Erica Sinclair - Runner's Future (M/F)

[LunaDog]

Looks like it's the for young Debbie's dream. Can Erica save the day?

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, you know her. She doesn't give up easily.

[Caesar73]

You created the Atmosphere of this Chapter in just three Paragraphs. How Erica steps out of the Car. Takes the place in. Then the Conversation with the Service Man, which adds another Piece to the Puzzle. The Conversation with Alyssa? It is illuminating in many ways.It raises many Questions.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, Canmore doesn't seem like a temple of academics, more of a temple of callisthenics...nothing like Erica's alma mater Harvard. We shall see, though, if she can untangle this mess surrounding the Athletics Department, and especially, Debbie.

[Caesar73]

Looking forward to the next Chapter!

[Jenny_S]

“So…Nutrisports is owned by Edward Dane.” Erica confirms, watching Charlotte closely. It is somewhat unsettling that her former teammate doesn’t seem to realize – or care – about the conflict of interest in this constellation and the potential for manipulation.

Charlotte nods. “Yes. First we received weekly deliveries, but three or four weeks ago, they switched to daily shipments. They drop everything off in the early hours, labeled and ready, and pick up the empty bottles.”

Erica’s gaze sharpens. She has seen the system herself: labeled bottles, staff replenishing them, coaches and therapists handing them to students without a second thought. “And you trust Nutrisports not to put anything…extra into, say, Debbie’s bottles?”

Charlotte’s face goes blank. “You think he…? Erica, you’re not saying that…”

Erica shakes her head, but the suspicion gnaws at her. “I’m not suggesting anything.” Her voice lowers. “But let’s be honest, Charlotte. Dane is happy about Debbie’s fall. He’s even leveraging this scandal to secure resources for Alyssa. The timing, the stakes…he has every reason to want Debbie out of the picture.”

Charlotte says nothing, staring down at her hands. For a moment, Erica wonders if her friend shares some of her doubts. But Charlotte’s loyalty to her athletes and her program runs deep, and Erica isn’t sure if she’ll let herself see Dane as a possible threat, even with everything she’s just heard.

“Anyway,” Erica says, standing, “thanks for filling me in.”





As Erica steps out of the building and crosses the green, she spots a lone figure standing by the visitors’ parking area, half-hidden in the shadows of the campus trees. Alyssa Dane waits awkwardly near the cars, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as if to guard against a chill that isn’t really there. Her gaze darts over to Erica, then quickly shifts, scanning the empty space around them. Even from a distance, Erica picks up on the girl’s palpable tension - she's nervous, glancing over her shoulder as if expecting someone to appear any moment.

“Miss Sinclair?” Alyssa’s voice is a faint whisper, her words barely escaping her lips. She sounds unsure, caught in the space between needing to speak and fearing what might happen if she does. Her gaze flicks back to the admin building, tense and watchful.

“Alyssa.” Erica nods, keeping her tone steady and inviting. “What can I do for you?”

Alyssa’s fingers fidget restlessly, twisting together as she stares at the ground. “I… I wanted to talk to you. About Debbie.” Her words falter, barely audible.

Erica tilts her head, reading the girl’s nervous posture, the uncertainty in her downcast eyes. “Sure. Go ahead.”

Alyssa takes a shaky breath, glancing away. “I don’t think Debbie took anything. I mean, she wouldn’t risk it. She knows…everything she has to lose. It doesn’t make sense.” Her voice drops to a shaky whisper. “Someone must have tricked her.”

Erica watches her closely, noticing the way Alyssa’s shoulders tighten, her jaw clenching as if holding back words she’s not sure she wants to say. “That’s what a lot of people believe. You, Coach West, Debbie’s parents. But Debbie’s bloodwork is rock-solid proof.” She meets Alyssa’s eyes, which dart away under her steady gaze. “In any investigation, the first question is always the same: Cui bono? That’s Latin and means “Who benefits from it”?”

Alyssa’s face pales, and her mouth opens slightly as if to argue, but Erica holds up a calm hand. “Now, I don’t believe you’re the one who drugged her, Alyssa. But right now, you’re the only one with something to gain from the situation.”

Alyssa’s eyes widen, her face twisting in a mix of hurt and shock. “I would never…” Her voice breaks, and she shakes her head, clearly unsettled by the implication. Erica catches a flicker of anger in the girl’s eyes, a spark of resistance against an accusation unspoken but felt.

Erica takes a step closer, lowering her voice to a calm, understanding tone. “I don’t think you did. But someone did, and that someone had a reason - a reason that might have to do with Debbie’s success.” She lets her words sink in, keeping her gaze level. “If you’ve noticed anything unusual, any behavior that didn’t seem right, you need to tell me. Call me, text me, day or night. You could help us stop whoever’s responsible before anyone else gets hurt.”

Alyssa stares at her, brows knitted, her fingers wringing each other tightly. “I don’t…I don’t know who would want to do this.” Her voice is barely above a whisper, heavy with uncertainty. “I wouldn’t want to qualify…like this. It isn’t right.” She looks away, her eyes swimming with something close to shame. “I’d rather lose than know someone hurt her for my sake.”

The silence hangs between them, thick with tension, broken only by the distant hum of city traffic. Erica holds Alyssa’s gaze, sensing the struggle inside her - the competing forces of fear and guilt, the urge to speak and the instinct to remain silent.

“Then do the right thing.” Erica says softly, a note of encouragement in her voice. “If you remember anything at all, reach out. You can help.”

Alyssa nods slowly, her eyes lifting to meet Erica’s with a glint of resolve, though faint. “I will.” she whispers. “If I think of anything… I’ll let you know.” She hesitates, then turns sharply and walks away, her steps brisk as she heads to the other side of the parking lot. She throws a last, wary glance over her shoulder before disappearing down the path.

Erica watches her go, an uneasy feeling settling over her. Alyssa doesn’t seem like the type who would willingly harm another athlete. Perhaps she’s just desperate to clear her own conscience, or perhaps she’s closer to the truth than even she realizes. After all, with her father controlling her every step and his company overseeing every aspect of the athletes’ nutrition, Alyssa would know how a system that should protect the team could just as easily be twisted against it.




As Erica slides into her car, she glances back at the campus. Her mind is racing with the possibilities, each one raising more questions than answers. She starts the engine, pulling out of the parking lot and into the stream of traffic. The GPS’ pleasant voice guides her route back to Manhattan, but she barely registers the directions, her thoughts fixed on Alyssa’s strained, uncertain gaze.

The bridge lights blur against the evening sky as she makes her way back to the city. Rolling down her window just an inch, she lets the cool air snap her back into focus, grounding herself against the uneasy weight that Alyssa’s confession has left behind. There’s a familiar rhythm in the city lights glimmering in the distance - a steady, reassuring glow that stands in stark contrast to the web of deceit she’s beginning to see tangled around Debbie’s fall.

As she reaches West 72nd Street, the soft neighborhood lights spill onto the street, welcoming her back to her own world, a place untainted by the darker side of competitive athletics. She pulls down the ramp into the underground parking of her apartment building, settling into her designated spot, a convenience that doesn’t come cheap in New York City. Sitting for a moment in the quiet, she lets the day’s tension dissolve, her hands resting on the wheel as she gazes at the familiar lights of her Volvo’s dashboard and listens to the city’s distant hum.

Finally, she steps out of the car, feeling the solitude settle around her. It’s always like this - the end of each long day spent confronting the worst sides of human nature, and then the solitary walk back to her own life. Her keys jingle softly as she locks the car and heads toward the elevator, and she allows herself a deep breath. Just beyond her door, she knows, are two little ones who make her work and her solitude worthwhile.

[LunaDog]

Alyssa herself seems a decent sort. Like Erica i don't believe that she is responsible here. Her dad, though, it all points at him. At he moment. that is. Knowing you there could be another 'twist' in this tale!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, the difficult part will be - as always - to prove whodunnit. But trust me when I say that there's a lot yet to come.

[Jenny_S]

Erica unlocks the door to her apartment, pushing it open with the familiar creak that she’s grown used to. The late afternoon light filters through the windows, casting a warm glow over her tidy living room. The moment the door opens, the sound of little paws skittering across the hardwood floors fills the air. Her kittens, Spot and Tiger, come dashing out of the bedroom, tiny blurs of fur and excitement. They weave through the hallway, their enthusiasm contagious, and Erica can’t help but smile as they greet her.

Spot, black with the white tuft of fur on his chest, reaches her first, purring loudly as he nuzzles her leg. Tiger, with his tabby stripes, isn't far behind, getting on his hind legs and playfully batting at the hem of her skirt as if to say, Mom, you’re finally home!

“Hello, my loves.” Erica murmurs, crouching down to scratch them both behind the ears. They purr in unison, their soft fur like therapy under her fingers, grounding her at the end of the day.

For a brief moment, her mind forgets the weight of the case, the tension from the hospital and the track, and the constant pulse of responsibility. Here, in this quiet sanctuary, with her little furballs tumbling around her legs, Erica feels a pocket of joy she never takes for granted.

She straightens up and heads toward the living room, the kittens trailing after her like shadows. As she picks up their empty food and water bowls from the plastic mat, Spot meows in anticipation, and Tiger rubs against her ankles.

“Alright, alright.” Erica chuckles softly. “You’re both starving, aren’t you?”

She makes her way into the kitchen, rinsing out the bowls and filling one with fresh water. Then, she reaches into the cupboard, pulling out the small can of food pulp she knows they love - chicken breast, finely ground. The lid makes a soft popping sound as she opens it, and immediately both kittens are at her feet, their tails flicking eagerly.

With a practiced hand, she spoons the food into their bowl and sets it down on the mat in the living room. Spot and Tiger tumble over each other, paws skittering on the hardwood as they each try to get to the food first. Erica watches them with a fond smile, a soft laugh escaping her. They always make her laugh.

She stands there for a moment, just enjoying the sight of them. But as they dig into their dinner, the apartment grows quiet again. The contentment from her kittens lingers, but beneath it, there’s that familiar undercurrent of loneliness which sometimes strikes her in those quiet moments - the feeling she always pushes away.

Erica walks into the bedroom, pulling off her business suit with precise, almost automatic motions, hanging it up neatly in the closet. As she slips into her well-worn grey "cat mom" sweatsuit, she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror - a woman who seems to have it all together, but whose life has become a series of routines. Successful, yes, but sometimes a little too alone.

She sighs, shaking the thought off, and heads back to the kitchen. From the fridge, she pulls out one of her pre-packaged low-carb, high-protein meals. Chicken breast, broccoli, and brown rice - again. It’s healthy, efficient, and it keeps her going. She sets a pot of water on the stove, watching as the flames lick the bottom of the metal. Waiting for it to boil.

As the kitchen fills with the soft hum of water heating, Erica’s mind wanders, unbidden, to the last time she really cooked a meal from scratch. It takes a moment, but the memory surfaces - her in the kitchen, preparing something elaborate, and…him.
She remembers the sharp words and the argument that had followed. How her attempt at a nice dinner had somehow ignited yet another fight, another reminder that no matter how hard she tried, it was never good enough for him.

Erica shakes her head, forcing the memory back down into that locked compartment where she keeps all the other painful fragments of that past relationship. “No need to warm up bad memories.” she tells herself firmly. Without a significant other her life is easier…and less painful.

The water begins to boil, drawing her attention back to the present, and she drops the meal package into the pot. It’s not gourmet, but it’s what she needs right now - simple, predictable, just like so much of her life.

Ten minutes later, the timer on her stove dings. She pulls the pre-cooked meal from the boiling water, peeling back the plastic cover with a sigh. The steam rises, filling the kitchen with the scent of chicken, broccoli, and the savory sauce that comes with it. It looks appetizing enough - healthy, balanced, even if it’s the same meal she’s had countless times before. She grabs a knife and fork from the kitchen drawer, setting them beside the container on her coffee table in the living room.

Erica sits down, her fork hovering over the meal, but for a moment, she pauses. The soft sounds of Spot and Tiger still eating nearby, the gentle tick of the clock on the wall, the muted glow of the setting sun casting a golden hue over her apartment - it’s peaceful. But even in this comfort, something feels missing. There’s a subtle ache, a void that neither work nor routines nor even her beloved kittens can quite fill. But there’s also the fear that she could be hurt again and in her mind, it outweighs that void.

She shakes off the thought again, just as quickly as it came, and takes her first bite of dinner. The familiar taste fills her mouth, and she forces herself to focus on tomorrow. There’s always work to do. Always something to keep her busy.





The text message chimes just as Erica is putting away her dinner dishes. She checks her phone, noting the time - well past campus hours - and raises an eyebrow at the message’s tense contents: "Meet me at the Canmore gym. It’s important. Don’t tell anyone."

Though the message is signed “AD” - Alyssa Dane - there’s something off. The wording lacks Alyssa’s tentative style, setting off Erica’s instincts. But if Alyssa has information - especially after their conversation earlier - it’s worth the trip. She quickly changes into her jeans, black tank top, flannel shirt, and sneakers, pulling the familiar weight of her well-worn brown leather jacket around her shoulders. There are the bullet hole and the dark blood stains at the back - a reminder of just how quickly things can turn ugly and dangerous.

As she drives toward Canmore, her mind drifts to the last time she’d followed a text message into an isolated place, an incident that left her scarred, both physically and mentally. The memory of that dark warehouse, the cold stare of Tony Maze, and the crack of a gunshot burn behind her eyes for a moment. But she pushes it aside. Back then, her friend Andrea’s life was on the line, just as much as her own. Tonight, she tells herself, she’s just meeting a student. Nothing to worry about.

Arriving at the campus, she finds the visitors’ parking lot deserted, the huge gymnasium just across the street from the admin building looming ahead, shadowed and still.
Erica steels herself, a subtle anxiety prickling as she pushes through the gym doors, her footsteps echoing against the polished floors.

“Alyssa?” she calls out, her voice barely louder than a whisper. Silence presses around her, amplifying the hum of the heating system and the faint creaks of the building settling.

[LunaDog]

Um. Not everything is as she seems. i have a bad feeling here.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, we will see, I guess. But keep your fingers crossed for Erica. A little support never hurts.

[Jenny_S]

Her instincts scream at her to turn around, but it’s too late. A hand clamps onto her arm, and before she can react, her phone slips from her grasp, clattering to the floor as another hand jerks her arm painfully behind her back.

“Let me go!” she hisses, struggling, but another set of hands yanks her backward as a cloth is pressed firmly over her mouth and nose, the sweet scent of chloroform flooding her senses.
She twists, aiming a hard elbow into one man’s ribs, but another set of hands grabs her wrist, pinning her arm down. With the effects of the chloroform setting in, she thrashes weakly, managing a half-turn to see two tall and athletic men in dark sweat tops, their faces barely visible under the hoods pulled over their heads, half-masking them in the low light of the gymnasium.
Her vision blurs, her muscles weaken as the chemical takes hold, leaving her lightheaded and clumsy in her resistance.

A murmured voice - low, menacing - reaches her ears. “Make it easy on yourself, lady.” She’s half-dragged across the gym floor toward a metal chair at the edge of the room, her head swimming, her drowsy strength no match for their grip. They shove her down, her shoulders aching as they yank her wrists behind the chair and tie them with a coarse rope. Her legs are bound to the chair legs with similarly rough knots, her struggle limited by the wooziness in her head slowing her movements. A strip of thick silver tape is slapped over her mouth as a gag, muffling her protests effectively.

One of the men leans close, his breath hot against her cheek. “Stay out of this, or next time, it won’t just be a warning.” He flicks her forehead, a mocking gesture, and the two high-five before melting back into the shadows, their footsteps echoing as they leave her bound, gagged, and alone in the darkness of the gym.

Her mind is hazy, her pulse hammering as she tries to gather herself. The smell of chloroform lingers in her nose, and she forces herself to take several slow breaths, waiting for her senses to fully clear. The tightness in her chest and the tape covering her mouth spark a flare of panic, but she shuts it down, focusing instead on the ropes around her wrists and ankles.

Erica has practiced self-bondage long enough to understand the right motions, the careful twists that could loosen amateurish ties like these. She tugs against the rope and begins to move her hands, carefully working with the grain of the rope, feeling the fibers give slightly. The pain in her wrists is sharp, but gritting her teeth under the tape gag, she wills herself to ignore the burning ache in her shoulders as she shifts and twists her hands, keeping steady, knowing every small move brings her closer to freedom.

Her mind races, piecing together every moment from today - the uneasy look in Alyssa’s eyes, the off feeling in that text, and the hands that had yanked her into the darkness tonight. Whoever did this thought they could scare her into backing down. But fear is nothing new to Erica, and she knows exactly where fear ends and resolve begins. If Alyssa was a pawn in this, it was her job to pull her out of it. If Alyssa was hiding something, Erica would uncover it, piece by piece.

Wrists aching as she twists the rope, but the pain feels distant, washed over by the sharp wave of fury beneath her skin. This wasn’t just a threat - it was a challenge, and whoever was behind it didn’t realize they’d just stoked a fire they couldn’t put out. Dane? Her instincts were drawing her closer, but she’d need more than suspicion. Tonight, they had tried to silence her. Tomorrow, she would make herself impossible to ignore.

Her fingers reach the loose knot, they pull at the rope’s ends until, finally, she feels the rope begin to slacken. She draws her wrists free and rips the tape from her mouth, the sting reminds her why she doesn’t care much for duct tape as a gag.
Biting back a curse, she quickly unties her ankles and stands, breathing hard, her hands red and raw but free.

Erica picks up the ropes…skipping ropes from the gymnasium’s assortment of athletic equipment and the tape, then she looks for that faint glow in the darkness – her phone and as she steps outside into the cool air, her legs still wobbly, the emotions churning inside her sharpens to a steely resolve.
She’s hurt, but it’s not fear that lingers - it’s anger. Whoever is behind this made a serious mistake tonight and soon will realize that Erica Sinclair doesn’t back down.





Erica steps into her apartment, closing the door softly, hoping not to disturb the stillness of the late evening.
Spot and Tiger are curled together on the couch, a tiny heap of fur, their quiet breathing rising and falling in gentle sync. She can’t help but smile, the sight of them an immediate balm to the rawness of the night. Carefully, she takes off her jacket, grimacing as the cuffs brush against her wrists. The rough spots from the ropes sting and Erica grabs a tin of healing balm from the medicine cabinet in the bathroom and gently applies it to her wrists, wincing as the cool balm touches the red, angry skin.

By the time she crawls into bed, naked under her black silk kimono, her body feels heavy with exhaustion, but her mind refuses to quiet down. She stares at the ceiling, thoughts from the gym twisting together in her head, tightening the knots of frustration and anger she’d tried to untangle. The warning, the humiliation of being tied up – not by her own hands, and the shadowed faces of those men replay in an endless loop.

When she puts herself into bondage using the ropes and the handcuffs which are now tidily stored in their plastic bin under her bed, she not only does it to unwind, to expose a raw vulnerability, but also because the feeling of being helpless excites her – a lot.
Today at the gymnasium, she remembers that fleeting moment when she felt the same. Crazy…
She turns onto her side, then her back, the clock ticking forward in silence.

Just as she feels sleep slipping further away, two small, warm bodies hop up onto the bed, nuzzling against her legs. Spot curls up on her chest, a solid, comforting weight, while Tiger nestles beside her, purring softly. The warmth and steady rhythm of their breathing begins to calm her, her heartbeat slowing to match theirs. Eventually, her eyes grow heavy, and she finally drifts off, finding peace with her little companions by her side.

[Caesar73]

That was a pretty rough Warning by whoever is behind this. Ruthless and brutal. The Tension is rising. Very well done! And we learn again, how important Tiger and Spot are for Erica.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, Erica must have been upsetting somebody's applecart, but we will see how she stomachs this assault.

[Jenny_S]

Morning comes all too soon, and she’s up before the alarm, slipping into the kitchen to rinse out the kittens’ food bowls as they stretch and yawn at her feet. The ritual is steadying, something familiar that anchors her. She watches them eat, their whiskers twitching with contentment, and feels the remaining tension from last night starting to slip away.

A few minutes later, dressed in her running gear, she steps out into the crisp morning air, already feeling the energy burn just under her skin as if she’s jazzed up by some funky drug. Of course, she isn’t, it’s an adrenaline rush like she hasn’t had in a long time.
Erica breaks into a jog, her body finding a new rhythm before her mind even catches up. Each step is a release, her feet pounding the pavement, her breaths coming fast and strong. She doesn’t focus on where she’s going; she just lets her legs carry her forward, and before she knows it, she’s running with everything in her, her anger and determination driving her harder, faster.
She feels unbound, unleashed, the cold wind biting against her skin but making her feel alive, alert. By the time she circles back to her apartment building in record time, her muscles are warm, her mind clear, and a sense of renewed focus settles over her.

Back inside, she sheds her running clothes into the dirty laundry basket and steps into a hot shower, letting the water wash away the sweat, the night’s lingering shadows, until all that’s left is a sharpened resolve inside her toned, athletic body. She dries off, puts her hair into a neat ponytail, and applies her makeup with slow, deliberate care, watching her reflection settle into someone calm, focused, and ready.

In the kitchen, she opens the fridge, reaching not for her usual yogurt and oats but for a piece of chicken breast. Today, she feels like she needs something primal - something to match the resolve that’s begun to harden inside her.
Tossing the chicken into the hot pan, she lets the sizzle fill the apartment and watches as it browns, adding some salt and pepper to the lean meat.
As she cuts into the chicken, she watches her kittens as they feast on their pure meat food with a smile. “Aren’t we all carnivores…” she says to herself.

With breakfast done, she heads to her closet, sliding past her usual professional clothes to grab a pair of black jeans and an old Harvard sweatshirt she hasn’t worn in years. She layers it over a fitted black tank top, pulls on her leather jacket, and slips into her sneakers, feeling a fierce energy humming beneath her skin.

As she catches her reflection in the bedroom mirror, Erica slides on her class ring, its familiar weight grounding her. She clasps her Rolex around her left wrist, feeling its solid metal cool against her skin. In her mind, she can almost hear her father’s voice – that deep, steady rumble with an unbreakable warmth. “When you’re ambushed, don’t lay low. Counterattack. It’s the last thing the enemy expects.”

This was a lesson he’d learned in the jungles of Vietnam as a young soldier, but it was one he’d shared with her time and again, a mantra woven into the fabric of her life like so many of his words of wisdom.
The woman staring back at her in the mirror isn’t dressed for polish today; she’s dressed for grit, for the fight ahead.

Erica Sinclair is ready for battle.

[LunaDog]

I'm sure she is. This is a lady who, not necessarily what she always wants, is prepared to fight when she has to.

[Caesar73]

I'm sure she is. This is a lady who, not necessarily what she always wants, is prepared to fight when she has to.

I agree! @Jenny_S captures the atmosphere perfectly. Erica´s Attacker´s miscalculated: Insteadt scaring her off they achieved the Opposite. Erica is now on the War Path. Again we learn how much the Relationship to her Father influenced Erica.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, dear @Caesar73, I'm happy to see you invested in the current story. You're right, Erica doesn't scare easily. She has faced a stone-cold killer like Tony Maze and now she is more determined than ever to find out what is happening at Canmore College.

[Jenny_S]

The drive to Canmore College on Staten Island happens in a blur as Erica weaves through the morning traffic and before she knows it, she pulls into the visitors’ parking lot.
She grabs her bag, locks her black Volvo and saunters up to the Athletic Department’s administration building, past crowds of students in their track suits and jogs down the long hallway, this time not taking notice of the showcases with their scores of trophies.

Barely waiting to be asked to enter after rapping on the door, Erica walks into Charlotte’s office, still feeling the slight bruising on her wrists, a reminder of the night’s events.
Charlotte looks up from her training schedules, noting Erica’s tense expression as she closes the door softly behind her.

“Rough night?” Charlotte asks, concern clear in her gaze.

Erica takes a steadying breath. “You could say that.”
She shows her old teammate the text message on her phone signed with the initials “AD” and recounts the ambush at the gym and how she was left her bound, gagged with that chilling warning.
By the time she’s done, Charlotte’s face is white, her usual calm replaced by a mix of scare and anger.

“If nothing else, we spooked them, Charlotte. Someone doesn’t like us poking around.” Erica says, her voice low but steely. “And somehow Alyssa is connected to this mess.”

Charlotte nods, a flicker of realization crossing her face. “If she’s not directly involved, she could at least be a target. We’ll call her in, and we’ll do it now.”

Charlotte reaches for her phone, speaking quietly to her assistant, then hangs up. “Can we handle this delicately, Erica? We don’t know if or how…”

With a dismissive wave of her hand, Erica lets Charlotte know that this is the least of her concerns. Until yesterday evening this had been an investigation, but now she is playing for keeps.

Minutes later, Alyssa Dane enters, her usual expression shadowed. “Coach West? You wanted to see me?” Her gaze darts from Charlotte to Erica, and her face tightens, as though anticipating trouble.

Charlotte gestures to her to take a seat, her tone calm but firm. “Alyssa, last night someone lured Ms. Sinclair to the gym, pretending to be you. They wanted her there alone and vulnerable. I trust you didn’t send that message?”

Alyssa’s eyes widen, her face paling as she stares at the screen of Erica’s phone.
“No, no, I didn’t. Why would I do that!” She pulls her own phone out, visibly shaken, unlocks it and offers it to Erica. “Go ahead. Look through my messages.”

Erica accepts the device, quickly scrolling through Alyssa’s recent texts, her eyes sharp as she notes a few exchanges with classmates, coaches, and one from her father - nothing to Erica, not even in the deleted messages.

Erica hands the phone back, her expression softening. “Thank you, Alyssa. It’s clear someone used your name to trick me, and I don’t believe you were involved.”

Alyssa looks down, visibly upset. “This is...horrible. I mean, why would they use me to lure you? I don’t even know anyone who’d do something like that.” Her voice is shaking slightly, and she clutches the phone tightly in her lap.

Erica meets her gaze. “I wanted to ask, Alyssa...yesterday, you seemed anxious, almost afraid, when we spoke in the parking lot. I know your dad is pushing you, particularly regarding your Olympic qualifications. Did you talk to him about our conversation?”

Alyssa hesitates, then nods. “Yes, I did. I mean, he seems to know everything that goes on around campus. I mentioned that we had spoken and that you were investigating what happened to Debbie. He…he got upset. He said I should be focusing on my training and that I should be glad Debbie is out of the competition - that it was one less rival to worry about.” She swallows, her discomfort evident.

Erica and Charlotte exchange quick glances. Erica leans forward slightly, her tone gentle. “That’s pretty intense. Did he say anything else?”

Alyssa’s brow furrows as she seems to remember. “He said he didn’t want me getting involved in drama that could distract me. I don’t think he understands that…it was upsetting to see what happened to Debbie.” She looks down, her voice quiet, as though unsure of her own words.

Charlotte speaks up, her tone firm but reassuring. “Alyssa, you’re safe here. No one is accusing you of anything, but we’re trying to piece together what happened. If you remember anything else - any odd remarks, anything your father or anyone else might have said about Debbie or this investigation - I want you to know you can always come to us.”

Alyssa nods, looking a bit more at ease. “Thank you. I want to help, I really do.” She hesitates, glancing at Erica. “Is there anything else you need me to do?”

Erica gives her a reassuring smile. “What you just heard about yesterday evening needs to stay between us. We don’t want to spook whoever was behind this. Other than that, just be honest and stay focused. If you notice anything or remember anything that could help, let us know. We’re here to protect you and to find out what really happened to Debbie.”

Alyssa nods, visibly relieved. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll think about it. If I remember anything, I’ll come to you right away.” She stands, looking between them. “Thank you. I…I hope you find who did this.”

As she leaves, Erica feels a newfound empathy for the girl. Caught between her father’s expectations and her own sense of right, Alyssa seems more trapped than anything else. Erica watches her go, her mind racing. Alyssa’s father’s intensity, combined with his reaction to the investigation, might be worth digging into.

Charlotte sighs, her gaze fixed on the door Alyssa had just closed. “If her father feels her future is threatened, it’s possible he’s the one behind all this. If so, it’s a level of ruthlessness I hadn’t expected.”

Erica nods. “If he’s involved, he’s likely hired people who don’t mind getting their hands dirty.”

“Keep your guard up, Erica.” Charlotte warns, a flicker of concern in her eyes. “They’ve already made one move. Don’t underestimate what they might do next.”

Erica’s jaw tightens as she considers her next steps. Whoever orchestrated this wants her out of the picture, but she’s far from backing down.
“I’ll see if I can find out who sent me that text. I know someone who is very tech-savvy…”

[LunaDog]

What the recent developments have shown us, beyond any doubt, is that this was deliberate, Debbie was targeted and was innocent in regards to how that stuff ended up in her bloodstream. But there it was. Proving she didn't take herself it will be difficult and now, dangerous.

Brilliant writing, as ever with you.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, Erica faces problems at several levels. It's not just the who did what, how and why, but als how to prove it. Later today we will see if she can get some progress on this.

[Caesar73]

And again the Plot thickens. The Erica has to rule out Alyssa as Suspect first is logical. If Alyssa´s Father is behind this. Just going out on a limb here ... but Alyssa´s Father is too perfect as Prime Suspect. Good Tension building!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, yes, the plot thickens, but do you think Alyssa's father would be the type to assault Erica? Or might he hire goons to avoid getting his hands dirty?

[Caesar73]

Dear @Caesar73, yes, the plot thickens, but do you think Alyssa's father would be the type to assault Erica? Or might he hire goons to avoid getting his hands dirty?

Alyssa´s Father strikes me as the Type who let others do his dirty work.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, okay, let's see if Erica can dig something up, shall we?