Page 99 of Deadly Force
Something ugly snaps into place. The girl. She may not have been Eliza’s friend, but she may well have facilitated an abortion.
“That’s what they found,” I say, my voice flat andsharp. “That’s what you’ve been covering up. You got an underage girl pregnant.”
A shaky breath escapes him, and when he looks at me again, there's naked hatred there. "If it comes out, I lose everything. My career. My name. My freedom."
"And that was enough," I say, bitterness rising in my throat. "Enough to let Eliza die. Enough to make it look like Travis Bell was a sloppy drunk driver."
His jaw clenches. "I didn't kill anyone."
"No," I say coldly. "You just covered it up to save yourself."
He flinches, but then something in his face shifts. Hardens into something uglier. More honest.
"You think you're better than me?" he spits, and now I can see the real Lawrence. The one who's been hiding behind editorial meetings and professional courtesy for years. "Because you believe in truth? Truth isconstructed," he spits.
It all makes sense now. Every bit of it.
Every time I pitched a story that exposed sin, he pushed back. When I covered the counseling center that failed to report abuse, he said it"wasn't our fight."When I wrote about trafficking tied to cartel networks, he said it"lacked nuance."
And when I wanted to run an op-ed about protecting minors and speaking biblical truth into sexual exploitation?“Too polarizing.”“We can’t alienate half our readers.”“This isn’t the place for moral panic.”
I thought he just didn’t like Christians. That my faith made him uncomfortable.
But now I see it for what it was.
He wasn’t protecting the paper. He was protecting himself. His sin. His secrets. His appetite.
He didn’t want light in the newsroom, not because it was unprofessional.
Lawrence isn't just a hypocrite. He's been protecting his own darkness all along.
I lift my chin, disgust tightening every word. "Perversion doesn’t stop being sin just because society rebrands it ‘minor attraction.’”
His lip curls. “You call it sin. I call itpreference. And I’m not the only one.”
The venom in his voice makes everything clear. He's always hated me. Always resented having to work with someone whose very existence was a reminder of how twisted he’s become.
He steps closer, and I can see the violence simmering just beneath the surface. "You think the truth's going to save you? It won't. Neither willyourGod."
He's breathing hard now. A storm barely held back.
"You could've stopped this," I say, low and unwavering. "You still can."
He shakes his head slowly, a twisted calm settling over him. “It’s too late,” he says, like that settles it.
His voice lowers, like he's sharing something reasonable. Rational.
“You think everything’s abuse. Everything is so black and white for you.”
A slow breath. No shame in it. No guilt.
“There’s nuance in these things. Psychological complexity. Not all contact is criminal.”
He doesn’t sound sorry.
He sounds convinced.
Like this is the defense he’s rehearsed a hundred times, and now he wants it to be the last thing I hear before I die.
