Page 54 of Dead Air
"Just one," she muttered to the empty house. The familiar justification that had preceded countless nights lost to memory.
The first sip burned like truth. The second spread warmth through her chest. By the third, the bourbon tasted like coming home to a place she'd never truly left.
She carried the glass to the deck, settling into an Adirondack chair overlooking the garden. Birds flitted between overgrown bushes. Wind rustled palm fronds against the evening sky. The tumbler emptied faster than intended.
One became two. Two became three. Three blurred into continuous refills as sunset painted the sky in watercolor streaks of orange and purple. Alcohol unlocked memories she'dcarefully compartmentalized. Monica laughing during their Charleston weekend. Monica sleeping beside her, dark hair spread across white pillowcases. Monica arguing passionately about justice and corruption before everything fell apart.
The sliding glass door opened behind her. Claire's voice cut through bourbon-induced haze. "I see you found the bar cart."
Lawson didn't turn. "Quality selection."
"My father's collection." Claire's heels clicked across the deck boards. She placed a grocery bag on the side table and claimed the adjacent chair. "I brought food. Real food."
"Not hungry."
"Clearly." Claire eyed the tumbler in Lawson's hand. "How many is that?"
"Lost count."
"I can tell." Claire removed her blazer and draped it over the chair back. Court attire exchanged for evening casualness. "Want to talk about it?"
"About what?" Lawson gestured broadly with her glass. "My apartment being invaded? My private memories stolen? Hutchinson's murder? Monica's death? Pick a tragedy."
"Start with why today drove you back to drinking after five months sober."
The bourbon had dismantled too many internal barriers for effective deflection. "She's going to tell everyone about us. About Monica and me."
"Your relationship wasn't a crime."
"It was to the department." Lawson stared into her glass. "Partners aren't supposed to be involved. Professional boundaries and all that administrative bullshit."
"That doesn't explain your reaction." Claire's gaze remained steady. "There's something else."
The alcohol pushed words past filters that sobriety maintained. "I was drinking the night she died."
Claire sighed. "I know, Erin. I listened to the podcast."
Lawson shook her head. “No, I wasn’t just drinking. I wasdrinking.”
“What are you trying to tell me?” Claire asked slowly.
"Four whiskeys at the Driftwood before driving to the warehouse." The confession spilled out after five years of silence. "We'd been fighting. Hadn't spoken in two weeks. She texted about meeting, about having information on Rafferty. I went straight from the bar."
"You were impaired at the crime scene." Claire's voice remained neutral despite the bombshell revelation.
"Reaction time slowed. Observation skills compromised." Lawson's self-condemnation carried the weight of five years' guilt. "I saw things I couldn't process. Details lost to alcohol."
"What things?"
"Car parked behind the warehouse. Dark sedan. Thought it belonged to Monica's source." Lawson closed her eyes, forcing memories through alcohol's distortion. "Someone got out as I arrived. Familiar walk. I couldn't place it then. Still can't."
"Did you tell investigators?"
"Told them about the shooter. The floodlight. The gunshots." Lawson shook her head. "Not about the car. Not about seeing someone before the shooting started. Not about recognizing something in their movement."
"Why not?"
"Because admitting I saw someone meant admitting I could have identified them if I'd been sober." The tumbler trembled in her hand. "Because Richardson removed my intoxication from the official report. Protected me from suspension or worse."
