Page 78 of Dead Air
Dylan's broadcast continued with increased urgency. "The final file contains Leah's direct message. Recorded the day before her abduction. Unfortunately, the file shows signs of corruption—only fragments remain accessible. Our technical team continues working to recover the complete content."
The repository updated again. A new file appeared: Blackwell_Final_Message.mp3.
Lawson downloaded it immediately, anticipation building as the progress bar filled. The file opened automatically.
Static filled her car's interior before resolving into Blackwell's voice—fragmented, cutting in and out between bursts of electronic distortion.
"—discovered the connection—" Static interrupted. "—Thomas Hutchinson orchestrating—" More disruption. "—killed Monica when she—" The voice strengthened momentarily. "If you're hearing this, trust Lawson. She wasn't involved—" Final fragment emerged with surprising clarity. "The real evidence is where it all began."
The recording ended. Lawson replayed it immediately, straining to capture additional words between static bursts. The message remained frustratingly incomplete.
Trust Lawson.The direct endorsement carried significant implication. Blackwell had concluded Lawson wasn't involved in Monica's death or subsequent cover-up, despite earlier podcast episodes questioning her potential culpability.
The real evidence is where it all began.The cryptic final statement suggested a location containing additional proof beyond what the hourly files would reveal. But where had it all begun? The warehouse where Monica died? The Rafferty case that initiated her investigation? Some other starting point Blackwell had discovered?
Dylan's voice returned to the live broadcast. "These releases will continue hourly until all secured files have been distributed. Leah created multiple distribution channels to ensure the evidence reaches proper authorities regardless of local interference. The complete archive has been transmitted to federal agencies and international journalists through scheduled delivery systems."
Smart precaution. Thomas Hutchinson might control local law enforcement and the judiciary, but his influence had limitsagainst federal investigation and international media scrutiny. The distributed evidence created overlapping protection layers that would survive even if individual recipients were compromised.
Dylan continued, his voice gaining confidence through technical explanation. "Technical analysis of the corrupted final file continues. Updates will be provided through this channel as recovery efforts progress. For security reasons, this live broadcast will now conclude. Further communications will occur through automated file releases."
The broadcast ended. Audio visualization waves flattened into a static line across the phone screen. Lawson sat in silence broken only by rain and occasional vehicles passing on the highway above.
Blackwell's dead man's switch had activated, releasing evidence accumulated over months. Each hourly file would further damage Thomas Hutchinson's operation and the corruption network protecting it. The automated system would continue functioning regardless of what happened to Blackwell herself.
Lawson started the engine again, pulling back onto the rain-slick road toward Savannah. The evidence from Richardson combined with Blackwell's automated releases created comprehensive documentation of the corruption Monica had died investigating. The truth would emerge through channels Thomas Hutchinson couldn't control.
But Blackwell's final message suggested something more remained hidden. Critical evidence at the place "where it all began."
chapter
twenty-nine
The abandoned papermill warehouse squatted against the night sky like a decaying monument to industrial obsolescence. Its jagged silhouette cut a menacing shape against the cloud-scattered stars, broken windows reflecting moonlight in sharp, dangerous glints. Lawson parked beside the loading dock where Monica had bled out five years ago; the concrete still stained despite countless rainstorms. The rain had stopped an hour earlier, leaving the air thick with humidity, and the metallic scent of wet asphalt mingled with rusting metal.
She killed the engine and sat for a moment, listening to the tick of cooling metal and the distant sound of highway traffic. This place held ghosts—Monica's most prominently, but also the ghost of who Lawson herself had been before that night. The officer who believed in the system. The woman who thought love could be compartmentalized away from duty.
With deliberate movements, she retrieved her phone and typed a message to Parks:At the warehouse. Found something in Blackwell's files. Meet me here.
The screen illuminated her face in the darkness as she waited. His response came within minutes:On my way. Don't go in alone. 15 minutes out.
Fifteen minutes. Lawson debated waiting in the car, then decided against it. Time remained their scarcest resource. She stepped out into humid air that clung to her skin like a damp shroud. Her flashlight beam cut through the darkness as she began circling the building's perimeter, searching for signs of recent activity while mentally mapping possible approaches.
Weeds choked the loading bay where the ambulance had parked that night, pushing through cracked concrete with nature's inexorable patience. Yellow police tape fragments still clung to rusted metal poles, faded to almost white after years of sun exposure. Graffiti covered most accessible wall surfaces, vivid blues and reds forming territorial markers for local gangs claiming this abandoned territory.
Windows on the upper floors gaped like dead eyes, glass long since shattered by vandals or weather. Wind whispered through empty frames, creating eerie whistles that raised the hair on Lawson's neck despite her professional detachment.
The real evidence is where it all began.
Blackwell's final message echoed through her mind as she examined the structure's decaying exterior. This warehouse represented more than abandoned industrial space. It marked the spot where Monica had died investigating corruption that reached the highest levels of Savannah's justice system. Ground zero—the place where truth collided with power and lost.
Lawson completed her circuit of the building's exterior, noting three viable entry points beyond the main doors. Old security habits die hard. Always know your exits. Always map your approaches. Assume hostility until proven otherwise. The tactical training Monica had teased her about still guided her movements after all these years.
Headlights swept across the lot, illuminating decades of industrial debris scattered across cracked asphalt. Parks emerged from his department vehicle, flashlight in hand andservice weapon visible on his hip. He approached with the measured, cautious movements of someone who'd learned not to trust abandoned buildings or the shadows they contained.
"Been here long?" he asked, voice low despite the isolation.
"Ten minutes. Just scanning the perimeter." She gestured toward the building's weather-beaten facade. "No signs of recent activity. Place looks exactly as it should after five years." Parks swept his beam across broken windows and shadowed doorways, professional assessment in his narrowed gaze. "Any activity while you waited?"
