Chapter 37
chapter
thirty-seven
Cardboard boxes covered every surface in Lawson's apartment.
Each labeled in black marker: KITCHEN, BOOKS, CLOTHES, DONATE.
The place she'd called home for eight years now lay dismantled into categorized containers waiting for their next destination.
Florida, probably. Her mother had been suggesting it for years. Warm weather. Fresh start. No ghosts.
Lawson taped another box closed, the ripping sound echoing in the half-empty living room. The walls looked strange with picture hooks but no frames. Bare patches where furniture had protected the paint from years of sunlight. Evidence of a life being erased.
The kitchen counter looked bare without her badge and gun.
She’d turned them in yesterday during a brief, awkward meeting with the interim chief.
Her resignation letter had been concise.
No dramatic explanations or accusations.
Just the simple truth that she could no longer serve within a system she no longer trusted.
The knock at her door came right on time.
Claire stood in the hallway, having traded her suit for more casual attire. She balanced two coffee cups on top of a bakery box.
"Breakfast," she announced, sweeping past Lawson into the apartment. "You can't pack on an empty stomach."
Lawson cleared space on the counter, moving aside the mail she hadn't bothered opening all week. "You didn't have to bring food."
"Yes, I did. Your refrigerator's empty. I checked yesterday."
The pastry box revealed cinnamon rolls topped with thick frosting. Claire had remembered her weakness for sugar, another detail that made their friendship both comforting and occasionally annoying. The woman noticed everything.
"How's Leah's podcast doing?" Lawson asked, accepting the coffee cup Claire offered.
"Five million downloads of the Richardson confession episode." Claire placed a roll on a paper towel and handed it to Lawson. "FBI Director issued a formal statement this morning announcing Drummond's suspension pending internal investigation."
"Suspension. Not arrest."
"Give it time. Federal bureaucracy moves slowly, but the evidence is overwhelming."
The evidence. Richardson's meticulous documentation now in Blackwell's possession, released through carefully structured podcast episodes.
Each revelation more damaging than the last. The Bureau's authorized execution of its own agent.
The subsequent cover-up. The systematic corruption of Savannah's justice system.
"Chief Wallace's arraignment is Tuesday," Claire continued. "Federal charges for conspiracy and obstruction. Prosecutors expect him to start naming names in exchange for leniency."
Lawson bit into the cinnamon roll without answering. Sweet food that tasted like nothing. Another side effect of grief she'd never quite shaken.
"Let's finish Monica's boxes," she said after swallowing. "I promised her sister the last of her things by tonight."
Monica's belongings occupied the bedroom that had functioned as Lawson's home office. Boxes Rachel had stored after the funeral, retrieved from the storage unit a week ago. Clothing Lawson couldn't bring herself to donate. Books with Monica's notes in the margins.
They worked in companionable silence, with Claire sorting through paperwork, and Lawson handling the more personal items. A jewelry box containing the simple silver pieces Monica had favored. Photo albums from her academy days. Birthday cards from her family.
Lawson picked up a framed photograph from Monica's dresser—the two of them at Forsyth Park fountain, arms around each other's shoulders, both grinning at the camera.
It had been taken during their first month as partners, before everything became complicated by feelings neither wanted to acknowledge.
As she lifted it to place in the box, the frame felt heavier than expected. She turned it over and noticed the backing was slightly loose. Working her fingernail under the edge, she pried it open.
A folded paper slipped out from behind the photograph. Lawson opened it to find a letter on department letterhead. Dated one week before Monica died. Addressed to Lawson but never delivered.
Erin,
I'm writing this knowing I might never find the courage to give it to you. We haven't spoken in two weeks. The silence between us has become its own presence, something living and growing with each day we avoid each other.
I need to tell you the truth. Not about us—you already know how I feel there. The truth about my work. About what I've been doing these past two years.
I'm not just a detective. I've been working with the FBI, gathering evidence of corruption within our justice system. Judges. Prosecutors. Fellow officers. It started as something small, a favor for Richardson, who recruited me. It's grown into something that consumes every part of my life.
I've discovered things that change everything we thought we knew about Savannah's legal system. Evidence that will shatter careers and rewrite everything we've built our lives around.
I'm turning everything over to federal prosecutors next week. After that, nothing will be the same. My career here will be over.
I want you to come with me. Leave Savannah. Start somewhere new together. Somewhere we don't have to hide what we are to each other. Somewhere without the weight of badges and departmental politics and corruption that seeps into everything.
I know it's asking too much. I know your career matters. I know we left things broken between us. But I can't do this alone anymore.
I'll explain everything. If you still want nothing to do with me afterward, I'll understand.
I love you. I've never stopped.
Monica
The letter trembled in Lawson's hands. She sat heavily on a nearby box, legs suddenly unable to support her weight.
"Erin?" Claire looked up from the book she'd been examining. "What is it?"
"She was going to leave." The words scraped Lawson's throat. "She wanted us to go together."
Claire moved beside her, reading the letter over Lawson's shoulder. She placed a gentle hand on Lawson's back but said nothing. There were no words adequate for this moment.
"I never knew." Lawson's voice cracked. "All this time, I thought our fight was the end. That she died angry with me."
"She loved you," Claire said simply. "That's clear."
Lawson looked down at the photograph still in her lap—the fountain where she'd searched futilely for Monica's "insurance policy" weeks ago. The realization hit her like a physical blow.
"Our place," she whispered. "The insurance policy she mentioned in her journal. She didn't mean evidence about the case. She meant this—us. Our relationship. Our future together."
She held up the letter, her voice strengthening with understanding.
"She hid this behind our photo because she knew if something happened to her, I'd eventually find it.
The real insurance policy wasn't about Rafferty or corruption.
It was about giving me permission to leave.
To start over somewhere new, just like she wanted us to do together. "
The tears came without warning. Five years of compartmentalized grief finally breaking through. Lawson bent forward, the letter clutched against her chest, body shaking with sobs she could no longer contain.
Claire kept her hand on Lawson's back. Silent support without attempting to fix what couldn't be fixed. Understanding that some wounds required acknowledgment rather than comfort.
When the worst of the storm passed, Lawson straightened and wiped her face with her sleeve. "Sorry."
"Don't apologize for grieving."
"Five years late."
"Grief doesn't follow schedules." Claire took the letter gently and refolded it. "You needed to find the truth first. Now you can finally mourn."
A knock interrupted their conversation. Lawson checked her watch—1:15 p.m. Leah Blackwell stood in the hallway, laptop bag slung over one shoulder. Her bruises had faded to yellow shadows across her cheekbones. She'd cut her hair shorter since leaving the hospital.
"Come in," Lawson said, stepping back to allow her entry. "We're just sorting through the last of Monica's things."
Blackwell entered cautiously. Despite multiple meetings since Byrd's death, tension remained between them. Professional respect mixed with mutual wariness. Too much had happened for immediate trust, despite their shared purpose.
"Claire." Blackwell nodded. "Good to see you."
"How's the podcast?" Claire asked.
"Breaking download records." Blackwell set her laptop bag on the counter. "FBI Director issued a formal statement this morning. Drummond's suspended pending investigation."
"So we heard."
Blackwell surveyed the boxes stacked around the apartment. "Moving?"
"Florida," Lawson admitted. "Mom's been after me to move closer for years."
"Fresh start." Blackwell nodded. "Can't blame you. Savannah carries too many ghosts now."
An awkward silence settled between them. Blackwell shifted her weight, eyes darting toward Monica's photograph still hanging on the wall.
Lawson studied her face, the weight of that final podcast episode still fresh in her mind—the raw edge in Blackwell's voice when she'd finally laid it bare.
"I listened to the episode last night. Hearing you say it out loud …
about Monica being family. That she wasn't just a case to you.
Why wait so long to put that on the table?
All those months digging, and you kept it locked down like it was just another source. "
Blackwell's fingers tightened around the handle of her laptop bag, her jaw working for a beat before she met Lawson's gaze head-on.
"Journalism 101—don't let the personal bleed into the story until the facts demand it.
But yeah … it was her. Second cousin. Our mothers were first cousins.
We grew up thick as thieves, summers at the same lake house until we were teenagers and life pulled us different ways. "
"Monica never mentioned a cousin gunning for law school, let alone one who'd turn podcaster." Lawson's tone softened the edge, curiosity edging out the old wariness.
"I wasn't that yet when she died. Still buried in casebooks and caffeine." Blackwell reached into her bag and pulled out a worn photograph, the edges soft from handling. "This was us, summer before she joined the academy. Proof she wasn't always the one with the badge."
The image showed younger versions of both women, arms around each other's shoulders at a lakeside cookout. The family resemblance obvious now that Lawson knew to look for it—the same jawline, similar eyes.
"You hid this connection during your investigation."
"I had to. A journalist investigating family murders becomes a human-interest story, not serious reporting." Blackwell tucked the photo away. "The evidence needed to stand on its own merits, not filtered through emotional family connections."
"Understandable." Lawson's response came easier than expected. "I probably wouldn't have trusted you if I'd known."
"Still. I misrepresented myself. Used you as content when you were grieving."
"You got justice when the system failed. That's what matters in the end."
Blackwell reached into her bag and extracted a manila folder. "I brought something. From my mother's collection. Family photos Monica might not have shared with you."
The folder contained photographs Lawson had never seen. Monica as a teenager, laughing at a family picnic. Monica in a graduation cap, standing beside a younger version of Blackwell. Monica at a family wedding, radiant in a bridesmaid dress.
"Thank you," Lawson said simply.
"My mother wanted you to have them. She said Monica talked about you. Said you made her happy."
The statement opened fresh wounds just beginning to scab over. Lawson nodded, unable to formulate an adequate response.
”Erin found this," Claire said, breaking the moment. She handed Blackwell the letter.
Blackwell read it, expression softening as she absorbed Monica's final words to Lawson. "She was planning to leave law enforcement."
"Like me. Too late."
"Not too late to honor what she wanted." Blackwell returned the letter. "A fresh start somewhere. Living honestly."
"After your story concludes."
“I don’t think I’ll be airing another episode of Silence in Savannah, actually. Drummond wouldn’t return my request for comment, and the Bureau’s going to take some time to make structural changes to prevent similar corruption.”
“Where do you think you’ll head next, then?” Lawson asked.
“D.C. for a new series. Maybe they won’t volunteer the statements I asked for, but that doesn’t mean I should stop pushing on what we as Americans deserve.”
“Which is?” Claire chimed in.
“Transparency. Honesty from our public officials.” She turned to Lawson. “Would you consider a brief statement? For the opening episode?”
Lawson hesitated. "What kind of statement?"
"Your perspective on justice. On Monica's legacy. On moving forward after learning the system failed both of you."
The request shouldn't have surprised her. Blackwell remained a journalist despite their newfound understanding.
"I'll think about it."
Claire glanced at her watch. "I should go. Court prep waiting at home."
Blackwell nodded. "I should leave too. Just wanted to drop off those photos."
"Stay," Lawson said, surprising herself. "Both of you. There's something I want to show you."
She retrieved a bottle from the kitchen cabinet. Sparkling water, not the bourbon that would have occupied that space six months ago. Three glasses joined it on the counter.
"A toast," she explained at their questioning looks. "To Monica. To justice finally delivered. To what comes next."
They raised their glasses.
"To Monica," they said together.