The night offers no rest.
Erica tosses beneath the cool, crisp sheets, her mind a relentless, churning maelstrom of names, faces, phone numbers – each a live wire, humming with potential and peril.
Every curtain twitch, every distant siren’s wail echoing from the city below, jerks her back into the singular, consuming obsession: they must show up.
The nine women.
She moves through her morning ritual like a soldier preparing for battle.
The meticulous measuring of cat food for Spot and Tiger, their soft purrs a brief, grounding comfort.
Five hard miles pounded out on the pavement, each stride a release of nervous energy.
A scalding hot shower, the steam a cleansing shroud.
And then, the ritualistic application of the armor: the precisely drawn eyeliner, the unflinching swipe of nude lipstick.
All of it, a silent, desperate prayer: please come.
Please trust me.
All nine of them.
Please take this monumental, terrifying step.
She arrives at the office building, the gleaming chrome and glass of the high-rise reflecting the sharp, unforgiving morning light.
The elevator ride up is a silent ascent into the calm before the storm, the anticipation a physical weight in her chest.
The doors slide open on the 25th floor, and the familiar, subtly orange-scented air of Sinclair & Associates immediately greets her, a fleeting promise of normalcy.
And then – there she is.
A slight, dark-haired woman, perched on the absolute edge of a sleek, modern chair in the waiting area, both hands wrapped around a coffee mug as if it’s the only thing tethering her to the moment.
Her eyes flick up, wide and watchful, as Erica steps into the lobby.
She's early.
She came.
A wave of relief, so powerful it almost buckles Erica’s knees, washes over her, an almost dizzying sensation.
This isn't just hope.
It’s a tangible, irrefutable reality.
This is real.
This is happening.
Suddenly, she knows – she just knows – with a cold, clear certainty, that this is going to work.
~~~
The day unfolds with a strange, dreamlike intensity, a blur of faces and whispered confessions.
Holly, ever efficient, ushers each woman, one by one, into the quiet, discreet conference room.
The atmosphere within that room becomes a sacred space, a vessel for long-suppressed pain.
Claire sits opposite, her laptop charged, her fingers poised over the keyboard.
Her expression is a mask of steady, compassionate professionalism, her eyes mirroring Erica’s unwavering focus.
Erica speaks softly, patiently, her voice a soothing balm, guiding them through the preamble, gently explaining the process of the sworn statement.
And then the stories begin to unspool.
The room becomes loaded, thick with emotions.
A raw, unbottled torrent of previously unshed tears, trembling voices, and sudden, fierce bursts of suppressed anger.
The women speak of encounters that began innocently enough, a drink, a flirtation, then twisted into horrifying nightmares behind the locked door of Gary Loudon’s apartment.
They speak of their fears, the crushing humiliation, the brutal violation.
Of Gary Loudon’s calm, chilling threats, delivered with a smile, to destroy their lives, their families, their futures if they wouldn’t withdraw their charges against him, if they ever spoke a single, incriminating word.
The air fills with a pervasive sense of injustice, of unchecked power ruthlessly wielded, silencing victims with cold, calculated precision.
Erica listens, her own heart aching, each recounted detail hardening her resolve, forging another link in the chain of evidence.
Capturing every harrowing word, Claire’s fingers fly across the keyboard, typing down the statements, bearing witness.
The women, in their raw vulnerability, are massively grateful.
Grateful that someone finally listens without judgment, that their long-buried anger and grief are finally getting a voice, a witness.
It is a shared catharsis, a collective exhalation of years of silenced pain.
Erica approaches the next part delicately, waiting for a natural lull in the narrative, a moment where the raw emotion has somewhat subsided.
"There's something I’d like you to know," she begins, her voice low, almost a murmur, yet imbued with a weighty significance.
She explains that because Gary Loudon is dead, there's no way to formally punish him through the legal system for these deeds, that there won't be a trial for him.
But just knowing that one of his victims, a young woman who had also been caught in his web, actually shot him, a mixed bag of emotions washes over the faces around the table.
There’s shock, a quiet, grim satisfaction in some eyes, a flash of pure vindication in others.
One woman lets out a small, almost imperceptible sigh of deep relief, as if a cosmic balance has been struck.
Another flinches, as if the violence, even in retribution, is too much to bear.
Some look utterly stunned, processing the reality that someone dared to fight back so definitively against a man who seemed untouchable.
Despite the complexities of their feelings, despite the lingering terror of Loudon’s memory, one by one, they all sign their affidavit.
Their hands tremble, some hesitate, biting their lips, but the act of putting their name to their truth, of formally accusing him, seems to unlock a powerful, quiet strength they hadn’t known they possessed.
Each signature is a small, hard-won victory against the man who had tried to erase their reality.
By the end of the day, the conference room is quiet once more, filled only with the faint scent of stale coffee and the ghosts of raw emotions.
The last woman has left, her steps lighter than when she arrived, a burden lifted.
Both Erica and Claire are utterly exhausted – physically and emotionally drained. Claire sits in front of Erica’s mahogany desk, rubbing her temples, a faint tremor in her hand.
The stack of newly notarized affidavits, now a formidable pile, balances triumphantly yet heavily on her knees.
Erica leans back in her high-backed chair, a deep, slow breath expanding her chest, then exhales, a long, weary sigh.
The city lights outside her panoramic window are beginning to glitter, a million tiny diamonds against the darkening sky, a stark contrast to the darkness contained within the affidavits.
"Claire," Erica says, her voice quiet but firm, a new, steely resolve settling over her like a perfectly fitted garment. "There's one thing left tonight."
She meets her assistant's tired eyes, a silent message of battle ahead passing between them.
"I need to call Cordell Wallingham to see me. Face to face."
~~~
Erica leans forward, elbows on the edge of her mahogany desk, her hands folded, a picture of contained tension.
Her eyes are fixed on the phone, a small, black object that holds immense power in this moment.
Then, without a word, she reaches for it.
Claire looks up from the stack of affidavits in her lap, watching her boss.
She sees the subtle shift in Erica – not just physical, but something deeper, a settling of intent, a warrior donning a new, chilling mask.
Erica dials.
The screen glows cold blue in the lamplight, illuminating the grim set of her jaw.
One ring.
The silence in the office stretches, taut with anticipation.
Two.
Claire’s breath hitches, a small, sharp sound.
Three.
The rhythmic hum of the building feels deafening.
Four. Five…
And then, finally - a click.
A sharp, definitive sound that cuts through the tension.
A voice crackles to life on the other end, distant yet utterly familiar.
Cordell Wallingham.
Erica stares straight ahead, her gaze locked on some invisible horizon beyond the confines of her office, her expression carefully neutral.
“Mr. Wallingham…” she says, her voice a delicate whisper.
It trembles – just enough to convey weakness, uncertainty.
Claire’s eyes widen in alarm, a flicker of genuine fear crossing her face.
“Erica Sinclair,” Erica adds, barely above a whisper, her name enunciated with a forced humility.
Then, a pause.
Deliberate.
Calculated.
A strategic silence designed to draw him in.
She swallows.
Loudly, audibly.
Follows up with a suppressed sob, a small, choked sound that speaks of utter defeat.
“I… I yield… Please, I’d… like to meet with you.”
Claire stiffens, watching the performance unfold like a private monologue, a master actress at work.
Erica glances sideways – a swift, almost imperceptible flick of her eyes – and winks.
Claire’s shoulders relax fractionally, but her stomach still knots.
She can’t hear Wallingham’s response, but she can feel it – the shift in air pressure, the tangible presence of danger swimming just beneath the surface of the call.
Erica nods slowly, a picture of pathetic agreement. “Yes, sir,” she murmurs, her voice thin, resigned. “Thank you so much. I’ll be there…”
She ends the call with a gentle click, setting the receiver back in its cradle with all the solemnity of a final, crushing chess move.
Silence.
Then – a slow, satisfied smirk curls across her lips, transforming her face, radiating triumph.
“Well,” she says, rising elegantly from her chair, smoothing down the sleeves of her jacket, the picture of collected power once more. “I guess he took the bait.”
Claire exhales, a long, shuddering breath, half-relieved, half-wary, her gaze still fixed on Erica. “What are you going to do?”
Erica walks toward the panoramic window, her eyes on the evening sky burning over the city like a battle flag, painted in hues of defiant orange and bruised purple.
“Tonight, I gave him exactly what he wants,” she says, her voice hard, resolute, charged with a dangerous promise. “Tomorrow, I’ll take everything from him.”
~~~
