Page 100 of Dead Air
Claire stood in the hallway, having traded her suit for more casual attire. She balanced two coffee cups on top of a bakery box.
"Breakfast," she announced, sweeping past Lawson into the apartment. "You can't pack on an empty stomach."
Lawson cleared space on the counter, moving aside the mail she hadn't bothered opening all week. "You didn't have to bring food."
"Yes, I did. Your refrigerator's empty. I checked yesterday."
The pastry box revealed cinnamon rolls topped with thick frosting. Claire had remembered her weakness for sugar, another detail that made their friendship both comforting and occasionally annoying. The woman noticed everything.
"How's Leah's podcast doing?" Lawson asked, accepting the coffee cup Claire offered.
"Five million downloads of the Richardson confession episode." Claire placed a roll on a paper towel and handed it to Lawson. "FBI Director issued a formal statement this morning announcing Drummond's suspension pending internal investigation."
"Suspension. Not arrest."
"Give it time. Federal bureaucracy moves slowly, but the evidence is overwhelming."
The evidence. Richardson's meticulous documentation now in Blackwell's possession, released through carefully structured podcast episodes. Each revelation more damaging than the last. The Bureau's authorized execution of its own agent. The subsequent cover-up. The systematic corruption of Savannah's justice system.
"Chief Wallace's arraignment is Tuesday," Claire continued. "Federal charges for conspiracy and obstruction. Prosecutors expect him to start naming names in exchange for leniency."
Lawson bit into the cinnamon roll without answering. Sweet food that tasted like nothing. Another side effect of grief she'd never quite shaken.
"Let's finish Monica's boxes," she said after swallowing. "I promised her sister the last of her things by tonight."
Monica's belongings occupied the bedroom that had functioned as Lawson's home office. Boxes Rachel had stored after the funeral, retrieved from the storage unit a week ago. Clothing Lawson couldn't bring herself to donate. Books with Monica's notes in the margins.
They worked in companionable silence, with Claire sorting through paperwork, and Lawson handling the more personal items. A jewelry box containing the simple silver pieces Monica had favored. Photo albums from her academy days. Birthday cards from her family.
Lawson picked up a framed photograph from Monica's dresser—the two of them at Forsyth Park fountain, arms around each other's shoulders, both grinning at the camera. It had been taken during their first month as partners, before everything became complicated by feelings neither wanted to acknowledge.
As she lifted it to place in the box, the frame felt heavier than expected. She turned it over and noticed the backing was slightly loose. Working her fingernail under the edge, she pried it open.
A folded paper slipped out from behind the photograph. Lawson opened it to find a letter on department letterhead. Dated one week before Monica died. Addressed to Lawson but never delivered.
Erin,
I'm writing this knowing I might never find the courage to give it to you. We haven't spoken in two weeks. The silence between us has become its own presence, something living and growing with each day we avoid each other.
I need to tell you the truth. Not about us—you already know how I feel there. The truth about my work. About what I've been doing these past two years.
I'm not just a detective. I've been working with the FBI, gathering evidence of corruption within our justice system. Judges. Prosecutors. Fellow officers. It started as something small, a favor for Richardson, who recruited me. It's grown into something that consumes every part of my life.
I've discovered things that change everything we thought we knew about Savannah's legal system. Evidence that will shatter careers and rewrite everything we've built our lives around.
I'm turning everything over to federal prosecutors next week. After that, nothing will be the same. My career here will be over.
I want you to come with me. Leave Savannah. Start somewhere new together. Somewhere we don't have to hide what we are to each other. Somewhere without the weight of badges and departmental politics and corruption that seeps into everything.
I know it's asking too much. I know your career matters. I know we left things broken between us. But I can't do this alone anymore.
I'll explain everything. If you still want nothing to do with me afterward, I'll understand.
I love you. I've never stopped.
Monica
The letter trembled in Lawson's hands. She sat heavily on a nearby box, legs suddenly unable to support her weight.
