Erica Sinclair - All or Nothing (M/F)

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, thank you. Your compliment means so much to me.
Let's see how today's part of the story does for you...

[Jenny_S]

Erica unlocks the car, slides in, and shuts the door behind her like closing a vault.
The city buzzes outside.
Her phone vibrates.
The info on the screen identifies the caller: Detective Sandra Ruiz.

She answers immediately.
“Erica Sinclair.”

“Sandra Ruiz.” Her voice is gravel, urgent. “Check your inbox.”

Erica’s spine straightens.
“Should I be worried?”

“Just look at it. Can’t talk now.”

The call ends.
Erica sits there for a moment, the silence thickening around her.
Then she opens her email.


~~~


The phone buzzes again as the email from Sandra Ruiz hits her inbox.
Erica’s fingers tremble slightly - not from fear, but from the sudden shift in the air.
Something is coming.

It’s a single message.
No words.
Just an image attached to it.
She taps it open.

A grainy photo fills the screen: a computer monitor - an NYPD report, caught mid-scroll, hastily photographed.
The edges are blurred, skewed, but the heading punches through the haze:
“Incident Report: Allegation of Sexual Assault and Unlawful Restraint – Subject: Loudon, Gary M.”

Erica’s breath catches. “God,” she whispers to herself. “I think I need glasses…”

She pinches to zoom in, dragging the image across her screen. The text resolves into chilling clarity:
"Victim: Allison, Christine. Age 24.
Charge: Sexual assault, prolonged confinement, physical restraint.
Timeline: 3-day period.
Status: Victim withdrew complaint. No charges filed."

Further down, the report lists the details about Christine Allison’s ordeal at the hands of Gary Loudon, mirroring those of Lucy Arden.
Each word sharpens like glass underfoot. “Sexual assault… held in captivity…”
Her heartbeat skids.
Erica swears under her breath, her pulse suddenly thudding in her ears, the weight of revelation tightening across her ribs.

Christine Allison.
Another woman.
Another weekend.
Another horror.
Abused, then discarded and silenced.

The report ends with a cold, bureaucratic shrug: Victim withdrew complaint. Case closed.

But it’s there.
Just enough to crack the polished mask of Gary Loudon.

Her eyes flick to the top right corner of the screen.
An address.
Christine’s.

Erica’s jaw tightens. Her lips press together in a hard line.
It’s not just a fluke.
This isn’t coincidence.
This is a pattern.

And she’s staring it right in the face.

Predators don’t always look like monsters.
Sometimes, they smile.
They hold doors.
They buy you a drink.
They say all the right things… right before they lock you in.

Gary Loudon wasn’t a misunderstood flirt – he was a predator cloaked in charm, who hunted for vulnerable women like trophies.
And Christine… she was Lucy before Lucy.
Maybe there were others.
More young women who fell for his scheme, who let themselves to be lured into his trap.

Erica feels it like a current under her skin.

She hits the steering wheel once, sharp and quick.
Not out of frustration - but resolve.
If Christine Allison has even one ounce of truth left, if she’s still willing to share, Erica will get her to do it.

And this time, the truth won't slip through the cracks.
She texts Ruiz back: "Got it. Thank you. I’ll follow up."

Erica knows the NYPD monitors access to case files. If caught, Ruiz might claim she stumbled upon the report by mistake, but she couldn't risk lingering - hence the quick photo.
Ruiz is risking a lot just because her gut feeling is that there was more to Loudon than meets the eye.

Then she stares out the windshield, knuckles white around the wheel, the city lights blurring in her peripheral vision.
This just got more than real.

Case closed…
Erica shakes her head.
No hesitation.
Not now.
She’s not just defending Lucy anymore.
Although he’s dead, she’s hunting the hunter.


~~~

[LunaDog]

Two 'first impressions' have been confirmed here.

Firstly Sandra Ruiz is a thoroughly decent, honest person, who is actually willingly to put her own position, and career, at great risk here, in order to do the right and correct thing, fully exposing that the

LATE GARY LOUDON WAS A TOTAL AND UTTER ENTITLED SCUMBAG!

I sincerely hope that this proper Police Officer who, against the rules, is upholding the TRUE spirit of the law, doesn't become 'unstuck' because of her undoubted courage. The world, no matter in which nation they serve, needs MORE cops like her. REAL defenders of the concept of law and order!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, although I do claim a little artistic license here and there, a real NYPD detective told me that the case files in their system are being monitored, albeit automatically, to assure that confidential information doesn't get leaked - especially to the press. Downloads and screenshots are flagged, so a (very) quick photo taken is pretty much the only way for Detective Ruiz to get this info to Erica.
And yes, Sandra Ruiz is a good cop. No doubt about it.
Let's hope, her little "fast one" didn't get noticed.

[LunaDog]

Dear @LunaDog, although I do claim a little artistic license here and there.

Fair enough. Don't ALL story-tellers? I KNOW that i do on occasion.

[Jenny_S]

Kimball’s Market on Rhinelander thrums with low-grade chaos.
The ceiling presses down, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead are flickering like a dying interrogation room.
Shoppers squeeze past one another, carts clatter, a baby wails near the bakery.
The air smells of sour citrus and bleach.

Erica stands near the end of aisle three, a stranger among the shelves of canned beans and off-brand cereal.
Her tailored skirt and blazer feel too sharp for this place.
Her aviators hang from the open collar of her blouse, her handbag is slung precisely over her shoulder.
She could be mistaken for someone passing through.
But she’s not browsing.
She’s hunting – “Prowling and growling”, her father used to call it.

Her eyes scan toward the back of the store, past the freezer cases and the half-empty produce bins.

Then she sees her.
Giovanna Versini.

Behind the deli counter, maroon smock.
Ponytail tucked tight.
Gloved hands move with clinical speed, slicing turkey breast, weighing ham, wrapping it all with the neat detachment of someone who’s done this a thousand times.

To the customers, she’s courteous, efficient.
When a woman fumbles her wallet while balancing two squirming toddlers, Gio steps around the counter.
No hesitation.
Just a warm smile and a quick word Erica can’t quite hear.
The mother laughs.
The kids quiet.
The moment passes like it never happened.

Gio isn’t cruel.
But that doesn’t mean she’s innocent.

Erica watches. Not for proof - just for rhythm.
The way Gio moves.
How she holds herself. The tightness in her shoulders, twitching as she glances at the wall clock every few minutes, too frequent to be casual. Something’s off.
She’s waiting.
Or dreading.

Does she know Lucy’s out on bail?
If she’s ADA Calloway’s top witness, she might know that her friend – former friend – Lucy had her hearing today.

Erica walks past the counter without pausing, eyes locked ahead.
A breeze from the refrigerated aisle grazes her skin. She doesn’t flinch.
She doesn’t need a confrontation today, just wants to understand the players.
There will be no questions today.
No accusations, because knowing which buttons to press when the time comes can very well make the difference for Lucy Arden between walking out of the Courtroom as a free woman or spending the rest of her life behind bars.

Giovanna is no longer just a name in a file or a line in a statement.
She’s a variable.
A pressure point.
A weakness – a loose thread.
But Christine Allison? She might be the unraveling.

~~~

[LunaDog]

Checking out the 'enemy?' As all good military commanders do, and let's not forget that Erica is the daughter of one of those.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, correct. Erica prefers to know the opposition.

[Jenny_S]

By the time Erica reaches her apartment building on the Upper West Side, the sky is the color of slate and the wind has lost any trace of afternoon warmth.
Her heels click over the concrete of the underground parking garage before she steps into the elevator, the fluorescent lights humming overhead.
She presses the button for the sixth floor, then leans back against the mirrored wall.

Her shoulders ache.
The day has been long - psychologically heavy in a way few court hearings match.
And tomorrow promises no relief.

The elevator opens with a soft ding, and as she unlocks her apartment door, a pair of soft thuds echoes from inside.
The moment the door swings open, two fur missiles launch toward her – Spot and Tiger, her kittens, already winding around her ankles like soft shadows.

“Well, hello to you too,” she murmurs, dropping the keys into her handbag and slipping off her coat.
Her briefcase lands by the door.
She crouches to scratch behind Spot’s ears. “Yes, yes, I missed you. And no, I didn’t bring fresh tuna.”

They follow her to the kitchen like four-legged shadows as she flicks on the light and opens the overhead cupboard.
As always when she gets home – the kittens come first: she rinses their bowls, then fills them with water and a packet of the soft lamb paté they like so well.

Her own dinner is routine: skinless chicken breast seared in olive oil, steamed broccoli tossed with lemon juice, brown rice from a container in the freezer.
Nothing fancy, but great when done right.
While the pan sizzles, she scrolls through her phone with one hand - no missed calls from Ruiz, no mails from opposing counsel.
A quiet night.
Almost suspiciously so.

The cats mewl at her feet until she scoops another half of a packet of lamb pâté into their dish and sets it down.
They eat like it’s their first meal in days.
As they grow from kittens into tomcats, so grows their appetite.

By the time she’s cleaned her plate and rinsed it off, her phone buzzes with a message from Lucy.
Just text.
No photo.
No emojis.
"I keep thinking about the trial. About what if they believe her and not me. I'm scared again. Sorry to bother you."

Erica stares at the screen a moment before typing back.
"You’re not bothering me. You’re allowed to be scared. Let’s talk tomorrow. Sleep if you can. We’re in this together."

She doesn’t send it right away.
She re-reads it.
Twice.
Then adds a second message:
"You’re stronger than you think."
Again, her thumb hovers over the “Send” button, not sure if it’s a little too much.
What did Aunt Elisa say? “Then do it anyway.”

Send.

She powers off the kitchen light, pads barefoot into the living room, and, now dressed in her grey “cat mom” suit, sinks into the couch.
Tiger curls beside her.
Spot climbs onto the backrest like a sentry.

Tomorrow, she’ll track down Christine Allison.
Dig for the fracture in Giovanna’s loyalty.
Pull at every thread.

But for now, she lets the silence hold her.
The quiet is a rare thing in this case.
And she knows better than to waste it.


~~~

[LunaDog]

I see a strategy, a sensible and feasible one, forming here.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, I promise, you will see if that strategy works.

[Jenny_S]

The morning stirs before the sun does. A garbage truck growls somewhere outside, metal cans crash against pavement, and the city groans awake in fits and echoes.
Erica opens her eyes slowly, adjusting to the silver-blue light creeping into the bedroom.
Spot is curled into the curve of her waist, a warm, purring comma.
At the foot of the bed, Tiger stretches, tail flicking lazily, his eyes slits of feline contentment.

Her alarm buzzes - sharp and insistent.
Erica silences it with a swipe.
No snooze.
Never snooze.
Routine steadies her.
Anchors her.
Especially on mornings like this.

She pads barefoot into the kitchen, feeding the kittens first - two neat ceramic bowls, one for water, the other with two scoops of their grain-free, sugarless food.
They mewl in gratitude, winding around her ankles.
Then she slips into her black running tights and long-sleeved top, ties her shoes, and heads out into the crisp morning air.

The run is light, purposeful - not about speed, not today.
Just breath and rhythm and clarity.
When she returns, sweat dampens her collarbone and her thoughts are sharper, more aligned.
In the bathroom, steam ghosts across the mirror as she steps out of the shower.
Towel wrapped tight around her toned midsection, she scrolls through the morning headlines with one hand while brushing her teeth with the other:
Mayor Blames NYPD Shortages on Budget Cuts.
Rain Expected by Nightfall.
Another Silence Breaker Comes Forward in Midtown Assault Case.
She sets the phone down before the last headline one can sour her stomach and reaches for her makeup kit: a little foundation, mascara and nude lipstick. That’s it.

Adjusting her ponytail and, on bare feet, Erica pads over into the kitchen, switching on the coffee maker while stirring quick oats into a cup of hot water.
The scent of the oatmeal with cinnamon and a drizzle of maple syrup alone grounds her.
As the coffee brews behind her, it fills the apartment with its rich, bitter perfume.
She takes it the way she always does - two Sweet’n Low, a splash of almond milk.

Leaning against the counter, steaming mug in hand, she thinks about Christine Allison.
About how to approach her.
How not to scare her off.

The girl filed charges against Gary Loudon.
Then dropped them.
That kind of silence doesn’t just happen.
It’s pushed.
Pressured.
Or broken.

Erica rinses her bowl and mug, places them in the dishwasher, and sheds her towel.
She stands for a moment in front of the full-length mirror inside her walk-in closet.
Her body is tall, athletic - built from discipline, miles run in the dark, carefully measured meals.
She doesn’t see vanity.
She sees readiness.

She dresses with precision: seamless black underwear, a smooth sports bra, tailored black pants, a navy turtleneck, a crisp blazer.
Sharp enough to be respected, soft enough not to intimidate.

Clasping her Rolex dive watch around her wrist, she remembers the day she got it as a gift from her father.
On the day of her graduation from Harvard Law School, her father asked her to join him in his study, that almost magic room in the house.

Bathed in warm afternoon light, Erica stood there, in her graduation gown, her mortarboard hat under her arm.
Her father, Owen Sinclair, smiled at her with a pride that reached deeper than words could express.

“Knowing the law is one thing,” he told her, his voice deep but warm. “But it takes a strong moral compass to use it.”

She’d watched as he walked over to his rolltop desk, an antique piece of furniture where he kept documents and things he thought were most important. He returned to her carrying a green box embossed with a gold crown emblem.
“This is for you,” he said as he handed it to her.
Inside, Erica found the Rolex dive watch, a fine Swiss-made timepiece, heavy and smooth.
She took it out of the box and immediately felt how special this gift was.
On the back of its case, she found the engraving: Stand for something or fall for anything.
“These words,” her father said, looking her in the eyes, “are more than just a motto. They’re an oath - a commitment to live by your principles, no matter the cost.”

In that moment, Erica realized what her father had done: he had not just given her an expensive present, he had passed on his legacy and a compass for her soul.
The key to her personal integrity was wrapped up in this creed and as she clasped the watch around her wrist, she promised him – herself – that she would honor this creed, come hell or high water.

“Whatever it takes,” Erica whispers as her fingers brush across the cool metal of the Rolex.
The creed engraved in the back of the watch defines her, makes her who she is.
And she hopes – prays – that she makes her father proud.
And she means it.
Always has.

She slips into her taupe trench coat, grabs her bag, and heads for the door.
One last look at the kittens - now a lazy sprawl of whiskers and dreams tangled in her comforter.
She smiles. Locks up behind her.

In the underground garage, her black Volvo waits in its bay like a coiled panther.
She unlocks it with a soft beep, slides behind the wheel, and pulls up the photo Detective Ruiz sent.
Christine Allison’s police file.
Top right corner: an address in Jackson Heights.
She punches it into the GPS. The system chirps to life.
Erica starts the engine.
The Volvo rumbles low and clean beneath her.
She pulls out of the garage and into the city’s bloodstream.

“Time to play ball,” she murmurs.
But this time, the stakes aren’t just like any other.
They’re predatory.
Erica continues the hunt.


~~~

[LunaDog]

As normal with you, this story is building very nicely @Jenny_S Looking forward to its continuation immensely.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, thank you so much. I'm happy to have such faithful readers like you.

[Jenny_S]

Traffic snarls in true New York fashion - delivery vans clog the curb lanes like rusted arteries, their blinkers clicking with casual indifference.
Cyclists dart between cars like they’re racing death, and pedestrians cross wherever they damn well please, eyes forward, daring any driver to challenge them.

Erica doesn’t flinch behind the wheel.
She’s used to this chaos.
But her mind isn’t on traffic.

She’s thinking about Lucy.
About the tremor in her voice when she admitted she was scared - not just of prison, but of the jury, of being disbelieved, of being made small again.
Of being called a liar.
Christine Allison might’ve felt the same fear when she dropped the charges against Gary Loudon.

If Christine went through something like Lucy did...then this isn’t coincidence.
It’s a pattern.
A method.
And if Erica can trace it clearly enough, she might just turn it into a weapon.

She turns onto East Tremont.
The neighborhood has seen better days - maybe decades ago.
Narrow, two-story houses line the street, bricked together like they’re holding each other up. Paint peels from window frames.
Weeds strangle chain-link fences.
A woman in a faded housecoat smokes on her stoop, watching the world without blinking.
A teenager dribbles a basketball next door, skipping school without an ounce of guilt.

Too early for drama.
But not too early for truth.

Erica slows, double-checking the house number in the photo on her phone.
There it is - #347. Wedged between a shuttered check-cashing place and a daycare gone to dust, its windows dark and taped in Xs.
The house wears its despair openly: peeling blue shutters, a crooked mailbox dangling by one screw, a cracked cement path leading to a door that’s lost its color.

Christine’s door.

She cuts the engine. Sits for a second.
Inhale. Exhale.
Business cards. Phone. Composure.

She steps out of the Volvo, the soles of her moccasins crunching on loose gravel and glass.
The air smells like damp concrete and something vaguely metallic.

There’s no name on the door.
No bell either.
No surprise.
She raps her knuckles against the wood - dry and weathered under her touch.

Long silence.

Then: the rustle of movement behind the door.
Something shifts behind the peephole.
A pause.
Another sound - soft, like someone hesitating with their whole body.

The lock clicks.
Once.
Then again.

The door creaks open, no more than two inches.

A woman peers out - hood up, red sweatshirt zipped to her chin, dark eyes rimmed with sleepless circles.
She looks at Erica like she’s a threat.
“Who are you?” Her voice is raspy, thin, brittle as cracked porcelain.

Erica lifts a business card and slides it into the narrow space. “My name is Erica Sinclair. I’m an attorney. I need to speak with you about Gary Loudon.”

Christine Allison doesn’t take the card.
Her fingers stay out of view.
Her jaw tightens like a trap sprung shut. “I don’t talk about that.”

“I don’t blame you.” Erica lowers her voice, steady but urgent. “But I need your help. He didn’t stop with you. He hurt someone else. Someone who’s still fighting.”

A silence yawns open between them.
Christine’s gaze flicks past Erica’s shoulder, down the street, checking for signs of trouble.
Police.
Press.
Neighbors.

Then, with a breath, she opens the door a little wider, but stays in its shadow, looking over Erica’s shoulder.
“Ten minutes,” she says.

Erica nods. “I appreciate it.”
And she steps into the shadows of a house that holds a wound too fresh to scab.


~~~

[LunaDog]

Well, it's a start, nothing more at this stage, but this might just build. This girl, who has already suffered at the hands of this entitled monster, might just be the key to saving another of his 'victims.'

Problem is though, demonstrating beyond doubt that Gary Loudon was a total scumbag, could well allow the prosecution lawyers to argue that Lucy had a real motive to kill him. Erica needs to tread VERY carefully here, as i'm sure she is all too aware of.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog you might be right. Maybe today's part of the story - a rather long one - reveals more.

[Jenny_S]

The first thing Erica notices is the smell. Not foul, not dirty - just... still.
The air carries the stale bite of bleach, layered over something older - like fear that never quite aired out.
Curtains are drawn tight over the windows.
Light filters in only through the cracks, cutting across the dusty hardwood like blades.

Christine’s apartment is small, a railroad-style unit with the kitchen straight ahead and a narrow hallway snaking toward the back.
A fold-out couch remains half-open, blanketed in a tangle of sheets and an old hoodie.
A laptop glows dimly on the coffee table, surrounded by takeout containers and half-drunk cans of soda.

On the wall above the couch, sticky notes are clustered like warnings - reminders, maybe affirmations: "Breathe." "You are not crazy." "Stay inside."

Her work setup - a collapsible table shoved against the wall - looks like it hasn’t been touched in days.
A headset rests atop a keyboard like a forgotten relic.
The chair sits slightly off-center, there’s unopened mail and bags with trash she may have wanted to take out but couldn’t get herself to actually doing it.

Her hands buried deep in the kangaroo pocket of her oversized hoodie, Christine moves through the space without urgency, without apology.
She doesn’t offer Erica a seat.

Erica doesn’t press. She understands this kind of space.
Trauma lingers here - in the corners, in the clutter, in the quiet.
No vanity – only survival.

She knows she’ll have to tread carefully.
This isn’t just a woman who was hurt.
It’s a woman still bleeding, even if the wounds aren’t visible.
She can tell by Christine’s eyes darting around, even here in her own place, her hunched shoulders.


~~~


“I’m not… good with people right now,” Christine mutters, pulling the hoodie tighter around her face. “So, just say what you came to say.”

“I understand,” Erica says gently.
She doesn’t move to sit.
Doesn’t scan the place.
Her voice stays low, steady. “Thank you for letting me in.”

Christine’s arms wrap around her as if trying to hold herself together.
Her gaze flicks to the side, not quite meeting Erica’s eyes.

“I’m not here to force anything,” Erica continues. “But I wanted to tell you about someone. Her name’s Lucy Arden.”

The name seems to hang in the room for a moment.
Christine gives a slight, almost imperceptible flinch.

“She’s a client of mine,” Erica says. “A regular girl, 24 years old, works at a grocery store. She met Gary Loudon at a bar a couple of weeks ago. They talked, laughed, he was charming. Funny. Smart.”

Christine doesn’t speak, but her breathing has changed - quieter, tighter.

“He texted her if she’d like to hang out and she agreed. He picked her up in his cool car, took her to a cool place. Made her feel important.” Erica takes a quick look at Christine. She’s listening, biting the inside of her cheek.
“He asked her if she’d want to continue the night at his place. She said yes and went along, but she didn’t expect to be locked in.”
She pauses.

Christine blinks slowly.
Her jaw clenches.

“At first it went as she figured it would. Then he started to get rough. She cried, he took her phone. Then - over the next two days - he kept her there. Tied her up, gagged her. He…”
Erica stops herself.
Her voice catches, not from emotion, but from the weight of what she knows must be said.
“He forced himself on her. Multiple times over the course of the weekend. Hurt her. Humiliated her. And when he finally let her go, she was lucky that a cop took her to the hospital.”
Erica lets the silence stretch.

Christine’s shoulders are trembling.
She exhales like it hurts.

“He said she made it up. That it was just a messy hookup. That she was bitter.”
Erica takes a step closer, slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal.
“But her injuries didn’t lie. She pressed charges, but then… when the police talked to Loudon… he called her. Threatened her. She withdrew.”

Christine’s eyes glisten.
Her hands have moved - wrung tightly together, thumbs rubbing each other raw.

“I didn’t come to ask you for a statement,” Erica says. “I came because I think you know what it feels like. To be silenced. To be told that your pain is a lie.”

Christine gasps - a sound that’s halfway to a sob - and covers her mouth.
“That’s what he did to me,” she whispers, her voice breaking. “That’s exactly what he did to me.”
She backs away from the wall, one hand bracing against the table.
Her whole body is shaking now.

Christine trembles.
Her spine curls inward, breath hitching as though her lungs just remembered what it felt like to scream.
“He… he invited me over after dinner. Said he liked my art. Said he wanted to commission something. I thought… I thought it was real.”

Erica stays rooted, listening.

“He was so charming at first. So careful. And then it turned. So fast.” Christine’s voice cracks. “He locked the door. He called me names... like I should be grateful he picked me.”
Tears stream down her face now. She doesn’t wipe them away.
“I said no. I said stop. But he didn’t…” Her voice rises. “And when it was over, he made me stay. All weekend. Like it was some twisted game.”

Erica’s throat tightens.
She doesn’t say anything, lets Christine get the pain out of her system.

“I pressed charges. I did. The detective said they’d talk to him. And then - then he called me.” Christine’s hands ball into fists. “He said if I didn’t drop it, his lawyers would butcher me in court. That no jury would believe a crazy woman who paints in her pajamas and takes antidepressants.”

Erica’s breath hitches, but she still doesn’t interrupt.

“So I dropped it. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t go through that. I barely made it through the first time.”
Christine sinks onto the edge of the sofa, the couch groaning under her weight.
Her face is pale, eyes wide, haunted.

Erica kneels beside her, slow and steady.
“You did survive it,” she says. “And you’re not alone.”

Christine meets her gaze.
And in that instant, something breaks - not in a way that shatters, but in a way that lets the light in.


~~~


Christine wipes at her face with the sleeve of her hoodie, hands trembling. “I didn’t think anyone would believe me. I thought maybe... maybe I imagined parts of it. That I was weak.”

Erica’s voice is calm but firm. “You weren’t weak. You were targeted. Just like Lucy.”

Christine looks up, something flickering behind her eyes. “Is she okay?”

Erica hesitates for a breath.
Then: “She’s alive. But she’s not okay. Gary Loudon tried to do the same thing again. Only this time, he wanted to hurt someone she cared about. A friend of hers named Gio. So Lucy fought back.”

Christine stares, her body tense.

“She shot him,” Erica says gently, “Gary Loudon can’t hurt you again. He’s dead.”

The words seem to echo.
Christine’s eyes widen.
“He… what?” she whispers.

Erica nods. “Lucy shot him. In self-defense. To stop him from doing to her friend what he did to both of you.”

Christine collapses onto the couch.
Not crying - just silent.
Shaking.

“He’s gone,” she murmurs, voice breaking. “He can’t find me again.”
She exhales sharply - more like a sob than a breath.

Her hands fly to her mouth, teeth gnawing at her knuckles, and for a moment she looks horrified.
Then a slow, stunned silence falls over her before she starts crying - openly now, messily.
But there’s something different about these tears.
Something looser, like a shackle being unlocked inside her. “He can’t hurt me anymore,” she chokes out. “He can’t find me. He can’t call. He can’t… he’s gone.”

Erica moves closer but still gives her space. “He can’t hurt you. Not ever again.”

Christine sobs into her hands, shoulders shaking. “Oh God... I prayed he’d go away. That he’d disappear. That he’d leave women alone. I never thought - never thought he’d actually…”

“I know,” Erica says softly. “No one wanted it to come to this. But it did.”

Christine’s breathing starts to steady, and after a long pause, she looks up at Erica, hollow-eyed but clear. “So... what happens to Lucy?”

“She’s charged with murder,” Erica says. “They’re calling it premeditated. They’re painting him as a philanthropist. A misunderstood man. He comes from money. Influence. People are already lining up to defend his legacy.”

Christine’s mouth tightens.

“She’s going to trial,” Erica says. “And without someone else - without you - his lawyers will make Lucy look like she snapped. Like she imagined everything. You know the playbook. You’ve lived it.”

Christine stares down at her hands, at the pale impressions left where she’s been clenching her fists.

Erica leans in slightly, her voice quiet. “I won’t push you. But if the court hears only their version of him... Lucy might go to prison for surviving. You could help change that.”

Christine’s eyes brim again.
She doesn’t speak, just looks away for a long time.
Her whisper is barely audible: “He used to say no one would ever believe me. That my voice didn’t matter.”

Then she opens her eyes, and for the first time, there’s steel in them.
“Maybe it’s time to prove him wrong.”


~~~

[LunaDog]

The raw emotion that you, quite brilliantly, create here is SO realistic, so superbly told. One almost wants to reach out and cuddle Christine here. But, although this woman has clearly suffered at the scumbag's hands , Erica still needs to be careful here. The main prosecution lawyer is very skilled, and can count on very rich and powerful back up. Quite capable of twisting this thoroughly decent girl's testimony.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, this case is like an onion: Erica has to peel back layer after layer.