Page 50 of Dead Air
Monica had been right to trust no one. To create insurance policies hidden in multiple locations. To document the pattern while searching for its source.
"Our place." The phrase circled her thoughts. Not the fountain. Not the waterfront. Somewhere only Lawson would recognize. Somewhere connected to their relationship yet hidden from watchful eyes.
Five years searching for justice, and the answer remained locked in two words she couldn't decipher.
chapter
nineteen
Lawson knewsomething was wrong before she inserted her key. The doorframe displayed a hairline fracture near the lock. Almost imperceptible unless you were looking for it. She'd been a detective long enough to recognize the subtle signs of forced entry later concealed with professional care.
She drew her weapon and pressed her back against the wall beside the door. Her neighbors wouldn't notice—Mrs. Abernathy across the hall was visiting her daughter in Florida, and the medical student next door worked hospital night shifts. Lawson took a steadying breath and turned the key with her left hand, weapon ready in her right.
The door swung open silently. She'd oiled the hinges last weekend, a habit from years of living alone. The apartment lay in perfect stillness. No movement disturbed the air. No sound beyond the refrigerator's electrical hum. She entered in a tactical crouch, sweeping her weapon across the entryway and living room.
Everything looked normal. Disturbingly normal. Her coffee mug remained on the side table where she'd left it that morning. Mail stacked neatly on the kitchen counter. Dishes drying in the rack. Nothing obviously disturbed or missing.
She cleared each room methodically. Bathroom empty. Guest bedroom undisturbed. Her bedroom appeared exactly as she'd left it—bed hastily made, clothes draped over the chair, and backup weapon in the lockbox secured to her nightstand.
The apartment contained no intruders, yet someone had definitely entered. The subtle fracture in the doorframe proved it. Lawson holstered her weapon and began a more thorough examination. Professional instinct rather than random paranoia guided her search.
Her laptop sat on the coffee table, positioned at precisely the same angle she'd left it. She opened it and checked the browser history. Nothing unfamiliar appeared in the log, but someone with sufficient skill could cover their digital tracks.
The kitchen drawers revealed nothing missing. Silverware remained organized according to her particular system. Cabinets showed no signs of disturbance. The refrigerator contained the same half-empty containers and questionable leftovers from earlier in the week.
Lawson moved to her bedroom closet, where she kept a fireproof box containing important documents. Birth certificate. Property deed. Insurance policies. She entered the combination and checked the contents. Everything remained in place, including the envelope of cash she kept for emergencies.
"What were you looking for?" she murmured to the empty room.
Her gaze traveled upward, scanning the ceiling corners almost as an afterthought. The small black device blended with the smoke detector housing. Anyone else might have missed it. She retrieved a chair from the kitchen and stood on it to examine the object more closely.
A wireless camera. Professional grade. Battery powered with remote viewing capability. The kind used by security firms andsurveillance professionals. She didn't touch it, recognizing the importance of preserving evidence.
She returned to the living room, examining ceiling corners with new attention. Another camera watched from above the bookshelf. A third monitored the front door. Her apartment had been transformed into a surveillance operation without her knowledge.
How long had the cameras been there? Days? Weeks? She tried to remember anything unusual upon returning home recently. Any sign she might have dismissed as paranoia. Nothing specific came to mind, which suggested the installation had happened recently.
Her phone chimed with a notification. Social media alert for Leah Blackwell's account. She opened it with growing unease.
The image showed a wooden keepsake box sitting on an unfamiliar countertop. The box lid was open, revealing intimate contents—letters, birthday cards, and photographs from her relationship with Monica. Weekend trips to Charleston. Private moments never meant for public view. The distinctive maple wood box with brass hinges was unmistakably hers—the one she kept hidden beneath her bed.
The caption read: "Where she hides her guilt. Detective Lawson's secret shrine to her partner. What else is she concealing? Episode 5: 'The Partner's Lies' drops tomorrow."
Lawson stared at the image, blood rushing in her ears. The invasion extended beyond physical space into her most private memories. Someone, or maybe even Blackwell herself, had entered her apartment, stolen her personal belongings, and provided the material to Blackwell. The wooden box contained items never entered into evidence. Never shared with anyone. The tangible remnants of a relationship she'd kept hidden even after Monica's death.
She rushed to her bedroom and dropped to her knees, lifting the dust ruffle. The empty space confirmed her fear. The box was gone. Someone had found and taken it.
She sat heavily on the bed, mind racing through implications. The intruder hadn't stolen valuables. Hadn't vandalized or destroyed. They'd come specifically for the wooden box. To gather intelligence. To provide Blackwell with ammunition for her podcast narrative.
Her security system included a basic camera monitoring the front door. She retrieved her phone and opened the app, scrolling back through recorded entries. Three visitors appeared during her absence today—the mail carrier at 10:17 AM, a package delivery at 11:45 AM, and at 1:32 PM, a figure she didn't recognize.
The timestamp placed the visitor during her coffee meeting with Parks. The figure wore a delivery uniform complete with cap pulled low. They approached her door carrying a small package. Instead of knocking, they examined the lock briefly before producing a small pry tool. With quick, practiced movements, they wedged it between the door and frame, forcing the lock mechanism to give way. They slipped inside, the entire process taking less than twenty seconds. Professional efficiency that left only the slightest damage to the doorframe—damage they attempted to conceal before leaving.
The exit footage showed the same figure leaving twenty-seven minutes later. A wooden box tucked under their arm where the package had been. Just smooth, purposeful movement suggesting a completed mission.
Lawson zoomed in on the grainy image. The delivery uniform offered perfect cover—neighbors accustomed to seeing various services throughout the day would notice nothing unusual. The cap and turned face prevented clear identification. Evenheight and build remained ambiguous beneath the loose-fitting uniform.
Lawson checked her phone again. Blackwell's post had already accumulated thousands of likes and comments.
