All the Little Truths (Finley O’Sullivan) by Debra Webb

Author:Debra Webb [Webb, Debra]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Thomas & Mercer
Published: 2023-11-06T16:00:00+00:00

16

After the Murder

Thirteen Years Ago

Tuesday, November 21

Tennessee Department of Human Services

French Landing Drive, Nashville, 2:00 p.m.

Barton O’Sullivan stared, unseeing, at the reports. He could not concentrate.

Louise Cagle’s husband had died. A sudden heart attack, and the man was a heart surgeon. But who wouldn’t have a heart attack after what happened. Dear God, what else was the poor woman supposed to suffer? She was alone now. Devastated. With the death of her husband, she had lost everything.

What was he saying? Losing a child was unbearable in and of itself.

Bart gritted his teeth. He could not feel this guilt. He couldn’t. He simply could not. What happened to Lucy was not his fault. She was dead; nothing he did or didn’t do now would make a difference.

Except to her grieving mother.

He closed his eyes, pressed his fingertips there. He couldn’t change what had already happened. He could not undo any of it. It was done. That poor girl was dead.

A light rap at his door, and Bart struggled to pull himself together. His secretary would have messages for him. She’d taken a late lunch. He had work to do. He had to focus.

“Come on in.”

He straightened and drew in a deep breath. Move on. Don’t look back.

The door opened, but it wasn’t his secretary.

It was her . . . Louise Cagle.

His heart stuttered to a near stop. He shot to his feet as if a spring had been released.

“Hello.” He forced his lips into what he hoped passed for a smile. “I’m sorry, did we have an appointment?”

She closed the door behind herself and walked right up to his desk, her face set in stony determination. “I want to know how you were involved with my daughter?”

“I . . .” Fear strapped a stranglehold on his throat. “I’m not sure what you mean. I didn’t—”

“Yes, you did,” she snarled. “I hired a good private investigator, and he found evidence of your meetings with my daughter.”

She glared at him with such ferocity that he had to force himself not to stumble back. “I knew your daughter,” he confessed. “She came here to my office for research on her thesis paper.”

“You expect me to believe that story?” She shook her head. “If my daughter needed research sources, I could have given her an endless supply.”

He moistened his lips, struggled to slow the organ now floundering in his chest. “She . . .” He swallowed the lump swelling in his throat. “She didn’t want you to know the subject of her paper.”

This statement gave the poor woman pause. The weakness, the defeat, the devastation she felt showed through her anger. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“She wanted to surprise you with an in-depth story that would rise to the level of the work you do.” He managed a half smile that trembled on his lips. “She was so in awe of you. She wanted to show you she could do it too.”

“Why?” Louise shook her head. “This makes no sense. My Lucy was headed to medical school.

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