If this witness was paid to make a false statement—if somebody saw an opportunity to smear Alicia and took it—then disappearing makes perfect sense. They’d have every reason to stay hidden. They took money. They lied to police. They crossed a line that gets a hell of a lot harder to explain once somebody starts asking the right questions.
And if our hunch is right, even if I find them, getting anything useful out of them won’t be easy.
Chapter
Twenty-Seven
Alicia
I’ve spent the day combing through every piece of information tied to the Crawford case, along with files on another client—Howard Wells—who faced extortion built on information purchased from the same source.
By late afternoon, my eyes burn from the blue-light glare. The cursor blinks on the screen, patient and relentless, as I sift through every scrap. Nothing stands out as worth risking prison over—just the usual mix of salacious dirt and power games, lies dressed in bespoke suits.
One name appears twice in the payment records—Kwame Asante-Bridges, listed under a media holding—but the transaction is categorized as market intelligence, the kind of purchase any competitive media company would make without a second thought. I file it under unremarkable and move on.
There are a few threads that could unravel into something criminal if pushed hard enough—bribes, financial dealings that could be interpreted the wrong way—but I can’t be the only one holding this information.
Of course—what happened with Stella wasn’t actually connected to the case. That was my worst-case scenario, spun too fast and too far. And it was wrong.
My phone buzzes.
* * *
Dick: OTW with Stella. Are you home?
* * *
Me: Y
* * *
He doesn’t always check. Stella’s twelve. She can be home alone for short stretches without issue. But after yesterday, I suppose we’re both recalibrating.
I set the phone down and exit my home office, descending the steps. I presume Noah’s in the basement, but instead of finding him, I head for the front door and step outside, waiting on the stoop.
The air bites through my blouse, carrying the faint scent of smoke from a neighbor’s chimney. I should grab a coat, but I don’t move. I need to see that car turn the corner. I need to put my hands on her.
The urge sharpens, impossible to ignore. It’s irrational—I know that. Nothing actually happened yesterday. But logic doesn’t quiet it. This is something deeper, something instinctive, and I don’t have the will to fight it.
Noah has done everything he can to steady me. To be present. To give me something solid to lean on.
And I’m grateful—more than I’ve let myself say out loud.
Because without him, I would have broken. I would have shown up at Richard’s door, asking to sit at their table, pretending I just didn’t feel like being alone.
Richard’s BMW appears at the end of the block.
Instead of pulling to the curb, he turns into the drive, stopping in the narrow stretch between the closed gate and the street.
Relief hits first. Then dread, close behind it—one feeding the other.
The passenger door swings open, and Stella climbs out, already smiling.
That smile is sunlight.
And behind it—Richard, like a storm rolling in.
She runs straight into me, and I gather her close, my hands moving instinctively—into her hair, over her cheeks, tracing the familiar scatter of freckles like I need the confirmation that she’s real, that she’s here.