Chapter 11
chapter
eleven
Lawson's phone chimed as she walked back toward the precinct. New email from an address she didn't recognize: L.Blackwell@.
Subject line: I Know Why She Was Killed
Her thumb hovered over the notification. Opening it meant engaging with Blackwell on the podcaster's terms. Ignoring it meant wondering what evidence might exist.
She deleted it without reading.
The walk back to the precinct took twelve minutes. She appreciated the solitude, needing space to process Parks’ revelations about evidence never analyzed and witnesses never re-interviewed.
Noon sun baked the pavement. Her blouse stuck to her back when she reached the precinct parking lot. The day stretched endlessly ahead—reports to file, witness statements to review for current cases, the looming shadow of Blackwell's podcast hanging over everything.
Instead, she drove toward Ardsley Park. Tree-lined streets with craftsman bungalows and renovated colonials.
Upper middle-class families who maintained pristine yards and voted in local elections.
Monica's sister Rachel had moved there after the funeral, using life insurance money for the down payment.
Rachel Banks née Landry lived in a pale-yellow house with white trim and a wraparound porch. Ceramic pots overflowed with ferns and flowering plants. A child's bicycle lay abandoned on the lawn beside a soccer ball. Signs of normal life continuing despite tragedy.
Lawson parked across the street and checked her appearance in the rearview mirror. Dark circles marked her eyes like bruises. Her shirt collar looked rumpled from the day's meetings. She straightened it before stepping out into the heat.
The doorbell echoed inside. Footsteps approached, followed by the rattle of a security chain.
Rachel Banks opened the door halfway. Five years had carved subtle changes into features that still resembled Monica's. Same dark hair and olive complexion, but different eyes. Where Monica's had sparkled with determination, Rachel's carried wariness.
"Detective Lawson." Rachel didn't sound surprised. "Figured you'd show up eventually."
"Hello Rachel. May I come in?"
Rachel hesitated before stepping back. "Twenty minutes. I need to pick up Ellie from summer camp at three."
The interior carried a faint trace of lavender detergent and yesterday’s coffee.
Bright crayon drawings, taped unevenly to the walls, outnumbered the framed photos.
In the pictures that did hang, Rachel grinned at the camera—on a roller coaster with James and Ellie, clutching a Mickey Mouse balloon; James beaming in his MBA robes; Ellie gap-toothed, clutching a backpack nearly half her size.
Monica appeared in several frames. Monica at Rachel's wedding.
Monica holding newborn Ellie. Monica in her dress blues at academy graduation. A life preserved in frozen moments.
"Coffee?" Rachel asked without enthusiasm.
"No thanks."
"Then stop staring at my walls and tell me why you're here."
The kitchen reflected Rachel's personality. Organized but lived-in. Copper pots hung above the center island. A bowl of fruit sat beside math worksheets and colored pencils. The refrigerator displayed Ellie's artwork alongside a family calendar.
Rachel leaned against the counter, arms crossed. "This about the podcast?"
Lawson nodded. "You've heard it."
"First episode aired two days ago. Three million downloads already." Rachel's tone carried accusation. "Five years of silence, then suddenly everyone cares who killed my sister."
"I never stopped caring."
"You stopped visiting." Rachel gestured toward a chair but remained standing herself. "First year after Monica died, you came for dinner every month. Second year, three visits total. Then nothing."
Lawson sat despite Rachel's refusal to join her. "I never stopped investigating."
"Yet here we are. No arrests. No suspects." Rachel grabbed a dish towel and twisted it between her hands. "Now some New York podcaster digs up the 10-999 call, and suddenly the case matters again."
"The case always mattered."
"To who?" Rachel slapped the towel against the counter. "Not to your department. Not to the prosecutors. Not to anyone with power to do something."
The accusation stung because it contained truth. The department had buried Monica's case with procedural efficiency. Only Lawson maintained vigil over the investigation, and even she had failed to notice the discrepancies Parks revealed.
"I'm here because I need to know if Blackwell contacted you."
Rachel laughed without humor. "So that's it. You're not here for me. You're chasing the podcaster."
"Rachel—"
"She contacted me last month." Rachel moved to the refrigerator and extracted a business card from beneath a butterfly magnet. "Very professional. Asked permission to cover Monica's case. Said she believes the official investigation missed crucial evidence."
Lawson swallowed her surprise. "And you agreed?"
"I gave her Monica's personal effects." Rachel's gaze turned challenging. "Journals. Planner. Personal laptop. Items the department returned after closing the investigation."
Cold spread through Lawson's chest. Monica's personal effects might contain references to their relationship. Notes about the Rafferty case that never entered official records. Private thoughts that could reshape the entire narrative.
"Those items could compromise—"
"What?" Rachel interrupted. "The investigation you claim never stopped? The justice you promised five years ago?"
The kitchen fell silent except for the soft hum of the refrigerator. A clock ticked from the adjacent living room. Somewhere upstairs, pipes knocked as water moved through old plumbing.
"You promised to find who killed her." Rachel's voice dropped lower. "You stood at her funeral and told me you wouldn't rest until someone paid. Yet here we are."
"The evidence—"
"Maybe this podcaster will succeed where you failed." Rachel turned away, staring out the kitchen window at her backyard. "Maybe she actually cares about truth more than protecting fellow officers."
"That's not fair."
"Fair?" Rachel spun back, color rising in her cheeks. "Fair would be my sister attending Ellie's birthday parties. Fair would be Monica walking her niece to school. Fair would be growing old together instead of visiting a granite headstone."
Lawson absorbed the anger without defense. Rachel deserved her rage after five years of unanswered questions.
"Monica changed before she died." Rachel continued into the silence. "Last few weeks, she barely called. Missed Sunday dinner twice. Seemed distracted when she did visit."
"The Rafferty case consumed her." Lawson offered the explanation she'd accepted years ago.
"More than that." Rachel shook her head. "She seemed paranoid. Checked her car before driving. Kept the blinds closed at her apartment. Jumped when her phone rang."
Rachel paused, a puzzled expression crossing her face.
"It was strange though—Monica had always struggled with money, student loans and mom's medical bills, but those last few months she seemed more relaxed about finances.
Even mentioned taking a vacation once everything settled down.
I never understood where that confidence came from. "
"Did she explain why?"
"She said she couldn't trust anyone." Rachel met Lawson's gaze directly. "Not even you."
Lawson shook her head in shock. Monica's lack of trust contradicted everything Lawson believed about their relationship—professional and personal. Despite their fight, despite the distance during those final weeks, she'd never doubted their fundamental connection.
"That doesn't make sense." Lawson stood, needing movement to process this revelation. "We were partners for three years. We trusted each other with our lives."
Rachel opened a drawer and removed a small notebook bound in blue leather. "Found this after the funeral. Her personal journal. Most entries discuss cases or department politics."
She slid it across the counter. Lawson recognized it immediately. Monica carried it everywhere, jotting observations or questions that occurred during investigations. Private thoughts that never entered official reports.
"Read the last entry." Rachel nodded toward the notebook. "Three days before she died."
Lawson opened the journal with unsteady hands. Monica's handwriting filled the final pages—tight, precise letters that slanted slightly right. Lawson found the date Rachel indicated and began reading.
Meeting Ray Hutchinson tonight. Claims high-level connection to Rafferty operation.
Something about him makes me uneasy. Too smooth.
Too eager to help. But his information checks out so far.
Money trail through offshore accounts matches what I already found.
Haven't told E. We're still not talking. Better this way if things go sideways.
The entry stopped there. No elaboration on Hutchinsons’ identity. No explanation about why he made her uncomfortable. No details about what information he'd already provided.
"She never mentioned Ray Hutchinson." Lawson looked up from the journal. "Never told me about these meetings."
"Because you two weren't speaking." Rachel's words carried finality rather than accusation now. "She said you had some kind of falling out. Wouldn't tell me details, but she was upset about it."
Lawson closed the journal. Guilt twisted her insides. Their fight about going public with their relationship had created the distance that ultimately left Monica vulnerable. "May I borrow this?"
"Keep it." Rachel glanced at the clock above the stove. "I gave Blackwell copies of everything except that. Couldn't part with Monica's actual handwriting."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me." Rachel gathered her purse and keys from a hook by the door. "Just find who killed her. Five years is long enough to wait for justice."
Lawson followed her to the entryway. Family photos watched their passage—frozen smiles from happier times when Monica still breathed and laughed and planned her future.
"She loved you." Rachel paused at the front door. "Whatever happened between you those final weeks, she never stopped caring."
The comment sparked alarm. "What do you mean 'between us'?"
Rachel's expression shifted to something unreadable. "Sisters know things, Detective. Even when they're not explicitly told."
"Rachel—"
"I need to get Ellie." Rachel opened the door, ending the conversation. "Let yourself out."
Lawson stood alone in the entryway after Rachel departed. Monica smiled from every wall—immortalized in moments of joy now overshadowed by her violent end. The weight of broken promises pressed down on Lawson's shoulders.
She'd failed both sisters. Failed to protect Monica. Failed to deliver justice to Rachel. Failed to honor the vows made beside a flag-draped coffin.
The journal felt heavy in her pocket as she walked to her car. Monica's last written words revealed a partner who had deliberately excluded her from a crucial meeting. A partner who feared someone inside the department. A partner who died protecting secrets Lawson still couldn't access.
What hadn't Monica told her? What evidence had she uncovered that made isolation seem safer than partnership? What threat loomed so large that Monica would face it alone rather than endanger Lawson?
The car's interior had become an oven during her visit. She cranked the air conditioning and sat with the journal open on her lap. Reading each entry chronologically might reveal what Monica discovered in those final weeks. What connections she made that others missed.
Her phone chimed as she pulled away from the curb. Notification from Dead Air Podcast appearing on her screen: New Episode Available: "Silence in Savannah - Episode Three: The Floodlight"