Chapter 29
chapter
twenty-nine
The abandoned paper mill warehouse squatted against the night sky like a decaying monument to industrial obsolescence.
Its jagged silhouette cut a menacing shape against the cloud-scattered stars, broken windows reflecting moonlight in sharp, dangerous glints.
Lawson parked beside the loading dock where Monica had bled out five years ago; the concrete still stained despite countless rainstorms. The rain had stopped an hour earlier, leaving the air thick with humidity, and the metallic scent of wet asphalt mingled with rusting metal.
She killed the engine and sat for a moment, listening to the tick of cooling metal and the distant sound of highway traffic.
This place held ghosts—Monica's most prominently, but also the ghost of who Lawson herself had been before that night.
The officer who believed in the system. The woman who thought love could be compartmentalized away from duty.
With deliberate movements, she retrieved her phone and typed a message to Parks: At the warehouse. Found something in Blackwell's files. Meet me here.
The screen illuminated her face in the darkness as she waited. His response came within minutes: On my way. Don't go in alone. 15 minutes out.
Fifteen minutes. Lawson debated waiting in the car, then decided against it.
Time remained their scarcest resource. She stepped out into humid air that clung to her skin like a damp shroud.
Her flashlight beam cut through the darkness as she began circling the building's perimeter, searching for signs of recent activity while mentally mapping possible approaches.
Weeds choked the loading bay where the ambulance had parked that night, pushing through cracked concrete with nature's inexorable patience.
Yellow police tape fragments still clung to rusted metal poles, faded to almost white after years of sun exposure.
Graffiti covered most accessible wall surfaces, vivid blues and reds forming territorial markers for local gangs claiming this abandoned territory.
Windows on the upper floors gaped like dead eyes, glass long since shattered by vandals or weather. Wind whispered through empty frames, creating eerie whistles that raised the hair on Lawson's neck despite her professional detachment.
The real evidence is where it all began.
Blackwell's final message echoed through her mind as she examined the structure's decaying exterior.
This warehouse represented more than abandoned industrial space.
It marked the spot where Monica had died investigating corruption that reached the highest levels of Savannah's justice system.
Ground zero—the place where truth collided with power and lost.
Lawson completed her circuit of the building's exterior, noting three viable entry points beyond the main doors.
Old security habits die hard. Always know your exits.
Always map your approaches. Assume hostility until proven otherwise.
The tactical training Monica had teased her about still guided her movements after all these years.
Headlights swept across the lot, illuminating decades of industrial debris scattered across cracked asphalt.
Parks emerged from his department vehicle, flashlight in hand and service weapon visible on his hip.
He approached with the measured, cautious movements of someone who'd learned not to trust abandoned buildings or the shadows they contained.
"Been here long?" he asked, voice low despite the isolation.
"Ten minutes. Just scanning the perimeter.
" She gestured toward the building's weather-beaten facade.
"No signs of recent activity. Place looks exactly as it should after five years.
" Parks swept his beam across broken windows and shadowed doorways, professional assessment in his narrowed gaze. "Any activity while you waited?"
"Dead." Lawson gestured toward the main entrance where metal doors hung partially open, hinges long since rusted into permanent positions. "But Blackwell's message suggested something here connects to Monica's investigation. Something that began here and continued elsewhere."
"What exactly are we looking for?" Parks turned his attention to the building's interior, visible in fragments through broken windows.
"Evidence someone hid after Monica died. Something that proves the connection to Thomas Hutchinson." Lawson moved toward the entrance, gun remaining holstered but hand resting near it from professional habit. "Something worth killing for five years ago and still worth killing for today."
They entered through the main doors, metal groaning in protest as Lawson pushed them wider to allow passage.
Parks' flashlight carved paths through darkness filled with debris and decay, illuminating fallen ceiling tiles and pigeon droppings that crunched beneath their careful steps.
Industrial equipment sat in forgotten clusters, covered in rust and bird waste.
Metal stairs led to catwalks overlooking the main floor where shadows pooled like black water.
The smell hit immediately—mildew and rodent droppings mixed with the distinctive chemical tang of long-abandoned industrial processes.
Lawson breathed shallowly, memories flooding back of that night five years ago when this same smell had filled her nostrils as she knelt beside Monica's bleeding body.
"Monica kept a journal." Lawson's voice echoed in the cavernous space, bouncing back altered by the building's hollow interior. "Final entry mentioned meeting Ray Hutchinson here. But she also wrote about proof being in 'our place.' I've been trying to figure out what that meant."
Parks stepped carefully around a fallen beam. "Your place meaning what exactly?"
"Private location. Somewhere meaningful to our relationship.
" Lawson swept her own flashlight across the concrete floor, searching for anything that might qualify as a hiding spot.
Water pooled in uneven depressions, reflecting their lights in distorted patterns.
"Could be here in some hidden corner. Could be somewhere else entirely. The clue is frustratingly vague."
"If Blackwell found something connecting this place to evidence, it has to be significant." Parks' voice carried the measured tone of someone working through a puzzle methodically. "Something not obvious in the original investigation."
They moved deeper into the building, stepping carefully around broken machinery and scattered debris.
The warehouse floor stretched for nearly an acre, shadows concealing distant corners despite their powerful flashlights.
Parks examined structural elements while Lawson focused on areas that might conceal evidence.
Wall panels. Maintenance access points. Any place where something could be hidden away from casual discovery.
"Monica was methodical." Lawson checked behind a rusted control panel, finding nothing but mouse droppings and dust. "If she hid something here, she would have ensured it remained secure regardless of who might search later."
"Including those who killed her?" Parks asked the obvious question.
"Especially them." Lawson moved to another section, checking electrical panels and ventilation ducts. "The question is whether she hid it on a previous visit here.”
They continued their search in widening circles, documenting possible hiding spots while finding nothing of obvious evidentiary value.
The warehouse held decades of industrial history layered beneath recent abandonment—broken tools, scattered paperwork, occasional signs of transient occupation.
Nothing connecting directly to Monica or Ray Hutchinson.
"Here." Parks' voice carried from the building's far corner, excitement breaking through his professional reserve. "Fresh crime scene tape on a door. That seems odd. The crime happened five years ago, but this looks almost brand new."
Lawson crossed the uneven floor quickly, joining him beside a steel door marked BASEMENT ACCESS.
Yellow tape sealed the frame with official departmental markings, but the adhesive showed recent application.
Bright plastic contrasted sharply with the warehouse's general decay, edges still crisp rather than frayed by time and elements.
"Someone secured this recently." She examined the tape more closely, running her fingers along the adhesive edge. "Within the last few weeks. The factory closed fifteen years ago. The murder happened five years ago. There's no legitimate reason for fresh crime scene tape."
"Could be department evidence preservation." Parks tested the door handle beneath the tape, finding it secured but not locked. "Or someone protecting what's down there."
Lawson studied the tape placement—professional application following department protocols. "Whoever placed this had training. Knew proper procedures." She produced a folding knife from her pocket, blade glinting in the flashlight beam. "Only one way to find out what they're protecting."
Parks hesitated, professional ethics visibly battling investigative curiosity. "Breaking crime scene tape violates multiple regulations. If this is legitimate department security..."
"Then I'll add it to my growing list of procedural violations.
" Lawson sliced through the tape with quick, decisive strokes.
"So does murder. So does evidence tampering.
So does kidnapping a journalist." She met his gaze directly.
"I'm already facing an arrest warrant. What's one more violation if it gets us closer to the truth? "
The steel door opened with metallic protest, hinges grinding after years of disuse.
Beyond lay concrete steps descending into absolute darkness deeper than their flashlight beams could penetrate.
Stale air drifted upward from the opening, carrying scents of mold and something chemical that made her nose burn slightly.