Page 71 of Dead Air
Lawson gathered the most critical evidence documents, focusing on Richardson's psychiatric evaluation and property records. Five years pursuing justice through proper channels had led to this moment—a direct confrontation with the manpotentially responsible for Monica's death, while herself facing arrest for a crime she didn't commit.
The irony wasn't lost on her. But some truths required looking their keepers in the eye, regardless of personal risk.
Some investigations could only be completed by stepping outside the system that contained them.
chapter
twenty-six
Pine trees crowdedthe narrow dirt road leading to Richardson's cabin. Lawson navigated the final mile with headlights off, moonlight providing just enough visibility to avoid the deeper ruts and potholes. The borrowed car—Claire's second vehicle, kept for emergencies—handled the rough terrain better than expected.
The cabin appeared through a break in the trees. Simple construction. Two stories with a wraparound porch. Cedar siding weathered to silver-gray. A single light glowed through the front window. Richardson's SUV sat in the gravel driveway, confirming Amy's fishing trip story contained at least partial truth.
Lawson parked behind a stand of trees fifty yards from the structure. Standard approach protocol ingrained through years of tactical training. She surveyed the property through binoculars, noting multiple sight lines and potential cover positions. No other vehicles visible. No movement outside the building.
The woods surrounding her felt alive with night sounds. Crickets. A distant owl. Wind rustling through pine needles. The perfect backdrop to mask her footsteps as she approached thecabin with practiced caution. The weight of her backup weapon—the one Wallace hadn't confiscated—pressed reassuringly against her ankle.
Wooden steps creaked despite her careful ascent to the porch. The cabin door stood partially open, warm light spilling across weathered boards. An invitation. Or a trap.
"Come in, Lawson." Richardson's voice carried from inside. "You've come this far. Might as well finish it."
She pushed the door open with her fingertips, maintaining position outside the threshold. Richardson sat at a wooden table centered in the main room. A service weapon rested on the surface before him, pointed toward the empty chair opposite. His appearance startled her—three days of stubble shadowed his jaw. Dark circles underlined bloodshot eyes. The pressed shirts and perfect posture replaced by rumpled flannel and slouched shoulders.
"I'm not armed." He gestured toward the empty chair. "Well, not in hand anyway. Figured we might need protection before this conversation ends."
"Protection from what?" Lawson remained in the doorway, assessing angles and distances.
"Depends on who finds us first." Richardson nodded toward the chair again. "Sit down. You didn't drive all this way to stand in the doorway."
Lawson entered but remained standing, maintaining the tactical advantage of mobility. The cabin interior reflected its owner—organized, utilitarian, devoid of unnecessary decoration. A fishing rod leaned in one corner. Maps covered one wall, red pins marking locations across Savannah and surrounding counties.
"I knew you'd come." Richardson studied her with weary resignation. "You always were smart. Too smart to believe the official narrative."
"Which official narrative?" Lawson maintained distance between them. "Monica's murder? Hutchinson's suicide? Blackwell's abduction? My arrest warrant?"
"All manufactured from the same template." Richardson's hand rested inches from his weapon. "Control the story. Eliminate loose ends. Maintain the operation."
"The operation you helped run." The accusation emerged sharper than intended.
"The operation I infiltrated." Richardson corrected with unexpected calmness. "There's a distinction worth understanding before you judge too quickly."
"Convince me."
Richardson reached slowly toward a folder beside his weapon. Lawson tensed, hand moving instinctively toward her ankle holster. He froze, then continued with deliberate transparency, opening the folder to reveal photographs and documents.
"Monica discovered something bigger than either of us anticipated." He pushed the folder toward her. "Not just corrupt cops taking bribes. A structured criminal network with protection from both investigation and prosecution."
Lawson approached cautiously, glancing at the contents while maintaining awareness of Richardson's position. Surveillance photos. Financial records. Organizational charts with names connected by relationship lines. Monica's handwriting filled the margins with questions and observations.
"The Rafferty case opened the door," Richardson continued while she examined the materials. "Monica followed money trails beyond street-level dealers to offshore accounts and shell companies. Found the same corporate entities protecting different criminal operations across jurisdictions."
"You knew about this." Lawson looked up from the documents.
"Not initially." Richardson shook his head. "I discovered fragments after her death. Pieces she'd hidden in case something happened to her. Took years to assemble the complete picture."
"And you did nothing." The accusation carried five years of accumulated anger.
"I did everything possible without getting killed in the process." Richardson's voice hardened. "Gathered evidence. Identified network members. Worked to understand who controlled the operation."
