Eighteen Detective Olivia Newhouse
Eighteen
Detective Olivia Newhouse
“Detective Duncan!” a reporter shouts.
“Detective Duncan,” another fires, “is it true you’re treating Fanning’s case as a potential homicide?”
“Detective Duncan, just one comment, please!” the first one entreaties.
Both women rush forward, blocking our path to Walt’s Tahoe.
I freeze. Tell myself to go around them, but somehow I can’t. I feel exactly like a deer caught in the headlights.
“No comment.” Walt grabs me by the arm and starts ushering me toward the passenger side as if I’m a victim or a witness and not a cop.
I abruptly pull away from him and storm through the line of vultures on my own. I will not allow being pregnant or confused or upset or whatever the hell else is wrong with me to rule my existence.
Walt ignores the shouts and opens the driver’s side door. The reporters and their camera people crowd up to his door.
“You should give them something,” I say, my heart pumping faster and faster. “We both know they will make it up if you don’t. Or worse, take this deadbeat lawyer’s word for why we were here.”
“I hate this part,” he grumbles as he lowers his window.
“Lowery,” he calls out to one of the reporters he knows fairly well.
The brunette rushes forward, elbows past the blond.
“Like the chief said at the press conference earlier this week, we are treating this case like any other where foul play is potentially involved. We have nothing new to share. But we are hoping to have this case resolved very soon.”
He powers up the window, blocking out more urgent questions.
“Good job,” I say, eyes forward. “You sounded just like a politician, talking without actually saying anything.”
He chuckles. “I believe I’ve just been insulted.”
As the Tahoe reverses slowly out of the parking space, a body slams against my door. I jump. Walt hits the brakes.
The man whose face is plastered against my glass is another reporter. Don’t know where this one came from or why the hell he would ram the door. He shouts at me through the glass. “Detective Newhouse, is it true Carl Fanning was one of your father’s patients?”
“Son of a bitch.”
I hear the words Walt mutters, feel the SUV rolling once more, see the reporter’s mouth moving as he continues shouting questions, but I suddenly feel a million miles away. Somehow still looking on yet unable to participate in what’s happening around me.
As soon as Walt is clear of the reporters, he twists the steering wheel and guns the engine. We barrel out of the parking lot.
“He knew,” I say. The fucking lawyer knew my father went to see Fanning. “He told that reporter.”
It’s not until we hit a red light and Walt stops that he speaks. “Looks like we stirred a hornet’s nest. This is day four of our investigation. The chief mentioned both our names on day two. Why hasn’t the lawyer said anything before now?”
Good question. “What do you know about the warden? Is it possible he leaked our visit?” No one else was aware of my and Walt’s discussion about my father’s involvement.
Well, no one else except David, and he would never do such a thing.
And maybe Officer Winslow. As annoyed as I am just now at his behavior, I know he would never hurt me that way.
The light turns green, and Walt removes his foot from the brake and hits the gas. “I know basically nothing about the man. But I’ll remedy that ASAP.”
The ache in my brain is still distant, but the black dots hanging around my vision warn that I may not be able to ward off the inevitable for long. I need to do everything I can before then.
“Take me to my car. I’ll go out to the farm and start looking for any hidden files.
” Even as I say the words, I do not believe any of this is possible.
My father would never have kept a secret like this from me.
Never. He was not that kind of man. Yet, how else can what we’ve learned be explained?
“You talk to the warden again and keep me informed.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Walt shakes his head. “You need to take this slow and easy, Liv. I’m really worried about how these revelations are affecting you.”
This is the one thing I did not want: to be treated as if I’m incapable or weak. “I’ll be at home, Walt. At the farm. I have the best security system on the market, and it’s where I feel the most relaxed these days.”
When he still hesitates, I say, “We need to head this off before the connection to my father becomes the bigger issue in the media. The chief will take me off the case.” I don’t have to say how this thing going public would seriously jack up my stress level.
“Point taken. We’ll do this your way, but you’re taking some food with you.”
By the time I’m in my Subaru, I have a six-pack of bottled water, a box of crackers, individual cheese sticks, apples, and grapes.
Walt ordered me to eat while I work and to drink plenty of water.
Just outside Nashville, I ran through another rain shower, but it passed by the time I reached Franklin.
As I maneuver along the driveway that extends deep into the woods before hitting the clearing that is the family farm, one of the bags falls out of the seat and bottles of water roll around in the floorboard.
I can’t help but smile. Walt really does want to take care of me whether I like it or not.
He cares about me. I think it’s safe to say he loves me like a daughter.
He really has been there for me, before and since my dad died.
David is right about one thing: Walt is more than a partner. He’s family.
I wish David could understand our relationship.
This abrupt jealousy is so uncharacteristic.
Despite his hurtful words this morning, I sent him a text explaining where I’d be for a few hours.
I even double-checked my calendar to make sure the two of us had nothing planned.
Of course, I didn’t tell him what I would be looking for at the farm.
I told him I was going to pack a few more boxes.
I am certain neither he nor his family would want to hear that there is a chance my father was treating a patient named Carl Fanning. I don’t want to hear it myself. Still refuse to believe it.
But I’m not a fool. He did visit the prison.
He did pass himself off as Fanning’s therapist. I also understand my father may have done those things as a way to cover his real reason for visiting the scumbag.
He may have done those things to help his patient Mario Sanchez.
There is no other reasonable explanation.
A face-to-face interview with Sanchez is growing more and more important.
With only a couple other names whose alibis we can’t confirm on the list of victims besides Sanchez, his is becoming increasingly more relevant.
Maybe the three have been working together.
Hyatt and Reeves may be the planned distraction from what Sanchez is actually doing.
After Walt checks in with the warden, he will interview the next person on our list, Melanie Hardeman, before he calls it a day.
I feel guilty about not going with him, but I need to do this.
He agreed. Like me, he understands on some level that neither of us can explain how we know, but we do.
Time is running out. Something bad is coming.
I emerge from the trees, and my gaze sweeps across the open pastures, where horses once grazed and trotted.
My mother had so many trophies from her horseback-riding competitions.
She and my father had high hopes that I would be the one to reach the Olympics, but an injury at thirteen ended that goal.
I didn’t really miss the competition part of the horses.
I think that was more my mother’s dream than mine.
Still, horses or no, I love this place. I absolutely cannot sell it.
David will just have to deal with the idea.
The big horse barn sits a good distance from the house.
It, too, is beautiful. Classic. From the outside, one would think the house is the typical farmhouse.
Two stories. Wraparound porch on the first level.
Salvaged brick foundation and classic white siding with wood storm shutters that actually work painted in a deep black.
Topped with a metal roof, the house was built about fifty years ago, but the architect went to great lengths to ensure it looked as if it had sat on this hillside overlooking the green pastures for centuries.
I consider that the barn and other buildings in the distance remind me of Hyatt’s riding academy we just visited. My mother could have had a place like that here. I shake off the thought.
Inside the house is a different story from the exterior.
There are plenty of original features like wide plank flooring and a massive stone fireplace that resembles something from the eighteenth century, but in the center of the house, the ceilings soar to the roofline.
The second-floor landing circles around this area, the railing open to the central living space below.
Four bedrooms, each with an en suite bath, wreathe the upper floor.
On the main level, the centerpiece of the floor plan is the vast open space that includes the living room, kitchen, and dining areas.
On one end of the first floor is a massive library and workout room, while my parents’ bedroom suite and my father’s office are on the other end.
It’s almost four when I park in front of the house and get out.
The peace and quiet envelops me instantly.
There’s a chill in the air, but according to the news, this cold spell is almost behind us.
By tomorrow we should be back into average temperatures for May.
Thunderstorms are supposed to usher in the warmer temps.
I grab the bag of snacks, gather the bottles of water, and head for the front door.