Chapter 20
chapter
twenty
Claire's beach house stood three rows back from the shoreline on Tybee Island. Weathered cedar siding blended with neighboring vacation properties. Palm trees swayed along the gravel driveway where Lawson parked after a circuitous drive from Savannah.
The security keypad accepted the code without issue.
Inside, the house smelled of disuse and air freshener.
Hardwood floors gleamed beneath area rugs.
Coastal-themed artwork decorated walls painted in neutral blues and tans.
Generic enough to serve as a vacation rental but tasteful enough to reflect Claire's sensibilities.
Lawson dropped her bag beside the couch and conducted a thorough sweep. Bedrooms clear. Bathrooms empty. Kitchen untouched since the cleaning service last visited. No surveillance devices hiding in light fixtures or air vents. No signs of intrusion.
Windows offered views of neighboring houses but provided sufficient privacy with drawn blinds. The rear deck faced a small garden rather than the beach, offering concealed outdoor space.
She unpacked methodically. Clothes in the guest bedroom dresser. Laptop on the kitchen counter. Monica's journal secured in the nightstand drawer. In the quiet routine of unpacking, the reality of what had been stolen from her finally set in.
Blackwell possessed her most intimate memories now. By tomorrow morning, millions of podcast listeners would hear about her relationship with Monica. Evidence she'd denied for five years, now exposed for public consumption.
The kitchen cabinets revealed basic supplies—canned goods, pasta, coffee. The refrigerator stood empty except for condiments. She knew she should drive to town for groceries. Should establish security protocols. Should contact Parks about Hutchinson's murder investigation.
Instead, she found herself studying the drink cart in the living room. Crystal decanters containing amber liquid. Polished glasses arranged in neat rows. Five months sober suddenly felt like an arbitrary achievement compared to the immediate need for chemical oblivion.
She opened the nearest decanter and sniffed. Bourbon. Top shelf, from the smoothness wafting toward her. Her hand trembled slightly as she poured two fingers into a tumbler. The liquid caught the afternoon sunlight streaming through windows, transforming ordinary alcohol into liquid gold.
"Just one," she muttered to the empty house. The familiar justification that had preceded countless nights lost to memory.
The first sip burned like truth. The second spread warmth through her chest. By the third, the bourbon tasted like coming home to a place she'd never truly left.
She carried the glass to the deck, settling into an Adirondack chair overlooking the garden. Birds flitted between overgrown bushes. Wind rustled palm fronds against the evening sky. The tumbler emptied faster than intended.
One became two. Two became three. Three blurred into continuous refills as sunset painted the sky in watercolor streaks of orange and purple.
Alcohol unlocked memories she'd carefully compartmentalized.
Monica laughing during their Charleston weekend.
Monica sleeping beside her, dark hair spread across white pillowcases.
Monica arguing passionately about justice and corruption before everything fell apart.
The sliding glass door opened behind her. Claire's voice cut through bourbon-induced haze. "I see you found the bar cart."
Lawson didn't turn. "Quality selection."
"My father's collection." Claire's heels clicked across the deck boards. She placed a grocery bag on the side table and claimed the adjacent chair. "I brought food. Real food."
"Not hungry."
"Clearly." Claire eyed the tumbler in Lawson's hand. "How many is that?"
"Lost count."
"I can tell." Claire removed her blazer and draped it over the chair back. Court attire exchanged for evening casualness. "Want to talk about it?"
"About what?" Lawson gestured broadly with her glass. "My apartment being invaded? My private memories stolen? Hutchinson's murder? Monica's death? Pick a tragedy."
"Start with why today drove you back to drinking after five months sober."
The bourbon had dismantled too many internal barriers for effective deflection. "She's going to tell everyone about us. About Monica and me."
"Your relationship wasn't a crime."
"It was to the department." Lawson stared into her glass. "Partners aren't supposed to be involved. Professional boundaries and all that administrative bullshit."
"That doesn't explain your reaction." Claire's gaze remained steady. "There's something else."
The alcohol pushed words past filters that sobriety maintained. "I was drinking the night she died."
Claire sighed. "I know, Erin. I listened to the podcast."
Lawson shook her head. “No, I wasn’t just drinking. I was drinking.”
“What are you trying to tell me?” Claire asked slowly.
"Four whiskeys at the Driftwood before driving to the warehouse." The confession spilled out after five years of silence. "We'd been fighting. Hadn't spoken in two weeks. She texted about meeting, about having information on Rafferty. I went straight from the bar."
"You were impaired at the crime scene." Claire's voice remained neutral despite the bombshell revelation.
"Reaction time slowed. Observation skills compromised." Lawson's self-condemnation carried the weight of five years' guilt. "I saw things I couldn't process. Details lost to alcohol."
"What things?"
"Car parked behind the warehouse. Dark sedan. Thought it belonged to Monica's source." Lawson closed her eyes, forcing memories through alcohol's distortion. "Someone got out as I arrived. Familiar walk. I couldn't place it then. Still can't."
"Did you tell investigators?"
"Told them about the shooter. The floodlight. The gunshots." Lawson shook her head. "Not about the car. Not about seeing someone before the shooting started. Not about recognizing something in their movement."
"Why not?"
"Because admitting I saw someone meant admitting I could have identified them if I'd been sober." The tumbler trembled in her hand. "Because Richardson removed my intoxication from the official report. Protected me from suspension or worse."
Claire leaned forward. "This person you saw. Details? Anything?"
"Dark clothing. Baseball cap." Lawson strained against memory's limitations. "License plate visible in headlights. Partial view before the floodlight blinded me. G84 … something. First three digits only."
"Male? Female?"
"Couldn't tell. Distance was too great. Light too poor." Lawson drained her glass. "Just the walk. Something distinctive about it."
"Like what?"
"Slight hesitation of the right foot. Almost imperceptible limp." She gestured vaguely. "Military bearing otherwise. Deliberate movement. Kind of like the person on the footage."
Claire absorbed this information with an attorney's calculation. "Footage? What footage?"
Bourbon blurred certainty into vague association. "Security footage from Hutchinson's building. Hooded figure had similar movement pattern."
"You never included this in your statement."
"How could I?" Lawson's laugh held no humor. "Detective arrives drunk to meeting where partner dies. Fails to identify potential suspect due to impairment. It makes a compelling headline."
"It's compelling evidence." Claire's expression hardened. "Evidence deliberately withheld from investigators."
"Evidence compromised by bourbon and guilt."
"Evidence Blackwell would use to destroy your credibility if she knew." Claire stood and took the empty glass from Lawson's hand. "You're done drinking for tonight."
Lawson didn't resist. The alcohol had already accomplished its purpose—dismantling the walls around memories she'd carefully contained for five years. "Monica deserved better than me as backup that night."
"Maybe." Claire's voice softened. "Or maybe it wouldn't have changed anything."
"We'll never know."
"No, but we can focus on what we do know." Claire disappeared inside, returning moments later with water and a sandwich. "Eat something. Sober up enough to think clearly."
Lawson accepted the offering without enthusiasm. Food would dull the alcohol's edge, returning her to a reality she'd tried to escape. The sandwich tasted like sawdust, but she forced herself to eat while Claire watched with unmasked concern.
"The partial plate." Claire pulled out her phone. "G84. Could be thousands of vehicles."
"Likely a government plate." Lawson's police instincts functioned despite intoxication. "Formatting matched state vehicle standard."
"Narrows it considerably." Claire made notes in her phone. "Especially if we cross-reference with department vehicles assigned five years ago."
"Records are restricted without warrant."
"There are alternative methods to access vehicle registration databases." Claire's vague reference suggested less-than-legal approaches. "Fiona has contacts in the transportation department."
"Fiona." Lawson closed her eyes as the deck tilted beneath her. The bourbon's full effect arriving. "Can she be trusted?"
"Her motivations align with ours for now." Claire helped Lawson to her feet. "You need to lie down before you fall down."
The journey from deck to bedroom passed in disjointed fragments. Lawson's coordination deteriorated with each step. Claire's steady hand guided her through the house to the guest bedroom. The mattress received her collapsing form with silent judgment.
"Waste of five months of sobriety," Lawson muttered into the pillow.
"One setback doesn't erase progress." Claire placed water on the nightstand. "Sleep it off. We'll talk when you're coherent."
Darkness claimed portions of awareness as Lawson fought for consciousness. Time stretched and compressed. Claire's voice drifted from another room. Phone conversation with indistinct responses.
The front door opened. A new voice entered the house. Fiona's distinctive tone, carrying through walls.
"She's out cold?"
"Bourbon overload." Claire's response floated from the kitchen. "She provided some information, though. Partial plate from the night Landry died."
"Government vehicle?"
"Likely department issue."
Drawers opened and closed. Refrigerator door. Domestic sounds punctuated by professional discussion.
"Hutchinson agreed to meet tomorrow," Fiona said, her tone brisk but fluid. "We’ll see him in the Savannah office."
"Really?" Claire sounded surprised.
"Strictly off the record."
The conversation continued, but Lawson's grasp on consciousness slipped further. Fragments reached her through her alcoholic fog.
"… brother's involvement …"
" … department corruption …"
" … meeting Hutchinson tomorrow morning …"
Lawson struggled against the encroaching blackness. They were meeting Hutchinson tomorrow? The dead narcotics detective? The confusion swirled as darkness claimed her completely.
Her last coherent thought came from that part of her that wished the darkness might be permanent. Easier than facing tomorrow's revelations with newly exposed vulnerabilities and five months of sobriety abandoned in a single afternoon of weakness.