Page 102 of All the Little Truths

“Johnson had her phone,” Finley guessed. Son of a bitch! There was only one way he had gotten the victim’s phone. Rather than say as much, she kept her mouth shut and allowed her father to go on.

He nodded. “He warned if I said a word, he would kill you.” He looked to Finley, tears brimming in his eyes. “And your mother. I didn’t know what to do. So, I did exactly what he said.Nothing.”

“Until I made him,” Cagle interjected. “I had gotten close to the truth in my own investigation, but I couldn’t be sure until I discovered through the private investigator I hired that Bart had been talking to Lucy. He gave me Bart’s name in hopes that he would help me, since the bastard had already sold out to Johnson and wouldn’t tell me the real story himself.” She moistened her dry, cracked lips, closed her weary eyes for a moment. “It’s always about money and power. Always.”

Finley’s chest constricted despite her efforts not to feel sympathy for the woman. She grabbed another bottle of water and thrust it at Cagle. “Drink this now, before you expire.”

What the hell was she going to do with these people?

She had to call Houser. She reached for her phone once more.

“Don’t do it,” her father said, his voice sounding as weary as Cagle looked. “Not until we can figure out how to handle this. We can’t just ...” He shook his head, moved to join the others on the bench as if his legs would no longer support him.

“Houser will know what to do,” Finley argued.

“He can’t help you,” Ian warned, his gaze steady on Finley.

She gestured to the cell. “I can’t just pretend I didn’t see any of this. You’ve been here for thirteen years!”

He shrugged. “Mostly.”

Mostly? What the hell did that mean?

As if she’d asked the question aloud, Cagle said, “I kept him in the safe room at the house where my family lived at first. Until the work here was done.”

“You lied to me,” Finley accused, suddenly aware of the many conversations she’d had with this woman.

“I lied to a lot of people,” Cagle admitted, her tone growing more listless. “Including myself.”

The three of them—her father, Cagle, and Ian Johnson—all stared at the floor for a long moment.

Finley paced the length of the room, turned and retraced her steps. Finally, she drew in a big breath and braced herself for the hard questions. “Ian.” When he met her gaze, Finley asked, “Did Cagle bring you here against your will? Hold you against your will?” If he’d killed Lucy or was involved somehow with her death—well, even killers had rights until a jury of their peers decided otherwise. God damn it.

“She found me. I begged her to kill me, but she wouldn’t. She said that would be too easy. But to answer your questions, I came here willingly, and I’ve stayed willingly. It was better than I deserved.” His eyes brightened. “Then things changed.”

“Changed how?” Finley demanded of the three, sitting in silence as if what they’d already said was sufficient.

Ian looked to Cagle. She looked away.

“A year ago,” Ian said, “she got sick.”

“Shemeaning Louise Cagle—a.k.a. Helen Roberts?” Finley wanted no misunderstandings in this twisted tale.

He nodded. “She came down to bring my dinner one night and just collapsed.”

“It was my first heart attack,” Cagle said, lifting her gaze to Finley’s. “I’d had what I thought was one before. But this time I was very ill in addition to the heart issue. A bad case of the flu or covid, who knows? I was out of it for days. When I finally came around, I figured he would be long gone. But he was sitting next to my bed.”

Finley tried to hang on to her frustration, but it had started to slip away. “You had the key with you when you collapsed.”

Cagle nodded. “Turns out I was delirious for days and he took care of me the entire time. He’s probably the only reason I survived.” Her gaze turned distant, remembering. “When I was back on my feet, I asked him why he stayed. He just said—”

“She needed someone to take care of her,” Ian explained, “and it was my fault that she had no one. For the first time since ...” He clasped and then unclasped his hands. “I had a reason to want to go on.”

His words pushed against a soft place deep inside Finley. “What do you mean?”

“Lucy loved her mom so much.” A ghost of a smile lifted his lips. “She talked about her all the time. Taking care of her mother was like doing something good for Lucy. Like making up in some small way for what I did. I’ve been helping her out around here ever since.”

Finley kicked aside those softer emotions. She needed the whole story from this man. And then she damned well intended to call Houser. “Are you admitting that you killed Lucy Cagle? Be advised,” she warned, “you are entitled to legal representation. Anything you say can be used against you.”

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