Title: The Turning of the Leaves
Author: Mercaque
Rating: R
Genre: Drama
Summary: Three years after the events of "Loss," Alex Cabot is told it's safe to return to New York City. But is she ready for the tremendous changes that await her?

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PROLOGUE

I sit alone in my apartment, watching gray waves roll against an old wooden pier.

The bone-white sailboats boats undulate with the water. Up. Down. Up. Down. Never moving forward or backward; like a metronome, they just tick off the endless stretch of time that lies before them.

I sigh heavily. It's exactly what I've been doing with my life for the last three years.

Three years. That's how long it's been since I left my old life in New York City. The Witness Protection Program set me up in Annapolis, Maryland. It's a picturesque seaside town if ever I saw one.

But for all I'm enjoying it, it may as well be a jail term.

Oh, I know it's not fair to compare Annapolis to a prison. It's a nice place. There's a naval academy, and colonial cobblestone streets, and crab cakes to die for. But I've come to the bitter realization that all these things are worth little if I have no future.

Gone are my grand ambitions for district attorney; my eventual dream of getting elected to public office has evaporated into thin air. I dimly remember being a brassy, fresh-faced lawyer fresh out of school, just itching to send the bad guys up the river. Now I'm a thirty-something office worker with little hope of advancing beyond my menial desk job. I'm actually good enough at my paper-pushing that I've been asked to go to Washington a few times, but I know they can't vouch for my safety if I do. If I stick my head up too far, I'm certain I'll again draw Velez's attention. Velez - he haunts my every step and my every hope of advancement. I hate him for it; but more than that, I hate myself for bending to his threats. But what other choice do I have?

Gone are my crisp, tailored business suits and bitch pumps. In their place are comfortable flats, sensible slacks, and beige jackets. Gone is my prized long hair; I've cut it short, and it now frames my face in choppy brunette layers. I like to alternate between brown, blonde and red. It's sad, but picking out my next hair color is one of the few thrills I get in my otherwise flat routine.

Gone is my libido; I haven't had the slightest flicker of sexual desire in two years. The last person I fucked was one of our summer interns four months ago, and that was more out of intellectual curiosity than anything resembling desire. At least I sent a very happy young man back to the University of Maryland.

Gone are my fit, lean jogger's calves and thighs. I don't run anymore. I just haven't been able to muster the will to do it, not since they told me Velez had been tracking my route through Central Park. It's not that I think Velez will find me jogging here in Annapolis. It's just that, in that moment, my bubble of security popped. And I've never quite been able to re-establish it.

That's why I rarely venture outside my apartment. It's also probably why I've put on 20 pounds of pure fat since I came here. I care nothing for the outside world, I can't be bothered to eat anything other than breakfast cereal and cheap Chinese takeout, and if you quizzed me about what I did at work today, I'd likely fail. My job is mindless repetition; it's something a first-year law student could do in her sleep. Hell, my mind is asleep most of the time these days. If my physical body is bloated and out of shape, I can't say my mental state is any better.

At least I'm not out of control or self-destructive. My worst vice is my weekly pack of Marlboros.

I like to walk along Annapolis' harbor when I smoke, letting the wind ruffle my short hair and the rolling sea soothe my thoughts. Sometimes I just crouch down and stare into the harbor's green depths, wondering what it would be like to rest at the bottom – to just close my eyes and let the heavy rhythms of the water rock me to sleep.

I'm not miserable enough to let myself drop off the pier just yet. But I'm not happy enough to call what I do living, either.

It's just a heavy numbness, settling like a cold lump of iron at the center of my chest. I've melted completely into my daily routine – I wake up, eat a bland breakfast, go to work and push papers all day, come home, watch TV, fall asleep. And then I wake up the next day and do it all over again, and somehow, the time ticks by.

And some days, it works. I can dull my mind until my old fire, my old ambitions, and my old friends are just hazy blurs from a distant past. It's like the hollow nostalgia of grainy home video reels; I mourn what I don't feel more than what I do.

I shake my head, trying to clear the worst of my introspective fog. The sailboats are still bobbing beneath the ash-gray November sky; the sea is as impassive and unforgiving as ever.

And that's when it happens.

The phone rings, splitting the gloomy silence of my tiny apartment. My eyes shoot to the phone; not many people call me, and even three years later, my heart pounds every time. Maybe, just maybe...

I snatch the receiver from the cradle. "Hello?"

"Melissa Jones?" comes a gruff male voice on the other end. Melissa Jones – my alias is as bland as my life.

"Yes, that's me," I answer, my spirits sinking. Probably a telemarketer.

"This is Fred Johnson," he identifies himself, and my pulse picks up once again. My body jerks in surprise as I realize that he was my contact in the program. I grip the phone tighter, trying to hold down my excitement.

"Did you get my onion soup order?" I ask, struggling valiantly to keep my voice even. If he answers correctly, he knows the code. And if he knows the code...

"The onion soup should be on its way," Fred replies.

My knees buckle; I feel as though I've been punched in the stomach. I sink to the floor, tears flooding my eyes. He knows the code.

"Did you... did it... can I..." My voice is barely coherent.

"Miss Cabot, we've done some thorough investigating," Fred tells me. His voice is businesslike, and if he has any reaction to my obvious distress, I can't hear it over the phone. "Cesar Velez was killed a year and a half ago."

"What? And you've been keeping me here all this time?" I splutter, my shock turning to brief, white-hot rage.

"We needed to wait until his operation was in severe enough disarray," Fred answers placatingly, and I nod. It occurs to me belatedly that he can't hear a nod over the phone, but he continues talking anyway. "It hasn't been until now that we feel confident enough to call you out of the program."

"Oh my god," I choke out. "Thank you."

-END PROLOGUE-

Author's Notes: I actually spent a good chunk of my childhood in Annapolis, and I really liked it. Don't let my bleak description fool you – it's a lovely little town. Also, no offense intended to any Melissa Joneses who might be reading. If it makes you feel any better, my real name ain't exactly Cleopatra.

And finally, if you think I've sprung Cabot too easily... just keep reading.