Erica Sinclair - All or Nothing (M/F)

[Jenny_S]

Outside the conference room, the hallway at Sinclair & Associates feels unusually still.

Erica leans against the cool pane of glass, arms crossed, her gaze focused on nothing in particular - not the corridor lights, not the framed law certificates on the wall.
Her thoughts are with the two women on the other side of that door.

Claire stands a few steps away, silent, giving her boss space but not distance.
Her usual crispness is softened now, she feels the weight of what’s happening beyond the glass.

Erica checks her Rolex.
Fifteen minutes.
Then twenty.

Neither speaks.

Then, without a sound, the door cracks open.
Just a sliver at first.
Lucy peers out, her voice no more than a hush.
“Ms. Sinclair… we have something to say.”

Erica straightens, exchanges a quick look with Claire, then walks through the door.

Inside, the room is quiet.
The chairs haven’t moved.
The mugs still sit on the table - one now empty, the other untouched.

But the energy is different.
Tangibly different.

Lucy and Christine sit side-by-side.
Their hands are clasped, resting between them on the polished surface - not desperate, not performative.
Just steady.
Connected.

Christine lifts her chin, eyes finding Erica’s with something close to courage.
“I’ll do it,” she says. Her voice wavers slightly, but she pushes forward. “I’ll testify. I’ll tell them what he did to me. Everything. Two weeks before he… before he went after Lucy.”

A quiet beat.

Erica exhales, something deep in her chest loosening.
She doesn’t smile - not yet - but her posture softens.
Something inside her unwinds.
“Thank you, Christine,” she says. “That takes strength. Real strength.”

Christine shrugs one shoulder. “I’m still scared. But… if I don’t speak now, he wins. Even in death. And I’m done letting him win.”

Erica nods slowly. Then gestures toward Claire, who’s stepped just inside the door.
“This is Claire Messner. She’s my assistant. If you’re comfortable, I’d like her to take down your statement - everything you remember. That way, we have a record. Something to blow the DA out of the water with.”

Christine looks to Lucy. Lucy gives her a small nod, eyes glassy but proud.
“I’ll stay with you,” Lucy says quietly. “If that’s okay.”

Christine lets out a long breath. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Erica turns toward Claire, who already has her legal pad and pen in hand.
“Take your time,” Erica says gently. “No pressure. Just the truth, in your words.”

Christine nods again, then sits up straighter in her chair. Lucy doesn’t let go of her hand.
As Claire moves to sit across from them and opens her pad, Erica quietly backs out of the room, her hand resting for a moment on the doorframe before she lets the door ease shut behind her.

She stands there for a long moment, exhaling slowly.
Then she whispers, almost to herself:
“One more piece on the board.”
The game is far from over.
But the tide?
It just started to turn.


~~~


The hallway outside the conference room hums with the low buzz of noontime activity.
Erica walks with steady strides toward the reception desk, her moccasins soft against the polished floor, her thoughts still lingering behind - with Lucy and Christine, with all they’ve endured, and what they’ve just begun to reclaim.

At the reception desk, Holly Beck slips off her headset the moment she spots her boss approaching.
She straightens, her smile practiced but never insincere.
“Yes?” she asks, already sensing this isn’t about scheduling or files.

Erica stops in front of her, voice low but deliberate. “Do me a favor and order something for our guests to eat. Pizza, I think. Everybody likes pizza.”

Holly perks up immediately. “Of course.”
She pulls open the top drawer of her desk and retrieves a folded, slightly worn menu - Mario’s Pizza Palazzo, a local standby known for both speed and comfort food perfection.
“They’ve got a great selection,” Holly offers. “Thin crust, deep dish, even gluten-free, if we’re feeling health-conscious.”

“Just go with what you think the ladies might enjoy,” Erica says over her shoulder, already turning to walk away. “They’ve had a hard day.”

Holly nods, flipping open the menu like a seasoned operator. “Yes, ma’am,” she says under her breath, already reaching for her headset as she dials the number from memory.

A soft chime rings out as she connects.
“Mario’s Pizza!”

“Yes,” Holly chirps, voice as bright as the sunlight spilling across her desk. “This is Sinclair & Associates. We’d like to place an order for two very special guests…”


~~~


A soft chime from the elevator echoes through the quiet lobby of Sinclair & Associates, followed by the faint shuffle of sneakers on marble.
Holly glances up from her notes at her desk, already knowing what it is.

Pizza.

From further down the hallway, Erica strides toward the front, passing the glass-walled conference room where Lucy and Christine still sit.
Their silhouettes are visible through the blinds - heads tilted close, a quiet murmur between them.
Not broken anymore, but not whole yet either.
Just beginning to rebuild.

At the reception desk, Holly is already standing, her headset looped around her neck, a twenty-dollar bill in hand. “That was fast,” she says as the delivery boy - a teenager in a red Mario’s Pizza jacket - holds out two stacked boxes.

“Smells good,” Erica murmurs.

“Large margherita and mushroom with extra cheese,” Holly says. “I figured that was safe.”

Erica pulls a bill from her blazer pocket, handing the boy cash and a tip that makes his eyes widen slightly. “Thanks,” she says.

“Anytime, ma’am. Have a good one.” He’s gone before the door finishes swinging shut.

Erica balances the boxes, one arm curled beneath them, and walks back down the hall. As she reaches the conference room, she knocks lightly with her elbow and nudges the door open.

The scent hits first - warm basil, melted cheese, crust toasted just right.
Both Lucy and Christine glance up.
Their eyes widen in near unison.

“I figured you two could use something to eat,” Erica says, her tone light but full of care. “You’ve done more than enough heavy lifting today.”

Christine lets out a soft, surprised laugh.
Lucy just blinks, then offers a small smile that’s more real than anything Erica’s seen on her face yet.
“I… yeah,” Lucy says. “That smells amazing.”

As Erica sets the boxes down on the table and opens the top one, the warmth escapes like a breath.

“You didn’t have to…” Christine begins.

“I know,” Erica replies. “But there’s no law that says you have to testify on an empty stomach.”
She gestures to the spread. “Enjoy.”

For a moment, the room shifts - not away from what they’ve shared, but forward from it.
Two women, survivors, lifting a slice of pizza like it’s the first thing they’ve tasted in years.

“We’re done with the testimony.” Claire says as she stands, notepad under her arm.
She knows when to fade into the background.

Erica nods in acknowledgement. “We’ll be back with espresso when you’re done eating.”
She steps back, Claire follows.
Erica lets the moment breathe.
At the moment there’s no need to say anything more.

The women are talking.
They’re eating.
And that, right now, is everything.

Erica watches a moment longer before gently pulling the door closed behind her.
One step at a time.
That’s how healing begins.
She exhales and her jaw unclenches slightly.


~~~

[Caesar73]

The Picture capture the Atmosphere of this Meeting perfectly.

To summarize this Chapter one Line is enough: "The Tide stared to turn." Christina´s Testimony might be a Gamechanger. Even if the Battle is far from over. Nice Choice of Pizza by the Way! I would have opted for Mushroom!

What I do like about your writing is that every Piece of the Puzzle fall into place effortlessly.

[LunaDog]

'Mighty meat' is my pizza of choice, whilst my wife, Diane loves a good Hawaiian!

The girls are forming a REAL bond between them, which is great to see, and might well be useful in the case.

However, i feel that what Lucy really needs is somehow to get Giovanna on board. Which means her retracting her original statement, condemning the young girl. Not going to be easy, and i'm sure that there are people determined to prevent this.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, dear @LunaDog, I'm so happy to see how sincerely you are invested in this story.
Yes, Christine may be a Godsent (by courtesy of Detective Ruiz), but is her testimony enough to turn the ship around?
We will see later, I promise.

[Jenny_S]

Claire flips open her notepad, filled with tight, looping shorthand.
Erica leans over her shoulder, squinting.
The page might as well be in Cyrillic.
“You remember I can’t read hieroglyphics, right?” she says, drily.

Claire blinks, then gives a sheepish laugh. “Oh…sorry. I forget not everyone was raised by court reporters. I’ll transcribe it ASAP.”

Erica offers the ghost of a smile and nods. “Please. Once it’s typed, send it to my private inbox.”

She taps gently on the conference room door, then opens it and steps inside.
Christine and Lucy sit at the far end of the table.
The pizza boxes are pushed aside now - only one slice left, half-forgotten.
They look up in tandem, not startled but watchful.

Erica stops at the window, hands clasped loosely in front of her.
The early afternoon sun streaks in, catching dust motes that dance in the air between them.
“I want to thank you,” she begins. Her voice is calm, low. “Both of you. If it weren’t for your courage - your willingness to speak - this case would look very different.”
She steps closer now, gaze sweeping across their tired but resolute faces.
“I’ll keep you informed of every step from here on out. But I need to be very clear about one thing: from now on, not a word leaves this room unless it goes through me. Not friends, not family, not the police, not the press. Not even the DA, should they start asking questions.”

Christine nods quickly, understanding without needing more.
Lucy hesitates. “Even Giovanna?”

Erica’s eyes soften, but her head shakes. “That includes Giovanna. I’ll talk to her. Try to remind her what loyalty looks like. But for now - silence.”

Lucy’s lips press into a thin line, the grief of losing a friend layered over everything else.
“I know,” she whispers. “Okay.”

Erica scans their faces one more time. “Is there anything else I can do? You want me to drop you somewhere? A quiet café, maybe?”

They exchange a glance.
Then Christine nods. “That... actually sounds nice.”


~~~


The elevator chimes. Erica leads the way down to the garage, heels striking soft echoes off concrete.
She unlocks her Volvo with a soft beep.
Lucy and Christine slide into the back seat together, the door shutting with a muted thud.
Erica catches them in the rearview mirror - buckled in, and quietly holding hands.
Not romantic.
Something deeper.
Solidarity.

“Next stop, Old Town Café,” she says, turning the key.
The engine hums to life as she pulls onto Park Avenue.

The café is a quiet haunt uptown - tucked between a dry cleaner and a bookshop that’s barely clinging to business.
Red-brick façade, handwritten menu taped to the window, coffee that smells like something from childhood.
Not classy, but discreet.
Erica parks at the curb and turns in her seat. “I’ll be out of town for the day. But you have my number. Use it. Anytime.”

Both women nod.
They step out, casting one last look back.
Their hands are no longer joined, but something between them is unbroken now.

Raising one hand to them as she turns, she doesn’t wave, but she promises them: I’m still here.
Erica shifts into gear, turns back into traffic, and disappears northbound - toward Scarsdale.
Toward Aunt Elisa.


~~~


The Volvo hums along the parkway, its engine steady beneath Erica’s hand.
Just outside the city, she veers off the highway toward a small gourmet market tucked between a gas station and a strip mall.
According to the internet, it’s the best spot within fifty miles for authentic Middle and South American groceries.

She steps inside and is immediately hit by the scent of chili, cumin, and tropical fruit.
There’s color everywhere - brightly packaged spices, jars of guava paste, rows of plantain chips.
She moves quickly through the aisles, focused.

At the refrigerated section, she selects two packets of seedless dates - one soaked in golden honey, the other wrapped in thin ribbons of Serrano ham. A quiet indulgence.
Something sweet.
Something a little salty.
A reminder of the past, perhaps, for her aunt.
Back in the car, she sets the bag on the passenger seat and merges back into traffic, her mind already shifting gears.

By the time she reaches Taunton Road, the sun is beginning to dip, casting long shadows across the front lawn.
Erica slows as she approaches the house.
The front door is wide open.
Inside, she glimpses the flicker of movement - workers hauling in drywall, the high-pitched shriek of an angle grinder, the rhythmic percussion of hammers on wood.
Progress.
Tangible.
Loud.

Over the hedge, her neighbor Frank Ellis peers at her like a curious squirrel.

She lifts a hand in a brief, amused wave, not bothering to stop.
The man has probably memorized the blueprints of the house by now.

She rolls past the place and continues toward the quiet parking lot of Sunrise Manor.


~~~


Erica kills the engine, shoulders her leather bag, and gently lifts the thin shopping sack from the passenger seat, careful not to crush the dates.
The air smells like budding trees and cut grass, the world just beginning to green again.

Inside the care home’s sunlit lobby, she’s greeted by a pleasant surprise: an older gentleman with snow-white hair and a perfectly ironed button-down shirt.
“Good afternoon,” he says, offering a slight, courtly bow.

Erica’s brows lift, amused. “Good afternoon,” she replies with equal poise, although she’s certain she hasn’t seen him before.

She walks toward Aunt Elisa’s room, still smiling faintly - but when she finds the room empty, her good mood deflates just a bit.
She checks her watch for the time.
Choir practice should be long over.

Not panicked.
Not yet.
But uneasy.

She pivots and makes her way back to the reception desk.
The young caretaker behind the counter - neatly dressed, tapping at the keyboard with efficient strokes - greets her with a nod.
“Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for my aunt, Mrs. Teran. She’s not in her room, and choir practice is over.”

The caretaker types quickly, his eyes flicking across the screen. “Looks like she’s in the crafting room. Pottery class.”

Erica blinks. “Pottery?”

He smiles. “It’s very good for hand-eye coordination. And memory, too. Fires up both imagination and motor function.”

Erica exhales through her nose, a half-laugh. “She never even liked art.”

“She’s taken to it surprisingly well.” He rises from his chair. “Would you like me to take you there?”

Erica nods, adjusting the bag on her arm. “Please.”

And as they walk through the quiet, sun-dappled corridors, she wonders what other surprises her aunt has waiting today.

~~~

[LunaDog]

Well it seems thar Aunt Elisa has another string to add to her bow. Good for her.

In the meantime Erica's advice to the young girls is total and utter sense. Speak to NOBODY about the case, except her of course.

[Caesar73]

What I like especially about this Chapter? The Part when Erica does Visit her Aunt and learns about her "Extracurricular Activities"

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, dear @Caesar73, Aunt Elisa is having a good time at Sunrise Manor. I promise, we'll see her again in the next stories. She seems to have become a favorite character of my readers.

[Jenny_S]

The hallway stretches ahead, lined with framed watercolors and pastel drawings - student work, most likely, or maybe therapeutic exercises dressed up in dollar-store frames.
Soft instrumental music filters from the ceiling speakers, too faint to place.
Something classical.
Safe.
Familiar.

The young caretaker walks beside Erica in silence until they reach a frosted glass door marked Creative Studio – Crafts.
He pauses, resting his hand lightly on the handle.
“She’s in here,” he says. “We don’t usually suggest visits during class, but I’m sure Mrs. Teran won’t mind.”

Erica offers a quiet thank-you, and the caretaker dips his head and retreats down the hallway.
She adjusts the strap of her handbag, shifts the paper bag with the dates in her other hand, and opens the door.

Warm air greets her, laced with the earthy scent of wet clay and a faint bite of disinfectant.
The room is bright – afternoon sunlight pouring in through broad windows that overlook the care home’s small courtyard garden.
Tables are spaced in a rough horseshoe, each equipped with water cups, tools, and spinning wheels.
Aprons hang from hooks on the far wall.
Shelves hold rows of misshapen bowls and mugs in every imaginable hue.

And there, near the back, hunched slightly over a spinning wheel, is Aunt Elisa.

Erica stops in the doorway.

Her aunt is wearing a smock two sizes too big, her sleeves rolled up, fingers caked in clay.
She works slowly, hands shaping the wet form with an odd sort of grace - tentative, yet deliberate.
The beginnings of a small vase rise under her palms.

She doesn’t look frail.
She looks focused.
Engaged.
Alive.

A therapist hovers nearby, offering quiet encouragement to another resident.
Nobody seems to notice Erica at first.
She doesn’t move.
She doesn’t want to break the spell.

Then Elisa looks up.
It takes a second for her to recognize the figure in the doorway, but when she does, her entire face changes.
Her mouth opens slightly - not in surprise, but delight.
As if she’s just remembered something worth remembering.
“Niña,” she calls softly.

Erica walks over, careful not to disturb the rows of drying pieces on the tables. “Hey,” she says, her voice gentler than it’s been all day. “I didn’t know I’d find you... elbow-deep in mud.”

Elisa smiles, her chin lifting with defiance. “It’s not mud. It’s art.”

Erica chuckles. “I brought you something.” She holds up the small bag.
Elisa peers into it as Erica sets it down beside her. “Dates.”
She smiles, softer now.

For a moment, there’s nothing but the whir of the pottery wheels and the hush of careful hands shaping clay.
Then Elisa looks down at her piece again. “I thought I was too old to learn something new,” she murmurs. “Turns out I was just too afraid.”

Erica crouches beside her, eye-level with the unfinished vase. “You’re not afraid anymore?”

Elisa shakes her head. “Not today.”

Erica’s throat tightens, but she smiles through it. “Well... maybe next time, I’ll join you. See what kind of disaster I can create with clay.”

Her aunt tilts her head. “You? You’re too neat. You’d need a lesson in mess.”

Erica’s laugh is low and warm. “Only if you will teach me.”

The therapist approaches and gives Erica a nod, clearly aware of who she is but choosing not to interrupt.
“She’s got a knack for it,” the woman says. “We’ll be glazing these next week. You should come see the final piece.”

“I will,” Erica replies. “Definitely.”

She stands and rests a hand lightly on her aunt’s shoulder. “Finish your masterpiece. I’ll be in the lounge when you’re done.”

Elisa nods and returns to her spinning wheel.
Her hands are steady now, not trembling.

As Erica steps back through the door and into the hallway, the emotion hits her in a way she doesn’t expect - a mix of pride, sorrow, and a deep-rooted gratitude that her aunt still has this fight in her.
Still has new chapters left to write.


~~~


Erica settles into the lounge, the soft rustle of her coat the only sound as she places a small paper bag on the low table.
The faint scent of dates and honey drifts up, sweet and familiar.
Outside, the spring light is fading into amber, filtering through the tall windows with a hush that makes everything feel gentler.
She doesn't have to wait long.

A shuffle of steps.
Then Elisa enters - shoulders square, her new cardigan buttoned, eyes alert - but with that slight pause in her gait.
Like she’s double-checking where she is.
Her expression flickers for a beat - uncertainty passing like a shadow behind her eyes - then smooths when she sees Erica.
“You came,” Elisa says, relieved.

“I told you I would.” Erica smiles as she stands. “And I brought you something.”

She opens the bag, revealing two small boxes of dates - one golden and sticky with honey, the other wrapped in thin ribbons of Serrano ham.
Elisa gasps softly, reaching out with reverence, as if the contents stir a memory just beneath the surface.

“These…” She trails off, blinking. “Did I... did I use to eat these with...?”

Erica doesn’t fill the silence.
She just offers the box.
Letting her aunt chase the thread.

Elisa’s fingers tremble slightly as she lifts one date and places it carefully into her mouth.
Her expression softens, her eyes closing. “Yes. Yes, I remember now. At the market... in Cochabamba.”

A beat.
Then:
“My father used to buy them.” Her voice is stronger now. “He always said the sweet ones reminded him of us. Even when your mother was small, always such a serious little face.”

Erica laughs gently.
In the few photos she has of her mother, she’s always smiling, never serious.

They sit, side by side on the sofa.
The quiet wraps around them like a blanket.

“I worry sometimes,” Elisa says, her voice now uncertain again. “I think I’ve forgotten important things. Sometimes I go looking for them... and they’re just not there.”

Erica leans forward, her tone steady. “The important things are still with you, Aunt Elisa. You remember the people who matter. That’s what counts.”

They sit for a few more minutes until the soft shuffle of steps reaches them again.
The older gentleman Erica met earlier reappears – Charles Bancroft, crisp in his slacks, shirt and now topped by a navy blazer, his smile as warm as ever.
“Mrs. Teran,” he says gently, “they’re serving dinner in the Dining Room. I thought perhaps you’d let me escort you again?”

Elisa hesitates.
Her eyes move between Charles and Erica, confusion edging into her gaze for a beat.
Then she straightens slightly. “That would be nice,” she says. She turns to Erica. “Will you wait here for me? Or are you… leaving already?”

“I’ll be right here,” Erica assures her softly, reaching out to clasp her aunt’s hand. “I’ll be here when you’re done.”

Elisa nods, visibly comforted.
She rises carefully and takes Charles’s offered arm.

“Your niece has a good heart,” Charles says, glancing back at Erica.
Beaming, although her words get tangled, Elisa softly says: “She… she’s helping people.”

Charles nods as if he understands perfectly.
As they walk off together, Elisa murmurs something to him - maybe a memory, maybe something born from the moment.
But her steps are steady, and her fingers curl gently around Charles’s arm.

Erica watches them go.
Still.
Grateful.
And just a little sad.

She leans back into the armchair, eyes misting - not because of her aunt’s condition, but despite it, Elisa is still finding connection.
Still finding joy.
That, Erica thinks, is the kind of strength she wants to carry into the courtroom.


~~~

[LunaDog]

Aunt Elisa is having a good time at Sunrise Manor. I promise, we'll see her again in the next stories. She seems to have become a favorite character of my readers.

Very much including myself here. We know that this story is going to turn nasty at some stage, as Loudon throws his money around in order to try to make the world believe his late, scumbag son was an angel, whose life was terminated by some evil girl, who has to pay the heaviest price possible for her outrage. But it's nice to enjoy a bit of pleasant interaction beforehand. Just gives some extra dimension to this, already superb, story.