Page 101 of Dead Air
"Erin?" Claire looked up from the book she'd been examining. "What is it?"
"She was going to leave." The words scraped Lawson's throat. "She wanted us to go together."
Claire moved beside her, reading the letter over Lawson's shoulder. She placed a gentle hand on Lawson's back but said nothing. There were no words adequate for this moment.
"I never knew." Lawson's voice cracked. "All this time, I thought our fight was the end. That she died angry with me."
"She loved you," Claire said simply. "That's clear."
Lawson looked down at the photograph still in her lap—the fountain where she'd searched futilely for Monica's "insurance policy" weeks ago. The realization hit her like a physical blow.
"Our place," she whispered. "The insurance policy she mentioned in her journal. She didn't mean evidence about the case. She meant this—us. Our relationship. Our future together."
She held up the letter, her voice strengthening with understanding. "She hid this behind our photo because she knew if something happened to her, I'd eventually find it. The real insurance policy wasn't about Rafferty or corruption. It was about giving me permission to leave. To start over somewhere new, just like she wanted us to do together."
The tears came without warning. Five years of compartmentalized grief finally breaking through. Lawson bent forward, the letter clutched against her chest, body shaking with sobs she could no longer contain.
Claire kept her hand on Lawson's back. Silent support without attempting to fix what couldn't be fixed. Understanding that some wounds required acknowledgment rather than comfort.
When the worst of the storm passed, Lawson straightened and wiped her face with her sleeve. "Sorry."
"Don't apologize for grieving."
"Five years late."
"Grief doesn't follow schedules." Claire took the letter gently and refolded it. "You needed to find the truth first. Now you can finally mourn."
A knock interrupted their conversation. Lawson checked her watch—1:15 p.m. Leah Blackwell stood in the hallway, laptop bag slung over one shoulder. Her bruises had faded to yellowshadows across her cheekbones. She'd cut her hair shorter since leaving the hospital.
"Come in," Lawson said, stepping back to allow her entry. "We're just sorting through the last of Monica's things."
Blackwell entered cautiously. Despite multiple meetings since Byrd's death, tension remained between them. Professional respect mixed with mutual wariness. Too much had happened for immediate trust, despite their shared purpose.
"Claire." Blackwell nodded. "Good to see you."
"How's the podcast?" Claire asked.
"Breaking download records." Blackwell set her laptop bag on the counter. "FBI Director issued a formal statement this morning. Drummond's suspended pending investigation."
"So we heard."
Blackwell surveyed the boxes stacked around the apartment. "Moving?"
"Florida," Lawson admitted. "Mom's been after me to move closer for years."
"Fresh start." Blackwell nodded. "Can't blame you. Savannah carries too many ghosts now."
An awkward silence settled between them. Blackwell shifted her weight, eyes darting toward Monica's photograph still hanging on the wall.
Lawson studied her face, the weight of that final podcast episode still fresh in her mind—the raw edge in Blackwell's voice when she'd finally laid it bare. "I listened to the episode last night. Hearing you say it out loud … about Monica being family. That she wasn't just a case to you. Why wait so long to put that on the table? All those months digging, and you kept it locked down like it was just another source."
Blackwell's fingers tightened around the handle of her laptop bag, her jaw working for a beat before she met Lawson's gaze head-on. "Journalism 101—don't let the personal bleed into thestory until the facts demand it. But yeah … it was her. Second cousin. Our mothers were first cousins. We grew up thick as thieves, summers at the same lake house until we were teenagers and life pulled us different ways."
"Monica never mentioned a cousin gunning for law school, let alone one who'd turn podcaster." Lawson's tone softened the edge, curiosity edging out the old wariness.
"I wasn't that yet when she died. Still buried in casebooks and caffeine." Blackwell reached into her bag and pulled out a worn photograph, the edges soft from handling. "This was us, summer before she joined the academy. Proof she wasn't always the one with the badge."
The image showed younger versions of both women, arms around each other's shoulders at a lakeside cookout. The family resemblance obvious now that Lawson knew to look for it—the same jawline, similar eyes.
