bobbed up and down, and Olivia watched them both with an indulgent expression.

"Do you think she'll keep this level of enthusiasm?" Benson asked.

"We've warned her about bumps in the road. But she says 'we overcome' together. I hope she's right."

The cash advance was transferred, and then Benson requested a patrolman to escort them to Jack and Patty Eames' apartment to pick up their luggage. The officer then transported them to the parking garage where Alex's Honda CR-V was parked. As the Gorens said goodbye to Patty and her younger daughter Sophia, Randall shyly tucked himself in a corner. Advised earlier by text, the two smiled and cheerfully greeted the youngster, but put no additional pressure on him.

Their footsteps echoing on the concrete floor of the parking garage, Alex was in the lead, with Bobby trailing the two children with Randall's backpack slung easily over his shoulder when Olivia announced, "I can solve a mystery for you right now, Randall."

"Which one?" he challenged.

Olivia pointed to the reflective chrome step mounted low on the side of the oversized Ford pickup truck they were passing. "That's a running board."

"So it's easier to get into the car," Randall guessed.

"Especially vintage cars," Bobby said conversationally behind them. "The running board helped women when the fashion for wearing...um...tight skirts came into vogue. Cars had higher ground clearance in the past. They were a holdover from horse-drawn carriages, which also had mounting blocks, since they were so far off the ground."

Olivia winked impishly at Randall. "See? Annotations."

Once on the road, she pleaded with Alex not to take the route east through I-95 but to go north instead. "Please, Mama, it's so much prettier. Let's show Randall everything I saw!" She turned to the now-reserved boy with bright eyes, hugging her cherished stuffed fox happily. "This was the way we drove home when I arrived in the United States. Lt. McConnell—he was our driver; an Army officer working for the State Department—took us home from Newark. Have you traveled out of Connecticut much?"

"Only when I hitchhiked," he said, appearing embarrassed.

Olivia nodded. "Of course. Your mother was too busy trying to earn money for rent, so you weren't able to travel. We like to go different places. If you want, once you're settled at our house, we can visit Mystic Seaport, Newport, or Boston, and then maybe when your mother is well and she has a good job again, you both could go back to the place you liked best and you can show it to her. Boston was my favorite—it's brill, full of museums, and you must see the Harvard bookstore!"

She saw Randall eyeing her fox, and she displayed the small smiling stuffed animal proudly. "Papa got him for me in Paris. This is Captain," she offered. "After the fox in The Secret Garden. That's one of my favorite books. Have you read it?"

"It's a girls' book," he said offhand. "My dad said boys don't read girls' books."

Olivia eyed him critically. "It's a book for everybody, even adults. Two of the main characters are boys: one's confined to his bed, and the other can tame wild animals. Mary's the main character, but nobody likes her. There's a spooky uncle and a gruff old gardener, too. And wuthering on the moor just like in Sherlock Holmes!"

Undaunted by his rejection of her pet novel, Olivia kept up a running travelogue as they followed Route 9, then crossed the Tappan Zee at Nyack, boasting, as Lawrence McConnell had, of "one of the most beautiful views in the state of New York." As they reached the other side of the bridge, she asked, as McConnell had, if he'd read Washington Irving's two most famous short stories, and Randall said he had, in school.

"I'd never heard of them before I moved here. Papa read them to me at Hallowe'en. This is where they took place—Tarrytown, Sleepy Hollow. Mama, can we drive through Ridgefield to show him the memorial?"

Alex demurred, saying they would go to Ridgefield one Sunday instead. She stopped at the Walmart in Waterbury, where Bobby, having inspected the clothing in Randall's battered backpack, loped inside to buy a dozen boys' briefs and socks in the same style as the worn ones, plus a few t-shirts and shorts. He also brought two inexpensive suitcases for Randall's possessions, wedging them in the already overloaded vehicle.

"Eames," he said quietly when he returned to the car, "I didn't get anything else. Let's stop at the Southbury Goodwill. DonJohn works there on Fridays. If he has nothing, we'll hit that Walmart."

It was only then that he realized the CR-V was quiet. Randall had fallen asleep in the back seat, the straps of his backpack clutched in his fists, and Olivia was reading.

"Tired him out talking, Min?" he teased her softly, and she grinned sheepishly in return.

They woke him just outside of town, and he squinted at it. "Goodwill? My dad said that's a dump."

Olivia already disliked Randall's judgmental father. "No, it isn't. We've bought nice things here! Last month, I found a brand new copy of Misty of Chincoteague. And Papa found a nice wok. Besides, Papa knows someone who works here. He used to be at Big Brothers with Ana and Carlos. We came to visit him, but he wasn't working that day." And Olivia explained about her parents' work at Big Brothers/Big Sisters and the Serrano siblings.

As they entered the store, a tall, thin Black teen with a chiseled face, hanging up shirts in the men's area, smiled with surprise and hurried to greet them. "Mr. G! Ms. Alex! How are you?"

DonJohn Stanford had grown a foot taller since the adults had seen him last; after he'd aged out of Bobby and Russ Jenkins' 12-15 age group, he'd taken on Goodwill as an after-school job. Alex laughed when he said, surprised, "You're so little now, Ms. Alex. When I first met you, you seemed ten feet tall.'

"Don't make her angry," Bobby advised, amused, "or she'll be ten feet tall again," and DonJohn snorted as he hugged his mentor.

Olivia grabbed Randall by the hand. "Hullo! I 'm pleased to meet you, DonJohn! The books are on this aisle, Randall," and, at Bobby's confirming nod, led him off.

"That's your new little one? The girl?" DonJohn asked with a grin.

"And we are her willing followers," Alex said briskly, then explained about Randall. When she mentioned Sterling Shaw, DonJohn winced.

"Been there, done that. Kid doesn't need that grief. I'll bet you and Mr. G are just what the little dude needs. I got just the stuff for him, too—just finished sorting it and about to put it on the racks, so you get first shot. It comes with a sad story, though."

"Olivia! Randall! Par ici!" Bobby called, and in a second, the pair hurried down the aisle, nearly jostling an elderly man who was carrying a small basket with various kitchen tools. Olivia skidded to a stop, turned, and said contritely, "Excuse me, sir," while holding fast to Randall's arm. "I hope we didn't bump you."

"You need to say you're sorry," she hissed to Randall.

"I don't," he said, ducking his head.

"Yes, you do," she returned obstinately; with averted eyes, Randall mumbled an apology.

"That's better," Olivia said after the older man had smiled and continued down the aisle. "You don't want people to think Mama and Papa are raising two hooligans, do you?"

Randall cocked his head at the word "raising," but they finished approaching Bobby, Alex, and DonJohn at a sedate walk. Alex smothered a laugh at Olivia's prim face.

"What's the story with the clothes?" she asked in a low voice as DonJohn led them to the receiving area. In this concrete-walled, warehouse-like space, boys' clothing and even footwear lay stacked on battered tables. They encouraged the children to go ahead with the rattletrap metal grocery cart DonJohn had procured for them, and Olivia was soon holding up shirts and pants to show Randall.

"We have a regular contributor," DonJohn told them confidentially as they slowed, then stopped. "Mrs. Lillian Jameson. Nice white lady, husband's a bigshot at one of the Hartford television stations, two...two sons, a high school senior, and...a ten-year-old. He and Randall were about the same size, and there are things he can grow into, too."

They caught the past tense at once. "What happened?" asked Bobby, watching the children.

"A few months ago, Mrs. Jameson had a work meeting at the same time she usually picked up the little dude at school. Asked the older son to pick him up instead." DonJohn bowed his head, then almost whispered. "Some road-rage mothe...sorry, Ms. Alex, road rage jerk blew down the road doing fifty in a twenty-five zone and T-boned 'em. The kid died. The older one's been in the hospital all summer and just got sprung a week ago. He came with her, still in a wheelchair, to donate all of Joey's clothing."

Alex bit her lip, and Bobby brushed her shoulder with his fingers. "The boy's name...was 'Joe'?

"Yes'm." DonJohn looked puzzled. "Anyway, I think Mrs. Jameson would be pretty happy if a foster kid got her son's clothes. She always gives me big ones for Big Brothers/Big Sisters when you and the ladies do your fund drives, Ms. Alex, and she talks about donating to Shriners and St. Jude."

He added, "This is fine stuff, too. None of your Walmart or Target merch."

Olivia was already placing a few shirts that Randall had shown interest in into the shopping cart. Alex and Bobby could see there was everything he might need: button-down shirts and dark pants suitable for dress, more jeans, long-sleeved flannel shirts for winter, new Nikes, black dress shoes, a navy blue boys' suit, two ties, sweatsuits, shorts, tank tops, t-shirts, a package of dress socks, a pair of boys' sandals, and even slippers and traditional pajamas. Taken aback by the number of selections, Randall commented loudly, "This is a lot of clothes. A bunch still have price tags. Didn't the boy who owned them like them?"

"His mother liked to buy him lots of things," DonJohn returned truthfully. "He...um...grew out of them before he got to wear them."

Alex saw Olivia cock her head at DonJohn, but she said nothing.

"How many...can I pick?" Randall hazarded.

"You may pick what you like, and we'll curate it before we leave," Bobby replied, then looked at DonJohn warningly. "And no special discounts just because we know you."

DonJohn grinned. "I wouldn't do that, Mr. G. Besides, you already have one. It's Senior Citizen Discount Day."

"Gee, thanks," said Alex with a smile.

Finally, Alex pulled into the driveway at 2 Courant Drive. If they sometimes absently still called it "Bruno's house," it was because it wasn't so long ago that their elderly neighbor had bequeathed it to them "so Alex won't have to worry any longer about where to put all the books." Next door, their old home, the small Cape Cod that Nicole Wallace had facetiously called "the Dovecote," only to have the nickname stick, looked pleasant in the late afternoon sunshine. Someone, probably Carlos Serrano, Abbi's grandson, had cleared the wreckage of her little garden, and the torn vegetation was in a sad pile.

Randall, heavy-eyed, dragged his feet emerging from the car as Olivia briefly explained the history of the houses and Bruno Volpe, their elderly Korean War veteran neighbor who had passed away in April. She also pointed at a windowed shed in the backyard of 2 Courant and explained how it had been swapped out with Bruno's shed by Franco Taglione, Carmella's paisan, and a builder's forklift "because of the bench...I know it sounds odd; I'll show you tomorrow why."

"I told you in the car that Mrs. Diaz and my best friends Ana and Carlos rent our old house from us," Olivia continued. "Mrs. Diaz also helps us with the house—like a trade agreement. Sometimes she makes dinner. Do you like empanadillas? Or pollo guisado?"

"Never had those. My mom's mother—my grandma, she's dead—was from El Salvador and used to make the best pupusas, but we ate only American food at home."

"We eat all sorts of things here. So you haven't any aunts or uncles?"

"My father was an only child. Momm- My mother had a brother, but he died in a car accident just after I was born. I never knew Dad's parents. Just Grandma Antona."

"I have a half-brother," Olivia confided. "If you stay awhile, you might meet him. His name's Laurent, and he and his wife Noémie live in Canada, in Quebec. He'll like you."

"If you say so," Randall answered, unconvinced.

When they trooped into the house via the sun porch at the rear—Olivia pointed out the photo of Bruno that Bobby had mounted on the outer wall between the kitchen door and the window—Randall, used to a tiny two-bedroom apartment, was surprised by the spacious kitchen. He took in everything: the cinnamon-colored wainscoting, the 50s-era wallpaper with its green/gold/caramel brown colonial motif of stagecoach and covered bridge with willow trees, the long kitchen table and six chairs to the right, the appliances and counters/cupboards to the left, and the Welsh dresser filled with Elizabeth Cochran Eames' autumn-themed wedding china. ("I've never used it except at Thanksgiving," Lizzie Hogan had said gruffly on presenting it to Alex on moving day, since the latter had lost all her mementos of her mother in a house fire. "Someone should get some use from it.")

Alex, noting his flagging energy, requested that Olivia take him to the guest bedroom while she and Bobby unloaded the CR-V. As the children approached the windowed, swinging door that led into the hall, held open with a doorstop so the attic fan could circulate air through the house, Sam, the oversized tricolor collie Bobby had adopted when first moving to Milbury, trotted up to meet them. Randall froze instantly as the dog's tail began to flag back and forth.

"Sam, sit," Bobby said firmly as he came through the door with their overnight luggage and the Walmart items, and the willing collie dropped to his haunches, raising his right paw in greeting. His nose twitched wildly at a potential new friend.

"You don't need to worry, Randall—Sam's a therapy dog," Alex explained, coming to his side and setting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry. Olivia talked about our dog and bird back in Captain Benson's office, but we should have mentioned Sam again before we came inside. He's very gentle. We take him to the Veteran's Hospital to see the patients. He loves everyone. Are you okay with dogs?"

"I ...only know little dogs." Randall swallowed, looking into Sam's steadfast brown eyes, then hesitantly shook the big dog's paw. Sam followed the boy's cues and approached him gently, first just sniffing at him by outstretching his neck, then stepping forward to touch his nose to Randall's, and finally pressing the top of his stocky head against Randall's chest. A tiny, tentative light blossomed in Randall's eyes as he petted behind Sam's ears.

"That's what he did when I first came here," Olivia said. "Stayed close by, so I felt safe. Come on, I'll take you to your room. Papa–"

She whispered something in Bobby's ear, then escorted Randall from the kitchen, carrying two of the paper shopping bags from Goodwill. She waved fingers at the dining room, then gave him ample time to gape at the library before escorting him through the two parlors to permit him to feast his eyes on the bookcase room dividers and Bobby's collection of vintage Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew books. Next, she introduced him to Bandit the budgie, who resided in the back parlor. Randall watched warily as the white-and-grey parakeet circled the room before landing on Olivia's head, then she cupped him in one hand—"He's lame, you see, so he can't hold on to my shoulder when I walk," she explained—and they finished the trip up the stairs with her pointing out the remainder of the rooms.

"We'll show you the 'Rogue's Gallery' later," she said briskly, referring to the law enforcement memorabilia that lined the stairwell. "Here's Mama's office, where she works on police projects, sometimes with Captain Benson. There's a door inside the room that goes to the attic. Mr. Taglione fixed that for us so it's a room. This is the bath, and this," and here she flourished a hand at the guest room, "this is yours. My room is right across the hall, and Mama and Papa's room is next to mine."

"This" was a cozy room painted blue-grey with Alex and Bobby's old bookcase headboard bed, covered with a navy blue waffle-weave bedspread, centering the interior wall. Next to the bed was a spool-legged nightstand with a reading lamp; there were two dressers, one from IKEA and a taller vintage one rescued from the attic. The closet, with bifold doors, was tucked between the interior wall and a window, and the windowed corner contained an inviting brown suede beanbag chair with a slim-stemmed floor lamp and a round footstool/table next to it.

"See!" Olivia said happily. "It's perfect for you. You can store your special books on the headboard and any more new books you buy. We'll go to the Book Barn soon—they have used books—and there's the library sale next month, too, and you can take all the books home when your mother's well again. You could buy a book for her, too. Do you like the reading nook? Isn't the chair brill? There's one in my room, too."

"All mine?" Randall asked, slightly overwhelmed.

"While you stay here," Bobby assured him from the doorway, holding more shopping bags from Goodwill, which he set on the bed. "Min, please help him put these away."

"Yes, Papa," she said, and he vanished. "Here, Bandit," and she pulled a tissue from the Kleenex box next to the reading lamp and perched the budgie on it. "Shred away."

Bandit's button-black eyes gleamed. He announced, "Hi! Good boy!" and attacked the paper, shredding it so methodically that Randall's tired eyes brightened again.

"Why did...why did your dad call you 'Min'?" he asked as Olivia joined him at the closet to pull out hangers for the jeans, other pants, and button-down shirts.

"My first name is Mignon," she said matter-of-factly. "My friend Renata from school called me 'Min.' I told Papa and Mama they could call me that, but I wanted to be known by my middle name, Olivia."

"Why?" Randall asked bluntly as he clipped a pair of jeans to a hanger.

"Because–" Olivia chewed on her lower lip for a minute. "Because my Maman and Papa Marcel called me that, and- And I was afraid if I heard the name they used to call me, I would hear their voices and miss them too much. That it would hurt. Besides, 'Olivia' was a better name for the United States. I thought at school they might make fun of me like they did my first year at boarding school." She smiled. "I know now they wouldn't have, but I'm used to Olivia. It's like Papa's middle name, Oliver, and like Captain Benson. If I ever wanted to be a police officer, I 'd want to be like Mama or Captain Benson."

"Don't you want to be a detective like your dad or mom?" Randall asked with surprise, and Olivia gave an emphatic shake of her head. "Then what do you want to do when you grow up?"

"Be a professor of literature," Olivia said loftily as she folded T-shirts and put them into a drawer.

Randall hung up several pairs of pants and button-down shirts in silence. Olivia followed his lead, and when Alex came into the room with more clothing, she looked from child to child curiously due to the quiet. She asked Randall if he needed anything, and, receiving a negative response, headed downstairs again. Randall walked to the door, peered into the hall, then returned to the closet to sidle next to Olivia and whisper, "No one's listening. Be honest. What are they really like?"

Olivia blinked at him. "You mean Mama and Papa?"

He looked at the floor, and she bit her lip again. "You don't need to be frightened, Randall."

He retorted, "Who said I was scared?"

Olivia amended, "Maybe not scared. They're exactly as they seem. Promise." She smiled. "Papa's like you sometimes. He thinks- Mama told me once that sometimes he has a little voice inside him that tells him he's not good enough. But it isn't true; he's smart and loves puzzles and magic tricks, is funny sometimes and sad other times, and he wants to make everything right. Mama's the same, just in a different way. Papa knows things, but he's the heart of the house. Mama keeps things ticking, but she loves us with all her heart." She sighed. "I'm not very good at explaining it, but they're like this." She clasped her hands together as if she were praying. "They didn't have to take me home with them. I had a place to stay. But they brought me here, and I'm glad. You'll be safe, like me."

Bobby smiled covertly as he hovered outside the room with the Walmart purchases. Then Olivia added, slightly pompously, "Of course, you have to obey the rules. They're extremely important." He peeked in the doorway in time to see Randall squirm uncomfortably; Bobby was almost certain Olivia had seen him approach because she paraphrased his words to her on her first morning in Milbury: "'Please' and 'thank you' are always good words to use—and you're allowed to correct Mama and Papa if they don't use them. The first house rule is 'be kind.' Next is 'be truthful'—because both Mama and Papa have learnt through hard experience that most of their problems have come from not being honest with one another. Then there's 'Be respectful.' 'Don't be judgmental.' 'Treat others the way you wish to be treated.'"

Randall said skeptically, "That's it?"

Olivia chanted, "All outside doors must be closed before you open Bandit's cage. Only fruit snacks before supper—that goes for Mama, too. No Skittles for her! Don't lie on the bed with your shoes on. Oh, and the most important—aim properly and then put the toilet seat down!"

Bobby stifled a laugh before entering, setting the Walmart bags on the bed and trundling the two carry-on-size suitcases into a corner of the closet. Randall bounced to his side. "Can you tell me more about your cases? Or about Declan Gage?"

Bobby arched his eyebrows at Olivia. "I think you forgot to tell him the most important rule, Min."

She sighed. "'First we do the chores, then we get to do the things.'"

"Why don't you take Bandit downstairs before he destroys Randall's Kleenex box, then change your clothes?" Bobby suggested. "I'll finish up in here."

"Okay," she agreed. "Bandit, leave that cardboard alone!"

The moment Olivia departed with the bird, he saw Randall withdraw slightly; Bobby picked up and put away several shirts and the rest of the pants before he remarked easily, "You asked about profiling. Well, I can tell what you're thinking right now: 'What have I done?'"

Randall swallowed and nodded, pulling underpants and socks from their plastic packaging.

"We hope you'll consider this a safe place until your mother's well again. I don't know all the reasons the other places didn't work for you, but would you please give us a chance? As Min told you, we have rules, but generally we're a very informal household." He smiled. "My mother would have been horrified to see Bandit eating at the table with us."

"He does?"

"And he likes chicken," Bobby added. "Is there anything we can do to make you feel more at home? Besides no sports, loud noises, or weed?"

"I dunno. But I'll think about it, sir."

"I know Olivia told you about Big Brothers. The kids there call me 'Mr. G,' and my wife is 'Ms. Alex.' Would that work out for you?"

Randall nodded.

"And," Bobby took a deep breath and spoke confidentially, "I didn't want to embarrass you in front of Min, but before dinner, you should take a shower and change clothes."

Randall lowered his head and audibly sniffed; Bobby saw him make a face. "I thought it was just me."

Bobby masked a smile, then continued, low, "It's what comes from living rough. Why'd you run for it the other night?"

Randall sighed. "Because...I didn't want another foster home. I wanted to go back to Wilton." Then his mouth quirked. "Frank Hardy or Columbo would have done better, I guess. There's no food at home, and I won't have Mrs. Deenie next year at school."

Bobby smiled at him. "Well, all of us can't be Columbo. And hitchhiking is dangerous, especially for someone your age." Then he sobered. "But your home...is gone, Randall." The disconcerting hazel eyes fixed on him. "The landlord didn't think you were coming back."

Randall's head and shoulders dropped. Bobby laid a brief, gentle caress on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, buddy."

The boy shrugged and was quiet. Finally, Bobby pointed to a lightweight t-shirt, a pair of board shorts, underwear, and socks he had left out at the foot of the bed as they put things away. "This will be enough for dinner and the rest of the night, or you could pick something else."

"Those are okay." It was only then that Randall looked around, suddenly astounded, for as they'd talked, Bobby had deftly put everything away. "How'd you do that?"

"Learned in the Army," was his amused response. "At the time, it was the structure I needed in my life." He swooped up the fresh clothes and led Randall into the bathroom. "Do you have any allergies? Soap? Laundry detergent? Foods? We don't want you to spend your first night here at urgent care."

"I don't think so. Momm- My mother always bought dollar store stuff."

Six hooks hung at three height levels on the wall next to the bathtub, with a lone purple towel on a lower hook. "Olivia uses purple towels. We have brown and blue in our bathroom." He opened the narrow storage cupboard on an opposite wall to reveal several shelves, two neatly stocked with beige washcloths and hand towels. A fourth and fifth shelf held trios of different-color bath towels. "Take your pick; you can swap later if you want."

Randall shyly asked for red.

"R for red and Randall. Easy to remember." Bobby hung the towel on a lower hook, then pushed the basic blue vinyl shower curtain back. "We had that extension handle put on the showerhead so Min could adjust it herself. You'll probably find it handy, too. Soap in the soap dish." He stepped back to the closet and pulled out a washcloth. "This goes in the hamper afterward. We launder towels weekly, so wash thoroughly." He added meaningfully, "Everywhere, if you get my drift."

"Yes, si...Mr. G," and then Randall looked up. "You're not going to stay and make sure I do, like the PE teacher?"

"Nope," Bobby said quickly, filing away that information to make a phone call later. "Don't forget your hair. The shampoo is on the corner shelf. No need to use conditioner if you don't want to. Please keep the shower curtain in the tub, or you'll have a puddle to mop up. Come down to the kitchen when you're finished, and we'll have supper. I hope you like chicken because it's what I asked Abbi to defrost for us."

"Should I wear slippers? Mrs. Carstairs said I had to wear slippers or shoes in the house."

"Whatever is comfortable for you," Bobby said mildly, and Randall blinked as if he were surprised the answer had been so easy.

Hair toweled out but still damp, in the green shirt and grey shorts and in stocking feet, Randall halted in astonishment when he came into the kitchen to find Bobby stationed at the stove preparing chicken cutlets. Olivia, in a knee-length flowered shift and sandals, was emerging from the basement with two cans of chicken.

"Thanks, sweetie," Alex told her gratefully. Because they had another mouth to feed and it was too late to thaw another cutlet, she had pulled orzi from the closet and set it on the back burner to boil while Bobby sautéed the cutlets in olive oil, a little salt, and granulated onion. The six-burner 1950s stove was wide enough so they could stand side-by-side, and Randall watched as Alex slipped a small foot from her flip-flop and patted the top of Bobby's sandal-clad foot. Bobby arched an eyebrow at her and flashed a smile in return, after which Alex retrieved her footwear and continued her food prep.

In the meantime, on tiptoe, Olivia removed two cans of carrots from a cupboard near the stove, opened them, and drained them thoroughly. Then she transferred them into a bowl and seasoned them with butter and a drizzle of maple syrup. Finally, she placed the bowl in the microwave. As she worked, she asked, "Randall, I'm busy. Please, could you set the table?"

Bobby's glance at Alex said clearly, "Remember last year?"

When Olivia did look up, she noted his surprise and indicated the drawers lined above the lower storage area of the Welsh dresser. "Tableware is there, in the drawer under the napkin holder. Knife, fork, and soup spoon, and a napkin. That was the first chore I ever did." He obtained the items, and she added, "Remember that Papa and I are left-handed. He sits at the end of the table, closest to the stove. Mama and I sit on either side of him. If you like, you can sit beside me on the side of the table nearest the door."

When he finished, she grinned. "Mahsi-choo! That's 'thank you' from Molly of Denali. It's on PBS. There's a character named Randall on the show. He's Molly's cousin. Do you watch it?"

When he shook his head, Bobby chuckled from the stove. "You will."

Randall still looked puzzled. "Do you always cook? Mothers are supposed to cook."

Alex flicked her eyes at her husband. Another declaration of not-so-Sterling Shaw?

"I can cook," she answered aloud. "I'll have you know I make a mean scrambled egg."

"But she doesn't enjoy cooking, and I do," Bobby said, adding some teriyaki sauce to the chicken. "Besides, Randall, how would single fathers manage if they couldn't cook?"

Randall, perplexed, didn't answer but watched as Alex drained the orzi and then added it to hot vegetable broth with chopped and drained canned chicken, and Bobby transferred the cutlets to a plate and diced them into four servings. In a few minutes, the soup, teriyaki chicken, and carrots made a simple supper.

Randall balked. "The chicken sauce is touching the carrots."

Bobby said mildly, "You can skip the carrots that touch."

"And we'll remember it next time," Alex said without argument.

Randall ventured looking up at both of them, and, for the first time since they had left the city, they saw him smile.

"Mrs. Diaz left us dulce de leche for dessert!" added Olivia with a grin.

Much later, when Randall was ready for bed, Bobby rapped on his door. He found the youngster sitting cross-legged in bed, wearing red sleep shorts and a Star Trek: Lower Decks t-shirt that Bobby had spied at Walmart, reading one of Bobby's old Hardy Boys books. Randall's eyes lifted quickly, then lowered once more, and he clutched at the book.

Bobby perched at the foot of the bed. "I meant what I said, Randall, about it being okay for you to read those. I'm not here to repossess The Tower Treasure."

"Yes," Randall agreed, eyes on the book, then jerked his head up. "Yes, sir...I mean, Mr. G, thank you. But–"

Bobby waited, then prompted, "But–"

"I never got my other book back," Randall gulped.

"Yeah, about that." Bobby surprised Randall by frowning and staring at his hands. "When I was your age, I hated when adults—my mother, the librarian, or some other adult—told me I couldn't read a certain book because it wasn't appropriate for me. A-And now I find myself in the same position because, as a foster parent, I have to think about...um...what your mother would want me to do, not just what I think is okay.

"Mindhunter would have intrigued me at your age, too. And I know you and your mother used to watch all sorts of crime shows together, but...none of the programs were as explicit as that book. Not that killings and murders, even fictional ones on TV, are anything to take lightly. But Mindhunter talks about the true darkness in human minds. It's disturbing enough that most adults won't read it. I think your mother would prefer that you not read it, either."

"I knew you'd take it away," Randall sighed.

Bobby produced the book and a pen from behind him. "It's still your book. I want you to write your name in it."

Randall looked at him curiously, then carefully printed "Randall E. Shaw" on the first page.

"What's the E stand for?"

"Epifanio," was the resigned response, "because I was born on Three Kings Day."

"I like it. It's distinctive." Then Bobby tucked the book under his arm. "I'm going to keep this in my library," he said, "and, when your mother is well and you can go home, I'll give her the book, and it will be her decision whether you can read it. Do you think that's fair?"

He saw Randall's mouth twitch disappointedly. "And Randall, I have two books about psychology and crime that are much less...triggering but might give you the s-same insight. I can let you read those."

"I guess...but–" There was a tiny challenge in Randall's voice. "I bet you'd let Olivia read it."

"No, I wouldn't. She's seven months younger than you and already has nightmares when she's emotionally distressed." Bobby tilted his head and caught the boy's eye. "Why would you think I would? Because she has an advanced vocabulary? Or because...because you think my decision is based on your being 'just a foster kid'?"

Randall clutched the Hardy Boys against his chest as if alarmed at being caught out. "Um..."

"It's a reasonable question. I know foster kids don't always get a fair shake." He laid slim fingers on Randall's hand. "It's my responsibility as a father to protect my children, and as of today, you're my child, Randall. I don't take that responsibility lightly. Now, if you get under the covers, I'll tuck you in."

"That's baby," Randall objected, but he put the book on his nightstand and did as requested.

Bobby countered, "No, it isn't. It means people care about you. I learned...to cherish the nights my mother tucked me in because they were rare." With deft hands, he put the sheet and light blanket to rights. "Can I get you anything else?"

"No, thank you," Randall said sleepily.

Bobby turned out the light. "Good night, buddy. See you in the morning."

Alex wasn't certain what awakened her over an hour later; she'd expected to be exhausted after their very full day, and they'd turned in not long after the children's lights out. But she found herself restive. Usually, it was Bobby who was the night wanderer, but he was on his left side, breathing deeply. In shorts and a tank top, she padded into the hallway; by habit, she checked Olivia by the light of the girl's tiny nightlight, which kept her from being disoriented when waking up after nightmares. Olivia was curled up with her stuffed fox in her arms, snuggled under blanket and sheet, sleeping as soundly as her father. Then, almost hesitantly, Alex crossed the hall and peeked into the guest room. In the faint glow of a second tiny nightlight, she could see Randall tossing and turning, moaning softly in his sleep.

"I see me," Bobby said hours ago. "The kid with his head in a book..."

Would she, Alexandra Victoria Eames, the ambitious young detective promoted from Vice, still smarting from Joseph Dutton's death and stunned and fueled by the 9/11 tragedies, have recognized back then the lost and aching boy that inhabited the soul of her oddball new partner? He was tall, smartly dressed, impossibly knowledgeable, restless, gregarious, baffling, and aggravating—yet who, behind the facąde, made her smile and store away memories (even if some were ones she'd rather not acknowledge). She had found the lost boy in the almost broken man who surfaced later while overwhelmed by personal tragedy, and the deeper feelings she had locked away after Joe's death had only been freed by the man she knew now, the one who made coins appear on trivia nights and personalities emerge in criminal lectures with equal alacrity. The one who traded sly looks with a mischievous daughter at bookstores as easily as he wrote a scholarly profile of a serial killer. The man who had wrapped his arms around her and made her feel warm...safe...home.

Randall, she vowed, should not have to become a broken man to reach a happier future.

She sank down near the head of the bed, and Randall murmured in his sleep, "Mommy?"

Alexandra Eames told the truth. "No, sweetie. But I'm here for you."

After over fifty years of combined law enforcement experience, Alex Eames and Bobby Goren were wary when Olivia wished to continue blogging after the previous year's book tour. They warned her about online predators and bullying, but she had pleaded with them, asking if there was anything they could do to keep it safe. They agreed on a trial period followed by reassessment, with strict rules implemented: no facial photos of herself or other children, and she must ask permission to post photographs of adults. No personal information would be permitted. They would review her entries before she posted and screen any comments before she could reply, even to people she knew.

She was permitted to continue under the same rules when the trial period ended successfully. They were surprised that so far comments had been benign—but Ana Serrano pointed out that this was possibly due to the stark red banner under the "From Two Worlds" header (showing vintage engravings of the Eiffel Tower and the Charter Oak side-by-side), which warned readers in stern white block Arial font that the author's parents were connected with law enforcement and all comments could—and would be—traced if anything untoward was written.

They came to savor and cherish the entries in both the original blog and Olivia's follow-on, not only for the experience of reading their child's independent observations of her new world but also to chronicle their progress as parents and as a family, from their tentative steps after bringing her home to her growth during four months on the road to the events leading up to the adoption. Even the pain of Bruno's death and the turmoil of moving took on a sheen of wistful nostalgia when seen through Olivia's poignant tributes.

Randall's progress was also followed in her blog. However, they cautioned her that, since they had no permission from his parents, she shouldn't use his actual name or specific details about his physical appearance or family history.

"And don't write about anything that makes him look foolish or ignorant," Bobby concluded gently. "He might think we were disrespecting him like his father did."

Olivia scowled. She'd already heard enough hearsay from Sterling Shaw. "I won't do that. And I'll call him 'Evan,'" she declared and introduced him in her next entry. Her entries about Randall's new experiences became milestones in their own right, and the review policy became doubly useful since anyone who already knew Randall tended to use his real name when commenting.

So some of Randall's tales remained untold except in Olivia's carefully concealed Hannah Dale journal, where she complained bitterly in indignantly written entries about a litany of "stupid rules" set for "real boys." "'Real boys' don't read Nancy Drew or Trixie Belden, even though there are boys in Trixie's books," she set down one evening. "And they're not 'real boys,' but 'pansies' if they're gay. Mama had to explain to Randall that the word was rude!"

Alex and Bobby agreed that they would treat Randall as they had treated Olivia, to feel as if he had always been part of the family, with family chores and activities, but also given the freedom to follow his habits and comforting rituals. So, gradually, chatter about his enjoyment of Bobby's vintage mystery books or comments about his favorite detective series, including his newest pick, Monk. She never did get him hooked on Molly of Denali, but he would watch it with her, with a book in hand, without complaint.

The entries they read with the most pleasure concerned Olivia's efforts to make Randall feel at home during the following two weeks. Acutely aware of how unusual this laid-back household must be to him—it had certainly been a shock to her following Luisa Carvallo's prim-and-proper upbringing based on Marcel Pepin's exacting standards, despite her mother's more liberal ideas—Olivia took care to soothe bumps and head off obstacles as her parents did. When he balked when one meal item touched another, she suggested separate bowls and helped out when he washed the additional containers. (By the following weekend, Alex had ordered and received a set of divided plates that solved the problem.) She spent less time with Ana the first week, instead taking daily steps to accustom Randall to the neighborhood. Abbi Diaz and her grandchildren were the first of his new friends, followed by odd Mrs. Krentz, the neighborhood "tree lady," and genial Bess Atherton.

The Dark Crystal, her chief delight, was initially anathema to Randall. Fearing it loud and rowdy like the concert a foster mother had forced him to attend, he had cloistered himself in Shard's office with a book on Saturday night. Outgoing Olivia mourned being absent on the dais as "Trot," clad in her "picture hat" and the middy dress septuagenarian Viola Perrino had made for her after she grew out of the original middy which once belonged to Viola's mother; the lively atmosphere suited her outgoing personality. Randall had only expressed horror at "strangers staring at me."

"They're our friends, not strangers," Olivia tried to explain, but his mistrust remained, so she tried another tack.

During the first half of the game, she coaxed him just outside the kitchen door so he could gauge the sound level and watch the routine. He didn't know that Shard and TJ despised restaurants that forced patrons to shout over music to converse with one another and used it only as low-volume, low-key ambiance. Groups and singers who played on Wednesdays and Sundays were variable in volume, but the Crystal was a generally laid-back venue; the loudest a band got was a hot trumpet solo in a jazz set or a tribute band doing "Shout."

Although they had talked about bringing Randall home because "Bobby would understand him," it was immediately obvious that the boy gravitated toward women, a condition even Bobby found understandable: he was still wary of most men due to his critical father. Taking tips from her parents, Olivia introduced him to the female staff first: Tilde, one of TJs preps, who was cheerful and bouncy, and Sharon, the head server, who was practical and friendly, leaving brisk, sassy Carmella at the bar for last. Next, the children approached the quieter two men—Shan, TJ's other prep worker, and Farouk, the cleaner—before ending with Mickey, the second server and maitre d', who exuded self-confidence like smoke from a volcano. The final steps were easier still since Randall stopped to watch in fascination each time they passed scholarly-looking TJ creating a meal; they spent some time watching as he deftly worked through orders. He was so soft-spoken that Randall soon warmed to him. Extroverted Shard took longer, but his smile and warm, deep voice eventually converted the boy.

By Tuesday, always a more subdued night, Randall was willing to occupy the furthest corner of the dais that was the Wizard and Princess Ozma's domain, wearing headphones and playing a game on the little handheld unit Alex had bought him. At first, he was distracted from the screen only by Bobby's magic tricks, but as he listened to the trivia crowd chat and watched them interact, his natural curiosity emerged, and they caught him covertly observing the players. Occasionally one or two, including Alex's puckish cousin Phil Cochran and his wife Becky, red-headed tech whiz Tim Stratton, and attorney Emery Moretti, would approach to introduce themselves.

On the four-block walk home, he admitted, "It isn't so bad," and out of his eyeshot, Olivia gave a triumphant fist pump.

Bobby paused his reading of Friday's Tunnel to Olivia as the first week ended—they had not yet convinced Randall that being read to was not "baby"—and regarded her mildly. "You don't have to take full responsibility for Randall. Your mother and I feel like we aren't pulling our weight."

"Yes, you are! Besides, I don't mind," Olivia said. It was a warm night, so she wore shorts and a tank top, as Alex did, and a small fan moved the air across her bed. "He still misses his maman, but every day he seems happier, don't you think, Papa? And he's almost stopped mentioning those daft things his father told him. Almost. I'll let him do more for himself next week. I promise."

"You're a very patient sister," he told her, and she gathered her stuffed fox in her arms and continued listening to the story.

                ***September 3, 2024***

"Why do I haveta talk to her?" Randall demanded darkly.

He was a little over a week into his residence and so rattled by the planned event of the day that Bobby had permitted him to sit in the library while he worked on lecture notes. Randall had reluctantly accepted the offer of a tamer alternative to Mindhunter and was reading Psychology for Kids in an armchair in the corner, his dangling feet dancing unconsciously. The windows were open, and from the back parlor, Bandit responded enthusiastically to the steady chirp of the sparrows outside. Sam was sprawled at Randall's feet, asleep. Upstairs, Alex and Olivia were sorting through school clothing.

"It's for your protection, Randall," Bobby said, recalling Olivia's equally bitter resentment of having to talk to a Connecticut social worker. "Remember the 'sports people'? And the others? If you'd stayed with them long enough, your social worker would have visited, and you could have told them your concerns."

"There was a social worker when I stayed with the Carstairs," the boy sighed. "He wasn't any help."

"Many kids need social services, but there aren't enough people to do the job. It isn't fair, but that's how it is. The social workers give most of their attention to kids who are in danger. They have to prioritize someone who's being physically abused first."

"The other families...weren't bad, I guess. None of them ever beat me or touched me funny."

"Good!" was Bobby's emphatic reply.

"Olivia said she's nice," ventured Randall.

"Ruth Dunbar? Yes. She was very understanding of our situation with Olivia. You might find her a little stern, but she has to be. Since you like detective stories, think of her as a police officer. It's her job to protect you. When you speak with her, tell her the truth. That's why she's here—to listen to you and confirm that we're doing what we need to do."

"But you are," Randall insisted, his eyes making contact with Bobby's, then wavering sideways.

"When you don't meet people's eyes," Olivia had told him privately, "people think you're lying. Papa says it's a social convention. But it's hard for you, so people don't understand."

Randall was trying his best, but looking at people directly intimidated him. He would flash back to his father's exasperated face, unnerving him more.

"Do you think she'll mind that I'm weird?"

Bobby sighed, his eyes grieved, and rolled his desk chair to where Randall sat. "Buddy," unconsciously using the nickname his Uncle Sal had called him as a boy when he took his curious nephew to the magic shop, "we're a couple of neurodivergent people in a neurotypical world. We are...ourselves. Our world makes sense to us. They're the ones who see us as 'weird.'" But society, by and large, is based on neurotypical behavior. So we have to navigate their world without losing our sense of ourselves. It's hard sometimes." He gave Randall a confiding smile. "It took me years to accept that. I'd prefer your experience to be different."

"Hear, hear," said an approving woman's voice from the doorway, and they looked up to see Ruth Dunbar standing between Alex and Olivia. The slight Black woman, whose sharp-featured oval face was brightened with expressive eyes, was dressed in the same red "power suit" as she had the first time she met the new family. This time, however, instead of wearing a disapproving face framed in dark, loosely waved hair, one resulting from being forced into a situation she had disliked, this time Dunbar was smiling. Sam scrambled to his feet, wagging his tail, and Dunbar patted his head as she walked to Randall's side. He'd remembered his manners and risen from his chair as Bobby had done, looking her over apprehensively.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Randall," she said, offering her hand to shake, and her smile widened just a touch when she saw Randall shyly glance from one family member to the other for assurance before he met her eyes tentatively and clasped her hand. "I hope we can be friends."

"So, mother-of-two," her sister Elizabeth teased Alex, "how are you dealing?"

"I'm beat," Alex admitted. It was two days after Ruth Dunbar's visit, and she was leaning back in her office chair at the big combination desk/shelving unit they'd purchased once she accepted the advisory job for the mayor's office, her work files neatly cataloged to her left and the Big Brothers/Big Sisters fundraising material on her right. Abbi Diaz and Viola Perrino chiefly worked on the latter now, meeting in the attic room that had been drywalled and floored, then fitted with window A/C and a box fan for summer. On Alex's computer monitor, Liz's face almost mirrored her sister's—a little older, her cheeks plumper, her jaw more like her father's, whereas Alex's still held the sharper features of the Cochran side of the family.

"But I'd say 'yes' again," Alex added with a smile. "You'd think two active children in the house wouldn't be much different from one, but it is. It's been a big learning curve with Randall, but only because he's always moving and thinking."

"Sounds like a brother-in-law I know," Liz chaffed.

Now Alex laughed. "Remarkably similar."

"Has DCF visited yet?"

"Ruth came Tuesday. She said Randall was very shy with her, but she understood. She's trying to get us a stipend for Dr. Allyson—we'll adjust the budget if we have to, and I can draw on my savings. Bobby's taking a couple of consultation jobs from Boston as well."

"Did you try the chore chart that Jack and Patty suggested?"

"Yes! It fits perfectly with Randall's passion for written lists. The kids now have competitions to see who gets their chores done first." Alex arched her eyebrows. "Even though Randall vows he hates competition!

"And I found a way to burn off some of his excess energy, not to mention a sport Randall does like. He's been running with me every morning, and he loves it. He certainly makes me try harder!"

"Sounds like he's gotten much more comfortable with all of you."

A wistful smile crossed Alex's lips. "Abbi said this morning that he's like a garden that's been neglected, the plants all drooping, and then you apply some care and they come alive and stand straight and tall."

"Like the garden in Olivia's favorite book?"

Alex realized she'd been caught out in sentimentality. She lifted her chin and finished her thought. "When school starts, I'm hoping he can find other children who enjoy running for fun."

"Have you decided what to do about school?"

"We had thought of enrolling him at Rochambeau, but after Bobby and I left Randall and Olivia at Big Brothers on Wednesday–"

"I thought he didn't want to go!"

"You know Bobby's persuasive techniques—it was all very gentle, but he sealed the deal when he mentioned that Roy was a big reader. Randall insisted he'd never met another boy who liked books! Russ told us later that Randall and Roy got on 'like a house afire,' then Roy introduced him to the other kids, and he decided they weren't so bad after all. And apparently, Olivia lectured them all beforehand about Randall's aversion to loud noises. Russ laughed when he told us the story because he described Olivia 'standing there like a country schoolmarm,' you know that pose of hers, with the crossed arms–"

"You mean the Alex stance?" Liz teased her.

Alex coughed pointedly and continued, "–facing all those older kids, and they managed to restrain their enthusiasm. Even Rafe Sanchez kept his voice down. She's practically Randall's campaign manager.

"As for Randall, I think Liv was on the money: his biggest problem is that before his father was sent away, he made Randall believe there was something wrong with him because he didn't meet his dad's standards." Alex's mouth set in a hard line. "I would so much like to tell that man to his face what I think of him."

"Like you did with Madame Pepin?" Liz chuckled.

"Since it's his son, I 'd give him much worse!"

You are gone on this kid, little sis, Lizzie was thinking, but she only commented, "I should think he'd be easy since you did train on Bobby for years."

Alex laughed, then continued, "In the meantime, we drove to Wilton—they started school this week—and talked with Randall's favorite teacher, Wilhemina Deenie. She's extraordinary, Liz. She has a shoestring budget like every other public school teacher and isn't trained in special ed, but she worked with Randall and a couple of the other 'problem children'—her principal's words, not hers—in her class. She has an inexpensive exercise bike at the back of the classroom. When Randall or the other boy and girl were restless, she let them pedal on the bike to 'get the itch out of their feet,' as she put it. One of her students made a pretty donation container out of an oversized pickle jar so kids and their parents or visitors can give money to get classroom extras, and I saw Bobby stuff a fifty in it before we left.

"Now Bobby's talking about getting him a bicycle desk so that he can read or do homework and pedal at the same time–"

"Allie," her sister now said anxiously, "Randall's only a foster child. Once she's well, will his mother allow him to keep these things you keep buying for him?"

"I can use it myself if Rosalind doesn't want it. I'm getting fat sitting at my desk all day working on my BLE contributions." But, as she spoke, Alex appeared uneasy; she abandoned her desk chair to check out in the hallway, even though she knew Bobby and the kids were safely in the library downstairs. When she returned to the room, she closed and locked the door.

Sitting before the screen, she told her sister in a hushed voice, "It's not going to happen, Liz. Randall's mother is in much worse shape than even Liv Benson knew. Bobby called St. Vincent's about her—to see if Randall could visit, as he's been begging to. We're trying to negotiate for sometime soon; they say her body fails a little more every day."

"Poor kid," Lizzie breathed.

"We need advance notice," Alex said, "to prepare him for how she'll look."

"And afterward?" Lizzie asked, and Alex knew immediately which "afterward" she referred to.

A determined look blossomed in Alex's eyes. "He's not leaving here, Liz. Not unless he has a safe place to land."

                ***September 6, 2024***

When the explosion came, it was unexpected, profound, and struck the entire household.

Bobby was working in the library, at the old desk from his former attic office; it faced the window and the safe he kept for classified documents. If he wanted a respite from his lecture material on the pathology of serial killers, he could spin the office chair in a half-circle and make himself comfortable to work on "Bruno's book."

Some kind soul at Hastings House had digitized Volpe's Korean War journal and notes into rich text format, then performed basic spellchecking; now Bobby was preparing to take a break from the consultation work he'd accepted from Marc Thuringer in the Boston FBI  field office. Instead, he would continue comparing the OCR copy of Bruno's manuscript against the photocopied originals and adding any notations. In June, the originals had gone west to California in Leo Volpe's possession, and he smiled wryly thinking about it because, although Olivia Benson had once teased that "Olivia Two" had a crush on Noah, Leo almost surely had one on Min; he'd become her most faithful blog commenter.

Alex was closeted in her office contending with what she called "a bullheaded elderly former conservative who had 'got religion'" and was now lobbying for any cause that would improve his standing among his more liberal peers. His latest hobbyhorse was a proposal to make "party drugs" acceptable for recreational use so long as the user remained at home or in someone's home. Alex had seen too many "party drugs" lead to violence and psychiatric confinement, so was strenuously suggesting that Mr. Wilmot spend some time in a drug rehab clinic before he made determinations about narcotics policy. She had some ABBA and other rock from that era playing low through her cell phone to soothe her battered psyche.

Bandit had his head under his wing for an afternoon nap, and Sam was asleep in Bobby's office.

Olivia had kept her word when she'd promised Bobby she'd let Randall "do more for himself" that second week. She began practicing her tennis serves again and resumed her daily late afternoon visits with Ana, whose school year had already started. They were in the same grade, so for both, it would be the last year of middle school (for Olivia, her final year in the lower school at St. Gregory's). But when Randall asked if he could come with her that first Monday, she had no reason to object. Good-natured Carlos drew him away on some pretense so the girls could have privacy, and he ended up sitting in the little kitchen of the Dovecote talking to Abbi and refreshing the rusty Spanish he had lost when his grandmother died. Abbi Diaz became his fast friend that day, and, because Bobby had told him solemnly that he had "adopted" her as a sister, Randall began referring to her as "Aunt Abbi," and Olivia followed suit.

Olivia was finding "letting go" more difficult than she expected. When Randall first arrived at their home, she understood his need for constant companionship because he felt like a stranger, and his bookcase headboard contained only the six books he'd valiantly defended. Now, she reasoned, he had free run of the old juvenile mysteries Bobby had collected that were shelved in the back parlor. Or he could play with Sam or the little hand-held video game Alex had bought him or watch television with permission, but Randall, after exhausting his chances to accompany Bobby or Alex at whatever they were doing, still relied on her. She had yet to figure out a tactful way to encourage him to be more independent.

It was the Friday before school began. Randall had shadowed Alex all morning; when she finally patted his shoulder and said she had a conference call that afternoon, he automatically gravitated to Olivia's room because the doors to the library were closed, meaning that Bobby was working on something confidential.

While she usually remained downstairs during the daytime because "it's too quiet up there," on that still warm afternoon Olivia was sitting curled up on her bed, in shorts and a t-shirt and barefoot, rereading one of her favorite books, The Wind in the Willows. She was fond of Mole and Ratty, but tended to ignore Toad, whom she considered a brat, so was enjoying "Dulce Domem," her favorite chapter about Christmas at Mole's burrow. Her sage green-painted room reflected her interests: an overflow of books crammed the bookcase headboard, bookcase nightstand, and two taller bookcases; a few other volumes lay on the top shelf of the desk under her front window. A half-finished watercolor rested on the desk itself; a dreamy poster of a little girl in bedclothes floating among the stars was mounted on one wall; photos of her biological parents peeked from the top of her bureau; the kitsune-illustrated adoption poem Alex had bought her in California hung in a gold frame directly over the bed; and a blue corduroy beanbag chair was set in front of the bookcases.

It was into this serene haven that Randall bounced without knocking.

"Olivia, let's go outside and play with Sam!"

"You didn't knock," she said automatically, not looking up from her book. "And no, thank you."

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely. "But please–"

"You could ask Mama if it's okay for you and Sam to go by yourselves. I don't feel like playing," she said indolently, holding her book in her right hand and petting the stuffed fox with her left. "It's still too warm. That's why I did my tennis practice this morning. And the last time I saw Sam, he was lying in front of Papa's fan. You shouldn't bother him. He's hot, even though we had the groomer thin his coat. Why don't you read instead? We could go in the shed and read—that would be outside."

"I don't want to read," he said obstinately, already unaccustomed to her refusing him, frowning.

"You don't want to read? You must be a change child and not Randall," Olivia teased lightly. She had still not torn her eyes from her book nor stopped meditatively stroking the fox, so she didn't notice him step closer to the bed.

Randall accused, "I bet you like that stupid fox more than me."

Olivia sighed, and for the first time, she looked up to see Randall's scowl. "I don't. But he sure is quieter than you are."

"Of course, because it's just a stuffed animal," he said cynically.

Olivia beetled her brows, irritated. "He's not."

"It! It!" Randall retorted and grabbed at Captain's tail. Olivia swiftly clutched at the fox's body.

When Olivia shrieked, two adults launched themselves from two office chairs simultaneously. A cascade of books tumbled from Bobby's work desk as the back of his chair slammed against the metal surface. Alex pushed hers backward with such force that it rolled into the closed Murphy bed and left a dent in a shelf. She had a shorter distance to cover, but his legs were longer, and they practically collided in Olivia's doorway, where the little girl was screaming, "Look what you've done! You're horrid, Randall! Go away!"

Randall stood not three feet away, his mouth ajar and eyes wide, his open right hand still extended.

The stuffed fox was between them on the hardwood floor, fluffy entrails spilling from between its rear legs. A few inches away lay the tail, with stray threads dangling from the raw end.

Olivia scrambled off the bed, swooping up fox, fluff, and tail. Her face was scarlet with fury, and she shouted, "Enfant stupide! I hate you! Get out of my room! Go away!"

Randall backed up one step. "B-but it's j-just a st-stuffed animal."

In tears, Olivia was so overwhelmed that her French overflowed. "I l ne l'est pas, il ne l'est pas! Regarde ce que tu as fait, petit idiot! Espèce de connard!"

"Mignon!" Bobby rebuked, and she froze—for he had not used her first name since she had decided, in Paris, that she wished to be known as Olivia and had never said either of her names in that tone of voice—then held up Captain, eyes brimming and lower lip trembling. "Papà, regarde!"

"I see that. But it's no reason to shout or use that language."

Randall watched Alex's face darken, but he repeated, as if in shock, "I-It's just a st-stuffed animal."

"It isn't your judgment to make," Alex said sternly. "Come here, please."

Randall opened his mouth, then hung his head and shuffled to Alex's side.

"Go to your room," she said, voice low but firm. "Sit at the side of the bed. And nothing else. No reading. No video game. I'll be in to talk to you presently."

"Yes, ma'am," he said miserably, leaving Olivia's room. Alex gave a deep sigh, casting a troubled look at a sobbing Olivia. She raised her eyebrows at Bobby, and he at her; then she resigned herself and retreated, while Bobby settled at the side of Olivia's bed. Still clutching the stuffed fox and its tail, tears streaming down her cheeks, she flopped on the mattress beside him, burrowing her head into his shirt front. He put his arm around her and held her as she wept a few more minutes, finishing with a deep, shuddering sigh.

"I think we addressed this possibility when we talked with Captain Benson," he stated ruefully as her body trembled with that final sob.

"I k-know," she said, sniffling. "But I didn't think...I thought he'd rip one of my books or maybe ruin something I m-made or maybe slap me, not...this!"

"If either Alex or I had thought Randall might physically hurt you, we would have thought twice about bringing him home," Bobby said quietly. "Tell me what happened."

When she had explained, she added, "You were right, Papa. I suppose he depended on me too much."

"It's a good thing to be a person who can be depended on, though. And while there's no excuse for Randall's behavior, there was no excuse for yours, either. You owe him an apology, Olivia. Nothing that happened deserved that kind of treatment."

"I can't!" she burst out. "I wouldn't have cared if it was my unicorn or my sheep. He could have ripped up one of my books." She held up the little stuffed fox together with its detached tail. "But it was Captain. He was from you, and now he's not perfect anymore."

Bobby could have said so much: how the act of carrying Captain with her on a four-month bus tour from Boston to Los Angeles and back, followed by a car trip to Michigan and another to Quebec, had rendered the fox, if not tattered because he was meticulously-cared for, but a little worn nevertheless, in the spots he was clutched lovingly every day. "I can hardly claim to be p-perfect myself, Min, so I can't expect that Captain would have...um...remained that way. Besides, his virtue is being here for you, not being perfect. I'm sure Viola can mend his tail."

"But Captain won't be the same as before. You gave him to me. He was the very first thing after you and Mama rescued me. He's special, Papa."

"Shhhh–" He rubbed between her shoulder blades, hoping to quell the hysteria that appeared to be winding up inside her. She hadn't had flashbacks to her past trauma in months, but he knew the fox was connected with the loss of her parents and her exile from Paris. "Olivia, I'm flattered that you love the gift I gave you so much. But Captain can't take precedence over a person. Look at it from Randall's point of view. For the past two weeks, he's been among people who listen to him—tr-truly listen. To Randall, it seemed only his mother and favorite teacher ever did that. We've...accepted him from the first, even with his smallest food aversions. Today you wanted to loosen the strings a little, but, to Randall, it felt like rejection."

She bit her lip.

"Besides, Captain's been through his hard knocks now, like the rest of us. Have you ever heard of kintsugi?"

She blotted her eyes with the handkerchief he handed her, then shook her head. "No. But I  know you'll tell me."

Bobby smiled at her familiarity with his ways. "You know that porcelainware—what we call china—originally came from eastern Asia. The Chinese and the Japanese made some of the best: beautiful, exquisite pieces...with little scenes of everyday life or delicate flowers painted upon plates, vases, and bowls. They were fr-fragile and often broke. Today, we usually throw broken china away, but especially if it's a special item—um...of historic significance, an antique, or just a favorite possession—we might repair it, being as careful as we can to minimize the cracks.

"But Japanese people have a different philosophy about it. They repair the plate, but fill the cracks with gold. The practice is called kintsugi."

Olivia blinked. "But wouldn't that show the cracks?"

"That's the point. The metaphor is applied to real life. They believe...um...that a person having gone through tough times, having been 'broken' and then repaired, makes you st-stronger, adds to your character. Realizing that you survived being broken is a step toward helping you heal. Maybe...today will be a little kintsugi for all of us."

Olivia rested her head against his arm, teeth on her lower lip, thoughtfully petting the little fox's head.

As they talked, Alex crossed to Randall's room to knock and then push the door open. To her dismay, Randall had pulled one of the suitcases from the closet and was placing clothes in it.

"I asked you to sit at the side of the bed, Randall," she said gently.

"I know," he said, not meeting her eyes, "but I figured to save time by getting packed."

"Why?" she asked, coming from behind him, deftly removing the stack of underwear and socks from his hands and placing them back in the drawer. "You're not going anywhere." She paused. "Unless you want to leave? Is that it? Are things that bad for you here?" She asked it reluctantly, only to have Randall look abashed, then give a single shake of his head. "No one wants you to leave, Randall. You made a mistake. It was a hurtful mistake, but only a mistake. Will you help me understand why you tore Olivia's fox?"

His lower lip wobbled. "I was bored and wanted 'Livia to play with me. When she said she wanted to read...I ...I got angry. I grabbed the tail, and she hung on, and it r-ripped." She heard a little flare of resentment rise in his voice. "But, Ms. Alex, it's just a stuffed animal. Why is a stuffed animal so important? It's just a toy. It's stupid."

She disliked his emphasis on "stupid," which she'd noticed was his catchword for anything he disliked, but laid a tender hand on his shoulder. "She just wanted some downtime before school begins. Min's like you; she loves school and throws herself into it completely, and she knows that beginning Monday she'll be busy until Thanksgiving." Randall's face flickered, and then he frowned again. "She's tried her best for the past two weeks to make you feel at home here, and you damaged the one thing that meant the most to her. It's no excuse for her behavior, but that fox is much more than a stuffed animal to Olivia."

He looked bewildered, insisting, an argumentative whine creeping into his voice now, "But it's not real. It's just a stuffed–"

Alex repeated patiently, "That fox has a special meaning to Olivia. It represents–" Alex wondered if there was a better way to convey the concept she wanted to illustrate, and then her eyes fell on Randall's six precious books—the ones he had lugged in his backpack and protected from a street marauder—a water-stained, dust-jacketless original Hardy Boys book, House on the Cliff; a newer copy of Mystery of Cabin Island; the Three Investigators' books Mystery of the Whispering Mummy and Mystery of the Vanishing Treasure; a Rick Brant book, Caves of Fear; and a wrinkled-covered 60's paperback of The Hound of the Baskervilles. She tried to banish the idea, then set her mouth and walked forward, scooping the six books from the headboard.

Given the tone of voice into which his discussion had degenerated, she expected Randall to protest and even fight back but was unprepared when he emitted a heartbreaking wail instead. "No! You can't take them; they're mine. Please!"

Every word out of her mouth tasted of ashes. "And Captain was Olivia's. The fox was as special to her as these books are to you."

He was weeping now, standing in front of her with his face contorted. She swallowed, almost whispering. "Just think about it, Randall, for a little while."

She could hear him sobbing even when she shut the door.

When Bobby left Olivia's room, Alex was sitting on the four-foot long old church pew they had rescued from a thrift shop that sat in front of the window in the upper hallway, staring straight ahead and chewing on her lower lip. Her left arm rested on the small stack of books next to her as she rubbed her right hand against her knee with a distressed motion. As his shadow fell across her, Alex looked up. "He kept saying, 'It's only a stuffed animal' and got snarky about it, and I didn't know a better way to get my point across–" She pursed her mouth hard. "I feel like a heel."

Bobby sat beside her. "I understand parenthood is one of the best ways to make an adult feel like a heel."

"I almost felt like I was slapping Eddie," she confessed.

"As if you or Liz would ever hit any child."

"I know. It doesn't mean I have to like it."

Bobby leaned back on the bench. "He's not Eddie, you know."

Alex smiled ruefully. "I know. He's so different, but...but he's started to mean as much to me. Besides, I'm sure Eddie did something just as naughty when he was young. I know I did. Did I ever tell you that one time I was so pissed with Jack for getting into things in my room that I threw his favorite Scout knife out with the trash? I had to do extra chores all that summer to repay my dad for buying him a new one."

"And I'll bet both Liz and your dad sat there feeling as badly as you do now."

"We used to tease Liz before Eddie was born that...that he was going to be the most spoilt child in the five boroughs because she would never punish her 'miracle baby.'" Alex gave a short sigh. "He turned out okay. But now I wonder...all those times my mother had to punish me...did she feel as shitty as I do now? Because I must have hurt her so damn much."

She tilted her head because his eyes were indulgent. "What?"

"Someone once called you an ice queen, but I know better. The Eames sisters, hard shell on the outside and all soft center."

She replied reproachfully, "I'm the soft center. Lizzie is a water balloon. Must you make today worse by referring to Nicole?"

"But she made Olivia. There had to be some spark of goodness there."

"Olivia," she repeated, still overwhelmed at the ferocious outburst. "I expected some tears or angry words, but she- It was like the geyser we saw at Yellowstone. I never imagined–"

"To her, Captain is a talisman of our family relationship. And what happens when a talisman is lost or broken? Does the world fall apart, too? When you're ten...or even when you're 46, the fear is always the same."

Alex ran the numbers in her head, and then they both were quiet, the silence punctuated only by the whirr of fans and faint sniffling from both children's rooms. "How long do you want to give him?"

"Just a couple of minutes longer. Enough time to think."

Precisely two minutes later, Bobby rose and offered Alex his hand. "Come on, Captain Eames. We can do this. Even though an interrogation might be easier."

Alex took a deep breath, then knocked on Randall's door.

When he didn't answer, she turned the knob to let them both in. Randall was huddled on the blue bedspread, wearing shoes despite "the rules," his head buried in his arms, still sniffling.

"Hey," Bobby said softly, and Randall raised his head. His face was flushed, and his eyes swollen. "It's okay, buddy."

But it was Alex who went forward, who perched on the side of the bed and said not a word about his sneakers, who stroked his untidy hair. "I'm sorry I had to do it that way, Randall. Do you understand now, sweetie, about Olivia's fox? About how important it is?"

Randall struggled to a seated position, then nodded, tears still dripping down his face behind his glasses. There was a big moist splotch on the rumpled spread. Alex reached around him and hugged him with her left arm, her free hand finding the box of tissues on his nightstand. Then she tenderly removed his glasses, laying them on her lap, and used the tissues to wipe his eyes.

"I d-don't m-mean to cr-cry," he stammered out. "I know i-i-it's baby, b-but–"

"No one is shamed for crying in this house," Bobby told him firmly, posting himself at the end of the bed. Randall fixed his gaze on him to determine the validity of that statement. When he realized Bobby was serious, he dropped his eyes again.

"And everything's okay," Alex soothed. "I understand. I said and did unkind things to my brother and sister when I was your age, too. I never meant them." Releasing him from the hug, she cleaned his glasses, then perched them carefully back on his nose, stroking his hair when she finished.

"So," she continued gently, "what do you think you need to do next?"

"I sh-should apologize to Olivia," Randall said, eyes fastened on his lap. "If she'll l-let me."

Bobby said mildly, "You might sweeten the apology with a peace offering."

Randall's eyes flickered upward and he bit his lip. "Like what?" he asked.

Bobby answered, "We're...pretty certain Mrs. Perrino, who made Olivia's middy dress, can repair the tail. But it might n-need to be taken to a 'doll hospital.' They repair all sorts of toys, not just dolls. There are a couple in the city. You could...um...offer to have it fixed."

"I-I don't th-think four dollars and fifty-two cents will p-pay for it," Randall stammered. "That's all I h-have."

Alex had bitten back a smile noticing that Bobby had been prompted by her story about Jack's Scout knife. "We could front you the money," she suggested. "Then you could help with extra chores to pay us back."

Randall looked wary. "What kind of chores?"

"Cleaning out the cars. Helping in the yard. Grooming Sam," Bobby suggested.

The boy nodded solemnly, scrubbing the underside of his nose with his fist.

"So what do you think? Would that work for you?" Bobby asked, stretching his hand out to shake.

"Yes, sir." Randall proffered his hand.

"You're a good man, Randall," Alex said, hugging him again, but sensed resistance, so she asked softly, "Do you want to hear Captain's story?"

Randall sniffled. "Sure."

"Olivia was very close to her mother and her nanny, too. She didn't see her father often–" Alex realized that an explanation of Marcel Pepin's complex family dynamics could wait till another time. "–but when she did, they had good times together. He taught her to ski and swim and even bought her a dog. She loved both her parents so much, as much as you love your mom, and...all of a sudden they were gone after the car accident, just like when your mom suddenly didn't come home one weekend.

"Then her nanny, whom she'd known since she was a baby, had to leave because her sister was sick. The only place left for Min to stay when she wasn't at boarding school or camp would have been in a house with a woman who hated her."

"Like an evil stepmother?" he asked with wide eyes.

Alex ignored Bobby's nearly inaudible snort. "Something like that. But her maman, you see, had already worried about what might happen to Olivia if there was an accident. She made a will requesting that we become Olivia's guardians. I'm being honest with you, Randall, when I tell you that we...we worried. We'd never had a child. We were afraid that we wouldn't be good parents. But we couldn't leave Olivia with someone who hated her."

Bobby took up the tale. "We were at the airport, and she looked so lonely and frightened–"

"I didn't think Olivia was scared of anything."

"Olivia puts on a good front...and even adults get scared," Bobby assured. "I'd passed a gift shop on the way to the restroom. She'd just d-decided she wanted to be known as 'Olivia,' and I saw a spinner in the window with girls' chain bracelets, different names in cursive script. So I found...um...an 'Olivia' bracelet, then turned, and that fox was staring at me."

His face, animated with memory, turned sober. "When I was a boy, my mother was...sick. My dad was rarely home, and when he was, he and my mom quarreled. My brother coped by hanging out with wild boys. I'd saved a little stuffed dog from when I was younger. Some of his fur was worn off, and he had a missing eye. I called him 'Wolfie' and kept him hidden because my brother teased me about him and tried to throw him away once. Maybe it sounds 'baby' to you, but when the monsters in my life became too much, even when I was your age, it helped to sneak Wolfie from under the bed and hug him. I thought Min might want a Wolfie of her own."

Randall swallowed and stifled a sob. "I didn't know."

"You didn't. It was just a mistake," Alex whispered.

"I'm a mistake," he whispered fiercely. "That's what my dad said once–"

"He was wrong," they said, almost as one, and Randall blinked at them.

Alex added, "I don't get what your father said to you. Maybe he even thought he was helping, trying to 'toughen you up' so you wouldn't be bullied. But if he was trying to save you from being hurt, he hurt you anyway. You are not a 'mistake,' and there's nothing wrong with being yourself." Her eyes flicked at Bobby. "That was something I had to learn."

Randall gulped, not understanding the undercurrents of the exchange. "I guess now I need to say I'm sorry. C-can you come with me?"

"It will mean more to Olivia if you do it yourself," said Alex gently. "It'll be all right. You can do it. We know it, and we'll be right here."

"But what if she doesn't–"

Bobby squatted momentarily to face him. "Min has a good heart; she just let her t-temper get the better of her. You'll see."

Alex relaxed her hug, and, with his eyes fixed on Olivia's door, Randall rose resolutely and took slow steps across the bedroom and the hall. He looked back once to see them standing in the doorway, and Alex gave an encouraging nod and smile. After taking a long, shuddering breath, Randall knocked.

"Who is it?" Olivia's voice was close by.

"It's me, R-Randall. I came to ap-apologize."

She must have been standing behind the door because it opened immediately. She stood erect, her chin lifted, her face impassive, her still-swollen eyes frosty, with Captain the fox, his tail safety-pinned to his body, clutched pointedly in front of her.

"Bobby–" Alex said with a sigh from the doorway where they were watching.

"Wait...see what she does," he responded.

Randall didn't flinch at her theatrics. "I'm...I'm sorry, Olivia. I didn't know how sp-special Captain was. Your mom and dad told me the st-story." He trembled. "I'm sorry. I swear. I won't do anything like it...a-again. Ever. I promise."

Olivia's stern face crumbled as he bit his lip and his eyes filled, and she reached her left hand out to him. "Randall...don't cry. Please!"

Randall scrubbed his betraying eyes fiercely and stumbled on. "Your dad thinks Mrs. Perrino can fix Captain's t-tail. If not, we can take him to...a doll hospital? It's a place that fixes t-toys. Then I'll pay them back by doing ch-chores."

"What chores?" Olivia asked inquisitively, as he had.

"Yard work or in the car or brushing Sam."

"That won't be so bad," the little girl agreed. "Maybe I could help out."

Randall shook his head emphatically. "I'd have to do it myself or it wouldn't be r-right. B-But I'm sorry I d-d-didn't understand about your fox," he persisted, face still threatening showers. "Your mom made me understand."

Olivia gave Alex a surprised look. "What did Mama do?"

Randall choked. "She...took away my books."

Olivia's eyes opened wide in shock. "She–" Then she said to Alex, "Mama, you give him back his books right now! Please! That's not funny!"

"I didn't intend it to be funny," Alex said soberly. "I wanted him to understand about Captain. And his books are already back on his bed."

Randall's woebegone face vanished; instead, his mouth dropped open. "They're not gone?"

It was Alex's turn to be stunned. "What do you mean 'gone'?"

Randall turned his head away. Bobby's arm was around Alex's shoulder, and she felt his body vibrate. She glanced at him in time to see anger building in his face, for he had just realized why the boy was so upset.

"My d-dad," Randall stammered. "I was reading once and di-didn't d-do what he wanted fast enough. So he t-took the book I was r-reading and threw it in the d-dumpster."

"He–" Alex's face paled. "And you thought- Randall, no–"

She was at his side instantly, crouching, so they were face-to-face. "I would never...ever–" She put her hands on his shoulders, and he could see, with growing surprise, that her eyes were damp. "I swear to you, Randall, I will never throw away anything that is yours without your consent. If it's bad for you—a gun, a switchblade, drugs—I will take it away so you won't get hurt. But I will never throw away books—not toys, not clothes...Randall, I  didn't know. I'm so sorry you thought-."

He looked bewildered. "But I was the bad one. Why are you crying?"

"You made a mistake. But I did, too. If we do have to pay to have Olivia's fox repaired, I'll settle the bill. That will be my way of making it up to you."

"I need to apologize, too," Olivia said with a gulp. "You made me angry, but I shouldn't have said any of those things. I shouldn't have said I hated you or called you names in French. It was mean and rude, and it wasn't true. You're more important than Captain. Truly. And I  was still being cross just now when I opened the door because I was still angry. But it wasn't nice. Papa was right." She looked at Bobby. "He said, 'Anger is a reaction, never a solution.' I'm sorry."

She punctuated the final two words by throwing her arms around Randall, hugging him so tightly that he had to pull back after a few seconds. Then she proposed, "Mama, may we call Mrs. Perrino right now and ask if she can mend Captain's tail?" When she grinned at Bobby, it was as if the sun had come out after a thunderstorm. "I can ask her...if she can use gold thread, Papa."

The expression on his face told her he understood. "Your choice, Min."

"Gold thread?" Alex was puzzled until Bobby winked at her. Later, his eyes said.

"But that would mean you could see where he was fixed!" Randall was confused.

"I'll call Mrs. Perrino—if that's all right." Olivia touched Randall's shoulder, then tipped her eyes to Bobby, "Papa can tell you about kintsugi."

Saturday morning they were awakened earlier than usual, and Randall whispered an inquiry as he and Olivia walked downstairs.

"Haircuts for the first day of school," Olivia said sagely.

Randall balked on the stairs. "I hate haircuts."

Olivia was puzzled. "Why? We go to The Clip Joint. Brenda usually cuts our hair. She's terribly jolly, and we all like her."

"A girl's going to cut my hair? Boys go to a barber, my dad–"

"Your 'dad said', I know. Randall, your dad wasn't an expert on anything, or he wouldn't be in prison. And he isn't a good father if he told you all that rot about your not being a real boy," Olivia said in a scornful voice.

"Olivia!" Alex warned as the girl's voice preceded her as they entered the kitchen.

"Why can't I say what's true? I know Randall's father is an adult, and I shouldn't criticize adults, but he told Randall lies. Randall isn't 'weird,' he just thinks differently, like Papa," the girl stormed as she flopped down on her chair, looking aggrieved. "And not playing sports doesn't mean he isn't a 'real boy'—what does that even mean?"

Randall stared at her with wondering eyes.

"Mahsi-choo," he said finally, having absorbed two weeks' worth of Olivia's favorite animated series, even if he didn't quite understand her fascination with it.

His response prompted a little smile. "Thank you for what?"

"Sticking up for me," he answered, abashed. "Especially after yesterday."

"I'm only telling the truth!" was the fierce reply, and neither Alex nor Bobby had the heart to scold her after that.

Over oatmeal, Bobby asked mildly, "Did you mention to Randall that after haircuts we eat out and then have ice cream?"

After the dishes were finished, the children beat them to the CRV while debating about who got the seat behind Alex because it had more legroom. Alex halted at the edge of the driveway to watch them negotiate.

"Do you think they'd mind at school," Alex asked aloud, "if we didn't cut his hair too short? I...like it the way it is, sort of tousled all the time, makes him look–"

"Boyish and innocent instead of cowed from being bullied by his father?" Bobby finished from behind her, and Alex nodded.

"Are you going to ask Brenda for a lock of his hair as a keepsake, too?" he bantered gently.

"Maybe," Alex said, looking up with a smile and a glint in her eye; his response was to step around her, pull her into his arms, and kiss her soundly.

Olivia watched with almost adult indulgence, but finally a protest sailed freely through the September breeze. "Mama, Papa, stop canoodling! We'll be late!"

Bobby broke the kiss with a mischievous expression and snapped a salute at her. "Yes, ma'am."

Alex laughed. "Canoodling? Where did that come from?"

"Mr. Volpe always said it," Olivia called from the open window, "whenever he saw you kiss." Then she eyed Randall as she clicked her seat belt. "They do that a lot."

He hitched his over his shoulder and buckled it, looking wistful. "Yeah, I noticed. I like it."

"Me, too," was her satisfied reply.

                 ***September 14, 2024***

"...and that's the respirator," Randall concluded, looking through the window of the ICU. "Just like on the website you showed me."

He was cocooned between Bobby and Alex, waiting for final approval from Rosalind Shaw's attending physician. He had wanted to show off one of his new suits, but Bobby gently advised, "Your mother would want to see you, not your clothes," so the boy had on his favorite plaid shirt, blue jeans, and Chucks. Although Alex had combed his freshly trimmed hair, it was again wildly askew.

"That's right," Bobby told him, then looked over his shoulder.

Olivia sat quietly in an ugly grey bucket chair against the ICU wall, in the same lavender sundress and purple sandals as she'd worn the day Randall had entered their lives, since there had been a mid-September burst of heat, although she didn't look warm at the moment. She had Captain in close embrace, and the gold threads in the otherwise nearly invisible seam between the stuffed fox's body and his tail glinted in the fluorescent light. Alex, still fast in Randall's grip, wondered if she was thinking of her mother after the car accident, and her eyes telegraphed her concern to Bobby. Olivia was always so self-assured that her apprehension at being there was plain, and he released Randall's hand to join her.

Bobby and the children's therapist, Phyllis Allyson, had briefed Randall during the week on what to expect. His mother would not open her eyes or talk to him. There would be tubes and wires attached to her, but although the glowing monitors and respirator might appear "scary," they'd assured him every bit of equipment near his mother's bed was being used to keep her well and in no pain. Using photos, they explained the function of each piece of equipment and reminded him that she would be thin because she couldn't eat and was being fed through a tube.

"What do I say?" he asked, troubled. Alex noticed that his face was pale and pinched; she knew that all their preparation still had not been able to totally arm him against the reality visible through the window.

"Talk to her like you did when you came home from school," Bobby had advised. "Tell her how you are and about us, your new classes, and teachers–"

They hadn't been certain they could swing a St. Gregory's Academy tuition but had ventured an inquiry anyway. Sister Rosalind, the admissions officer, had spoken to Randall privately for twenty minutes and then become very brisk. "We have both a scholarship program and a reduced tuition program if all else fails. I'm sure we can fit him in. One of you fill out the forms online—scan the QR code on this card to get to them—and I'll call his school in Wilton and have them send us his records." She buzzed the secretary's office. "Anastasia, have Brother Michael come to my office, please."

If he got in, Olivia had already told him, Brother Michael would probably be his homeroom teacher because he was always assigned the restless kids.

"You mean the weird kids," said Randall gloomily, resigned to his fate until Brother Michael offered him his hand. He was portly and balding, with kind grey eyes, and Randall noticed immediately that the man had to make an effort to meet his eyes.

"I'm autistic," the instructor admitted. "It's difficult for me, but I try my best."

"I can tell her about Brother Michael," Randall said, loosing Alex's hand so he could pace a circle around the waiting area, "and how I'm going to learn ASL so I can be Kenny's homeroom buddy."

"That's a good topic," Alex said encouragingly. "She'll like that."

Dr. Malhotra opened the door to Rosalind's ICU room. "Are you ready to come in, Randall?"

Bobby stood up again, holding out a hand to the boy, only to have him ask, "Please, may Ms. Alex come in with me instead, Mr. G?"

"Of course," Bobby said, settling back down next to Olivia, and Alex smiled almost shyly. "I 'd be honored, Randall." He had gravitated toward her since the first evening when she had settled at his bedside until he fell asleep again, but something more had been firmly cemented between them since the tempest with Olivia's stuffed fox. Bobby was now his sage, the person he talked to about books and profilers and being a boy, Olivia his playmate and staunchest defender, but Alex was his anchor.

He held her left hand tightly and then froze before they were three steps into the room. Rosalind Shaw's appearance would be daunting for any adult, as wired and intubated as she was, and, being nearly as slight as Alex, she looked tiny and almost skeletal in the bed, her limp dark hair sparse and oily. They could hardly tell that she was breathing. Alex's aversion to hospitals since her mother had died was very strong, but she squeezed Randall's hand tightly to encourage him even as her mouth tightened with stress.

"Hello, Mrs. Shaw," she said in her "company voice" as if the patient were sitting up in a chair waiting for them. "I've brought Randall to visit. My name is Alexandra Eames, and my husband, my little girl Olivia, and I are caring for him right now. He's a wonderful boy, and we're enjoying his company."

Olivia peeked through the blinds into Rosalind Shaw's ICU room. "Do you think she'll hear them, Papa? She looks so far away."

"Doctors aren't certain," Bobby replied quietly, standing behind her and rubbing between her shoulder blades, "but some people who have awakened from comas do report that they heard voices talking to them when they were unconscious."

Olivia only clutched the stuffed fox closer as she watched.

"Did Maman look like this?" she asked finally.

"They would have taken care of her just as carefully," he said softly and felt her shiver under his hands. "She wasn't in pain."

She almost could see Randall steel himself before he piped up, "Hi, Mommy!" after Alex's introduction; now words were tumbling out as they had the day he first talked with Olivia, telling the supine woman about his foster family—"It was Olivia's birthday yesterday, so now she's eleven just like me, and on Sunday we're driving to somewhere called Newport to have a picnic and fly kites!"—the wonderful house with all the books, and his new school.

He rested his hand on the small portion of her arm that he could reach as he continued; the skin was so dry that Alex saw him flinch at the touch, but he continued gamely, "Brother Michael said I move my hands so well he's going to teach me ASL—that's American Sign Language—so I can be Kenny Shepherd's homeroom buddy. Kenny doesn't talk, you see, Mommy, even though he's not deaf. He uses sign language instead and likes to have you sign back. I've learned some signs already. See–" and he tapped his thumb on his chin with his hand open and fingers spread. "That means 'Mother.' And this–" and he tapped his thumb to his forehead. "That means 'Father.'"

Alex had slipped to the door and talked to the nurse; a few minutes later, a different nurse handed her a small tube and made small circling motions with her hand. Alex showed Randall how to put a small bit of the lotion from the tube on his fingertips as he spoke so he could gently rub it into his mother's skin. "They've had several emergencies today," Alex explained, "and haven't had a chance to treat her arms. I'm sure she'd like it if you put the lotion on. Very gently now."

Randall glanced sideways at her pale face. "Are you okay, Ms. Alex?"

Alex admitted, "It reminds me of when my mother was in the hospital, that's all."

They stayed for a half hour. When Randall ran out of things to say, Alex told Rosalind about their house, Abbi Diaz and her grandchildren, and Milbury, stressing that Randall was with people who supported him. When the time came to leave, Randall swallowed hard and kissed that spot on his mother's arm that he could reach, then halted in the doorway and stared back at her with a long, hungering look. "Goodbye, Mommy. I love you."

Olivia took his hand as they walked silently back to the parking lot, and he didn't shake her off. In the car, she offered Randall her fox, but he refused. Finally, Alex ventured, "When we visit again, you'll know enough ASL to be able to tell your mom about helping Kenny."

She was driving as always, and Randall lifted his head to stare into the rearview mirror with a troubled look. "We don't hafta go back, Ms. Alex. Mommy isn't there anymore."

Bobby reminded him gently, "People in a coma don't respond–"

Randall returned in a controlled, very unchildlike voice, "She's...not...there. I said goodbye. I told her I loved her." Then he huddled in his seatbelt and turned his head away when Olivia touched his arm. She wrapped her arms around her fox and looked grieved.

The long ride home was made longer by the silence from the back of the CR-V. Alex and Bobby talked of inconsequential things simply to stave off the oppressive quiet: plans for a woodland hike when the leaves turned, their annual Thanksgiving trip. Randall ate very little supper, although steak and air-fried potatoes were two of his favorite dishes, withdrawing into a book later. He spoke little, and when he did, his voice was low and flat. They made sure he wasn't alone but did not press him. When it was time for the nightly Star Trek rerun, he joined Alex on the sofa, leaning on her, watching the screen with distant eyes.

At bedtime, Olivia tapped at Randall's door.

"Come in," he said heavily. Olivia noticed he had a book in his hands, but he was simply staring at the cover, not reading it.

"Papa finished Friday's Tunnel last night. I thought we might read Hatchet next. It's about a boy who's the only survivor of a plane crash. He has to survive in the forest with nothing but a hatchet. Wouldn't you like to hear? Leo recommended it to me, and he's twelve, so you know it's not baby."

He shrugged, and she added, "It's s'posed to be good."

Randall's mouth twitched. "Do you think your dad would read...? You said on the ride home from the city—that no one likes Mary. Why doesn't anyone like her? It's kinda a mystery, isn't it?"

Olivia blinked hard, understanding. Then she lowered her eyebrows and said in a sepulchral voice, "Oh, that's not the only odd thing at Misselthwaite Manor: Mary hears someone crying in the corridors, especially at night, but the servants tell her she's hearing things. Her uncle stays shut up in his study all day—when he's home—and speaks only to the housekeeper. And why would he lock up a walled garden for ten years—and bury the key?"

"Sounds like a good mystery to me." Randall put his book aside and followed her out of the room.

              ***September 29, 2024***

Can buzzing sound ominous?

Alex debated it for a long time afterward; all she knew that late September Sunday was that when her Fitbit vibrated for an incoming call, she reached for her phone with dread.

It could have been the hour, she considered. Nothing good happens at five in the morning, as April of 2023 had proven. The past nine days had been bleak as it was, Randall doggedly plodding through his schoolwork, each of his teachers keeping a weather eye out, and withdrawn at home. Brother Michael called on Friday to tell them that Kenny Shepherd was so distressed at Randall's continued low spirits that he had walked up to him on Friday morning and voluntarily hugged him.

"Hello," she whispered into her phone, hoping not to wake Bobby.

"Hi, Alex. Sorry to bother you this early," said Olivia Benson. Her voice sounded scratchy and low as if someone might be in the bedroom with her. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking on Alex's part.

"No bother. When?" Alex asked without preamble.

"St. Vincent's called about fifteen minutes ago."

Any hope of Bobby still being asleep was dashed when he rested his hand on her shoulder. "Is it Rosalind?"

She switched on the speakerphone function but lowered the volume before replying, "Yes," then expelled her breath. "Should we wake him up or let him sleep?"

Benson paused, then said carefully, "I can only give you the answer from my personal expert. I asked Noah once—after I was attacked by BX9—that if...if something happened to me on night shift, or if he were away, would he want whoever told him to wait or wake him? He picked the latter."

"What about her remains?" Bobby asked.

"St. Vincent's will probably cremate. There's a fee to have that done separately. I'll check on it."

"And Sterling Shaw?" They had discovered they could only address him by his full name as if he were a monstrous being who only existed in ancient legends.

"I'll have someone notify the prison. Or maybe just do it myself."

"All right, Liv," Alex said. "Thanks for letting us know."

"Call if you need me," Benson said.

Typically Liv, Alex thought. "Same," she said. "Go back to sleep."

They could almost hear her smiling. "Not me. I'm an early riser, even on Sundays, and it's almost time to get up. I'll have a cup of coffee and do some reading. Goodbye, you two. I'm sorry...that I put this on your shoulders."

"No. You gave us a gift. And we'd do it again," said Alex immediately. "Have a good day, Liv."

There was a nightlight in the hallway for the children's nocturnal bathroom visits, and now they could see the bedroom door open and a small figure silhouetted in the weak light. "Maman?"

Bobby huffed under his breath. Was she walking in her sleep again? Then the voice caught itself. "Mama? Papa? Are you awake?"

"Come in, Min," Bobby said kindly, and when she padded up, they realized she clutched the stuffed fox to her heart. "Did you have a nightmare?"

Alex switched on the lowest level of her bedside lamp. Olivia's eyes were enormous in the dim light. "It was Captain Benson, wasn't it? Or was that in my dream?"

"What did you dream?" he asked quietly.

"That...Randall was crying because his mother was–" Olivia sniffled. "That she was gone."

He pulled her close with his left arm. "She is."

"Captain Benson was just on the phone," Alex added. "The hospital called her."

Olivia pushed her face into Bobby's shoulder for a few minutes, and they knew she must be reliving the moment her school headmistress Anna Bradford-Smith told her that her parents had died.

Then she looked up, her face solemn. "We need to tell him right now. Noah told me once if anything happened to his mom, even in the middle of the night, he'd want to know." She paused, then declared firmly, "I know you both liked chasing criminals, and you miss it, but I'm glad you don't do it anymore. I couldn't be as brave as Noah."

Without another word, she squirmed from Bobby's embrace and waited for them at the bedroom door. They exchanged glances and followed her.

He'd always been restless. All Bobby's willpower had gone into standing motionless at military inspections; if necessary, he would substitute scraping his tongue against his teeth to keep his feet and fingers motion-free. His buddies in Narcotics teased him about it, especially in the short time Bobby had known him, glib Fin Tutuola. Alex became accustomed to his fidgets and pacing around their desks in MCS, and if he retreated to the FBI workout room a couple of times a day to hit a treadmill, neither Karin Hirahara nor Ben Siler had let it distract them. For Penelope Saltonstall, it never mattered so long as work was accomplished.

If he was restless during the week, he walked the neighborhood; if stressed, he'd drive somewhere walkable with distractions. Alex had accompanied him more frequently before she took the mayor's advisory position, but a few days earlier she'd had a Zoom meeting, so he'd hopped in the Mustang and driven to a sprawling antique mall in Waterbury. He enjoyed imagining who had used, worn, and played with the old items inside and, an hour later, would be home refreshed and quiescent.

The mall consisted of small booths owned by individuals who paid the antique mall owners to charge booth purchases to their accounts while taking a service cut. That Tuesday, a new booth with both current and vintage toys caught his eye. Knowing Randall's proclivities for mysteries and police stories, Bobby immediately spied, amid stuffed pigs and cats, monkeys and Labradors, a small German Shepherd dog with a faux leather collar sporting a sheriff's star.

When Randall first showed puzzlement at Olivia's reliance on her stuffed fox, Alex had said to Bobby with a smile, "I guess most little boys don't do that—I know Jack didn't. But Lizzie and I doted on our stuffed animals."

Bobby, remembering Wolfie, had admitted, "I'd be willing to bet more of them do—but they would never own up to it." So he took the chance. When he presented it to Randall at dinner that night, he explained lightly, "I figured you might like a police dog to add to your mystery collection."

Randall was more absorbed at that moment in keeping his peas separate from his mashed potatoes and nodded politely. But not even Olivia missed that his eyes brightened a little, even though he almost immediately abandoned the stuffed dog to the headboard of his bed.

The dim light from the hallway was still enough to illuminate Randall with his left arm cuddled around the dog—"Sonny," he'd told them offhandedly, after Dominick Carisi who had brought him to Olivia Benson's office—as they entered the bedroom. He was breathing slowly and deeply, cheek pillowed on his free hand. They hung back for a second, reluctant to take the next step.

Alex finally perched lightly at the edge of the bed. "Randall." Although he always made a face at the endearment, she added, "Sweetie. Please...wake up."

He blinked and squinted with myopic eyes. "Ms. Alex? What's..." A yawn broke his sentence. "It's still dark."

"I know," she whispered, just as he registered that Bobby and Olivia were also at his bedside. Alex saw him shiver, then stiffen. "My mother's dead, isn't she?"

"Yes," Alex said in a whisper, "I'm sorry." She touched his shoulder, but he pulled back.

"I told you when we left the hospital," he stated flatly. "I said she was gone. All that stuff...it just kept her alive. It didn't make her better."

Bobby knew it was fruitless but repeated nevertheless, "They held out hope for her."

"I knew she wasn't there. Does my dad know?" he asked abruptly.

"Captain Benson said she'd call the prison later today."

"So I'm alone now." His voice remained toneless, and Alex pondered her next move. She desperately wanted to scoop him into her arms, but she also wanted to respect his boundaries. Olivia stepped forward with a little gasp, but Bobby set a hand on her shoulder.

"We're still here," Alex said as calmly as possible. "We were hoping...that you'd...that you'd want to stay with us."

Randall shrank around the stuffed dog, visibly mounting a shell against them. "You don't have to. I know I'm just a foster kid, and I'm weird, and a lot of trouble, too, getting me into St. Greg's and the appointments with Dr. Allyson and...and...stuff... You can send me back any time."

Bobby released Olivia's shoulder, and before either of them could respond, she stepped forward and retorted, "You are not 'just a foster kid.'" And when Randall met her flashing eyes, she added intensely, "You're my brother now! I want you to stay."

"But I ripped the tail off your fox!" he retorted bitterly.

"I don't care. You're my brother now and more important than...than a stupid...old...fox!" And Olivia threw Captain to the floor, between Alex's feet.

Randall's mouth fell open, then he began to cry in harsh, gasping, terrifying sobs. Alex pulled him into her arms, hugging him fiercely, her own tears spilling over as Olivia turned back to wrap her arms around Bobby, who rocked her back and forth.

"You realize," Bobby commented dryly after a few minutes, when the storm had seemed to subside, "we're probably going to flood the library if we keep this up."

Olivia knew he was trying to defuse the situation and said with a tearful hiccup, "We can't do that, Papa. My encyclopedia would get wet." She paused, then added as an afterthought, "Besides, where would you work?"

Randall, voice clogged with tears, added, "And my book would get ruined before I ever got to read it."

Bobby answered, blotting his eyes with his fingers, "When that time comes, Randall, I'll have an autographed copy for you."

"If you want to stay with us," Alex told him, tipping up his chin and meeting his eyes, "we'll do our best to make it happen."

"We'll call DCF tomorrow to start the paperwork," Bobby added.

"That will mean a lot more inspections," Olivia warned him, "and I had ever so many."

Randall set his jaw. "I don't care," he said, echoing Olivia a few minutes earlier, took a breath, and added, "I'll look 'em in the eye if they want."

Once news of Rosalind's death spread, there were shoulders to cry on and hugs were freely given. Abbi Diaz brought freshly-baked pupusas. Shard and TJ provided dinner. The neighbors paid condolence calls, Russ Jenkins called from Big Brothers, Olivia Benson and Noah made a video call. Randall spent the afternoon reading with Sam's head in his lap, where a gentle touch on his shoulder, a kiss, and one of Olivia's watercolors provided support. At dinner there was a stack of printed e-mails from his homeroom class; Brother Michael, notified of the children's absence the next day, had contacted every student. Almost all had replied—Kenny Shepherd attached a drawing: a slightly crooked but endearing chibi-style rabbit hugging a puffy heart with "I'm sorry" printed underneath.

"Kenny loves rabbits," Randall had explained soberly. "He has two, Peter and Cottontail. Peter is spotted and Cottontail is white with lop ears. Kenny only draws rabbits for people he likes." He lifted two fists at chin level, one in front of the other, and waggled the index and middle fingers up and down. "That's ASL for rabbit. He taught me that."

"The people who love you are here," Alex told him with a kiss. "Always."

Later, after the children were tucked in and they slipped into bed, she said thoughtfully, "Well, Agent Goren, you know what this means."

"You're a ringmaster with a permanent circus of three, Captain Eames?" he hazarded with a wry smile.

"Oh...I knew that the day Liv sent us home with him," she said thoughtfully, but her eyes were bright. "I'm up for anything that our circus brings. But we need to shop for a larger car. Two adults, two kids, a collie, and a birdcage won't travel in a CR-V any longer—even with a roof rack."

"Alexandra Eames, soccer mom," Bobby said fondly, only to have her make a face at him. "We'll call Lewis in the morning and see what he can recommend."

"And Sterling Shaw?"

Bobby sighed as he put his arm around her. "A problem to tackle on another day." He kissed her cheek. "All four of us."