Chapter 13
The building that housed Dr. Patricia Holloway's office was a converted historic structure on the quieter edge of downtown Charleston, the kind that had been a merchant's counting house or a law firm in a previous century and had since been divided into professional suites.
The brick exterior was original, darkened by time and salt air.
The office was orderly without being sterile.
The desk was large and uncluttered, positioned to face the door rather than the window, which Cadie read as a deliberate choice—a woman who wanted to see who was coming rather than admire the view.
The bookshelves along the wall held medical texts and bound reports, their spines aligned as though they had never been pulled in haste.
The only personal touch was a small framed photograph near the corner of the desk, angled away so it was not visible from the chairs.
Holloway stood when they entered. She was perhaps sixty, with silver hair cut close to her face and reading glasses pushed up on her head. She wore a dark blazer over a cream blouse, and her handshake, when she offered it to Cadie first, was firm.
"Ms. Ladd," Holloway said, "thank you for coming. I don't normally work on Sundays, but I have a packed schedule and wanted to be sure to fit you in."
"Thank you for seeing us," Cadie said.
Holloway shook Barrett's hand next, then pulled out one of the two chairs arranged before the desk, and Cadie sat down. He took the chair beside her.
Holloway settled into her own seat and folded her hands on the desk. She did not open a file or reach for notes, which told Cadie she had prepared thoroughly enough not to need them.
"I've reviewed everything that was provided to me," Holloway said.
"I want to share my conclusions with you.
Based on the information we have, medical manipulation is not only possible, but likely.
Celia Ann Stratton was prescribed multiple heart medications, including beta blockers, ACE inhibitors, and diuretics. "
Cadie kept very still. She had expected the words, or some version, and yet hearing them was still startling.
The meetings with Barrett, the financial records, and the timeline she had constructed had led to this meeting.
She watched Barrett across the distance between their chairs.
He was leaning forward with his hands resting on his knees.
He asked in a steady voice, "What is your conclusion, Dr. Holloway? "
Holloway met his gaze. "Strategic withholding of critical medications, or dangerous drug interactions caused by incorrect timing of doses, are two possibilities."
The phrase moved through Cadie slowly. Strategic withholding was not a mistake or an oversight. It was a deliberate choice, with knowledge of what the consequences would be.
"Why wasn't that caught?" she asked.
Holloway turned to her with the same directness she had used with Barrett, as though the question was not only reasonable but expected. "Celia Ann's symptoms could be attributed to disease progression," she said. "The death certificate lists natural heart failure as cause of death."
Cadie absorbed this. She understood the logic of it in a clinical sense. An elderly woman with a documented cardiac history had passed away. Usually, that wouldn't prompt a deeper examination. Someone had apparently counted on no one suspecting deliberate intent.
Cadie had to deal with the harsh realization of what had been done and how carefully it had been concealed. "How do we prove otherwise?"
Holloway did not soften her answer to make it easier to receive. "The only way to get physical proof would be exhumation of the body to run specific toxicology tests."
Cadie didn't flinch. She'd promised herself that she would hear the forensic expert's opinions without falling apart. She stayed true to that commitment, despite the image of her aunt's grave that came to mind with unwelcome clarity.
Barrett turned to her. "But we already have a timeline of your aunt's decline," he said, "and we know who administered her medications. Plus, pharmacy records show irregularities in refills."
Cadie looked at him, finding the steadiness in his expression reassuring.
Holloway had been watching the exchange. "In my professional opinion," she said, "you have grounds to request a formal investigation. I'll send my report to the police."
For a beat, the room quieted. Outside the window, Cadie could hear the faint sound of traffic moving along the street below, the ordinary world continuing at its ordinary pace, entirely indifferent to what had just been said inside the office.
Then Barrett thanked Dr. Holloway. He shook her hand again, and Cadie did the same.
"I'm sorry for your loss, Ms. Ladd," Holloway said. "I hope you get the answers you're looking for."
Cadie followed Barrett out of the office. After she got into the car and slid into the passenger seat, she pulled the door shut. Barrett got in on the driver's side.
Before he could start the engine, Cadie said, "We're talking about murder."
Not a question. She had known it before she said it.
Barrett opened his arms, and she leaned against him. He held her as though she were someone worth protecting and someone worth staying for in equal measure. She pressed her face against his shoulder.
"I'll get Sullivan to label the investigation as a suspicious death," he said.
Cadie pulled back and looked into his eyes.
Barrett started the engine. "Let's get out of here."
Her aunt had known something was wrong, so had written her thoughts in the journals. She'd left those behind for Cadie—and she was going to make sure it mattered.