Chapter 21 #3
Josh snorted. “You really think Cassie would make a better anchor than you?”
I shrugged. “She seems to think so.”
“That’s because she’s delusional,” he replied. “Tell me what the story is!”
I took another bite of the panini and muffled something completely inaudible through a mouthful of bread, meat, and olives.
“Fine,” Josh said. “Have it your way, but keep writing it, Liv! This could be your comeback story.”
It wasn’t a question of whether or not I could continue writing the story—I had enough details, reports, and sources to blow it right open.
The words would come easily enough, but it wasn’t the story that was hard to make sense of.
It was what I felt for Wren. For years, I had lived in the clarity of deadlines and headlines, turning chaos into order with a byline.
But meeting her had unraveled something in me, something raw and unguarded.
She made me feel in a way I hadn’t let myself in a long time.
I cared for her deeply, maybe even in ways I wasn’t ready to admit.
I cared for the grief group too; our lives had all been woven together in the fragile hope of something new.
This wasn’t just about ambition, or about the anchor role and proving I had what it takes.
And yet, I couldn’t ignore that I was my mother’s daughter, shaped by her relentless drive, her belief that success was the only proof of worth.
I wrestled with that truth, with the part of me that still longed for her approval, even now that she was gone.
But there was another part of me, whispering that sometimes the world needs more than ambition. Sometimes, it needs heart.
That afternoon, I knocked on Wren’s front door.
When it eased open on its own, I stepped inside, calling out as I did.
The house smelled faintly of something warm—cinnamon maybe?
I found her in the back bedroom, a mess of paint cans and plastic sheets strewn across the floor.
Bob Dylan played softly from her phone, his voice filling the otherwise quiet space.
A small bundle of roses sat haphazardly on the windowsill, a card poking out from the leaves.
“Do you need help?” I asked, as I stood in the doorway.
She nearly knocked a paint can over in surprise but brightened when she saw me. “I didn’t hear you come in.” She smiled. “But yes, I could use the help. I seem to be able to wield a pen, but not a paintbrush.”
I laughed and stepped inside to reach for a spare brush, but then paused in front of her instead. “Just one thing first,” I said, pulling her toward me. I kissed her soundly, with a need that felt like it had been building for weeks. I felt the breath leave her body.
“What was that for?” she asked, flushing, as we pulled apart.
“I just needed it,” I replied, picking up the paintbrush and twirling it around my fingers. “This is the wall you’re working on?”
She nodded and handed me a paint tray. She hummed as she went back to painting, and I couldn’t help but think how adorable she was.
I dipped my brush in the emerald green paint and tried desperately to focus on the task, but I was distracted by everything I had learned.
The injustice of it all—the lies, the false reports, the smear campaign against Lucy—was almost too much.
Losing Lucy was already an unbearable grief for Wren, but to have her memory tarnished and the truth buried?
It was unforgivable. There had to be some sort of justice. For Lucy. For Wren.
“Earth to Liv?” Wren’s voice broke through my thoughts. I realized I had stopped painting, the brush hanging limply in my hand. She was standing next to me, her hand resting gently on my waist, her expression concerned.
“Sorry,” I said, setting the brush down. “I got lost there for a minute.”
“Where did you go?”
I sighed, running a hand through my hair. “I have to tell you something,” I said, turning to face her.
Wren looked at me curiously. “You don’t like the color I’ve chosen?”
I glanced at the deep-emerald paint on the wall and gave a small smile. “No, I like it. It’s not about that…It’s about Lucy.”
Her smile faded, and she straightened, confused. “Okay…”
“I met with the EMT,” I said, the words coming out quickly. “One of the first responders at the accident.”
Wren’s breath hitched. “You did?”
“Yes,” I replied. “And he confirmed some things I’ve been looking into.
” I took a deep breath. “The accident was not Lucy’s fault,” I said, firmly.
“The third party involved—the John Doe—he was an off-duty police officer, Mark Lerwick, also coincidentally the son of Deputy Police Commissioner Daniel Lerwick. He was drunk driving that night. He hit your car, sent it into the pole, then skidded and hit Alec Lewis on the curb. The police covered it up.”
Wren’s face froze, as though she couldn’t quite process the information.
“And it gets worse,” I continued. “Mark Lerwick also had a number of other incidents on his rap sheet—multiple DUI’s, repeated racial profiling, accusations of excessive force, and even complaints of harassment.
All swept under the rug because of who his father was.
They needed to find a scapegoat, and they chose Lucy.
They sealed the reports from public record, and they fed the media a false story. ”
“And you have proof of all this?”
“Yes,” I said, “I do. And I’ll write the story, Wren. I’ll get justice for Lucy, for Alec, and for you. I mean sure, perhaps I’m about to take on the NYPD, but who cares? I mean, this is a full-blown cover-up, Wren. Someone has to be held accountable.”
“You can’t,” Wren said suddenly, her voice sharp.
“You can’t take on the NYPD, Olivia. That’s just not going to happen.
” She stood abruptly, pacing a few steps across the room.
Her hands were shaking, her movements tight, almost frantic.
“I don’t want that,” she continued, her words tumbling over each other.
“I can’t have the press know where I am.
I’ve worked so hard to rebuild my life again. ”
“Under a different name, though,” I replied, exasperated. “You could be you again, you could write again, and you can tell your story! We can get the truth out there.”
Wren crossed her arms tightly, her eyes clouded with fear.
“You said you liked the name Wren,” she whispered.
My heart felt like it was about to fall out of my chest. “I do,” I replied. “Of course I like the name Wren.”
“Why didn’t you talk to me about this first?” she asked, the words quieter but no less charged. “This isn’t just some old story. It’s my life.”
“I know,” I replied gently. “I’m sorry, I just want to do what’s best for you.”
She moved into my arms, holding me close to her. “This is what’s best, Liv,” she whispered against my neck. “A new life. Here, in Everston, with you, where nothing can hurt us.”
I held her tighter, knowing she needed this moment. Knowing, perhaps, that I needed it too.