The McCandless Bar & Grill has a warmth to it that contrasts sharply with the damp chill outside. It’s a working-class joint, the kind of place where locals come to drink away the weight of the day, not to impress anyone. The air is thick with the scent of grilled meat, fried onions, and beer - simple, honest smells.
A quick scan of the room tells Erica what she needs to know. No students. Just tired-looking men nursing their beers, a few regulars chatting at the bar, and couples huddled over plates of food.
The music is low - classic rock, the kind that plays just loud enough to set the mood but not so loud that it drowns out conversation.
The waitresses all have a uniform look - tight jeans, cropped tops - designed for tips rather than comfort. They move quickly, balancing trays with burgers, kabobs, and baskets of fries, dodging patrons with practiced ease.
Erica keeps walking, her right hand in her jacket pocket, fingers brushing her phone, the other casually at her side.
For a moment, Erica seems to feel a man staring at her, but the next moment he looks away again and resumes his chat with another guy.
Then, a motion catches her eye.
A woman waves from the far corner of the room, her face half-obscured by the dim lighting.
Erica slows, glancing around. Was that meant for her?
The woman raises her hand again - deliberate. Yes, for her.
As she approaches the table, the figure becomes clearer.
Mid-40s, casual clothes, but familiar.
Erica’s sharp mind pieces it together in an instant.
Hannah Eastman. Dean Valena Childers’ secretary.
The woman looks nervous, fingers tapping lightly against the rim of a half-finished glass of white wine.
A witness? A possible breakthrough?
Or a trap.
Erica stops just short of the table, watching her carefully.
“Hannah Eastman?” she asks, her voice measured.
The low hum of conversation in McCandless provides a steady backdrop, the occasional clink of glasses and muffled laughter punctuating the tension between the two women. The dim lighting casts flickering shadows across their faces, but Erica is focused on only one thing - Hannah Eastman’s eyes.
They shift, darting toward the nearest occupied table, scanning the room like a woman who isn’t used to feeling exposed.
“Thank you for coming,” Hannah says, voice quiet but firm. “I wasn’t sure if you would. Do you remember me?”
Erica gives a slow nod, keeping her stance relaxed but alert. “I do. You work for Dean Childers. If you can tell me something about Sasha Lambert and what happened at that party…”
“I shouldn’t even be here,” Hannah whispers. “If they find out I talked to you…” She shakes her head quickly, almost too quickly. “I don’t know anything about the party. Only what’s common knowledge on campus.”
Her fingers toy with the rim of her half-empty wine glass, a nervous tick. Then, she leans in slightly, lowering her voice even further.
Erica mirrors the motion, closing the space between them, one hand resting on the table, the other loose at her side.
A waitress appears beside them, a sudden, unwanted intrusion.
“Can I take your order?” she asks, chewing gum in a slow, lazy rhythm.
“Pepsi Zero,” Erica replies without hesitation. Alcohol dulls the edges, and she needs her edges sharp tonight.
The waitress nods, tapping the order into her pad. “Sure thing, hon.” Then she’s gone.
Hannah watches her go, then exhales. “Three or four days after that party,” she says, “this student - Sasha Lambert - came to see Mrs. Childers.”
Erica’s spine straightens. “And?”
“She brought something with her. A grocery bag. With clothes inside.”
A flicker of heat shoots through Erica’s veins.
“Clothing?” she asks, forcing herself to stay calm. “Like a pair of shorts and underwear?”
Hannah nods. “Yes. You know those thin, flimsy bags from the supermarket? I could see it was clothes.”
A missing piece clicks into place.
Erica keeps her expression neutral, but her mind is racing.
“When Sasha left Mrs. Childers’ office… she didn’t have the bag anymore.” Hannah says.
Erica absorbs this detail in silence.
“Two days later, Sasha was summoned to Mrs Childers’ office again for the board of review.
They spoke with Steve Lonnegan first,” Hannah recalls, her voice steady but her hands now gripping the edge of the table. “Then Sasha. I didn’t check my watch, but…she was inside for maybe ten minutes. When she came out, she was crying.”
Erica clenches her jaw. Of course she was.
“Here you go, hon.” The gum-chewing voice of the waitress cuts in as she sets an unopened plastic bottle of Pepsi Zero on the table before Erica.
She lingers for a moment, but Hannah shakes her head, not wanting another glass of wine at the moment.
When the waitress leaves them again, Hannah Eastman reaches into the inner pocket of her jacket and produces a neatly folded piece of paper.
“These are the meeting minutes of the board of review,” she says, pushing them across the table. “I have access to the files on the same server Mrs. Childers uses.”
“So much for data protection,” Erica says to herself as she unfolds the sheet, her trained eyes skimming it with efficiency.
No mention of the clothing. No mention of physical evidence at all.
Just Sasha’s words against Steve’s.
Erica doesn’t let the anger rise to the surface, but it’s there, simmering.
Hannah swallows. “Later that day, after Mrs. Childers went home, I went into her office.”
Erica looks up sharply. What is coming now?
“I had to put some papers on her desk for the morning.” Hannah explains. “And when I glanced at her wastebasket…”
She bends down and sets a plastic bag on the table.
Erica stares at it.
“I don’t know why I took it,” Hannah whispers. “I just… grabbed it and took it home.”
~~~
The dim lighting in McCandless casts long shadows over the table, flickering in sync with the slow, rhythmic pulse of a neon beer sign by the bar.
For the first time since she agreed to look into this, Erica feels the tide turning.
She stares at the plastic bag, barely breathing. The bright yellow nylon of the shorts glows through the almost transparent plastic, the fabric crumpled but unmistakable.
Peeking out beside it is a strip of pink lace, part of Sasha’s slip - tainted with a faint brownish stain.
Blood.
Sasha’s blood.
Erica’s jaw tightens.
Childers tried to bury this to make the system cover for Lonnegan.
But it ends now.
She resists the instinct to touch the bag, knowing it has already been exposed to the elements for months and would be contaminated.
Still, if it holds Sasha’s DNA, and - more importantly - Steve Lonnegan’s…
This could be the crack in the foundation of their lies.
She looks up at Hannah Eastman, who is watching her closely, as if measuring the gravity of what she’s just handed over.
“Mrs. Eastman,” Erica says carefully, weighing each word, “thank you for trusting me with this.” She pauses, keeping her tone calm but firm. “I have to ask - are you willing to testify before the District Attorney?”
Hannah jolts as if struck by an electric current.
Her fingers tighten around her wine glass, and for a moment, Erica thinks it might shatter.
“Is… is that necessary?” Hannah asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
Erica doesn’t answer immediately. This is another critical moment - one that could either solidify the case or leave it open to attack. The clothing is valuable evidence, but having a credible witness to corroborate its existence? That would make it airtight.
She studies Hannah, seeing the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the way she shifts in her chair, uneasy.
Testifying would mean exposing Childers, possibly losing her job, maybe facing public backlash. Hannah knows it. Erica knows it.
But it could also mean justice.
Slowly, Erica reaches out and rests her hand lightly on Hannah’s arm - not forcefully, just enough to ground her, to let her know she isn’t alone.
“It would help Sasha Lambert get the justice she deserves, Mrs. Eastman,” Erica says, her voice low, almost soothing. “It would mean that people like Valena Childers don’t get to decide what is right.”
Hannah’s eyes flicker downward, her lips parting slightly, but she doesn’t speak.
The weight of the decision looms between them, hanging heavy in the air.
At the bar, a man laughs too loudly, breaking the silence. The waitress who took Erica’s order earlier weaves between tables, balancing a tray of drinks, oblivious to the storm brewing at the far end of the room.
Erica doesn’t press. She simply lets the moment breathe, knowing that whatever Hannah Eastman says next could change everything.
~~~
