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

[Jenny_S]

Back on the road, Erica’s fingers drum restlessly on the steering wheel as she dials Andrea Santos’ number. The memory of last night’s ambush plays in fragments in her mind, sharp and jarring. When Andrea’s familiar voice answers, cheerful and light, it steadies her.

“Ricky! What’s cooking?”

Erica forces her own voice to stay calm, but the urgency seeps through. “I could use some help, Drea. Yesterday evening, someone lured me into a trap with a fake text message. I’ll explain more when I get there.” She pauses, then adds, “I’m bringing donuts.”

Andrea instantly knows that her friend isn’t clowning around. That wouldn’t be like her at all. She doesn’t miss a beat and Erica can tell she’s picking up on her tone. “Alright, Ricky. I’ll be ready.”
There is no need to say more, not between Erica and Andrea, friends since they were eight years old.



For Erica the drive to Andrea’s lab in Tribeca feels like an eternity, but with most of the morning commuters off the streets, traffic is light considering New York City conditions.

She detours through a small German bakery, selecting a dozen donuts with the precision of someone trying to calm her nerves - glazed, jelly-filled, chocolate-caramel. It’s their old ritual: whenever Erica needed Andrea’s help with anything tech-related, she’d bring tasty food as admission fee.

When Erica rings the bell of the nondescript brownstone, the door unlocks almost instantly, and Andrea rushes forward, hugging her tightly.

“God, Erica, what happened?” Andrea’s voice is low, a mixture of worry and anger. “The fact that you’re okay doesn’t make this any easier to hear.”

The concern in Andrea’s tone brings an odd relief, and Erica hugs her back. As they head down the narrow hallway into the cluttered, tech-filled room, she gives Andrea the rundown of last night’s attack. Pushing her thick glasses up on her nose, Andrea’s face shifts from alarm to razor-sharp focus.

“Alright. You want to know who sent that message? Unless they are really good, we should be able to find something.” Andrea says as they settle in her lab.

The room is a dimly lit haven of high-powered computers, screens, and devices Erica doesn’t even recognize. Cool blue LED strips cast a glow across the room, and the hum of machinery fills the space, oddly soothing. Andrea pulls up a chair for Erica, settling herself in front of her main computer with the box of donuts beside her.

Erica watches as Andrea plugs her phone into a small black box that connects to her system. As Andrea’s fingers move in rapid, precise taps over the keyboard, walls of code appear on the monitors, shifting in mesmerizing patterns.

“Let’s see what we’re working with.” Andrea mutters, her eyes scanning the data, her fingers flying. The usual cheerfulness in her voice has been replaced by a tone Erica rarely hears - steely and professional, a hunter on the scent.

Erica, sitting close by, finds herself calming in the electric ASMR hum of Andrea’s lab, her friend’s focus an anchor in the storm of her thoughts. The memory of last night is still a sharp pang, the anger simmering just under the surface. She watches Andrea pull up a series of numbers, logs, hidden traces, her focus absolute.

Andrea mumbles to herself as she types, “If they just spoofed a number, they’re going to have a bad time. We’re getting there…”

The beep from the console breaks the quiet tension, and Andrea lets out a low whistle of satisfaction, reaching for a yellow post-it. She scrawls a number down, triumphant.

Erica feels her heartbeat quicken, her pulse racing. “Got something?” she asks, leaning in.

“The number that sent the text is registered to a Dean Chandler.” Andrea pauses, her eyes narrowing. “Billing address: No. 125, Canmore College, Staten Island.” She hands over the note and the phone, her face as intense as Erica has ever seen it. “I’ve got your culprit, or at least the phone they used.”

Erica stares at the name. It’s unfamiliar, but the address isn’t. She quickly grabs her phone, dialing Charlotte. Her mind reels, each ring on the line stretching her impatience to the breaking point.

When Charlotte answers, Erica cuts straight to the chase, her tone sharp. “Charlotte, do you know anyone named Dean Chandler who’s connected to Canmore?”

A pause follows, and Erica’s fingers tighten around her phone. Charlotte’s voice returns, tinged with disbelief. “Well…yes… Dean Chandler is Alyssa Dane’s boyfriend. Why?”

Erica’s pulse thuds hard in her chest. “Don’t mention this to Alyssa, or to anyone else.” she instructs, her voice a mix of warning and urgency. “Keep them both in the dark until I get back.”

Charlotte agrees, her voice sober. “Understood, Erica. I’ll wait for you.”

The call ends, and Erica slips her phone into her pocket, her mind racing ahead. She turns back to Andrea, who’s studying her intently, catching every flicker of emotion on Erica’s face.

“That’s our guy. I feel it.” Erica says quietly, the anger in her voice transforming to something fierce, an edge of satisfaction glinting in her eyes. “Or at the very least, he’s connected. He knows something.”

Andrea’s expression mirrors her own. “So, what’s your plan?”

Erica leans back in her gaming chair, the exhaustion from the last night falling away, replaced by a steady, focused determination. Again, her mind flashes with the memory of the ambush, of ropes, tape, and the cold threat hanging in the air.

“Oh, nothing.” she says with a small, dangerous smile. “I’ll just ask him a few questions.”

[Caesar73]

selecting a dozen donuts with the precision of someone trying to calm her nerves - glazed, jelly-filled, chocolate-caramel

Good Taste!

So Alyssa´s Father recruited even his Daughter´s Boyfriend .... to do his bidding. At least seems that Way. I like the detailed Description of Andrea´s Lab. Reminds me a bit of Abby´s Lab in NCIS

[LunaDog]

selecting a dozen donuts with the precision of someone trying to calm her nerves - glazed, jelly-filled, chocolate-caramel

Good Taste!

So Alyssa´s Father recruited even his Daughter´s Boyfriend .... to do his bidding. At least seems that Way. I like the detailed Description of Andrea´s Lab. Reminds me a bit of Abby´s Lab in NCIS

Ah, N.C.I.S. yes my wife is a BIG fan. Mind you isn't the same since Gibbs ( Marc Harmon ) left. Talking of people named Marc, Senor Marquez couldn't have had a better Thai Moto GP, Pole position, then victories in both the Sprint and Races, scoring a perfect start to the 2025 season, and his factory Ducati career.

Having said all that, sorry Jenny, superb story. As i said before, the plot thickens! Is the father actually innocent, is it just the boyfriend after all? Or has, as suggested, the father recruited the boyfriend into his schemes?

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, dear @LunaDog, I'll leave it to you to guess who is behind all this mess, but knowing Erica's tenacity, she won't give up easily. The other thing - call it a side quest if you want - is: will Debbie be allowed to test for the Olympics or is she out of the race - literally - for good?

[LunaDog]

I guess that she (Debbie) MIGHT be given another shot IF Erica (or someone else) can show that it was NOT her responsible for that substance being in her body, that somebody else deliberately 'put' it inside of her. If not i assume she's no chance. Can her innocence be established in time?

[Caesar73]

I guess that she (Debbie) MIGHT be given another shot IF Erica (or someone else) can show that it was NOT her responsible for that substance being in her body, that somebody else deliberately 'put' it inside of her. If not i assume she's no chance. Can her innocence be established in time?

All valid questions my Friend!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, dear @Caesar73, the clock is ticking for Debbie, but Erica has a lot to unravel first.

[Jenny_S]

Inside Charlotte’s office at Canmore College, Erica stands by the window, her figure still as stone, her gaze fixed beyond the glass, focused and cold as she steels herself for what’s to come. The air in the room is thick, tense, as Charlotte shifts slightly behind her desk, still processing the news Erica has just laid out. The revelation that Dean Chandler - Alyssa Dane’s boyfriend, of all people - might be involved in last night’s ambush has clearly shaken her. Charlotte’s fingers drum the desktop, betraying her unease.

A beep from the office phone interrupts the silence, and Charlotte glances up. “Mr. Chandler is here.” announces the secretary.

“Send him in, please.” Charlotte replies, her voice steady but tense. She barely gets the words out before Dean steps into the room, his usual swagger noticeably dampened as he takes in the sight of Erica, still and unyielding by the window. His eyes widen briefly - a flicker of shock he can’t hide fast enough. Erica catches it, and a grim satisfaction settling over her. She’s rattled him already.

“Sit down, Dean.” Her voice is low, a calm command that fills the room with its intensity.

He hesitates, his gaze flitting between Charlotte and Erica before he drops into the chair in front of Charlotte’s desk. Erica remains by the window, watching him with an expression that seems carved in stone. Dean clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably under her gaze.

“You didn’t expect to see me again so soon, did you?” Voice steady, each word is carrying a quiet, unmistakable threat.

Dean fidgets, attempting a nervous laugh, but it comes out weak and strained. “I…I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t.” Erica pulls a small yellow post-it from her pocket, the name and phone number scrawled across it in Andrea’s neat handwriting. She holds it up, letting him see his own phone number staring back at him. Then she places it on the desk and slides it across, her eyes locked on his. “This is your number, isn’t it?”

Dean’s mouth opens, then closes. His fingers twitch as if he wants to snatch the note and tear it up, but he forces another weak laugh. “Uh, yeah, it’s mine…but so what?”

Erica takes a step forward, her expression unchanging. “From this number, you sent me a text message luring me to the gym last night. Then, with help, you ambushed me, chloroformed me, tied me up, gagged me, and left me half unconscious with a warning.” Her voice sharpens, each accusation landing like a hammer blow. “Is that what you’re denying?”

Dean’s shoulders hunch slightly, his eyes darting to the floor. “I’d never do something like that! You’re making it sound like…”

“I’m making it sound exactly like what it happened.” Erica cuts him off, her tone like steel. “And, Dean, I have enough to charge you with kidnapping, assault, battery, and half a dozen other charges. You’re looking at twenty years or more behind bars unless you start talking.”

The color drains from Dean’s face, and he seems to shrink in his seat. His bravado fades completely as the full weight of her words settles on him. Unlike other people Erica has dealt with before, he is a student, not a hardened career criminal.

“It…it wasn’t my idea.” His voice is barely more than a mutter. “Mr. Dane…Alyssa’s dad…he gave me your number and told me what to do. He said if I wanted Aly to have a shot at the Olympics, I’d have to step in, keep you from stirring things up.”

Erica’s expression doesn’t soften. She leans forward, her voice dropping to an even lower, more dangerous calm. “Go on.”

Dean’s hands tremble, and he stares down at them, unable to meet her gaze. “He said we just had to scare you off, just enough to make you think twice. I didn’t think it was…” He falters, then continues, “I asked my friend Pete to come along. We thought if we just put a good scare into you…”

“Scare me?” Erica’s voice is incredulous, sharp with anger. “You call assault and kidnapping a ‘scare’? You left me tied up, bruised, half-conscious.” She lets the words hang in the air, each one driving home the gravity of what he’s done. Dean visibly shrinks under her gaze.

His voice is barely a whisper now. “I just wanted to help Alyssa. I thought…if Debbie was out of the way, her chances would improve. I love her…”

Erica’s tone drips with contempt. “What a selfless act of love and devotion.” She lets the words settle in, watching as he squirms in his chair, ashamed and unable to look at her. She allows a moment of silence, then leans in closer, her voice cold as ice.

“Where did you get the chloroform, Dean?”

Dean’s face goes pale, his jaw clenching as he fights the urge to answer. Finally, he sighs, defeated. “Mr. Dane. He gave it to me. Said it was just in case…you didn’t go down easy.”

Erica’s gaze hardens, her voice unyielding. “So, you’re telling me that Alyssa’s father convinced you to assault me, gave you chloroform, and fed you some story about ‘protecting’ his daughter’s future in sports?”

Dean’s shame is written all over his face. “He made it sound like it was…necessary. He said Alyssa had to have her shot. He just kept going on and on about it…”

Erica lets out a bitter, humorless laugh. “So, to protect Alyssa’s ‘shot,’ you committed multiple crimes. Genius, Dean. If you had any true care for her, you’d realize this mess could ruin her life.”

Dean’s shoulders slump, his eyes darting toward Charlotte, who offers nothing, her face impassive, cold. He looks back to Erica, clearly searching for mercy, but finding none.

“I’ve made myself very clear.” Erica says her voice hard as steel. “I will expose this entire conspiracy unless you tell me everything. Dane wanted me to back off my investigation, to stop looking into what happened to Debbie. You knew it, and you still went through with it.”

Dean’s head dips lower, his voice a hoarse whisper. “I’ll tell you everything.”

Erica’s eyes narrow as she watches him, taking in every detail of his defeated posture, the look of resignation in his eyes. She steps closer, her voice steady, final.

“You’ll tell everything to the District Attorney, Dean. Mr. Vickers will be thrilled to hear this story.” She pauses, letting her words sink in. “Maybe - just maybe - you’ll get a plea deal. So you’d better give him every single detail.”

Dean’s face turns ashen, his gaze flicking between Erica and Charlotte in desperation. He nods numbly, clearly understanding the gravity of his situation.

Erica straightens, crossing her arms, her voice softening just slightly. “You have one chance, Dean. But that chance depends on the truth - the entire truth.”

Dean swallows hard, barely able to look at her. “I’ll talk to anyone you say. I’ll tell them everything. I…I didn’t know it would come to this. Alyssa has no idea what happened.”

“I’m sure she hasn’t.” Erica’s voice is firm, unrelenting. “But you’ll find out what happens when you choose intimidation over integrity. The DA will be waiting.”

Dean nods, shoulders slumped in defeat, fully grasping what lies ahead. He glances down at his hands, as if bracing himself.

Erica’s lips curve into a cold smile, her tone turning dry. “Vickers or ADA van Rey will have a field day with you, Dean. Think I’m tough? Just wait until they start grilling you.”

Dean’s face tightens, his knuckles turning white as the weight of her words sinks in. Erica watches him, reading the fear in his expression, knowing he’s now fully aware of what’s coming.

Her words are quiet, but each one lands like a hammer. “Remember, Dean. When you’re in that room, it’s all or nothing. Leave anything out, and Vickers and van Rey will know. They always do.”

Dean’s voice is barely audible. “I get it.”

“Good.” Erica replies, cool and composed. “Then we’re done here. And you’d better get used to honesty, Dean. It’s about to become your only friend.”

Dean swallows hard, nodding numbly as his last shreds of defiance crumble. His earlier bravado shattered; he’s left to face his choices alone.

“Let’s go.” Erica orders.

[LunaDog]

It's all starting to fall into place. The REAL villain is Alyssa's father all along, Dean, although his actions were despicable, was just a 'tool' in his games. Just hope that the truth emerges in time to save Debbie's career.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, Alyssa's father dragged Dean into it, Dean dragged his buddy into it - and now he will have to answer for his foolishness and learn what a prank could cost him. But what about Debbie? We'll continue the story tonight. Stay tuned.

[LunaDog]

We'll continue the story tonight. Stay tuned.

I FULLY intend to Jenny, be assured of that!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, then let's get to it. Enjoy!

[Jenny_S]

Erica steps through the revolving doors at One Hogan Place, with Charlotte and Dean following closely behind. The fluorescent lights cast a harsh, unflattering glow over Dean’s face as they pass through security. The steady hum of machinery mingles with the muffled voices and hurried footsteps echoing through the DA’s imposing building. Dean’s face is ashen, and his movements are slow, hesitant, as if he’s just now grasping the gravity of his situation. He glances nervously at Erica, who walks with a calm, measured stride. She catches his eye, her expression cold - a silent promise that this is just the beginning.

At the front desk, Erica addresses the clerk. “Erica Sinclair of Sinclair & Associates.” she says, her voice steady. “We need to speak with DA Vickers or ADA van Rey.”

The clerk nods and places a quick call. “ADA van Rey will see you.” he confirms after a moment, directing them to Meeting Room 10 down the hall.

A security guard leads them through the corridor to a frosted glass-walled conference room. Charlotte and Dean exchange uneasy glances, but Erica is unfazed - this is familiar ground for her. She sits down and settles in, unshaken by the sterile atmosphere that seems designed to intimidate.

After twenty minutes of silence, the door opens, and Assistant District Attorney Sophie van Rey strides in. She’s tall, mid-40s, and carries herself with a quiet, formidable authority. Her gaze sweeps the room, assessing each of them with an unflinching stare. Erica rises and extends her hand, offering a polite smile. Van Rey’s eyes drift to Erica’s casual attire, her smirk faintly amused.

“Working while on vacation?” she asks, her voice tinged with irony. “What brings you here?”

Van Rey takes her seat at the head of the table, powering up her laptop and plugging in a microphone. Her gaze shifts to Charlotte and then to Dean, taking them both in with a critical eye. Erica, relaxed in her seat with one leg crossed over the other, speaks with quiet confidence.

“Mrs. van Rey,” she begins, her voice steady, “this is Charlotte West, athletic coach at Canmore College. She asked me to look into the case of one of her students, Deborah Stanton, a promising young athlete hoping to qualify for the Olympics. Deborah ended up hospitalized, possibly due to a performance-enhancing drug administered without her knowledge. My investigation led me to suspect Nutrisports - a New Jersey-based company owned by Edward Dane, whose daughter Alyssa is competing for the same spot as Deborah. I believe Dane may have a hand in this.”

Van Rey’s gaze sharpens as Erica continues, unfazed by the intensity of the ADA’s scrutiny.

“I spoke with Alyssa Dane.” Erica says, her tone calm but deliberate. “She was evasive, nervous. She admitted her father didn’t want her to talk. Later that evening, I received a text message, supposedly from her, asking me to meet in Canmore’s gymnasium. The initials were hers.” Erica unlocks her phone, showing van Rey the message. “When I arrived, I was ambushed by two men. They subdued me with chloroform, tied me up, gagged me, and left me behind with a warning.”

Van Rey’s expression hardens as Erica places Dean’s smartphone on the table and slides it toward her. Dean tenses, his hands gripping the edge of the table as though it’s the only thing keeping him steady.

“This phone,” Erica explains, “is registered to Dean Chandler, Alyssa’s boyfriend, who’s here with us now. He confessed that Mr. Edward Dane instructed him to send the text, to scare me off and stop me from interfering in the selection process. Mr. Chandler asked his friend Peter Lumbergh to help him. Mr. Chandler can confirm everything he told Mrs. West and me here today.”

Van Rey’s steely gaze settles on Dean, who shrinks under her scrutiny. She runs her manicured fingers over the ropes Erica has placed on the table, her face unreadable. Finally, she speaks, her tone cutting.

“Mr. Chandler, is this what happened? Do you have anything to add?”

Dean hesitates, his fingers trembling as he looks at Erica and then Charlotte, who gives him a firm nod, urging him to speak. After a long pause, he begins, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes. This is what happened.” he says, voice cracking. “Mr. Dane…he gave me Miss Sinclair’s number. Told me to scare her off the matter or he’d find someone else who could. Said if I really loved Alyssa, I’d help her qualify without any ‘distractions.’”

“Distractions.” van Rey repeats, her eyebrow lifting slightly. “Like Deborah Stanton?”

Dean swallows hard, nodding. “Yes. And Miss Sinclair. I thought it was…just a prank. Something to help Alyssa. I…I didn’t think…” His voice trails off as he looks down, ashamed.

Van Rey leans forward, her tone icy. “Where did you get the chloroform, Mr. Chandler?”

Dean’s voice wavers. “Dane gave it to me. He said…he said I should use it if necessary. I thought he was joking.”

Without wasting a moment, van Rey taps a button on the room’s intercom. A uniformed officer appears, standing by the door. Van Rey’s voice becomes a steely command.

“Dean Chandler, you’re under arrest for kidnapping, assault, battery, conspiration and witness intimidation.” She nods to the officer, who steps forward to cuff Dean’s hands behind his back. She begins reading him his rights, her voice firm and unwavering:

“Mr. Chandler, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, one will be appointed for you. If you choose to answer questions now without an attorney present, you may stop at any time.”

The officer clicks the cuffs into place, and Dean stammers, his face pale with desperation.

“But…I admitted everything!” he pleads, looking helplessly at Erica. “You said I could get a plea deal…”

“We’ll discuss a deal later. Between a confession and the sentence there’s always the jail.” van Rey replies coldly. She meets Erica’s gaze, nodding slightly. “I’ll arrange a video call with Judge Hathaway to issue warrants for Mr. Dane and Mr. Lumbergh.”

Charlotte stares at Erica, visibly surprised at the swift turn of events. This is not what she has seen in a TV show. Erica leans back in her chair, allowing herself the faintest smile. What Dean thought was a prank has backfired in the worst possible way, but she is on the warpath now.

Van Rey quickly types on her laptop, connecting with Judge Hathaway’s chambers. Dean’s face is ashen as they wait, his arms trembling as the screen flickers to life. Judge Hathaway appears on the monitor, her hair tied back, her expression as stern as ever.

“Mrs. van Rey.” she greets, nodding. “What can I do for you?”

“Your Honor,” van Rey replies, “we’re requesting two arrest warrants related to an assault, kidnapping and witness intimidation case. Mr. Dean Chandler here has provided a full statement implicating Mr. Edward Dane and Mr. Peter Lumbergh. I’ve sent you the recording of the statement.”

They watch as Judge Hathaway listens to the recording, her face impassive. Dean’s eyes flick nervously from the screen to the table, his knuckles white as he clenches his hands together.

When the recording ends, Judge Hathaway looks directly at Dean through the screen, her voice firm and unyielding. “Mr. Chandler, do you confirm that everything we just heard is true?”

Dean’s eyes dart to Erica, finding only disappointment and cold resolve in her expression. He swallows and nods, his voice barely audible. “Yes, Your Honor.”

Judge Hathaway’s eyes harden. “So you admit that, after Mr. Dane instructed you to, you and Mr. Lumbergh assaulted and restrained Miss Sinclair, using chloroform he provided, and left her bound and gagged in a college gymnasium.”

“Yes, Your Honor…” Dean’s voice is but a whisper, his face ashen.

Judge Hathaway’s attention shifts to van Rey. “Mrs. van Rey, based on this testimony, I authorize immediate arrest warrants for Edward Dane and Peter Lumbergh. Ensure they’re read their rights, and do not allow contact between them.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” van Rey replies, her tone satisfied.

Judge Hathaway fixes her gaze back on Dean, her voice cold. “Mr. Chandler, you’ll have the opportunity to cooperate with the DA’s office, which may affect your sentencing. But I advise you to choose your words carefully. Do you understand?”

Dean nods, defeated. “Yes, ma’am.”

Judge Hathaway’s nod is curt. “Good. I expect full cooperation.” She turns to van Rey. “You have the floor, Mrs. van Rey.”

As the screen goes black, a charged silence fills the room. Van Rey relaxes slightly, her voice now cool and efficient. “We’ll coordinate with Staten Island to take Dane and Lumbergh in custody ASAP.” She looks at Erica, a slight smile tugging at her lips, satisfied with the swift delivery of justice.

Erica lets out a slow breath, her satisfaction evident as Dean is led out by the officer. As Charlotte places a grateful hand on Erica’s shoulder, they share a quiet, unspoken acknowledgment - this victory was hard-won, and they were on the right side of it.




The meeting room crackles with silent tension as Sophie van Rey leans back in her chair, fingers idly drifting over the lapels of her blazer, her gaze unyielding on Erica. She lets the silence build, a deliberate pause that holds everyone’s breath as though an unspoken question hovers in the charged air.

Finally, Sophie speaks, her voice measured but unyielding. “I’d like to address the other elephant in the room, Erica. You mentioned that Mrs. West here asked you to look into possible substance abuse by Deborah Stanton. Please, elaborate.”

Erica stands steady, her posture sharp with focus, eyes unflinching. “Certainly.” she says, clearing her throat, her voice carrying both calmness and a simmering determination. “Debbie Stanton collapsed during practice and was rushed to the hospital. Blood tests revealed she’d likely overdosed on Moducain, a potent stimulant.”

A flicker of surprise crosses Sophie’s face, though her gaze stays sharp and unreadable. “Go on.”

“Moducain is a stimulant similar to cocaine or ecstasy.” Erica continues, her voice steady and authoritative. “It heightens performance, focus, and confidence, but it also raises body temperature, suppresses thirst, and can mask fatigue. If taken during intense physical activity, it can be deadly. Debbie’s physician confirmed that it was the probable cause of her collapse.”

Sophie’s eyes narrow, scrutinizing each word. “And you’re suggesting Ms. Stanton didn’t take this willingly?”

“Absolutely.” Erica’s tone is iron-clad. “Everyone I spoke to, including her main competitor, Alyssa Dane, swears Debbie wouldn’t use any performance-enhancing drug. But Moducain was there, in her system, clear as day.”

Sophie’s fingers tap lightly on the table as she processes this. “And Nutrisports - what’s their connection?”

Erica’s expression hardens, sensing they’ve reached the heart of it. “Nutrisports supplies personalized sports drinks to the athletes at Canmore. Each drink is customized and labeled with the athlete’s name, delivered daily.”

Sophie leans forward, a faint gleam of understanding in her eyes. “And Nutrisports is owned by Edward Dane?”

“Yes.” Erica replies, voice tight, her gaze steady. “The same Edward Dane who ordered Alyssa’s boyfriend to ambush me. He clearly wants me off this case and looking at his motive: there’s his daughter as Debbie’s only competitor.”

The weight of Erica’s words sinks into the room like an anchor, the air thick with unspoken implications.

“So,” Sophie says, her voice sharp with precision, “you’re implying that Mr. Dane might have used his influence at Nutrisports to spike Debbie’s drink, sabotaging her without her knowledge or consent?”

Erica nods, her eyes holding Sophie’s. “It’s plausible, given his role in the attack on me, his sway over the athletic program, and the pressure he’s put on Mrs. West to promote Alyssa’s success. It wouldn’t be a stretch to think he’d go to these lengths to secure his daughter’s position.”

Sophie’s gaze sharpens with intensity. “But there’s no proof of this yet. We’re speculating.”

Erica leans forward, her voice low, urgent. “No proof yet. But Nutrisports collects its empty bottles each day when they deliver fresh ones. They take them back for cleaning and refilling. If we get in there fast, we could find some of Debbie’s returned bottles before they’re being sanitized. We might be able to detect Moducain traces.”

Charlotte speaks up, her voice raw with emotion. “The Olympic Screening Board didn’t hesitate; they pulled Debbie out without a second thought. Her entire career was over in an instant.” Her voice breaks, underscoring the heartbreak in her words.

The room falls into a heavy silence, punctuated by the weight of what’s at stake. Then, Erica’s voice cuts through the quiet, urgent and determined. “If we can get into Nutrisports before they sanitize those bottles, we might find the evidence to clear Debbie’s name.”

Sophie nods, her expression fierce as she picks up her phone. “I see where you’re going with this.” She dials swiftly, her voice brisk as the call connects. “Judge Hathaway? I need an emergency search warrant for a facility in New Jersey - Nutrisports. It’s directly connected to the arrest warrants you just signed.” She looks at Erica, a glint of resolve in her eyes. “We’re on our way as soon as it’s granted.”

Judge Hathaway’s voice, firm yet cautious, filters through the speaker. “Ms. van Rey, walk me through the urgency of this situation.”

Sophie straightens, her words clear, persuasive. “Your Honor, we believe Edward Dane, owner of Nutrisports, tampered with an Olympic hopeful’s sports drinks by introducing Moducain without her knowledge. This has effectively ended her career, disqualifying her from the Olympic screening process leaving his daughter Alyssa as the only competitor for the screening.” Sophie pauses, letting the weight of her words settle. “Nutrisports collects its bottles daily, and if we act now, we may find Ms. Stanton’s unwashed bottles at the facility. They could contain critical evidence.”

There’s a pause as Judge Hathaway considers, tension crackling through the silence.

“So you’re saying,” the judge’s voice is thoughtful, probing, “that without this search, the evidence might be compromised?”

“Exactly.” Sophie replies, her voice resolute. “Every hour we delay risks the loss of this critical evidence.”

Judge Hathaway takes a moment before answering, the gravity of her decision weighing on every syllable. “All right. I’ll authorize the warrant on the grounds of evidence preservation. Handle this with precision, Ms. van Rey. I’ll send the approved warrant immediately.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” Sophie says, a note of relief slipping through as she exhales. She turns to Erica, her voice steady, resolute. “Erica, you’re familiar with Nutrisports’ daily routines. You’ll ride with us as an observer.”

Erica nods, bracing herself for the intensity of the mission. “I’m ready. Whatever it takes.”

Without wasting a second, Sophie’s up on her feet, transforming the meeting room into her command center. “I need four investigators ready to roll in ten.” she says, her voice sharp over her phone. “Also, alert New Jersey State Police - we’ll need assistance searching Nutrisports’ production facility in…”

“Newark.” Erica supplies, already pulling out her notes.

“Next item,” Sophie continues, “we have arrest warrants for Edward Dane and Peter Lumbergh, both in Staten Island. Coordinate with Staten Island PD and keep them separated when arrested. They can reach me on my cell - I’m heading straight to Newark to conduct the search myself.”

Sophie opens the door, motioning for Erica and Charlotte to follow. “Let’s go.” she calls as she strides out, her steps echoing purposefully down the hall toward the escalator to the underground garage. Her task force is waiting in the parking lot by two black SUVs, engines already humming with the promise of action.

Sophie slides into the lead vehicle, her focus razor-sharp as Erica climbs in beside her. The SUV pulls out, the city’s lights blurring into a steady stream as they speed toward Nutrisports, each passing second a reminder of the stakes.

[LunaDog]

Superb, as ever. But is this all in time to save Debbie's career? No doubt you will let us know, but for now you're making us sweat!

[Caesar73]

Now Erica is going on the Offensive. The opening Scene in the DA´s Office is fantastic. Somehow I doubt, Dean has entirely realized what he has done. The main Culprit is Alyssa´s Father though, who used his Power and Influence to pressure Dean into doing his bidding. But the Fact remains: It was Dean´s Decision to bow to the Pressure. On the other Hand the excuse why he used the Chloroform is flimsy,

At least Debbie has a realistic Chance to be cleared of all Charges and get her Career back.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, dear @Caesar73 as you know, without hard evidence, everything might have been in vain and how if Alyssa going to react when she learns that her father and her boyfriend are behind bars?
Let's continue the story...

[Jenny_S]

The convoy departs from One Hogan Place under the mid-afternoon sun, casting long, angular shadows across the city streets as the two black Suburbans weave through the crowded avenues. Sophie van Rey sits in the lead vehicle, her eyes fixed on the road ahead, her expression carved with purpose. Beside her, Erica stays silent, running over the details of the Nutrisports operation in her mind. In the second vehicle, Charlotte West shifts nervously, gaze locked on the passing skyline, her jaw tight as she grapples with the idea of what they might uncover.

The scenery changes as they cross the river, the towering glass buildings giving way to the industrial sprawl of Newark. Warehouses, factories, and vast lots cluttered with shipping containers stretch out in every direction. Despite the sunny sky, the light here feels colder, casting everything in a washed-out gray. Sophie’s eyes flicker over each passing building, her mind mapping out the plan ahead, the probable location of entry points, possible exits, the security measures they might face.

Followed by four State Police cruisers, the two black Suburbans pull up to the curb outside Nutrisports' Newark facility, a low, flat-roofed building draped in the dull gray of industrial anonymity. A chain-link fence with barbed wire along the top borders the property, and the smell of dust-caked asphalt mingles faintly with the distant scent of plastic and chemicals.
Erica steps out of the car, taking in the size of the facility - a surprisingly large building complex stretching farther than she anticipated. It’s imposing and impersonal, and the realization that this operation ships supplements nationwide makes her wonder just how small Canmore College's orders must be within this vast, mechanized network. Yet Dane decided that they justified the logistical nightmare of daily deliveries…

“This is larger than I expected.” Erica murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might set off an alarm. Her eyes scan the parking lot, noting the number of employees, the trucks emblazoned with logos from distribution companies, all a testament to Nutrisports’ reach.

“Bigger footprint than they let on.” Sophie agrees, her gaze keen as she surveys the building. “They’re not just supplying Canmore athletes. This is a national, maybe even international operation.”

A gust of wind kicks up, carrying the faint metallic scent of industry, the oil from delivery trucks, and the tang of rubber and pavement. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails and then fades. This part of the city, Erica realizes, feels like its own world - isolated, even as it powers the veins of commerce.

Sophie’s phone buzzes, and she checks the screen: Judge Hathaway’s official search warrant confirmation. “We’re greenlit. Let’s go!”
She motions at her team, the crunch of gravel beneath her feet a reminder of the gritty reality ahead.
Erica nods, glancing at the building, imagining rows of unmarked bottles, the potential evidence that could turn this case on its head. The facility, at this moment, seems not just a place of business but a fortress protecting buried secrets.

As they approach the gate, a security guard comes out of his booth, eyebrows raised, his hand hovering over his radio. Sophie steps forward, presenting the warrant with calm, unshakeable authority.

“We’re here to conduct a search on behalf of the District Attorney’s office.” she says, her voice smooth but unyielding. “I’ll need you to direct us to the production floor and storage areas. We’re inspecting your returned product bins as well as your current inventory.”

The guard, initially hesitant, glances over the paperwork and seems to deflate, nodding as he unlocks the gate and swings it open. “Right this way, ma’am.” he mutters, still eyeing the team warily.

Inside, the Nutrisports facility hums with activity, workers in white lab coats and safety glasses bustling between the vast stainless steel tanks, conveyor belts, and pallets stacked with boxes ready for shipment. But the team isn’t here to admire the operations.

The security guard hovers nearby, eyeing the group before reaching for his radio. “Mr. Gillis,” he says, his voice a little shaky, “we’ve got a District Attorney here with a search warrant.”

Within moments, a portly, middle-aged man with a receding hairline appears from a side door. His ID badge reads “Herbert Gillis, Operations Manager”, and he carries himself with the air of someone who rarely encounters law enforcement. Sophie steps forward, her expression steady but unyielding.

“Mr. Gillis, I’m Assistant District Attorney van Rey.” she says, presenting the warrant. “Where are the returned bottles from Canmore College athletes kept before they’re sanitized?”

Gillis looks from Sophie to the warrant, to the State police officers and back, blinking rapidly as he processes the request. “Uh, come with me, please.” he mutters, clearly flustered, and gestures for the team to follow him deeper into the facility. “They are the only containers we sanitize and refill. Everything else is recycling material.”

As they walk, Erica feels her pulse quicken, every nerve buzzing with the scent of a breakthrough. She reins herself in, her focus tightening like a hunter catching a scent. She reminds herself to keep calm, to let Sophie - as head honcho - lead the operation. She’s lucky to be here at all, and she knows it. But still, her instincts won’t let her rest. She can practically feel the evidence they’ve been chasing lying just ahead.

As they push deeper into the warehouse, Erica finds herself focusing on every detail: the rhythmic hum of machines, the faint smell of chemicals that grows stronger the farther they go, the overhead lights casting everything in a harsh, fluorescent white.

They arrive at a large storage area, and Gillis opens the door, revealing what looks like a mountain of semi-transparent plastic bags filled with thousands of empty plastic bottles, each one labeled and collected from athletes’ daily deliveries. The sight is staggering.
The bottles within are tinted by remnants of various supplements, their colors muted through the plastic: faded greens, faint yellows, and dull blues.

“We usually keep a week’s worth of empties here.” the manager says, seeming almost apologetic as he looks at the chaotic pile. “These haven’t been touched yet. They’re next up for sanitation - first, the tops come off, and then we put everything through the cleaning process.”

Erica’s gaze sharpens, studying the heap of bags. “So the bottles from last week should still be among these?” she asks, her voice controlled but with an edge of anticipation she can’t quite hide.

“Yes, I’m sure they’re here.” the manager replies, glancing from Erica to Sophie as though sensing the urgency but not fully understanding it.

Sophie turns to the investigators and New Jersey State officers. “Seal off this room.” she says, her voice firm. “We need transport arranged for all of these bottles. We’ll get them back to the lab and sort them ourselves. Then we need to search the place for any Canmore sports drinks ready for distribution.”

Erica feels a rush of satisfaction, a small spark of relief, as she watches the officers move to secure the room. Finally, they have a lead - concrete evidence, perhaps - within reach. She feels Charlotte beside her, and she can’t help herself; she nudges her, a quick, silent gesture of shared hope.

Charlotte glances over, her own face caught between frustration and relief. “This could be it for Debbie.” she murmurs, her voice low.

But Erica’s joy is tempered by reality. She knows she’s in for days of waiting, sidelined as the bottles are transported, sorted, and then finally analyzed. For now, it’s all she can do to rein in her instincts, to keep herself from diving into those bags herself to search for any bottles marked with Debbie Stanton’s name. She’s come so far, but now she has to wait and trust the process.

As the team finishes securing the room, Erica steps back, allowing Sophie to make the final calls. She watches her with a mix of respect and envy - she knows it’ll be the ADA and her team overseeing the sorting while she has to wait for a result. Yet Erica forces herself to hold steady, her resolve fueled by a single thought: if they find what they’re looking for, Debbie’s career might have a second chance.

[Caesar73]

It seems there might be Chance now for Debbie to get her Life back ... now the Evidence is secured.

[LunaDog]

The problem here is that, as far as the sporting authorities are concerned, the presence of a banned substance WAS found within Debbie's body. It's almost as if they're not interested in HOW it got there, it IS there, Q.E.D.

Now i'm sure that the circumstances might well be taken into consideration, after we all KNOW that Debbie IS innocent in that regard, given time, but is that something she has on her side? By the time her innocence is proven, the actual conviction of Edward Dane and Dean for example, the Olympics themselves might well have passed, with the innocent Debbie NOT allowed to participate. That is why this evidence is so critical.

[Caesar73]

Now i'm sure that the circumstances might well be taken into consideration, after we all KNOW that Debbie IS innocent in that regard, given time, but is that something she has on her side? By the time her innocence is proven, the actual conviction of Edward Dane and Dean for example, the Olympics themselves might well have passed, with the innocent Debbie NOT allowed to participate. That is why this evidence is so critical.

Sharp Analysis my Friend!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, Dear @Caesar73, you are right, this case is difficult on more than one level. Tonight you'll see how the story unfolds further.

[Jenny_S]

As Erica and Charlotte return to the Athletic Department building, they see Alyssa waiting for them in the lobby, her shoulders taut, arms crossed defensively. She paces restlessly, her face a hard mask of disbelief and betrayal, her gaze sharpening when they come into view. Erica’s heart sinks; this confrontation was inevitable, and it’s already charged with more tension than she cares for.

Although Alyssa might be a capable athlete, nothing will have prepared her for witnessing a couple of patrol cars and unmarked vehicles swooping in and pairs of detectives backed up by uniformed officers arresting her father like an ordinary criminal.

Alyssa stops pacing and fixes both of them with a piercing, accusatory stare. “This is some way to treat me, Coach.” she snaps at Charlotte, her voice thick with betrayal. “And you, Miss Sinclair - you acted like you cared. But you were just after my dad all along, weren’t you?”

Charlotte meets Alyssa’s gaze, voice calm but resolute. “Alyssa, I need you to understand something. This isn’t about betraying you. We’re doing this to protect all of you, even you. Your father…he made choices that endangered people, choices we can’t ignore.”

Alyssa’s face crumples with frustration. She clenches her fists and takes a step forward. “You think I don’t know my own father?” she says, her voice nearly breaking. “He’d never do something like this. Where’s Dean? And Peter - why are they under arrest?”

Erica steps in, holding Alyssa’s gaze, her tone gentle yet unyielding. “Alyssa, your father ordered Dean to kidnap and threaten me. Dean brought Peter along as muscle.” She hesitates, knowing the truth will sting. “They may have thought it was a prank, but it’s a serious crime. And your father knew what he was doing. A Judge ordered their arrests. We’re doing this because it’s the right thing for everyone, including you.”

Alyssa’s face twists with pain, her anger mingling with what Erica recognizes as a deep sense of hurt and betrayal. She glances from Erica to Charlotte, her voice cracking. “I trusted you both.” she whispers. “Now you’re tearing my family apart. You’ve left me with nothing.”

Erica’s chest tightens, the weight of Alyssa’s words settling like a stone. She steps closer, her voice low, almost pleading. “Alyssa, I know this might feel like a betrayal. You have every right to be angry. We had to make this call because someone nearly died - Debbie almost lost her life because of this. If you were in Debbie’s place, you’d want us to do what’s right, wouldn’t you? No matter how hard it is.”

Alyssa’s gaze hardens, but she seems to be wrestling with Erica’s words, her fists gradually unclenching. Her shoulders drop, her hands falling to her sides as she exhales, the fight in her deflating. “I just…I just want this to stop.”

“We’re trying, Alyssa.” Erica says gently. “And so is your coach. None of this is her fault; she’s had your back all along. If you need to be mad at someone, be mad at me. She’s only ever wanted the best for you.”

Alyssa swallows, but she doesn’t respond. Without another word, she turns on her heel, walking out of the lobby, her steps slow and heavy. Erica watches her go, feeling a gnawing ache at the sight. She wonders if they’ll ever win back the trust they’ve lost.

Once Alyssa is gone, Erica exchanges a look with Charlotte, who lets out a weary sigh. There’s no time to dwell; they still need to speak with Debbie and her family. Erica takes a breath, refocusing.

“We need to talk to Debbie and her parents. My place, your place, or right here?” she asks.

Charlotte considers it, then nods in agreement. “Let’s do it at yours. More neutral territory.”

Erica glances at her watch. “Tomorrow morning at nine?”

Charlotte nods again, pulling out her phone and scrolling down to Debbie’s number. The call connects with a quiet click.

“Debbie? This is Coach West.” Charlotte says, her voice warm yet steady. “How are you feeling? I heard you were discharged today - glad to hear it.” A pause as Debbie answers. “Listen, Miss Sinclair and I would like to meet with you and your parents tomorrow morning. Yes, at Miss Sinclair’s office in Manhattan. Will you check with them?”

The brief silence feels loaded with anticipation, as though both Erica and Charlotte are holding their breath. After a few moments, Charlotte nods slightly, her face relaxing as Debbie confirms. “We’ll see you tomorrow, then. Take care.”

Charlotte hangs up, slipping her phone back into her pocket with a slight nod. “Tomorrow at nine it is.” she says, her voice softer, hopeful yet wary.

Erica smiles slightly, the sense of restrained hope returning as she leaves. But she can’t shake the thought of Alyssa’s devastated face or the uncertainty awaiting Debbie and her family. Tomorrow is bound to be a mix of relief, apprehension, and, for all of them, more waiting. For now, Erica steadies herself, preparing for whatever may come.





Erica weaves her black Volvo through the evening traffic, her mind oddly calm as the city lights flicker past her windows. What needed to be done has been done.
The day’s events are a persistent hum in the back of her mind, but she’s decided - tonight will be different. Tonight, she’s shutting out the noise. No takeout, no pre-packaged meal. She’s going all out, cooking from scratch, and she can almost taste the warmth and richness of a home-cooked meal in her mouth just by thinking of it.

Pulling over at Mr Leslie’s corner supermarket just a few blocks from her apartment, she steps out into the brisk evening air, relishing the crispness on her face. It’s a familiar stop - a small, crowded space filled with the scent of fresh produce, baked bread, and something savory simmering in the back.
She takes her time selecting everything - plump carrots, a fresh bundle of parsley, red potatoes for mashing, and a thick-cut steak, marbled just right. She also grabs a few sprigs of thyme, a stick of butter.

It’s been a while.

The memory of her last relationship stirs in her chest like an unwelcome guest, one that knows all the corners of her heart where the pain hides. She remembers the dinners she used to love preparing, how she’d carefully choose the freshest ingredients, her hands steady and confident as she chopped, stirred, and tasted. Cooking was a refuge - a way to create, to care, to nourish.

But with him, it became something else.
The arguments were always waiting, coiled like a snake under the table. No meal was ever good enough, no effort ever truly seen. She remembers the way his words stung like knives, turning her pride into shame. Too salty. Too bland. Why don’t you try harder? She tried. God, she tried. But it was never really about the meals - it was about her. She was never good enough.
And when it all ended, when she walked away - or maybe crawled away - she left the kitchen behind with him.

Cooking had become too loaded with the echoes of his voice. She switched to something safer, something numb: pre-cooked, calorie-controlled, low-carb meals. Uninspired, sterile fuel for her body, stripped of creativity or joy.
Every packet she opened was a quiet defiance, a way of saying, You can’t hurt me anymore. I won’t let you.

But tonight, standing in the deli section, surrounded by the warm glow of hanging lights and the mingling aromas of fresh bread, ripe cheeses, and spiced cured meats, something stirs within her. The familiar weight of a ripe tomato in her hand, the earthy scent of fresh basil - it awakens a memory of who she was before him, before she allowed herself to believe she wasn’t enough.

Her fingers hover over the selection of fresh herbs, a small smile tugging at her lips. Maybe tonight, she thinks, tonight I’ll make something real again. It isn’t just about the food. It’s about tasting life again. Feeling something she hasn’t felt in years: pride in a meal made by her own hands.

She exhales slowly, grounding herself in the present, letting the memories loosen their grip. As she has done so often, she pushes the memories of…him…back into that compartment where he belongs – under lock and key – where he can’t hurt her.

Her basket fills with more possibilities: a bulb of garlic, a fragrant bundle of rosemary, and fresh spaghetti.

She feels lighter with every step she takes toward the checkout counter, as though each choice she makes chips away at the lingering hold of his shadow.

Tonight isn’t just about dinner. Tonight is about reclaiming something she lost. About proving - to herself, not to anyone else - that she is more than enough.

Erica pays for the groceries, the bag feeling heavier now, not from the weight of the ingredients, but from the significance of the choice, as if she’s carrying her own peace in the bag as well.
She heads back to the car, the evening traffic moving slower now, her mind still swirling with the idea of a meal cooked from scratch.

She pulls into the underground parking garage of her building. The car purrs to a stop in her designated slot, and she lets out a deep breath before shutting off the engine. It’s a relief to be home.

[LunaDog]

Fantastic, the description of Alyssa's reaction was simply awesome. But Debbie's career still hangs on the line!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, thank you very much. Yes, blood is thicker than water they say, and after all, Alyssa was very surprised that her father and Dean were locked up in one, swift strike. And Debbie...we shall see, I guess.
I'll post the next part tonight.

[Jenny_S]

The elevator ride up is quiet, and when the doors open, she’s met with a sudden, frantic sound - tiny paws skittering across the floor. The kittens charge at her, their tiny bodies almost colliding in their eagerness to greet her. It’s their nightly ritual, one that never fails to lift her spirits. They tumble over themselves in a chaotic mass of fluff, their wide, innocent eyes full of excitement.
She lets out a low laugh, kneeling to return their affection, and they weave around her legs, nudging her with their small, soft faces. “All right, all right, mommy’s home.”

She heads into the kitchen, setting her groceries on the counter and reaching for a can of kitten food in the pantry. They meow eagerly as she fills their bowl, tails flicking with delight, and she watches them eat for a moment, feeling the rare sense of everything just being…right.



Erica changes into her grey cat mom sweatsuit, the one she bought on a whim and never regretted. It’s comfortable, soft - a far cry from the sharp business clothes she usually wears as part of her professional armor all day.

Back in the kitchen, she unpacks her groceries, laying out the vegetables and steak on the counter with a certain reverence. She pulls out a pot, fills it with water, and sets it on the stove for the potatoes. She peels and chops them, dropping each piece into the pot and relishing the coolness of the knife in her hand, the rhythm of slicing that pulls her fully into the present moment. She sets the pot to boil, inhaling the earthy scent of raw potatoes - a smell she’d forgotten she loved.

As the water begins to bubble, Erica turns to the steak, patting it dry, her hands confident and precise. She sprinkles salt and freshly cracked pepper over the surface, letting each grain fall in a simple, familiar pattern, the scent filling the room with its promise. She can almost hear the sizzle as she imagines the steak hitting the pan later. Then she moves on to the carrots, rinsing and peeling, slicing each one with a steady hand, marveling at their bright orange hue. It’s been too long since she’s cooked with fresh ingredients, too long since she’s felt this simple joy of preparing something by hand, something truly her own.

By the time the kitchen is filled with the gentle steam from the boiling potatoes, Erica feels a calm settle over her, a kind of peace she didn’t know she’d been missing. The quiet rhythm of cooking, of moving from one step to the next, has cleared her mind. And as she stands there, wiping her wet hands on her grey sweatshirt, she smiles, feeling something close to happiness - for the first time in what feels like a very, very long time.

Erica doesn’t feel rushed or like she’s simply following a checklist. She cooks, because she wants to, because the act of it brings her peace. Her kitchen isn’t just a place to warm up food - it’s her space, a sanctuary from the madness of the world outside.

She mashes the potatoes, watching the steam rise as butter and cheese melt, the warmth filling the room. A smile tugs at her lips, a rare thing these days. She’s done this before. She can still cook. She can still create. And for the first time in a long while, Erica feels a flicker of something else: hope. She might not be as lost as she thought.

The familiar sound of the steak sizzling in the hot pan brings her back to the present. She lets out a slow breath, turning the meat. It smells good. It feels right, in a way. And yet, she can't help but wonder if, in another life, with a different man, cooking dinner together would have been a joy, not a trigger.

She shakes her head, trying to push the thoughts aside again as she carefully plates the steak and serves the carrots and the mashed potatoes, feeling a faint sense of satisfaction. Maybe, for the first time in a long while, she’s not just cooking to fuel herself. She’s cooking to reclaim a part of herself that had been silenced.

Tonight, with the sizzle of the steak and the steam rising from the side dishes, she feels something she hasn’t felt in years - a glimmer of her hard edge softening. Something she hasn’t allowed herself to feel since before that relationship.

She takes a deep breath, hoping she can hold onto this moment.





Erica wakes up a few minutes before 5, her senses coming to life in the quiet, pre-dawn stillness. She glances at the soft luminous glow of the indices of her Rolex and carefully shifts her arm to reach the switch of her bedside lamp, mindful not to disturb the two kittens curled up into each other at the foot of her bed. Their quiet breathing and tiny paws tucked in tight make her smile. For a moment, she lets herself settle into that small warmth before slipping out of bed.

In only her deep wine-red kimono, she pads to the living room, gathering the kittens’ dishes. She rinses them out in the sink, filling them with fresh food and water, and places them back on their place on the living room floor. Spot and Tiger are still sprawled on her bed, blissfully unaware that breakfast awaits. They’ll come running soon enough.

With a sense of calm, she lets the kimono slide off her shoulders, glancing at herself in the bedroom mirror. The woman who looks back at her isn’t perfect, but she’s strong, toned, and lean, a figure honed over years of discipline and sweat. At 35, she’s maybe a little past her prime, but her form reflects a strength that runs deeper than muscle - resilience, hard-earned and well-worn. She pulls on her running outfit, the black top and tights hugging her frame like a second skin, moving with her, supporting her in a way that feels right.

She kneels down to lace her running shoes, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Not so long ago, she would have held herself to a routine, a quick 5 Mile jog and a checked box for the sake of discipline. But now, she’s found her stride, pushing herself harder each day, setting new standards.

Already warming up, she locks the apartment door behind her, heads down to street level and steps out into the crisp, early morning fall air. She takes her route through Central Park, the vastness of it waking up with her. The air is sharp against her skin, filling her lungs as she starts running, her breath forming small puffs in the dawn light. She finds her new rhythm, her pulse syncing with the steady rhythm of her feet hitting the pavement. In the quiet, she catches snatches of other early birds: the distant thud of another runner, a pair of cyclists zipping past. For a moment, it’s as though the city, the world, has fallen into a quiet rhythm all her own.

Back at her apartment, she steps into the shower, washing off the sweat with the invigorating lather of her mint and melon body wash. No separate bottles, no countless beauty products crowding the shelves. Just the essentials. Simple and satisfying. As she wraps herself in a large, plush towel, she thinks about the younger women at the Bar Association meetings, the ones who, in their loud outfits and heavy makeup, looked more ready for a nightclub than for legal debate. “Or maybe just one layer of mascara shy of a soap opera audition.” she thinks with a small smirk, swiping on her own minimal, no-nonsense makeup.

She tames her hair into a sleek high ponytail, and catches herself in the mirror one last time. Today is going to be a day where she’ll need all her strength, all her calm. There’s still no knowing what will come from yesterday’s haul at Nutrisports, and the meeting with Debbie and her family looms ahead, heavy with the tension of what she can and can’t promise them. But she’s here, grounded in her small rituals, and ready for whatever’s coming.


With a towel wrapped snugly around her toned midsection, Erica pads across the polished hardwood floor, feeling the cool morning air in her apartment. She reaches the kitchen and spoons a generous helping of creamy quark into a bowl, then adds a teaspoon of lemon cheesecake-flavored flavor powder. A dash of almond milk flows in, bringing it all together. Beside her, the coffee pad machine growls to life, filling the quiet kitchen with its familiar hum. She stirs the quark mixture slowly, letting the lemony scent bloom, as she waits for her coffee.

When her mug is ready, she adds two Sweet’n Low and a splash of almond milk, watching as the coffee swirls from deep black to the perfect shade of light brown. She takes her breakfast into the living room, settling into her favorite spot on the black leather couch as she flicks on the TV. While she slowly zaps through news channels, she takes her first bite of the quark. After last night’s homemade dinner, even this simple breakfast feels somehow elevated - like a tiny ritual, deliberate and quiet.

“It’s almost like a Japanese tea ceremony.” she muses, savoring each spoonful. Every flavor, every texture feels heightened in her awareness today.

When she’s finished, Erica rinses her bowl in the sink, placing it carefully into the dishwasher before heading back to the bathroom. She hangs the towel neatly on the drying rack, then, naked, walks over to her bedroom, where Spot and Tiger are still curled up on her bed, sleeping in a small knot of fur. She smiles, leaning close enough to catch their faint, rhythmic breathing, feeling a flicker of calm in their little world of warmth.

She slips into her walk-in closet and lets her hand drift over the hangers until it settles on a fitted black skirt suit. She pairs it with a crisp white silk blouse, smooth to the touch, and selects a pair of low heels - no point in another ruined pair of shoes today if she has to make her way across the uneven gravel paths of the Canmore campus.

The finishing touches sit on her nightstand: the gold university class ring and her Rolex dive watch. She picks it up, feeling the cool, solid weight of the steel in her hand, her thumb brushing over the engraved words on the back of the case: “Stand for something or fall for anything.”
Her father’s deep, but warm voice echoes in her mind, the creed that has guided her through so much. In those words, she feels his belief in her, his faith that she’d hold herself steady no matter what life brought.

She clasps the watch around her left wrist, letting the metal settle against her skin, a reminder of everything she’s promised him - herself - she’d be.

With one last look at her still-sleeping kittens, she whispers, “I’ll see you tonight, lovelies.” and then moves to the door, grabbing her bag, phone and keys. A quick turn of the lock, and she steps into the day ahead, the weight of her choices and her creed resting as steady as the watch ticking on her wrist.