Page 18 of Dead Air
"Even when they break the law? Compromise investigations?"
"Especially then." Fiona adjusted her blazer. "The public deserves truth. Sometimes accessing that truth requires… flexibility."
"Flexibility." Lawson looked up at her. "Like paying for sealed evidence? Trading favors for confidential files?"
"I never said that." Fiona's voice hardened. "And you should be careful making accusations without proof."
"Not accusations. Questions." Lawson remained seated. Deliberate power move, letting Fiona stand alone. "Same questions I asked during the regatta case. Same questions I'm asking about Blackwell's podcast."
Fiona glanced around the café. Checking who might overhear. "This meeting was a mistake."
"Was it?" Lawson finally stood. "Or did you get exactly what you came for? Reaction quotes from Monica Landry's partner about the podcast? Background for your next front-page story?"
The flicker in Fiona's eyes confirmed it. This meeting had never been about warning Lawson. It had been reconnaissance. Information gathering disguised as friendly concern.
"The Chronicle will cover the podcast." Fiona admitted this much. "Public interest is too high to ignore it."
"And you wanted exclusive comments." Lawson nodded slowly. "Lead reporter angle while Blackwell gets national attention."
"I thought you might prefer speaking with someone who understands Savannah." Fiona's tone shifted to professional reporter mode. "Someone who remembers Monica."
"You didn't know her."
"I covered her funeral." Fiona's expression softened with practiced sympathy. "Three hundred officers in dress blues. Your eulogy moved many to tears."
The memory of that day sliced through Lawson. Standing at the podium while rows of uniforms blurred through tears.Reading words that could never capture who Monica had been. What they had meant to each other.
"Don't use her name to manipulate me." Lawson kept her voice low. "We're done here."
"When you're ready to tell your side, call me. Before Blackwell shapes the narrative beyond your control."
"Goodbye, Fiona."
chapter
seven
Lawson satcross-legged on her living room floor, laptop balanced on the coffee table. Three empty coffee mugs formed a semicircle around her. The room had grown dark while she worked, but she hadn't bothered with lights. Only the glow of the screen illuminated her face.
She pressed play for the forty-seventh time.
"I've got a 10-999! Officer down! Send help immediately!" Her own voice, frantic and raw. "Warehouse district, old paper mill. Shots fired, officer down. Need medical assistance!"
Five years since she'd made that call. Five years of avoiding the sound of her own desperation. Now she couldn't stop listening. Each replay exposed new layers of her panic, her breathing ragged between words, her voice breaking on "officer down."
Her fingers moved across the keyboard, adjusting parameters on the audio software she'd downloaded three hours ago. Increased gain. Reduced background noise. Isolated frequency ranges. The audio engineering terms blurred together as she pushed buttons based on YouTube tutorials rather than expertise.
She pressed play again.
Something lurked beneath her voice. Something she'd missed during previous listens. A shadow in the audio. She increased the volume until her eardrums protested, focusing on the space between her pleas for help.
There. A voice. Not hers. Not Monica's. Male. Low. Almost lost beneath the sound of her own ragged breathing.
She repeated the segment, isolating just those three seconds. Stripped away her voice, enhanced what remained.
"Erin."
Her name. Whispered or spoken softly. Not shouted. Not panicked. Just stated. Matter of fact.
