Page 11 of Dead Air
"Eleven months ago. Things change."
Hope and frustration battled across Monica's features. The same look she got working cold cases—patient but relentless.
"What if Richardson splits us up? Partners aren't supposed to be involved."
"Then we request different shifts. Different divisions." Monica reached for Lawson's hands. "Better to be together somewhere else than work side-by-side pretending we're strangers."
Monica's touch sent sparks racing up Lawson's arms. Those palms carried years of calluses from handling weapons, cuffs, steering wheels. Rough hands that knew exactly how to be gentle.
"Erin." Monica's voice dropped into that low register she used in bed. "I love you. I want people to know I love you."
The words should have been perfect. Instead, they lodged in Lawson's throat like stones. Love meant vulnerability. Love meant having something that could be taken away.
"I can't. Not yet."
Monica yanked her hands back like she'd grabbed hot metal. "When? After you make sergeant? Lieutenant? When Richardson retires and someone else takes over?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know." Monica's voice flattened out. "Three years as partners. Eleven months in the same bed. And you don't know when you'll be ready to admit I exist."
"That's not what I meant."
"Isn't it?" Monica snatched her jacket from the chair. "You flirted with that prosecutor last week. Played it up for the whole squad. Made jokes about my nonexistent dating life."
The blood drained from Lawson's cheeks. "Those were just jokes."
"To you." Monica jammed her arms through the jacket sleeves. "To me they felt like you were erasing us."
"Monica, wait."
But Monica was already at the door, hand on the knob. She didn't look back.
"Your badge means more to you than we do. When you figure out which one matters, call me."
The door clicked shut. Monica's engine turned over outside. Lawson stood surrounded by cooling coffee and lingering perfume, listening to tires disappear into traffic noise.
She didn't move until the silence became unbearable.
The Driftwood Tavern squatted three blocks from the precinct—close enough to walk, far enough to avoid most cops. Lawson claimed a corner stool and ordered whiskey straight. The bartender looked about twenty-two, young enough to card everyone regardless of obvious age.
Grease hung in the air mixed with stale beer. Rock music pounded from overhead speakers just loud enough to drown conversation without completely killing it. Saturday drinkers filled the other stools—construction workers with concrete dust under their fingernails, retirees stretching out errands, office types drowning whatever had driven them here.
Lawson fit right in.
Her phone buzzed against the scarred bar top. Monica's name on the screen:We need to talk.
Lawson stared at the message for maybe thirty seconds before flipping the phone face down. The whiskey burned going down her throat, promising to make everything simpler. Another buzz against the wood. She didn't look.
"Want another?" The bartender looked like he'd rather be anywhere else.
"Yeah."
The second shot went down easier. The third, easier than that. By the fourth, her phone had gone quiet. Evening drinkers started filtering in, voices getting louder as alcohol loosened tongues and good judgment.
Lawson checked her phone. Three missed calls. Four unread texts. Her finger hovered over Monica's contact for a long moment before sliding toward the bartender instead.
"One more."
