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

[Jenny_S]

Erica barely has time to set her phone down after texting Charlotte before it buzzes in her hand. The screen lights up with Charlotte’s name. She picks up immediately.

“Charlotte.” Erica says, her voice calm but edged with urgency.

“Erica…” Charlotte’s voice is raw, almost trembling. “Please, tell me. What did they find?”

Erica takes a steadying breath. She knows the weight of what she’s about to share and how deeply it will hit Charlotte. “Sophie van Rey called. The DA’s office has finished analyzing the bottles they recovered from Nutrisports.”

The silence on the line is electric, charged with anticipation. Erica presses on. “They found five bottles with Debbie’s name on them. Each one labeled with successive dates. Each one tested positive for Moducain.”

Charlotte doesn’t respond immediately. Erica hears a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line, followed by a muffled sound - a sob, hastily stifled. When Charlotte finally speaks, her voice wavers. “That…that means Debbie didn’t just stumble into this. Someone...someone did this to her. Repeatedly.”

“Yes.” Erica confirms softly, her tone steady but carrying an undercurrent of shared anger and sadness. “This was deliberate. Systematic.”

“I…” Charlotte’s voice falters again. Erica can picture her pacing her office, hand pressed to her mouth as she processes the information. “I knew something was wrong. I knew it in my gut, but... hearing it like this…”
Her words trail off, leaving an aching silence.

Erica doesn’t rush her. Although it is the evidence they had hoped for, hearing about it as a matter of fact, hits Charlotte like a punch in the gut.

She waits a beat before saying gently, “Charlotte, I know this is a lot to process. But this is the evidence we needed. We can prove Debbie didn’t do this to herself.”

Charlotte exhales shakily, the sound heavy with emotion. “Thank God. Oh, Erica, thank God.”

Erica lets Charlotte have a moment before she shifts the focus to the immediate task. Her voice becomes firmer, more purposeful. “We need to take this to the Screening Board immediately. They must know Debbie was a victim in this. Are you ready to call them? Or do you want me to do it?”

Charlotte’s answer is immediate, her tone gaining strength. “I’m ready. Sure…I’m ready.”

Erica allows herself a small, tight smile, though the weight of the situation still presses on her. This is something she doesn’t fully control herself.
“Okay. You call them and let them know that tomorrow they will be receiving a written statement from me, verified by the DA’s office. They won’t act upon word of mouth in this matter, but Sophie’s statement will weigh heavily. We are going to fight this, Charlotte, and we’re going to win.”

As she ends the call, Erica remains seated for a moment, staring at the phone in her hand. Her thoughts flicker briefly to Alyssa, to Debbie, and even to Dane. Each of them, in their own way, is caught in the destructive web of his ambition.

She lets out a slow breath. “Knowing the law is one thing, but it takes a strong moral compass to use it.” Her father’s words resonate in her mind, a grounding mantra in this storm of deceit and betrayal.

This fight isn’t just about Debbie. It’s about all of them, every life tainted by Edward Dane’s choices. And while Erica knows she can’t save them all, she’s determined to do what’s right - for Debbie, for Alyssa, and for herself.




Erica sits at her sleek mahogany desk, the soft hum of the office barely registering as her focus zeroes in on the document taking shape on her screen. Her fingers move swiftly, crafting an official statement with the precision of a surgeon. Each word carries weight. Each sentence is a stepping stone toward clearing Debbie Stanton’s name.
Her laptop chimes softly, interrupting her thoughts. She glances at the screen: Email from Sophie van Rey. Erica clicks it open and immediately takes in the DA’s letterhead, followed by Sophie’s meticulous style. It’s everything Erica expected - detailed, irrefutable, and packed with hard evidence. Erica smirks slightly. Sophie never leaves room for doubt.
She cross-references their statements, ensuring every fact aligns seamlessly. Together, these documents will be a powerful weapon. As she saves the files, her phone vibrates loudly against the desk, startling her. She grabs it, her heart skipping when she sees Charlotte’s name.
“Charlotte?” Erica answers, her tone steady but tinged with tension. This is the moment of truth.
“Erica,” Charlotte begins, her voice taut, carrying an edge that immediately puts Erica on alert. “I spoke to the Olympic Screening Board.”
Erica doesn’t breathe for a second. “And?”
“They’re willing to reinstate Debbie,” Charlotte says, her voice lifting with hope, but then faltering. “But—”
“There’s always a ‘but.’” Erica mutters, her patience thinning. She grips the phone tighter. “What now?”
“They’ve forwarded Debbie’s case to the US Anti-Doping Agency in Colorado Springs,” Charlotte explains, her words tumbling out quickly, as if she’s trying to soften the blow. “Before they’ll reinstate her, Debbie has to pass their doping test. And we need to convince them - convince USADA - that Debbie didn’t take Moducain willingly.”
Erica stands abruptly, pacing the room, her heels clicking against the polished wood floor. “Let me get this straight,” she says, her tone sharp. “The Screening Board admits they may have jumped the gun, but they’re passing the buck to USADA? Fine. Then we’ll take it to USADA. Whatever it takes, Charlotte.”
“You really think we can do this?” Charlotte asks, her voice shaking but tinged with hope.
“We don’t have a choice,” Erica replies firmly, her voice brooking no argument. “Debbie deserves her chance, and we’re going to make sure she gets it.”
Charlotte exhales audibly. “Debbie’s been through so much already. She called me in tears last night, convinced her career was over for good.”
Erica stops pacing and softens her tone. “Listen, Charlotte. Debbie has us in her corner. We’re not going to let her down.”
“You’re right.” Charlotte says, her voice steadier now. “What’s the next step?”
Erica doesn’t hesitate. “I’ll handle USADA. We have evidence, we have Sophie’s statement, and we’ll bring the truth to their doorstep. Debbie just needs to be ready for that test.”
“Thank you, Erica.” Charlotte says, the gratitude evident in her voice. “You’re incredible.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” Erica says, a glint of determination in her eyes. “The fight’s not over.”
As the call ends, Erica pulls up USADA’s contact information. Her mind is already racing ahead, strategizing her next move. The stakes are high, but she knows she’s ready for the battle ahead.




The very moment Erica lays her hand on the receiver of her desk phone to call USADA, a knock interrupts her. The sound is sharp, deliberate. She immediately knows it’s Claire Messner.
“Yes, Claire.” she calls, her hand still resting on the receiver.
The door opens, and Claire’s head appears in the door frame. Her expression is uncomfortably tense. “Miss Sinclair, there’s a Mr. and Mrs. Chandler here to see you. They were very insistent that it’s urgent.”

Chandler. The name alone sends a pulse of tension through Erica. She has a good idea who these people might be. After a brief pause, she nods.

“Show them in. But after they leave, no more unannounced visitors today.”

“Of course, Miss Sinclair.” Claire confirms, and moments later, a smartly dressed couple steps into the office.

Alan Chandler is tall and graying, his expression a mixture of tension and forced politeness. His wife, Celine, is shorter, more delicate, her eyes betraying an unspoken desperation despite her poised demeanor.
Erica gestures toward the visitor chairs across from her desk, her own expression neutral but assessing. “Have a seat, please.”

Alan is the first to speak, extending his hand stiffly as he introduces himself. “Alan Chandler. This is my wife, Celine.”

“Erica Sinclair.” she replies curtly, shaking hands briefly before sitting down. Her tone is professional, but there’s a definite coolness in her voice. “What can I do for you?”

Celine leans forward, clasping her hands tightly. “We’re Dean’s parents.” she begins, her voice trembling slightly. “The boy who…”

“I remember.” Erica cuts in, her voice flat, the words landing like a sharp blade. “The young man who jumped me in a dark gym, chloroformed me, tied me up, gagged me and threatened me.”

The bluntness of her words visibly jolts Celine, who straightens slightly, her mouth parting as if to protest. “Well…”

“Well, what?” Erica’s voice sharpens, her eyes narrowing slightly. “That’s what he did, isn’t it? I’m not going to sugarcoat this. Words matter, Mrs. Chandler. Let’s use the right ones.”

Alan exhales loudly, his frustration palpable. “We’re not here to deny what happened.” he says. “But please, you must understand - he never meant it. He never thought it would go this far. He thought it was just...a prank.”

Erica leans back in her chair, crossing her arms, her gaze moving between the two of them. “A prank?” Her voice drips with incredulity. “Your son is 22 years old, Mr. Chandler. An adult. How old does he need to be to understand where a prank ends and a crime begins?”

“Mr. Dane told him…” Celine starts, her voice thin and urgent, but Erica cuts her off sharply.

“Mrs. Chandler,” Erica says, leaning forward now, her tone steely, “if Edward Dane had told him to jump off the Statue of Liberty, would Dean have done it? Let’s be honest: Yes, Dane manipulated him. Yes, your son probably didn’t fully grasp what he was getting into. But that doesn’t absolve him. What he did was premeditated, reckless, and criminal.”

Celine lowers her gaze, her hands trembling in her lap. Alan presses his lips together, his face reddening with suppressed emotion.

Erica doesn’t let up. “If two men had done to you, Mrs. Chandler, what your son did to me, how well would you take it? Or you, Mr. Chandler? Do you think for one second I enjoyed being chloroformed, bound, and threatened by two masked men in a dark gym?”

“No.” Celine whispers, her voice barely audible.
Alan looks down, his fists clenched on his thighs. “Of course not.” he mutters.

Erica’s tone softens slightly but remains firm. “I’m not here for revenge. I don’t deal in vengeance - I deal in justice. And justice, Mr. Chandler, means accountability. Your son is facing serious consequences for his actions, and rightly so.”

Alan lifts his head, his expression pained but resolute. “We’ve been advised to encourage him to cooperate fully with the DA’s office. To…plead guilty in exchange for a lighter sentence. But we also know your statement will carry a lot of weight. We were hoping…” He pauses, his voice catching. “Hoping you might consider leniency when the time comes.”

Erica regards them silently for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then she speaks, her voice low but unwavering.
“Mr. Chandler, Mrs. Chandler, I will tell the truth when I give my statement. I will make it clear that Edward Dane manipulated your son and likely pressured him into this. But I will also make it clear that Dean is not a child. He made his choices. I won’t lie to help him, but I won’t exaggerate to harm him, either. Your lawyer will appreciate the value of that.”

Celine’s shoulders sag slightly, as if the tension in her body has been holding her upright. “Thank you.” she whispers, though her voice is tinged with sorrow.
Alan nods stiffly. “That’s all we can ask.”
Erica straightens, signaling that the meeting is over.

“The best thing Dean can do is cooperate fully with the DA’s office. It’s his best chance at a fair outcome.”

The Chandlers rise, their movements slow and heavy with emotion. “Thank you for your time, Miss Sinclair.” Alan says quietly.

Erica nods, her expression still hard but not unkind. “Mr. and Mrs. Chandler, I’ve given you the best advice I can offer. The rest is up to Dean and his attorney. I hope this meeting has helped you understand where I stand. Good day.”

As the door closes behind the Chandlers, Erica leans back in her chair, releasing a long breath she didn’t realize she was holding. Her fingers press against her temples, a futile attempt to ease the tension that’s settled there. Justice, not revenge, she reminds herself silently, letting the mantra take root in her thoughts.
But the weight of the encounter lingers.
She can still see the desperation in Celine’s tear-filled eyes, the barely veiled frustration in Alan’s voice. It was a plea for their son’s salvation - a plea Erica couldn’t simply brush aside, no matter how firm she had been.

In the silence of her office, another voice echoes in her mind. Her father’s voice, calm and steady, the way it was when he handed her the Rolex on the day of her graduation from law school: “Knowing the law isn’t enough, Erica. It takes a strong moral compass to use it.”

The memory stirs something deep within her, making her sit straighter in her chair. Her father had always believed that justice wasn’t just about punishment - it was about fairness, accountability, and, when possible, redemption. She knows this. She believes it. But moments like these test her resolve, forcing her to confront the fine line between justice and vengeance.
Her gaze shifts to the tall floor to ceiling windows, where the city hums with its usual energy below, oblivious to the moral struggles unfolding within her office on the 25th floor.

Dean Chandler isn’t some hardened criminal - he is a young man, barely out of his teens, swept into something much bigger than he was able to understand. And yet, the pain and fear he had caused her was real.

Erica exhales slowly, her hands dropping to her lap. Justice, not revenge. It’s a mantra she clings to, even when it feels like a fragile tether in a sea of conflicting emotions. She knows her duty - to justice, to the law, and to herself.

Turning back to her desk, she picks up the receiver of her phone. The USADA call won’t wait, and neither will the rest of the day’s battles. But in the back of her mind, her father’s words remain, a compass always pointing her into the right direction:
It’s not just about what you know. It’s about how you choose to use it.

[LunaDog]

'Justice not revenge.' A VERY worthy aim to wish for. And it appears that Erica FULLY believes that.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, I hope that Dean's parents understood her position when they were practically asking for leniency.

[Jenny_S]

Erica sinks into her chair, gripping the phone like a lifeline. The call has already dragged through multiple layers of automated bureaucracy, but now, finally, she’s on the line with Margaret Shields, senior compliance officer at USADA.
“This is Margaret Shields.” the voice announces, clipped and brisk. “I understand you’re representing an athlete?”

“Yes.” Erica says, her tone firm but tinged with urgency. “Deborah Stanton was removed from the Olympic roster due to alleged doping violations.”

A pause. The skepticism practically crackles through the line. “Miss Sinclair, I’ve reviewed the documentation forwarded by the Screening Board. Miss Stanton tested positive for Moducain, a banned stimulant. USADA has a zero-tolerance policy. I’m afraid our position is clear.”

Erica tightens her grip on the phone, refusing to back down.
“Your policy is irrelevant here, Mrs Shields, because Debbie Stanton didn’t take Moducain willingly. The Manhattan District Attorney’s office has provided evidence proving that her drinks were tampered with.”

There’s a moment of silence as Shields processes this. “Tampered with?”

“Yes.” Erica continues, her voice steady but hard as steel. “The DA has filed charges against the owner of Nutrisports, the company which supplies the supplements and also the father of Debbie’s leading competitor. I’ve just uploaded the statement to your system. Debbie Stanton is a victim of sabotage, not a cheat.”

Erica hears the faint sound of keys clicking, followed by a long pause. When Shields finally speaks, her tone is colder. “Miss Sinclair, I sympathize, but USADA’s role is to enforce anti-doping regulations, not adjudicate criminal matters.”

Erica’s frustration bubbles to the surface. “I’m not asking you to adjudicate anything. I’m asking you to uphold the principles of fairness. If USADA’s mission is to protect clean athletes, you should be fighting as hard for Debbie as I am.”

“Miss Sinclair…” Shields begins, but Erica cuts her off.

“No, hear me out, please.” Erica says, her voice rising with passion. “This isn’t just about rules. It’s about the life of a young woman who has dedicated everything to her sport. She didn’t cheat. She didn’t take shortcuts. She was targeted by someone who wanted her out of the way. Are you really going to let that person win?”

Shields exhales audibly, her tone softening, if only slightly. “What exactly are you asking for, Miss Sinclair?”

“I’m asking for Debbie to be retested.” Erica says, leaning forward, her words deliberate and precise. “Under your strictest protocols, in your own facility. If she passes, you clear her name, and the Screening Board reinstates her. They have already agreed to this course of action.”

Shields hesitates, the silence stretching into an oppressive weight. Erica’s heart pounds in her chest, but she refuses to blink first.

Finally, Shields speaks. “If Miss Stanton submits to a supervised test and it’s negative, USADA will clear her. But if she tests positive again…”

“She won’t.” Erica interrupts, her tone resolute. “Thank you, Mrs Shields. Send me the details, and I’ll make the arrangements.”

As the call ends, Erica sets the phone down and exhales, her hands trembling slightly. She knows the fight isn’t over, but this feels like a small victory - a crack in the wall that’s been holding Debbie back.




Debbie Stanton stands just outside Canmore College’s athletics building, her phone pressed tightly to her ear. Her voice is hesitant, almost brittle. “Miss Sinclair? Coach West said you had news?”

“I do.” Erica says, her voice steady but tinged with warmth. “The Board has referred your case to USADA, and they’ve agreed to let you take another doping test.”
Debbie’s silence stretches, heavy with confusion. “Another test?”

“Yes.” Erica says gently. “If you pass - and I know you will - they’ll clear your name, and the Screening Board will reinstate you.”
There’s a sharp intake of breath on the other end. When Debbie speaks, her voice is barely a whisper. “Reinstate me?”

“Exactly.” Erica says. “This is your chance, Debbie. You’ll have to go to Colorado Springs for the test, and it won’t be easy. But once you’re cleared, no one will be able to deny your place on that roster.”

The phone crackles with the sound of Debbie’s shaky breathing. Then, a muffled sob. “I…I can’t believe it. After everything…I thought it was over.”

Erica closes her eyes, her throat tightening.
“It’s not over, Debbie. You’ve fought too hard for someone else to take this from you. You earned your spot. Now, we’re going to prove it.”

Debbie sniffles, her words breaking through her tears. “You don’t know what this means to me. I’ve worked my whole life for this…I thought I’d lost everything.”

“You haven’t lost anything.” Erica says, her voice firm but kind. “This test isn’t just about clearing your name. It’s about reclaiming what’s yours. And I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

“Promise?” Debbie asks, her voice trembling but laced with hope.

“Promise.” Erica says without hesitation.

Debbie lets out a shaky laugh, the sound brimming with tentative joy. “Okay. Okay, I’ll do it. I’ll prove I’m clean.”

“You already are.” Erica says, smiling now. “Show them the truth. Let’s give them something they can’t deny.”

As the call ends, Erica leans back in her chair, exhaling deeply. The battle isn’t over, but for the first time, she feels like they have a real shot.

She stands and walks out of her office, stepping over to Claire Messner’s desk.
“Claire.” she says, her voice soft, as she has something important to ask of her assistant. “I need to be away for two days. Would you look after Spot and Tiger while I’m off to Colorado Springs?”







The hum of the plane engine fills the cabin, a soft white noise beneath the occasional clink of a beverage cart. Erica sits beside Debbie, her laptop balanced on her knees. The screen displays case notes, but her eyes flick between the lines without absorbing them. Her focus keeps drifting to the young woman beside her.

Debbie, dressed in a navy tracksuit with her name embroidered under the Canmore logo on the chest, stares out the window. The clouds outside stretch endlessly, a serene contrast to the storm raging inside her. Her legs bounce uncontrollably, and her hands clutch the armrests tightly.

“You okay?” Erica asks, her voice soft but grounding.
Debbie glances at her, her wide eyes betraying her fear. “What if something goes wrong? What if they find something else? What if…” She trails off, her voice trembling.

Erica reaches over, placing a reassuring hand on Debbie’s arm. “Nothing will go wrong.” she says, her tone steady, almost commanding. “This test isn’t about catching you in a lie. It’s about proving the truth. And the truth is, you’re clean.”

Debbie swallows hard, nodding, but the tension in her body doesn’t ease. She looks back out the window as the plane begins its descent, the Rocky Mountains coming into view like jagged sentinels.

A van of the USADA waits for them at the airport arrivals, the driver holding a cardboard sign with Debbie’s name on it in front of him.
“Debbie Stanton and Erica Sinclair.” Erica says as they approach the man.

They board the car and Erica can feel the tension in Debbie rising with each mile as the driver takes them to the USADA’s representative building outside of Colorado Springs.

The USADA facility looms ahead, its sleek, modern facade gleaming against the backdrop of the Rockies. The air is crisp, and the faint scent of pine mixes with the cold steel of professionalism as Erica and Debbie step out of the van.

Inside, the building is clinical and efficient - white walls, glass partitions, and floors so polished they reflect the overhead lights. A receptionist greets them, and Erica steps forward with her usual confidence, presenting Debbie’s paperwork.
The receptionist scans the documents and nods. “Please take a seat. A technician will call you up shortly.”
They sit in a row of chairs bolted to the floor, the silence between them heavy. Debbie fidgets, her hands twisting together.
Erica leans in, her voice low. “Remember, Debbie: this isn’t a test of who you are. This is about showing them what we already know.”
Debbie nods but says nothing, her jaw tight as she bites back her nerves.



The testing room is stark and sterile, a place designed for precision, not comfort. A technician, dressed in scrubs and a lab coat, explains the procedure in a monotone voice. “We’ll start with a urine sample, followed by a blood draw. Everything is documented under strict chain-of-custody protocols.”
Debbie nods, but her hands tremble as the technician hands her a sample cup.

“You can do this.” Erica whispers, giving her a small nod of encouragement. It is not that Debbie hasn’t done this before, but never did she fear that her life – literally – depended on it.
Debbie disappears behind a door, and Erica remains outside. She checks the time on her watch as if willing the minutes to pass faster.

When Debbie returns, she looks pale but determined, holding the sealed cup carefully. “That’s done.” she says, her voice shaky.

“Good.” Erica says, standing. “One step closer to the finish line.”

The technician escorts them to another room for the blood draw. Debbie sits stiffly as the technician preps her arm with an alcopad and an elastic tourniquet.
Erica stands beside her, smiling slightly, her eyes never leaving Debbie’s face.

“Small pinch.” the technician says, sliding the needle in expertly. Debbie barely flinches, but her breathing is shallow.

“Almost done.” Erica says softly.

The technician fills the vial, labels it meticulously, and places it in a sealed bag. “That’s it.” he says.
Debbie exhales shakily. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.” Erica confirms, squeezing her shoulder. “Now, we wait. The results should be in within the next hour or two.”


The hours drag in the waiting room, each second stretching into eternity. Erica tries to distract Debbie with small talk, but it’s a losing battle. Debbie’s eyes are unfocused, her mind clearly elsewhere as she clutches her knees tightly.

“What if…” Debbie starts, her voice a whisper.

“No ‘what ifs.’” Erica interrupts gently but firmly. “We focus on what is. You’re clean. You know it, I know it, and soon they’ll know it too.”

Debbie nods, but her grip on her knees doesn’t loosen.

Finally, the sound of approaching footsteps breaks the silence. A suited official enters, holding a folder in his hand. His expression is unreadable.
“Miss Stanton?” he says, his voice professional but not unkind.
Debbie bolts to her feet, her breath catching in her throat. Erica stands too, stepping beside her, laying her hand on Debbie’s shoulder, a silent pillar of support.

The official opens the folder, his eyes scanning the contents. “Your tests are clean.” he announces. “There is no trace of banned substances in your system. USADA has cleared you.”

The words hang in the air, almost unreal. Debbie stares at the official, uncomprehending, until Erica’s voice breaks through the haze. “You did it, Debbie!”

Debbie’s knees give way, and she collapses into Erica’s arms, face buried in her shoulder as sobs wrack her body. Relief floods through her, overwhelming and all-consuming.

“You’re cleared.” the official repeats, his tone softer now. “Congratulations.”
Debbie looks up, her tear-streaked face breaking into a shaky smile. “I’m… I’m cleared?”

“You’re cleared,” Erica confirms, a proud smile spreading across her face.

Debbie turns to Erica, her voice choked with emotion. “I don’t even know how to thank you…”

Erica pulls her into a tight hug. “You don’t have to thank me. You earned this, Debbie. You fought for this. You’re back where you belong.”

The hug lingers, the weight of months of fear and injustice finally lifting. When Erica pulls back, she places her hands firmly on Debbie’s shoulders. “Now, let’s get you back on that roster. You’ve got medals to win.”

Debbie nods, her tears replaced by a spark of determination. “Let’s do it.”





The van glides silently through the outskirts of Colorado Springs, the hum of the tires steady against the backdrop of Debbie’s turbulent emotions. The Rockies, their peaks bathed in the fiery orange of dusk, stand like silent witnesses, offering no solace. Debbie sits stiffly, her hands clutching her seatbelt, her gaze fixed on the horizon as though searching for answers in the fading light.

Erica sits beside her, her phone balanced on her knee, fingers moving deftly across the screen. The faint glow illuminates her face, her expression focused and determined as she finalizes the petition to the Olympic Screening Board.
Debbie breaks the silence, her voice barely audible. “Is that… the petition?”

Without looking up, Erica replies in her usual composed tone, “Yes. I started it on the flight here. I’m updating it with the USADA results now.”

Debbie nods, her throat tight. The weight of the past days presses on her chest, making it hard to breathe. She turns her head to the window, blinking back tears.
Erica pauses, thumb hovering over the “send” button. She looks at Debbie, her voice calm yet firm. “This is it, Debbie. Once I send this, it’s up to the Board to keep their promise.”

Debbie swallows hard and nods. Erica’s tone softens slightly. “You’ve done everything required of you. This is just the paperwork.”

With a decisive tap, Erica presses “send.” The motion feels final, charged with purpose. As the van pulls into the airport, Erica slides her phone into her bag. “It’s done,” she says, offering Debbie a small smile. “Now, we wait.”

The airport buzzes with activity, the usual cacophony of intercom announcements, rolling luggage, and hurried footsteps surrounding them as Erica and Debbie make their way to the gate. Despite the noise, an expectant silence seems to envelop them, the tension thick in the air.
Debbie fidgets in her seat, her foot tapping erratically against the floor. Her hands twist together in her lap, her knuckles white. Erica sits beside her, scrolling through her phone, her eyes flicking toward Debbie every so often.

The minutes stretch unbearably until Erica’s phone buzzes against the armrest.
The sound slices through the quiet, making Debbie freeze. Erica picks up her phone, her movements measured, and taps the screen. Her eyes scan the email, moving quickly, then slower, before her lips curve into a warm, triumphant smile.

“Debbie.” Erica’s voice, tinged with excitement, makes Debbie’s head snap toward her. Erica tilts the screen to show her. “Look.”

Debbie leans in, her eyes locking on the words: “Reinstatement Confirmed: Deborah Stanton”

For a moment, she doesn’t move, her breath caught in her chest. Then the dam bursts. Tears stream down her face as she buries her head in her hands, her shoulders shaking with sobs.
“I’m back.” she whispers, the words trembling. “I’m really back.”

Erica slides an arm around her, pulling her close. “You’ve always been here, Debbie. This just proves it to everyone else.”






The plane touches down at JFK in the pale gray of early morning, the city skyline welcoming them back. Debbie stares out the window as the first rays of sunlight streak across the buildings, her reflection in the glass filled with quiet determination.

At the arrivals area, Debbie’s parents wait anxiously behind the barrier. Her mother shifts nervously, her hands clasped together, while her father scans the incoming passengers, his face taut with worry.

When Debbie spots them, she freezes mid-step, her breath hitching. “Mom… Dad…”

Her whisper is almost inaudible, but then she’s running, propelled by an overwhelming rush of emotion. Her mother sees her just in time, throwing her hands to her mouth as tears spill over.
“Debbie!” she cries, her voice breaking.
Debbie crashes into her mother’s arms, holding her so tightly it feels like she might never let go. Her father joins the embrace, his strong arms wrapping around both women as he whispers, “We’re so proud of you, sweetheart. So proud.”

Erica hangs back, watching the reunion with a quiet smile. Debbie’s sobs give way to laughter as she pulls back to face her parents, her face glowing with happiness.

“They cleared me!” she says, her voice trembling. “I’m back on the roster. I’ll be screened for the Olympics!”

Her mother gasps, her tears flowing freely. “Oh, Debbie… We knew you could do it!”
Her father’s voice cracks. “You earned it, kiddo. Every step of the way.”
Debbie turns to Erica, her expression full of gratitude. “Miss Sinclair…”

But Erica shakes her head, stepping closer. “This is your moment, Debbie. No need for formalities.”

Debbie smiles through her tears. “It’s ours. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

Erica hesitates only a moment before Debbie pulls her into the embrace. The group stands together, united in joy and relief.

As they pull apart, Erica places a firm hand on Debbie’s shoulder. “Now, it’s all about running. And I know you’ll show them exactly what you’re made of.”

Debbie nods, her tears replaced by resolve. “I’ll make it count.” she promises.

“You already have.” Erica replies with an encouraging smile.

[Caesar73]

What a wonderful Chapter. You capture the Rollercoaster Debbie experiences so well. Personally I feel I am in the Story not just reading it. Most impressive Erica´s Co,communication. She leaves no rathole open Shields. Erica at her very best!

[LunaDog]

Before i comment on these latest developments, let me say that is perfectly natural for Dean's parents to hope for leniency for their son. Although what he did was completely wrong, he was coerced into his actions by Edward Dane to a large extent, a fact that is fully acknowledged by Erica. But, at the end of the day, HE made the ultimate decision to go ahead with what he did, remember SHE was the direct victim.

Justice appears to been done with Debbie's vindication and re-instatement. It was interesting how, yet again, the attitude of the representative of the official body was the substance WAS in Debbie's blood Q.E.D. And we.re NOT interested how it got there. Thankfully Erica was able to make common sense prevail.

It rather appears that competing was Debbie's OWN dream, SHE wants to do it, whereas although she is talented, Alyssa was living her father's dream rather than her own.

All in all, a truly magnificent tale. Which has been a REAL pleasure to read.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, o my God, this is the highest praise I could think of. I'm glad the immersive style of my writing really captivates you.

Dear @LunaDog, right, the two runners couldn't be more different, but the story isn't over yet. There's more to come for some of the characters.

[Jenny_S]

On her way to the airport parking structure, Erica pulls out her phone and fires off a quick message to Claire.

“Thanks for looking after the kittens. I’ll see you at the office.”

The glow of the city greets her as she navigates the quiet streets, the early morning stillness broken only by the faint rumble of delivery trucks and the hum of her car.

Almost home, Erica stops at Mr. Leslie’s 24/7 supermarket. The store is brightly lit and nearly deserted at this time of the day, the lone cashier nodding in recognition as she enters. She moves efficiently through the aisles, grabbing essentials: chicken breast for Spot and Tiger, a few vegetables, and three overripe bananas, their speckled skins promising sweetness.

At the checkout, Erica swipes her credit card, glancing at her watch. It’s almost 5 AM. The thought makes her smile. She’ll be back just in time for her morning run.


When she steps into her apartment, the familiar scent of leather, wood and lavender immediately soothes her. It feels like an embrace, a silent welcome home. Then she hears it - the rapid patter of tiny paws on polished hardwood floors.

Setting her grocery bag on the counter, Erica kneels and waits. Within seconds, Spot and Tiger appear, barreling toward her from the direction of the bedroom. Their small, fluffy bodies are a blur of black and gray and white as they skid to a halt before her, meowing loudly. She chuckles softly, reaching out to scratch their heads.
“You missed me, didn’t you?”

The kittens weave figure eights around her legs, tails held high, demanding attention. Erica strokes their soft fur for a few moments before standing to clean and refill their food and water bowls. The kittens stick close, nearly tripping her as they follow her to the kitchen, their meows intensifying with excitement.

She quickly prepares their breakfast, shredding the chicken breast into the fine pulp they love. Spot and Tiger waste no time diving in, their small heads bobbing with eagerness. Erica watches them, a warm smile spreading across her face.

Leaving them to their meal, she changes into her running outfit. As she ties her laces, her mind wanders. How would she measure up against the young athletes she works with? Debbie? Alyssa? Or even her old teammate Charlotte? Erica smirks. This morning, it’s only herself she’s racing.
Sliding her phone and keys into her pocket, she steps out into the hallway, closing the apartment door quietly behind her.



The cool morning air greets her, crisp and invigorating. The city feels peaceful at this hour, its usual frenetic energy subdued. Erica starts at a steady pace, her strides measured and confident. She’s not chasing a personal best today, just enjoying the rhythm of her body in motion.

When she returns to her apartment, her cheeks are flushed, and her muscles hum with satisfaction. Spot and Tiger are curled up together on the black leather couch, a tangle of warm fur, their tiny chests rising and falling in sync. Erica pauses to take in the sight, her heart swelling with affection.

After a quick shower, the hot water washing away the sweat and tension of her long day, she wraps herself in a towel and blow-dries her hair. Her reflection in the mirror looks more awake now, the fatigue of travel and work giving way to the glow of her morning routine. Makeup, however, can wait. There’s something else she wants to do first.


In the kitchen, Erica sets out her ingredients. Butter melts in a small pan, filling the air with a rich, nutty aroma. She stirs in sugar before mashing the bananas she bought earlier, the sweet, overripe fruit yielding easily. Two eggs follow, whisked in with a fork, and then flour, almond milk, baking powder, and a pinch of salt.

She works the mixture into a smooth batter, humming softly. Baking has never been her forte, but banana bread is the exception. This recipe never lets her down. She pours the dough into a buttered pan, smoothing the surface before sliding it into the oven.

With the cake baking, Erica tidies up, loading the mixing bowl and utensils into the dishwasher. A glance through the oven’s glass door shows the dough beginning to rise. Satisfied, she heads to the bathroom to finish her makeup.


The scent of banana bread mingles with the lavender in the air as Erica pads to her bedroom to choose her outfit. Her wardrobe is a sea of classic, muted tones - navy, charcoal, gray, and black. Practical and professional. Andrea often teases her about her monochromatic style, but Erica knows the value of projecting confidence and respectability in her line of work.

She selects a crisp white silk blouse, its tailored fit flattering her athletic frame, and pairs it with a charcoal pencil skirt, matching blazer, and medium-height heels. The look is simple yet commanding.

A glance at her Rolex tells her the bread should be done. She checks it with a wooden skewer, nodding in satisfaction when it comes out clean. “Perfect.”
Erica sets the loaf on a cooling rack, deciding to let it air out uncovered. The warm, golden brown crust promises a satisfying slice later.

The kittens stir slightly but remain nestled together, their little faces serene. Erica refills their bowls quietly, not wanting to disturb them. With a sigh of contentment, she brews herself a cup of coffee, savoring its rich aroma as she considers the day ahead.

With Debbie sailing under her own steam again, there’s a call to Charlotte to make and Alyssa to check on, but for now, she allows herself a moment to sit by the window, coffee in hand. She watches the city come to life below, feeling ready to face whatever comes next.





The elevator descends smoothly to the underground parking garage, its mirrored walls reflecting Erica’s calm, composed expression. In her hands rests the plate of banana bread, carefully balanced, its faint warmth radiating through the porcelain.
She doesn’t usually go out of her way for anyone, especially not employees, but Claire has proven herself more than deserving, not only as an assistant, but also when Erica was shot by Tony Maze and had to spend a couple of days at the hospital, again when she took her vacation on the cruise ship and now.

The thought lingers as she steps out into the dimly lit garage and approaches her black Volvo XC60. She places the covered plate gently on the passenger seat, fastening the seatbelt around it - a small gesture that betrays the care behind her seemingly matter-of-fact demeanor.

The drive over to Park Avenue is serene, the city traffic actually not too bad. Erica glances at the bustling sidewalks and her own reflection in the rearview mirror.

After the fallout with her last boyfriend, trust has never again come easily to her. Handing Claire the spare key to her apartment to care for Spot and Tiger was a calculated necessity, but she hadn’t done it without hesitation. What if Claire had pried into her private life, stumbled upon the shoebox with keepsakes or the plastic bin containing her bondage accessories under her bed?
The thought had gnawed at her, but she’d given the key anyway.

And Claire had done exactly as asked - nothing more, nothing less. Spot and Tiger were cared for, the apartment untouched in every way that mattered.
That quiet loyalty didn’t just impress Erica; it left an imprint.

She pulls into the parking garage beneath her office building on Park Avenue and exchanges a polite nod with the attendant before stepping into the elevator with the plate once more in hand. As the elevator ascends, Erica finds herself mulling over the unusual warmth of her gesture.
It wasn’t just gratitude - it was a test, in its own way. A test Claire had passed without even realizing it.

The 25th floor buzzes softly with the sounds of phones ringing and early conversations. Holly Beck looks up from her desk as Erica strides by, her professional greeting faltering as her gaze lands on the plate.

“Good morning, Ms. Sinclair.” Holly says, her tone curious but polite.

“Morning, Holly.” Erica replies, her voice as crisp as ever. She doesn’t pause, leaving Holly to wonder at the sight of Erica Sinclair carrying homemade baked goods. It’s clear she’s itching to ask, but Erica’s composed expression doesn’t invite questions.


At Claire’s desk, the assistant looks up from her computer, her expression shifting from focused concentration to mild surprise as Erica approaches. Her desk, as always, is immaculate - everything in its place. Claire herself is equally polished, dressed in a smart navy blouse and pencil skirt. Her neat bun and sharp posture radiate capability, but the surprise in her wide eyes softens her otherwise professional air.

“Good morning, Claire.” Erica begins, her tone measured but warm. She sets the plate carefully on the desk’s corner. “I wanted to thank you again for taking care of Spot and Tiger. They can be a handful, but I wouldn’t want anybody else to handle them.”

Claire blinks, momentarily caught off guard, before standing.
“Good morning, Miss Sinclair. Oh, it was no trouble at all. They’re adorable - though Spot may have tried to commandeer your couch for his personal kingdom.”

Erica allows a small smile to tug at her lips. “He tends to do that.” She takes a step closer, her voice softening. “I made this for you. Banana bread. It’s nothing extravagant, but I thought you might enjoy it.”

Claire stares at the plate, her surprise evident. “You made this?” Her voice holds an edge of disbelief, though it’s laced with warmth. “Thank you, Miss Sinclair. I…I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything.” Erica’s tone remains even, but there’s a faint warmth beneath her words. “Just consider it a thank-you for your help. It means a great deal to me.”

Claire looks at her, genuinely touched, and nods. “It was my pleasure. Really. Thank you.”

Erica hesitates for a fraction of a second, her composure wavering in the faintest way. “There’s something else, Claire.” she begins, carefully measured but just shy of uneasy. “If you like, you can call me Erica. At least when it’s just us.”

Claire blinks, startled by the unexpected offer. Her professional mask slips, revealing a flicker of genuine emotion - a mix of surprise and appreciation. “Thank you, Erica. This really means a lot.”

For a moment, Erica allows herself to linger on the exchange, the words resting in the air between them. It feels strange, unpracticed, to let someone so close to her guarded world. But Claire, with her quiet loyalty and steadfast presence, has earned that inch of trust.

Erica nods, her tone steady as she concludes, “Good. I’ll be in my office if you need me.” She turns and strides away, but something about her steps feels lighter, more deliberate, as though she’s unburdened herself in a small but meaningful way.

The frosted glass door closes behind her, and she exhales quietly, setting her bag down and settling into her chair.
The scent of the banana bread still lingers faintly in the air, mingling with the familiar lavender and leather of her space.

Maybe Claire didn’t realize how hard it is for Erica to trust someone, how much it took her to open up even just a little, but Claire continues to prove herself worthy of it.

She sits down behind her polished mahogany desk and reaches for the phone.





Back at her desk, Claire runs a finger along the edge of the foil, her mind replaying Erica’s unexpected gesture. She carefully lifts a corner, the warm, sweet aroma of banana bread filling the air. She cuts a small slice and takes a bite, her lips curving into a smile as the soft, rich flavor melts on her tongue, the cake carrying a certain warmth that reflects the unexpected kindness of her boss.

“Wow.” she murmurs softly, glancing toward Erica’s office.

For Claire, this simple gesture is more than just baked goods. It’s a rare glimpse into the trust of a woman who guards herself fiercely. For Erica, it’s a step toward recognizing that loyalty, when earned, is a bond worth nurturing.






The phone buzzes twice, and Charlotte’s voice comes through, sharp and wind-swept. In the background, Erica hears the familiar sounds of a track field - the rhythmic pounding of feet on the track, the whistle of wind cutting through the speaker. Charlotte is always on the move, never sitting still for long.

“Debbie is running like she’s never run before.” Charlotte says, her voice filled with rare, almost incredulous energy. “You cannot imagine what you’ve done for her, Erica.”

Erica’s lips curve upward, the smallest of smiles playing on her face. It feels foreign, that smile - small, quiet, and deeply personal. This isn’t the sharp satisfaction of a courtroom win or a
negotiated deal. This is different. It’s the kind of pride she doesn’t allow herself to feel very often.

“Good.” she says, her voice steady, though a faint warmth seeps into her tone. “I knew she had it in her.”

Charlotte chuckles, the sound soft and muffled by the wind, but Erica can hear the sincerity in it. “I’m serious, Erica. You’ve done something for her that...well, that no one else could’ve done. This...” Charlotte hesitates, the weight of her next words hanging in the air. “This has been a game changer for her.”

Erica tightens her grip on the phone, feeling the words land somewhere deeper than she expected. A game changer. She brushes the thought aside, her voice sharpening into its usual businesslike tone.

“You keep me in the loop, though, right?” she says. “Let me know when her screening is up, when everything’s final.”

There’s a brief pause, just long enough for Erica to notice. “Of course.” Charlotte says quickly. Then, after a soft intake of breath: “But... we need to talk about your money.”

Erica stiffens, though she doesn’t let it show in her voice. “What about it?”

Charlotte hesitates, and Erica can hear the shift in her tone - cautious, uncertain. “I know how much time you’ve poured into this.” Charlotte says carefully. “And... well, I can’t exactly hand Debbie the bill, can I?”

Erica exhales slowly, the tension in her shoulders mounting. She knows Charlotte is right, knows it was her name on the line when Erica got involved. But the thought of putting a price tag on this, of reducing it to an invoice, feels...wrong.

“Forget it.” Erica says, her voice crisp and unwavering. “Consider it my contribution to getting the Nation another gold medalist.”

There’s silence at the other end, the kind that stretches just long enough to make Erica wonder if Charlotte is still there. Then, a soft, almost audible swallow.

“You sure?” Charlotte’s voice is quieter now, almost tentative. “I mean...I know you’re not exactly hurting for money, but still…”

“I’m sure.” Erica cuts her off, her voice firm. “This is about more than money, Charlotte. Don’t worry about it.”

The line falls silent again, but Erica can hear the faint sound of the wind, the distant thud of shoes hitting the track. Finally, Charlotte speaks, her voice softer this time. “You should’ve seen her parents yesterday. She’s never seen Debbie run with this kind of fire. It’s like...it’s like you gave her back her dream.”

Erica doesn’t reply immediately, the words settling over her like a weight. She exhales, long and slow, before speaking again. “Good. Just make sure you let me know about Debbie’s screening. I want to see her succeed.”

“I will.” Charlotte says, and this time, there’s no hesitation. “I promise.”

“Take care, Charlotte.”
“Always, Erica.”

The line clicks off, and Erica lowers the phone, her hand lingering against the cool surface for a moment. Debbie’s path is set now, steady and clear. Erica allows herself a brief moment of satisfaction before her mind shifts, almost instinctively, to the next name on her list: Alyssa.

[Jenny_S]

Erica steps into the conference room, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor. Late afternoon sunlight streams through the blinds, painting streaks of light and shadow across the room.
Seated along the long side of the table are Alyssa and Elena Dane, their postures a study in contrast.
Alyssa leans back in her chair, her oversized hoodie pulled up as though she’s trying to retreat from the world while her mother sits upright, hands tightly clasped in her lap, a tension in her shoulders that matches the lines etched on her face.

Erica closes the door behind her, taking a moment to ground herself before crossing the room. She takes a seat across from them, resting her hands lightly on the table. Her voice is steady as she begins, though there’s an undercurrent of warmth.

“I’m glad you came.” She glances between them, noting the subtle flicker of Alyssa’s eyes toward her mother, the tension that crackles between them like static. “You might have heard the news: Debbie Stanton’s screening is officially set for next week.”
Alyssa nods, her expression flickering between sincerity and detachment. “Yeah. I’m happy for her.” she says, her voice low but genuine.
Erica leans forward slightly. “It’s a big step for her. But today isn’t about Debbie - it’s about you, Alyssa.”

The younger woman stiffens, crossing her arms over her chest. “I already told you, I don’t want anything to do with Nutrisports or...any of it.”
Her voice sharpens, the words spilling out with the raw edge of a wound not yet healed. “But that doesn’t mean I want to spend the rest of my life fighting his battles either.”
Elena flinches, her grip on her hands tightening. “Alyssa, he’s still your father. I know he’s made mistakes, but...” She falters, her voice trembling. “I just don’t want you to regret cutting him out completely.”

Alyssa rounds on her mother, her voice rising. “Regret? The only thing I regret is how much of my life I wasted trying to live up to his expectations! Everything I did - running, school, everything - it was all for him. And for what?”

The room falls into an uneasy silence, the weight of Alyssa’s words pressing down like a storm cloud.
Erica lets the tension linger for a moment, then speaks, her tone calm but firm.

“Alyssa, I understand why you feel that way. And you have every right to want to break away from all of it. But you don’t have to define your life by rejecting him, either.”

Alyssa blinks, caught off guard. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Erica’s voice softens, becoming almost conversational. “It means that walking away from something doesn’t automatically mean you’ve found where you’re going. I’m not saying you owe him anything - you don’t. But you owe it to yourself to figure out what you want. What makes you happy. Not what you’re running from, but what you’re running toward.”

Alyssa fidgets, her gaze dropping to the table. As long as she can remember, her sport had been what her life revolved around and now, without it, she is lost.

Looking at her daughter, Elena’s expression softens. “Alyssa, I don’t want you to feel like you’re being dragged into this. But I also...I don’t know if it’s wrong to hope your father can change. I want him to be better - for you, for us.” She hesitates, her voice barely above a whisper. “But I don’t want that hope to hold you back.”

Alyssa looks up, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I don’t even know where to start.” she admits, her voice cracking.

“While I can’t be your lawyer,” Erica continues, softening her tone, “I can still be your advocate.”

Alyssa looks up, her expression a mix of confusion and hope. “I don’t understand, Miss Sinclair.”

Erica leans forward slightly, resting her arms on the table. “Alyssa, you’ve made an incredibly brave choice to step away from Canmore and the life your father mapped out for you. That kind of courage takes strength. But finding your own path... that’s hard. It’s overwhelming, even for adults twice your age.”

Alyssa shifts uncomfortably but doesn’t look away.

“I’ve been where you are.” Erica adds, her voice softening further. “Not in the same way, but I’ve faced moments where I had to rebuild, to start fresh. I want to help you figure out what’s next - not as a lawyer, but as someone who believes in you.”

Alyssa’s lip quivers, and she quickly looks down, blinking hard. Elena reaches over, placing a hand on her daughter’s knee.

“Miss Sinclair,” Elena begins, her voice quiet but firm, “I appreciate everything you’ve done for us already. And if you’re willing to guide Alyssa, even as a friend... well, that means more than you know.”

Erica presses Alyssa only gently.
“Have you thought about what you’re passionate about? What drives you? It doesn’t have to be some grand, perfect answer. It’s about taking the first step. Even the smallest choices can lead to the biggest changes. There are resources, people I can connect you with, to help you explore your options. Whether it’s school, work, or something else entirely, we’ll figure it out. Together.”

Alyssa finally speaks, her voice barely above a whisper. “You really think I can do this?”

Erica smiles gently. “I know you can. And you won’t have to do it alone.”

The tension in the room dissipates slightly as Alyssa and Elena exchange a glance, a flicker of hope passing between them.

Erica smiles gently, leaning back slightly in her chair. “Let me call a couple of people who have nothing to do with Canmore or Nutrisports. They can give you opportunities to explore what’s out there. Not as favors, but as a chance for you to find what excites you. Whether that’s working in a creative field, a corporate one, or something else.”

Alyssa frowns, skepticism flickering in her eyes and Elena’s eyes widen slightly, a spark of hope crossing her face. Alyssa, however, shifts uneasily in her seat. “That sounds... big.”

Until now, her life had been a regime of training and nutrition, coaches had told her what to do, her father being above them all, watching, supervising, directing. Now with those ties severed, the young woman seems overwhelmed by the weight of decisions she has to make for herself.

“It is.” Erica agrees. “But you don’t have to decide now. This is about giving you options, showing you what’s out there. No pressure, no obligations. Just possibilities.”

Alyssa looks down, her fingers twisting in her hoodie. Slowly, she nods. “Okay. I guess... I can try.”

Elena reaches over, placing a hand on her daughter’s arm. “Thank you, Alyssa.” she says softly.

Erica stands, sensing the fragile accord between them.
“We’ll take it one step at a time. I’ll set up a few introductions and send you the details. From there, it’s up to you – but when you want my help or advice, you know how to reach me.”

She looks at Alyssa, her voice gentle but resolute. “You’re stronger than you think, Alyssa. You’ve already taken the hardest step by deciding to break away. The next part is finding what makes you feel whole again.”

Alyssa looks up at Erica, a tentative smile breaking through her guarded expression. “Thanks. For...everything.”

Erica nods, her own smile small but sincere. “That’s what I’m here for.”

As Erica walks them to the door, she feels a flicker of hope herself. Alyssa has a long road ahead, but the first step has been taken. And Erica knows better than most that sometimes, the smallest choices lead to the biggest changes.



Epilogue:

The brisk autumn wind sweeps across the campus of Canmore College as Erica walks toward the visitors’ parking lot.
Earlier that day, Debbie Stanton had crossed the finish line, her time clinching her place on the National Olympic Team. Beside her, Charlotte wiped a tear from her cheek, beaming with pride, and even Chancellor Thomas left his ivory tower to shake their hands.

Erica can’t help but smile, a rare moment of satisfaction washing over her. Debbie had made good use of her second chance, a testament to resilience - and justice.

Across town, Alyssa Dane began her first day at All Stars Talent Management, the agency that – among others - represents actress Shannen Bowers, America’s Sweetheart.
For the first time in a long while, Alyssa feels something unexpected: excitement. It’s not the adrenaline rush of a race, but the steady buzz of solving problems, pitching ideas, and contributing to a world far removed from her father’s shadow. She’s not running away anymore; she’s building something.

Though she hadn’t severed every tie to her past - Dean Chandler, still by her side, was proof of that - she had made the hardest break of all: her father. Edward Dane’s actions had cut too deep, and Alyssa chose not to let him dictate her life any longer. It was a decision that hurt, but also one that freed her.

As for Erica, her thoughts inevitably circle back to the trial looming on the horizon. The charges against Edward Dane, Dean Chandler and Peter Lumbergh - kidnapping, assault, battery, conspiracy and witness intimidation - paint a grim picture of a man who believed he could control everything, no matter the cost, and who had dragged two young men into his schemes as well.

The courtroom would soon become the stage for his reckoning, a place where justice would either be served or denied. Erica is ready to testify, though she knows the fight won’t be easy.


Standing at the edge of the parking lot, Erica glances up at the sky. The world has a way of moving forward, she thinks - sometimes in leaps, sometimes in careful, uncertain steps. Debbie’s victory, Alyssa’s new path, her own determination to see the case through - it’s all part of the same story: one of resilience, growth, and the quiet, fierce power of starting over.

Life rarely wraps itself in neat, perfect bows. But for Debbie Stanton, Alyssa Dane, and even Erica Sinclair, it wasn’t about perfection. It was about persistence - about finding a way forward when the past threatened to pull them under.

For Debbie, it was the track. For Alyssa, it was a talent for problem-solving in a world she never imagined herself in. And for Erica, it was the courtroom - a place where truth, however painful, still had the power to matter.
Each of them had their battles, and though the future remained uncertain, they had something worth fighting for.
And sometimes, that’s enough.



The End
…but Erica Sinclair will be back in the gripping story “Erica Sinclair – Permanent Scars”.

[LunaDog]

To use what i believe is an expression from athletics i rather 'jumped the gun' earlier in thinking this story had ended.

Sorry about that, but i see that it has now. You tied up a few 'loose ends.'

i repeat what i said then, this story has been absolutely magnificent from start to finish. Your descriptions of events, and the emotions they trigger in the various characters is absolutely superb.

All in all, a true MASTERPIECE!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, while you can't save everybody, I wanted a happy ending for Debbie and Alyssa. Thank you so much for your praise. This means a lot to me.
I hope you'll be along for the ride again when I start the next Erica Sinclair adventure tonight.

[LunaDog]

I hope you'll be along for the ride again when I start the next Erica Sinclair adventure tonight.

You just try and stop me, Jenny!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, how could I stop a force of nature and one of my most sincere readers like you?
Here's the link to "Erica Sinclair - Permanent Scars" viewtopic.php?p=198349#p198349