Page 103 of Dead Air

"To Monica," they said together.

epilogue

Sunlight glintedoff the Gulf of Mexico, painting the water in shimmering gold as Lawson drove along the coastal highway. Palm trees swayed in the gentle breeze, their fronds casting dappled shadows across her windshield. The radio played quietly, background noise until the news bulletin caught her attention.

"...final vote on the Judicial Accountability Act passed the Senate today. The bill, inspired by the Savannah corruption scandal exposed last year, creates independent oversight for judicial conduct and sentencing patterns. Senator Michaels called it 'the most significant reform to our justice system in decades.'"

Lawson turned up the volume.

"In related news, former FBI Assistant Director Charles Drummond received a twenty-year sentence for his role in the murder of federal agent Monica Landry. Prosecutors credited podcast journalist Leah Blackwell's investigation with providing key evidence that led to the conviction."

The announcer continued: "Lieutenant Eli Parks has been appointed to head Savannah PD's newly reformed Internal Affairs division, tasked with implementing the transparencymeasures recommended by federal investigators. Parks, who played a crucial role in exposing the corruption network, will oversee the department's restructuring under federal oversight."

Lawson smiled at that news. Parks had earned the promotion through his principled investigation when others looked the other way. The reformed department would be in good hands.

"The new protocols include mandatory body cameras, independent review boards for officer-involved incidents, and civilian oversight of internal investigations. Chief Martinez called it 'a new era of accountability and community trust.'"

The small coastal town of Cedar Key appeared around the bend. Population 702 according to the weathered welcome sign. Main Street consisted of a handful of businesses—seafood restaurant, bait shop, small grocery, sheriff's office. No traffic lights. No department stores. Nothing resembling the urban chaos of Savannah.

Lawson parked in front of the sheriff's office, a single-story building with white clapboard siding and blue trim. The American flag hung limp in the still morning air. She checked her reflection in the rearview mirror. The past year had softened the lines around her eyes. Florida sunshine had added freckles across her nose.

Sheriff Martinez waited inside, boots propped on his desk, reading glasses perched on his nose as he reviewed paperwork. He looked up at her entrance, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

"Morning, Erin. Right on time."

"Morning, Joe." She settled into the chair across from him. "Got those case files you mentioned?"

He pushed a thin folder across the desk. "Just petty theft and vandalism. Nothing like your Savannah days, but we could use your insight."

"Perfect." She accepted the folder, already scanning the first page. "The quiet is exactly what I signed up for."

"Part-time consultant position's still yours if you want it." Martinez leaned back in his chair. "Three days a week. No badge, no gun, no pressure. Just that detective brain of yours helping us connect dots."

"I'll take it." The decision had already been made during her three-month trial period. Cedar Key felt right—small enough to know neighbors by name, large enough to offer privacy when needed.

Martinez extended his hand. "Welcome aboard permanently, then."

She shook it, feeling the calluses of a man who split his time between law enforcement and fishing. Honest work, both of them.

"I'll review these and have notes for you tomorrow." She stood, tucking the folder under her arm.

"No rush. Fish aren't going anywhere. Neither are small-town criminals."

Outside, the morning had fully bloomed. Shopkeepers swept sidewalks. Fishermen unloaded the day's early catch. Children pedaled bicycles toward the small public beach. Life continued in its steady, predictable rhythm.

Lawson climbed back into her car, setting the folder on the passenger seat. The photograph on her dashboard caught the sunlight—her and Monica at the academy graduation, arms around each other's shoulders, futures bright with possibility. She'd kept it in a drawer for years. Now it rode with her daily, memory without pain.

The changes Monica died trying to make were finally happening. Judicial oversight. Law enforcement accountability. Systemic reforms triggered by one woman's determination toexpose corruption, carried forward by those who survived to tell her story.

Parks would ensure those changes took root in Savannah. A good man rebuilding a broken system from within.

Lawson started the engine, glancing once more at the photograph before pulling away from the curb. "We did it, Mon," she murmured.

She drove toward her small beachfront cottage, windows down to catch the salt breeze. New case. New town. New beginning.

The dead could rest. The living must continue.