Page 59 of Dead Air
"I can't file stories from beach house isolation." Fiona shook her head. "Professional risk comes with the territory."
The women maintained eye contact for several heartbeats before Claire conceded with a nod. "Check in every hour. Anysign of surveillance or unusual attention, come straight back here."
"Yes, Mother." Fiona's sarcasm masked genuine appreciation for concern. "Lawson should stay put, though. Her connection to both murders makes her the most vulnerable target."
"Agreed." Claire turned to Lawson. "You're officially on beach house arrest until further notice."
Lawson didn't argue. Her hangover combined with revelation fatigue left little energy for resistance. "What about Parks? He should know about the recording." She hesitated, thinking about his last words to her. How long would their interests be aligned? Were they still?
"I'll contact him through secure channels." Claire moved toward her laptop. "An anonymous tip to his personal email rather than the department address."
Fiona departed with promises to return before the podcast aired. Claire retreated to the home office for client calls that couldn't wait despite murder investigations and corruption conspiracies. Normal professional obligations, continuing alongside extraordinary circumstances.
Lawson found herself alone on the deck, listening to the waves break against the distant shoreline. Six hours until Blackwell's live broadcast. Six hours to prepare for whatever revelation threatened Thomas Hutchinson enough to abruptly abandon careful damage control.
Her phone remained silent despite the notification settings. No messages from Parks. No further social media updates from Blackwell. Just the looming promise of "The Second Recording" and its unknown contents.
chapter
twenty-two
The clockon Claire's living room wall inched toward 6 p.m. with excruciating slowness. Lawson paced across hardwood floors while Fiona arranged recording equipment beside Claire's laptop. Outside, afternoon sunlight faded toward evening, painting Tybee Island in golden hues that belied the tension within the beach house.
"Stop wearing tracks in my floor." Claire emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray of sandwiches nobody would eat and coffee everyone would need. "Anxiety won't make time move faster."
"Professional habit." Lawson continued her circuit between windows. "Pre-raid ritual from tactical days."
Fiona checked the audio levels on her digital recorder. "Whatever Blackwell found, she's breaking standard podcast protocol to air it. No pre-production. No careful editing. Live broadcast risks technical failures, legal complications?—"
"And prevents anyone from stopping the release." Lawson completed the thought. "Whatever this second recording contains, she's afraid of intervention."
Claire arranged food on the coffee table with precise movements. "Five minutes to air. Shall we place bets on what bombshell drops?"
"Not funny." Lawson claimed a chair facing the laptop. The Dead Air podcast webpage displayed a simple countdown timer against a black background. Professional design maintaining suspense until the broadcast began.
"Hutchinson abandoned careful damage control the moment his assistant mentioned the recording." Fiona positioned her secondary microphone. "Something beyond his brother's suicide note exists."
"Something worth killing for." Claire settled onto the couch, legal pad balanced on her knee. "Question becomes whose voice we'll hear."
The timer reached zero. The screen transitioned to simple audio visualization waves pulsing with ambient background noise. Blackwell's voice emerged after several seconds of silence.
"Good evening. I'm Leah Blackwell. This is Dead Air, broadcasting live for the first time in our program's history."
Her voice sounded different than previous episodes. Raw. Unpolished. The carefully constructed narrative persona replaced by genuine urgency.
"Tonight's episode deviates from our standard format. No scripted introduction. No carefully edited segments. Just truth that powerful people have killed to suppress."
Lawson exchanged glances with Claire. Blackwell's tone carried something beyond journalistic intensity. Genuine fear beneath that professional delivery.
"Five years ago, Detective Monica Landry was murdered at an abandoned warehouse in Savannah. Official investigation concluded with her partner, Detective Erin Lawson, as sole witness to an unidentified shooter who escaped into the night."
Fiona adjusted recording levels as background noise increased on the broadcast. Blackwell wasn't in her usual studio. The audio captured ambient sounds—distant traffic, air conditioning hum, occasional rustling papers.
"Two days ago, Detective Ray Hutchinson died in his apartment. Official ruling: suicide with a confession note claiming responsibility for Landry's murder. Case closed with a convenient narrative resolution."
Papers shuffled over the broadcast. Blackwell paused, seemingly organizing materials in real time rather than following a prepared script.
"Evidence suggests neither official narrative reflects truth. Detective Landry was investigating departmental corruption before her death. Detective Hutchinson's suicide shows forensic inconsistencies suggesting a staged scene. Connections exist between both deaths, separated by five years but linked through institutional corruption."
