The Letter

Olivia Has a Rough Day:

It wasn’t as if Olivia had never had difficult days before. Days when crimes hit too close, when perps walked free, when victims didn’t make it, when little kids were never found, but today, well today was a particularly difficult day.

She knew it was coming. Somewhere deep inside she had prepared herself for this inevitability. 

“Elliot put in his papers. There was nothing I could do.”

Everyone always left eventually. They would walk away from her. She had trusted him. Her partner. She’d given him more of herself than she’d ever given anyone else. He knew things about her no one else did, and now, she supposed he was the only one who ever would. She would not make the same mistake twice. 

She stopped in the lobby for her mail before she went upstairs. She hadn’t thought to grab it for several days. Now was as good a time as any. 

Olivia unlocked her door and hadn’t even tossed her things on the counter when she felt her shoulders deflate. She slumped against the door, letting herself slip to the floor. Her head dropped back as tears filled her eyes, but she blinked rapidly. She would not cry again, even if no one was here to see it. 

Elliot was done. He retired. There weren’t partners anymore. There’d be no more interrogating perps, taking statements from victims, sifting through phone records, handling late night stakeouts, filling out paperwork. There’d be no more splitting their food at diners, sharing sweatshirts, teasing Munch, having drinks with their squad, reassuring one another through difficult cases. It was all gone. 

She thought about what Elliot would do now, if he would really retire. She doubted he could sit still. He’d need something to do. Maybe private security. Lots of retired cops did that. She wondered if he would ever call again, if he’d ever shoot her a text someday asking how she was doing. She wondered why she doubted it. 

She let her thoughts and feelings simmer for a moment before pushing herself up off the floor, finally putting all of her things away. Keys and badge in the dish beside the door, weapon in the lockbox, shoes in her closet, clothes in the laundry basket. She put on some loungewear and returned to the mail she’d left on the counter. Bill. Junk. Bill. Letter. There was no return address, just her address written in neat script in the center. She opened the envelope and pulled out and unfolded a single sheet of paper. 

Dear Olivia…