The Last Lie Told (Finley O’Sullivan, #1)(13)

Finley dried her hands and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Despite how carefully she’d slicked back her hair into a ponytail, her budding blonde roots peeked out here and there. She blinked. Considered shaving her head but decided she didn’t want to deal with her father’s fretting and questions. He had overreacted enough when Finley dyed her hair black. At the time it had seemed fitting. Her husband had been murdered. She was grieving. Black fit perfectly. The carefree blonde hair she’d been born with wasn’t appropriate for her new, dark existence. She blinked again. Studied her brown eyes. Decided eye drops were in order to help with the redness left behind by lack of sleep. She’d ended up reading the Legard file twice last night. Hadn’t fallen asleep until sometime after two.

Not a problem. She had survived on little or no sleep since law school. Enough caffeine prevented the lack of rest from affecting her performance. At least that was what she told herself. So far, Jack had no complaints. Then again, he might not tell her if he did. Just like he wouldn’t care if she shaved her head as long as it didn’t put off clients.

She walked through the house, grabbed the cross-body messenger bag she used for everything—purse, briefcase, what have you—and walked out the front door, locking it before moving on to her car. In the beginning she hadn’t bothered to lock the door whether or not she was home. Nothing had mattered. What difference did it make if someone got in? She supposed the fact that she locked it now was a step in the right direction. An indication that she cared in some way.

Maybe. Survival was a primal instinct after all.

Besides, she did have unfinished business. Leaving things undone was poor form—assuming you had a say in the matter.

Finley ignored the pair of joggers who trotted past on the sidewalk as she climbed into her car. She had learned if she didn’t acknowledge others with eye contact, she was less likely to be dragged into a conversation in which she had no interest. People couldn’t help themselves. They possessed an innate curiosity that prompted questions: Have they found your husband’s killer yet? How are you doing? How’s the house coming along?

Attention focused straight ahead, she rolled through her neighborhood and merged onto Main Street. She would pick up Jack at the Drake and head to their destination. Her cell rang, and she fumbled in her bag for it. A glance at the screen and she cringed.

Dad.

Finley loved her father, but she didn’t love his hovering. The man worried too much. Asked too many questions. And he was persistent. If Finley ignored his call, he would only call again. He would worry until he heard her voice. She accepted the call. “Hey, Dad, what’s up?”

“Well, sweetheart, your mother is what’s up.”

Finley suppressed a groan. “What’s the Judge done now?”

“As you know, it’s her birthday on Sunday. I need you to be here, Fin. A person doesn’t turn sixty every day. I want the day to be special. Can I count on you?”

Yes, Finley was well aware that Sunday was her mother’s birthday. Her father had mentioned it several times in the past two weeks. There would be a grand party. Everyone would be there.

How could she say no? After all the man had done for her when she couldn’t do a thing for herself? Impossible. Despite the fact the Judge no doubt couldn’t care less if Finley showed up, her father would care.

“Are you certain she wants me there?” This was a reasonable question considering it had been months since Finley and the Judge had spoken.

The Judge hadn’t approved of Derrick. She had done all within her power to make him disappear. Even going so far as to try paying him to leave Nashville. Things had gotten more than a little ugly. Finley wasn’t sure she could ever forgive her. There were moments when, deep down, she couldn’t help wondering if her mother had something to do with . . . what happened. She flinched at the idea. As much as she hated the way the Judge had treated Derrick, she couldn’t bring herself to actually believe she’d go that far, or at least Jack had convinced her the idea was preposterous. Frankly, Jack had as much reason as anyone to throw the Judge under the bus, yet he’d marched Finley through the facts that her mother couldn’t possibly have been the one responsible for the nightmare that had invaded her life.

The temporary obsession with the possibility had only been a way to try to relieve her own guilt. Finley knew who had killed her husband. She also understood that her actions were the reason he was dead.

She pushed the painful thoughts aside.

The Judge might not be guilty of murder, but she was guilty of a charge equally malicious: betrayal. She had betrayed Finley’s trust. Pretending it hadn’t happened wasn’t an option. Nothing her mother did now was going to fix what she had done.

Their relationship could not be repaired.

“Of course she wants you there,” her father insisted, dragging her back to the conversation. “And it would mean a great deal to me if you were there. To our friends as well. Everyone will want to see you.”

Ah, the old “for appearances’ sake” excuse. Judge O’Sullivan was a revered woman in the community. A god. To have her only child not show up for her birthday party would be blasphemy. It would be all the buzz in social media and on the news.

“After all that’s happened this past year,” he implored, “can’t we have just one day of peace? You can go back to hating her after the party.”