The Legacy of a Lie Virtual Book Tour

The Legacy of a Lie unravels a web of family secrets when the past
resurfaces, threatening everything its keepers tried to protect. At its center
is Maarit McDonough Malone, a brilliant yet flawed budding opera singer whose
scandalous choices ripple across generations.

Police Log
8:17 p.m. The Stillwater police department received a call from Maarit McDonough Malone’s boss. She had missed two meetings, and he couldn’t reach her all day. Party stated he was worried.
9:24 p.m. Incoming 911 call from a concerned farmer who observed a car in the ditch a mile from his home. He reported that he spotted the driver slumped over the steering wheel.
9:36 p.m. First Responders and an ambulance arrived with flashing sirens and red lights. First Responders administered CPR, and victim was transported to the Ellston Community Hospital.
10:16 p.m. Maarit McDonough Malone was pronounced dead in the Ellston Hospital emergency room.
10:31 p.m. Law Enforcement called the phone number listed on the In Case of Emergency line in the victim’s address book.

An autopsy later revealed that a series of strokes had resulted in her death.

Father Sean McDonough softly replaced the phone in its cradle. He bowed his head and let out a deep sigh. Fighting back tears, he crossed himself and whispered, “Rest in peace, Sis. Rest in peace.”

Bending, he retrieved a small, brown paper package from the credenza’s lowest drawer and placed it in the center of the desk. His desk chair groaned under the sudden addition of his weight.

The priest did not attempt to open the package. Instead, he reached for a family portrait, cradled it in his hands, and sat staring at the image. In the picture, his sixteen-year-old self was seated between his mother and sister while his father stood behind the trio. His father’s chin jutted out and up, giving him the appearance of a diplomat. Instead of a friendly smile, he assumed the visage of a dignified and meaningful person.

His mother’s kind smile, and the memory of her gentle hand on his shoulder, warmed the priest’s heart. He smiled at the twinkle in his sister’s eyes, recalling the giggles they had shared before the flash and click of the camera shutter. He chuckled out loud at the memory of boisterous laughter when the harried photographer told them the sitting was over.

He returned the photograph to the desk, picked up the package, and gently ran his fingers across the top. Two snips of the scissors and the string holding the wrapping fell away. Inside were two sealed envelopes: one addressed to him and a larger second envelope addressed to Allison Williams at the Williams-Laughton Law Office. Seeing his sister’s delicate handwriting brought tears, blurring his vision.

Sean, please deliver this package to my attorney, Allison Williams.
Thanks.

The second letter was addressed to him.

Dear Sean,
If you are reading this, you know that I am dead. It feels very strange to write that sentence, knowing that you will only see it after I die. I know I have not been a very good sister, and I hope you will forgive me. There are probably a thousand psychological reasons for how I lived my life, all of which combined won’t fully explain my choices. If I hurt you, I am genuinely sorry. Since you are in the forgiveness business, I count on your compassion.

I have three final favors to ask of you, dear brother. First, please call Kay and let her know. Tom won’t care if I am alive or dead, but I hope that my daughter will want to know.

Next, this may come as a surprise to you, but I have a second child.