Chapter 21 #2
As I read through the coroner’s report, the pieces began to fall into place.
The police hadn’t just twisted the narrative, they’d buried the truth entirely.
By sealing the original coroner’s findings and witness statements, like the EMT’s, from public record, they created a reality they could control.
There was no way for the press, or anyone, to independently verify what really happened.
It was diabolically simple. With no accessible documents to challenge their version of events, the NYPD could feed the media whatever story they wanted.
Lucy wasn’t just blamed, she was framed. But why?
My hands trembled as I tucked the papers back into the envelope. My mind raced with a thousand possibilities, but one thing was clear—Lucy was innocent.
When I arrived at the library later that afternoon to drop off paper plates and cups for the poetry evening, Rita caught me off guard. She approached, waving a piece of paper like it was a winning lottery ticket.
“I got it!” she beamed, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “The number you were after.”
“You did?” I replied excitedly, reaching for the paper.
“You know, Livvy,” she said, holding on to the paper a moment longer, “I knew the name sounded familiar. Billy Andrews! He dated my sister in high school. Of course, I was younger, so they always shooed me away, but I remember him. He proposed to her once, you know, but she turned him down. Broke his poor heart. I guess he became the big-shot detective he wanted to be.”
Or a fraud, I thought to myself.
“Oh, they were high school sweethearts,” Rita continued, her voice filled with nostalgia.
“I think Billy might have been the one that got away. He wanted to go off to the police academy in New York, and she wanted to stay here in Everston. So she turned him down. But I think they always held a torch for each other. They used to sing that song by The Beach Boys—what was it?” She paused, her eyes lighting up as she recalled.
“ ‘God Only Knows’! That’s it. Anyway, they would sing it all the time to each other, and she still sings it nearly every day, even with her mind like it is. ”
“Well, they say it’s usually the long-term memory that remains the strongest,” I said, trying to absorb the avalanche of information.
Rita nodded, a satisfied smile on her face. “As soon as I placed his name—I mean, he always went by ‘Billy,’ but I suppose ‘Bill’ is more professional—I immediately got in touch with Darla, his cousin who still lives in town. I see her every Wednesday at the nail salon.”
I managed to nod along.
“So, I spoke to Darla, and—” Rita hesitated for a moment, looking sheepish, “Well, I told her a little white lie and said that Martha had remembered Billy the other day when I was visiting her at the nursing home. Wouldn’t it be so lovely if she could speak with him again?
And Darla gave me his number! She said he still lives in New York, but retired from the force… oh, about a year or so ago now.”
I frowned, trying to comprehend the significance of this information.
“Anyway,” Rita said, her face flushed, looking thrilled to pieces, “you tell Billy that Rita Carmichael says hello.”
I stared at the paper in my hand, unable to shake the feeling that this couldn’t just be coincidence.
My mother had always insisted there was no such thing as fate.
“It’s all chaos,” she’d say. “People connect dots where there aren’t any.
” But I had argued with her, young and hopeful, believing that the world had an unseen magic, a design we couldn’t always understand.
Standing there with Rita rambling on about high school sweethearts and nail salons, I couldn’t help but think about the odds of Wren landing in Everston, a town where Billy Andrews, the detective in charge of investigating her accident, had dated the sister of a woman who was part of the very grief group Wren joined to help her heal.
It felt like too much to be random. How could I explain this strange convergence of events?
Wren, this town, our grief group, we’d all found our way to each other.
Maybe it was for something we didn’t yet understand. Either way, I had a direct line to Billy, and it was time to reel him in.
Back in the office, I settled behind my desk, pretending to be engrossed in paperwork to avoid drawing Colin’s attention. The number Rita had given me was tucked into my notepad. With a deep breath, I dialed, my heart thudding in anticipation.
“Bill Andrews,” came the gruff, slightly hoarse voice on the other end.
“Hi, Detective Andrews. My name is Olivia Piroso. I’m a reporter with High Country Broadcasting in Colorado,” I said, trying to keep my tone steady.
“I’m retired,” he interrupted sharply.
“I understand,” I replied quickly. “However, I’m working on a story about a car accident that occurred in late 2024, at Broadway and Houston Street in New York?”
There was a beat of silence. “I worked a lot of traffic accidents,” he said curtly. “Email the department if you want details.”
I pushed forward. “This accident was widely covered in the media. It involved author Brooklyn Paisley, a young boy named Alec Lewis, and an unidentified third person—John Doe in the media reports. It says here you worked the case.”
“How did you get my number?”
“Rita Carmichael. She’s a dear friend,” I said.
There was a long pause. “Rita?” he asked, his voice softening slightly. “How is she?”
His question surprised me, throwing me off track momentarily.
“She’s fine,” I said. “She mentioned you dated her sister Martha in high school.”
“Martha,” he murmured, and I knew I’d struck a chord.
“She’s in a nursing home now, unfortunately,” I continued, evenly. “She has dementia, but Rita says she still sings ‘God Only Knows’ nearly every day.”
The line was quiet for a moment before he sighed. “What do you want, Ms. Piroso?”
“The truth,” I said plainly. “The media reports say that Lucy Halloran, Brooklyn Paisley’s fiancée, was intoxicated and lost control of her vehicle. But the toxicology report says otherwise. Lucy wasn’t drunk, and the original coroner’s report confirms that.”
“How did you get access to that report?” he asked, his tone tightening again. “It was sealed.”
“So it was sealed on purpose, then?” I said, ignoring his question. “Why? Why wasn’t the real cause of the accident ever made public?”
“The Brooklyn woman was famous. She asked for the reports to be sealed. We couldn’t control what the media reported.”
I scoffed. “You don’t expect me to believe that.”
“It was an open-and-shut case,” he replied. “John Doe’s vehicle hit Ms. Halloran and she crashed into the boy, sad story all around.”
“With all due respect, Mr. Andrews, the media reports said Lucy’s car hit John Doe’s car and then the boy.”
“Yes, well, it’s been years—”
“It’s been less than two years, Mr. Andrews, not long enough for your memory to be that bad.” I tried to contain my anger, but it wasn’t working. “Can you really live with yourself knowing that the real victims are still suffering, and that a dead woman has been blamed for something she didn’t do?”
There was another long pause before he spoke, his voice low. “We knew who the offending driver was. He wasn’t a John Doe. His name was Mark Lerwick, an off-duty officer and the son of Deputy Police Commissioner Daniel Lerwick. He was drunk.”
I gripped the phone tighter. “So why wasn’t that reported?”
“You don’t know the kind of pressure we faced in the department,” Andrews said. “The commissioner was up for reelection. Mark had a history of reckless behavior, and this would have ended his career, and his father’s—”
“So, you let an innocent woman take the fall?” I asked, incredulous.
He let out a heavy sigh. “I was six months from retirement. They threatened my pension, my reputation, everything I’d worked for. It was either go along with it or lose it all.”
I pressed a hand to my forehead, trying to process his words.
“You do realize the consequences of what you allowed, don’t you?
Lucy’s name was dragged through the mud.
Brooklyn has been living with the lie that her fiancée caused the accident and hurt a small child.
Alec Lewis is paralyzed, and his family still doesn’t know the truth. ”
“You think I don’t know that?” Andrews snapped, his voice cracking slightly. “I’ve lived with that guilt every day since. And for what? Mark Lerwick ran a stoplight three months ago and hit a cyclist. He’s in jail now. The commissioner? He resigned.”
I squeezed the bridge of my nose.
“What would you have done in my position?” he continued, his tone bitter. “Imagine dedicating your entire life to something, only to have it taken from you at the very end.”
I thought about the anchor job. I didn’t have an answer for him.
“You didn’t get all this from me,” he said abruptly, his voice hollow. The line went dead before I could respond.
I sat back in my chair. My head felt heavy, and my ears were ringing. I stared at the phone, letting the weight of the conversation sink in. I ached for Lucy, for Wren, for Alec Lewis. All innocent people, their lives completely upended, and they didn’t even know the full truth.
As I struggled to make sense of it all, Josh appeared at my desk, startling me with a paper bag in hand.
“Panini,” he said simply, dropping it front of me.
“Thanks,” I muttered, unwrapping it absently. “Did you add olives?”
“You bet,” he replied.
I bit into it, the first thing I’d had all day other than some Mentos and a coffee.
“You’ve been at it for hours on end,” he said, leaning against the desk.
I moved my screen slightly from Josh’s line of vision, but he only peered around it. I shut my laptop more forcefully than I intended and he scowled at me.
“You’ve got a story, don’t you?” he pressed. “You’re going for the anchor job?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “Maybe I don’t want it. Cassie can have it.”