Chapter 18
Barrett woke with Cadie curled against him.
Her hair was dark against the white pillow, and the faint scent of her shampoo enticed him.
The room was quiet. He lay still, enjoying the feeling of her next to him.
He reflected on the call with Kal, the drive to Folly Beach, the long walk on the pier.
Then the dinner where the mood had shifted away from the gravity of murder and conspiracy.
Later in the evening, she had fallen asleep in his arms.
But peace was temporary. Barrett knew that better than most.
His mind was already shifting. The softness of the morning gave way to the hard edges of what the day required, and Barrett let the transition happen the way he always had.
He did not fight it. He simply moved from one mode to another, the way a man steps from a warm room into cold air and adjusts without complaint because the work is outside and the work must be done.
Kal Davis was not just an aggressive developer with a grudge. He was not just a bully who had grown up to become a man with money and influence. He was a murderer.
And he had threatened Cadie on the phone with the casual confidence of a man who believed he was untouchable.
Barrett had operated against men like Kal in other theaters, in other contexts, under different rules of engagement.
The specifics changed. The type did not.
Kal was a man who treated people as instruments and discarded them when they broke.
The only way to stop someone like that was to remove his ability to act.
Olivia's interview was scheduled for that morning.
Barrett eased his arm from around Cadie's waist and slid out of bed carefully. She stirred but did not wake. He stood beside the bed for a moment and looked down at her.
He wanted this to be over. He wanted Cadie safe and the case closed and Kal in handcuffs. Every day the investigation remained open was another day she lived under threat, and Barrett could not tolerate that.
He moved quietly to the bathroom, showered, and dressed in dark jeans with a button-down shirt. He looked professional but not intimidating. He wanted Olivia to be comfortable enough to keep talking, because the more she talked, the more her story would unravel.
When he came out of the bathroom, Cadie was sitting up in bed with the covers pulled up and her dark hair loose around her shoulders. She blinked at him with sleep still in her eyes and smiled.
"You're already dressed," she said.
"Sullivan's expecting me at the station." Barrett sat on the edge of the bed beside her. "He's interviewing Olivia shortly."
Cadie's expression shifted. "What time?"
"Early, because he wants to get started before she has time to think too much."
Cadie pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. "I got a message from Jaxon Boone. He wants me to do a preliminary walk-through at Stratton House this morning. He wants to assess the condition of the interior spaces and talk through some of the restoration details on site."
Barrett felt the familiar pull of competing priorities. He did not want Cadie at Stratton House without him. The walk-through was a necessary step in the property sale that Cadie had worked hard to arrange. She was handling it with competence, and he would not undermine that by hovering.
"Text me when you get there," he said, "and when you leave."
"I will."
He leaned down and kissed her, then got his phone and keys from the desk.
At the door, he looked back. Cadie was watching him from the bed, her dark hair framing her face.
Barrett committed the image to memory the way he used to memorize the terrain before a mission.
She was worth protecting…and coming back to.
"I love you, honey," he said.
Cadie smiled. "I love you too."
Barrett stepped into the hall and closed the door behind him.
*****
At the Charleston Police Department, Barrett walked through the front entrance and the desk sergeant waved him through without a word. He found Sullivan in the corridor, holding a file folder and a coffee mug. "She's here," he said.
"How long?"
"About fifteen minutes," Sullivan said. "She came in voluntarily. I told her we had follow-up questions about her care duties."
Barrett looked through the observation window into the interview room. Olivia Stewart sat at the metal table with her hands folded in her lap. She was waiting for them to come in. Barrett noticed that she sat stiffly, pressing her fingers together.
"What's the approach?" he asked, though he already had a good idea.
Sullivan kept his voice low. "Start general.
Her care routine, Celia Ann's health in the final months.
Let her tell the story the way she told it before.
Then I introduce the pharmacy records and ask her to explain the inconsistencies.
" He tapped the file folder. "I flagged the refill dates that don't match the prescribed dosages. "
Barrett nodded. That was the core of it. If Olivia had been giving Celia Ann her medications correctly, the refill timeline would have been consistent.
"What about the money?" Barrett said.
"I'll bring it up if there's an opening," Sullivan said. "But the primary focus is the medications. I want her rattled, not cornered. If she feels cornered, she asks for a lawyer and we lose the momentum."
"Understood."
Sullivan looked at Barrett. "You know her. You've sat across from her before. Watch for the tells."
"I will."
Sullivan opened the door to the interview room, and Barrett followed him in.
*****
Olivia looked up as they entered. Her gaze went to Sullivan first, then to Barrett.
"Ms. Stewart, thank you for coming in," Sullivan said, settling into the chair across from her. He set the file folder on the table and placed his coffee mug to the side. "I'm Detective Sullivan. I believe you've met Mr. Anson."
"Yes," Olivia said. She looked at Barrett as he took the seat beside Sullivan. "We met at my apartment with Cadie."
Barrett nodded. "Good to see you again."
The pleasantry was deliberate. He wanted her to feel that this was a conversation, not an interrogation.
Sullivan had set the room up that way. The lighting was even, the chairs were the same on both sides of the table, and there were no files spread out to suggest a mountain of evidence.
Just a single folder, closed, resting beneath Sullivan's hand.
"As I mentioned on the phone," Sullivan said, "we're following up on matters related to the estate settlement. Your insight as Celia Ann's caregiver is valuable, and we appreciate your time."
"Of course," Olivia said. She folded her hands on the table. "Anything I can do to help."
Sullivan began with broad questions. How long had Olivia cared for Celia Ann? What did a typical day look like? What were Celia Ann's primary health concerns? The questions were gentle and open-ended, designed to let Olivia talk and to establish a baseline for her story.
Olivia answered the way Barrett expected.
She described her nearly four years with Celia Ann, the daily routines of medication management, meal preparation, and appointments.
She spoke with the practiced cadence of someone who had told this story before, hitting the same emotional beats she had used at her apartment.
She mentioned how close they had become, how Celia Ann was more than a patient, and stressed that the loss had been devastating.
Barrett listened and observed.
"Can you walk us through her health in the final months?" Sullivan said. "Specifically, any changes you noticed."
Olivia looked at her hands. "She declined gradually. Starting about six months before she passed. More fatigue, sleeping more during the day, less energy overall." She looked up. "It was consistent with her age and her heart condition. The doctor said it was expected."
"Which doctor?" Sullivan said.
"Dr. Morrison. He had been her physician for years."
"And you accompanied her to those appointments?"
"Yes, I went to each one," Olivia said. "I managed everything, including her medications, her schedule, and her transportation. She depended on me."
Barrett noted the emphasis on the word "depended." It was a word that conveyed Olivia's importance, her centrality to Celia Ann's life. It was also a word that described the very access and control that had made the crime possible.
"Tell us about the medications," Barrett said, keeping his tone conversational. "How did you manage the daily routine?"
Olivia turned to him. "She took multiple medications, including heart medication, blood pressure medication, and cholesterol medication. I kept a schedule and made sure she took everything at the right times."
"That sounds like a lot to keep track of," Barrett said.
"It was," Olivia said. "But I'm experienced. I've been a professional caregiver for many years. Medication management is part of the job."
She was steady now, confident in this part of the narrative. Barrett let her have the moment. Confidence made people careless.
Sullivan opened the file folder.
He did it without ceremony, simply lifted the cover and removed a set of printed pages.
He arranged them on the table facing Olivia.
Barrett watched her eyes drop to the pages and saw the change happen in real time.
She paled but did not pick up the pages.
She stared at them as though they were something dangerous.
"These are records from Charleston Pharmacy," Sullivan said. "I'm showing you the refill histories for Celia Ann Stratton's prescriptions over the final eight months of her life. We've been reviewing them as part of the estate process, and there are a few things we'd like to understand."
Olivia said nothing.