Page 13 of Dead Air
The warehouse district looked different through whiskey-tinted vision. Darker. More threatening. But Monica was there somewhere, waiting with information that could break the Rafferty case wide open.
Lawson checked her weapon and headed into the darkness.
Lawson jerked awake, sheets soaked and wrapped around her legs. Her hand swept across the mattress to empty space where Monica used to sleep. Cool fabric that hadn't held another person's warmth in five years.
The nightmare ended. The guilt didn't.
That fight played on repeat—Monica begging for honesty while Lawson chose career safety over love. Two weeks of silence broken only by Monica's final text message and eventual death.
She'd arrived buzzed, reaction time dulled by whiskey and wounded pride. Four drinks slowing her reflexes when Monica needed her partner at full capacity.
Maybe sober Lawson would have spotted the muzzle flash sooner. Maybe she'd have tackled Monica to the ground before that first shot rang out. Maybe those four whiskeys had cost Monica her life.
Five years of carrying this weight. Five years of letting everyone think Monica's death was random violence when the truth cut deeper: Monica died because Lawson had chosen liquid courage over clear thinking.
She'd never told anyone about their relationship. Not Richardson, not Internal Affairs, not the detectives who caught Monica's case. Let them investigate a stranger's murder instead of her girlfriend's execution. Never mentioned the drinking either—how she'd stumbled through that warehouse lot with whiskey on her breath while Monica bled out on concrete. She passed off her subsequent alcoholism as grief, and everyone around her had bought it. They just didn't know that her grief had started two weeks before Monica's death.
Now Blackwell was excavating everything, asking questions that would lead to answers Lawson couldn't afford to give. How long before she found out about Monica and Lawson? How long before someone discovered that she had been impaired when her partner died?
The bedside clock read 4:23 a.m.. Too late for sleep, too early for anything else. Lawson got up and walked to the kitchen, stepping around the bourbon bottle she'd thrown the night before. It sat against the wall, amber liquid catching light from the hallway.
She picked it up and carried it to the sink. The cap came off easily. The alcohol smell rose up, promising to make the memories stop hurting, to dull the sharp edges of what-if and maybe-if.
For maybe ten seconds, she wavered. Four months, two weeks, and four days sober versus the weight of secrets she'd been carrying alone. The bottle trembled in her hands, amber liquid sloshing against glass.
The bourbon spiraled down the drain, disappearing into darkness below.
chapter
five
Lawson killedher headlights as she turned onto Magnolia Way. Richardson's house sat three doors down, with white columns and green shutters. A home where a retired police captain could pretend he'd left the job behind.
The porch light threw shadows across a row of manicured azaleas. Nine thirty on a Tuesday night, and every window glowed yellow against the darkness. She parked across the street and watched the house for two full minutes. A silhouette moved past the front window. Richardson's wife, Amy, smaller than her husband but just as formidable.
Lawson's knuckles rapped against the door before she could reconsider. The sound echoed across the porch, disturbing a pair of cardinals nesting in the eaves.
The door swung open. Richardson filled the frame. Six foot two of hard angles softened by retirement. The badge was gone, but the posture remained. His eyes narrowed at the sight of her.
"Lawson." He didn't sound surprised. "Figured you'd show up eventually."
"Captain." She couldn't break the habit of using his rank, even three years after his retirement party.
"Just Tom now." He stepped back, opening the door wider. "Come in before the neighbors start talking."
The foyer smelled of lemon polish and old books. Photos lined the walls. Richardson in uniform, Richardson shaking hands with the mayor, Richardson fishing with two grown sons who'd moved away years ago.
Amy appeared from the kitchen, drying her hands on a blue dish towel. "Detective Lawson. What a surprise." Her tone made clear it wasn't a pleasant one.
"Honey, would you mind giving us a few minutes?" Richardson's voice carried the gentle authority that had managed three decades of crisis situations.
Amy's mouth tightened at the corners. "I'll be upstairs." She disappeared up the staircase.
Richardson led Lawson to his study. A room that belonged in a different century. Leather-bound books filled oak shelves. A globe stood in one corner, tilted at an angle that put Savannah at its center. The desk dominated everything. Solid mahogany with brass fittings, scarred from years of use.
"Bourbon?" Richardson pulled a crystal decanter from a side cabinet.
"I'm four months sober." The words came out sharper than intended.
