The Last Lie Told (Finley O’Sullivan, #1)(12)

In any event, she was still breathing. The ordeal had been nothing more than a momentary lapse in courage. No big deal. If Graves would get off her back, she could move on.

Lapse. Ha. With Jack it was relapse, because he’d fallen off the wagon before. For her it was lapse, because so far she hadn’t actually killed herself. Just thought about it from time to time. But she couldn’t. At least not yet. There was work she had to do first. Obviously no one else was going to do it. Didn’t matter. It was her responsibility anyway. She was the reason Derrick was dead.

At first she’d tried to pretend it wasn’t true. There had been no evidence. No witnesses. The police seemed more inclined to consider the event a random home invasion with a casualty. In the beginning she tried to believe this explanation herself. But then whispers and images from that night had started to invade her dreams, and she’d slowly realized what it all meant.

The case. The one she’d closed only a few weeks before Derrick’s murder. That win was the reason he was dead. The bastard had even been so brazen as to ensure she knew the reason her husband was dead.

You take something from me. I take something from you.

The memory of those words whispered in her ear by the man raping her that night had put everything in perspective.

Except no one had believed her. Even Jack wasn’t convinced her two and two were adding up to four.

But she knew. And she would prove it . . . in time. Until then she would take it one step at a time.

Really, she should be celebrating. The fact was, the police were wrong about the intruder that night. There had been three—not one.

But only two remained.

She had wiped the blood of the other one from her face in that Shop Easy. He had recently lost favor with his employer and was desperate—or so she’d heard through her sources. In any event, he’d decided to rob a convenience store for enough cash to get out of town or move on, whatever. Finley had been watching him for weeks before she’d followed him to the Shop Easy. She couldn’t possibly have known his intentions.

But the situation had presented an opportunity. She’d taken it.

One down, two to go. For now, wine bottle in hand, she settled in next to the case file to engross herself in work. This Legard case wasn’t nearly as simple as it might seem. There was something else here—something more than a murder for hire or a con man trying to get right with Jesus.

Finley opened the folder that interested her the most.

No one loved a good mystery better than her. Putting the pieces of the puzzle together would distract her for a while.

This one piece was especially enticing.

She read the name on the folder. Olivia Legard.





5


Olivia


10:05 p.m.


Legard Residence

Lealand Lane

Nashville

I never wanted to come back here again.

Never.

It makes me sick to stand in the street just looking at the house. The prospect of going inside is inconceivable.

I hate this place.

I blink back the burn of tears.

The two of them are in there . . . waiting. Waiting to stare at me and make me feel like I’m the one who did this.

It wasn’t me. I have no idea how I will prove my innocence, but somehow I must.

They—my own mother and sister—will do all within their collective power to see that I’m the one to pay.

The route they will choose is easy to anticipate. I’m not completely innocent. I did things that will come back to haunt me now. In truth, they have haunted me all these years. No matter that I stayed away. You see, the things you do are the things you do. Nothing can change the facts. Others might lie or distort those things, but they never go away. Your choices, your actions are forever. You leave a footprint that can be followed if someone is determined to look closely enough.

The worst part is the idea that someone knows. Either someone saw you, or you slipped up at some emotional point and told someone.

They never forget.

Oh, they will claim not to remember. They will act as if they don’t recall. But they do. They always do.

And that is how they will attempt to blame me.

Fury tightens my lips.

But it won’t work.

My mouth relaxes into a smile. You see, I’m no longer the naive, sweet girl I once was. I’ve learned a great deal since I left this house of horrors.

They’re going to be very, very sorry I was forced to come back.





6


Thursday, July 7

8:05 a.m.


The Murder House

Shelby Avenue

Nashville

Today’s interview required that Finley dress the part. Professional. Unaffected. Black dress slacks, simple pale-gray blouse, and leather flats. The leftover parts of her life before. Except for the jacket. She’d almost always worn a jacket back then. But it was too damned hot to bother with a jacket today even if she’d felt the urge. A rainy spring had kept June relatively cool, but July so far was determined to make up for the unseasonably cool temperatures of the previous month.

Three cups of coffee and a slice of toast, and Finley was good to go. She tucked her toothbrush into the holder next to the sink and then rinsed her mouth. Derrick’s Superman toothbrush still stood in the holder next to hers. The only bathroom in the house was too small for his-and-hers sinks.