The Last Lie Told (Finley O’Sullivan, #1)(3)

The lump that instantly rose in her throat at the mention of her husband belied the unshakable confidence she pretended to possess. Whenever her careful facade dared to crack, it invariably made her angry. Primarily at herself. The breakdown had left her with a slight glitch related to impulse control. She was still working on the issue.

“What does that have to do with your investigation?” She bit her lips together, annoyed she had allowed the question to slip out in an irritated tone. Appearing angry or defensive was a bad sign in a witness. It almost always meant they were hiding something.

She was angry, of course, but the goal was to not tip her hand.

Graves carried on as if she hadn’t said a word. “I read the reports.” He shook his head. “It must have been horrifying for you. You were right next to your husband when he was murdered and yet you couldn’t identify the man who killed him.”

She blocked the images that attempted to break past the barrier she’d built all those months ago. “This is not about what happened to my husband last year, Detective. This is about your investigation into a crime that occurred just five days ago, and as we both know, I identified the armed man who attempted to rob the store in your case.” The would-be shooter’s face flashed in her head, followed immediately by the sound of a blast. She resisted the urge to flinch.

“You mean the dead guy,” Graves suggested. “The one the store clerk shot in the head?”

“Yes.” Really, it sounded worse than it was—in a manner of speaking.

“Both you and the clerk stated that the victim—”

“The perpetrator,” she corrected. The man walked into the Shop Easy convenience store carrying a loaded Glock with the intent of robbing the place and potentially leaving no witnesses. He had not been a victim by even the most remote definition of the word.

“The perp,” Graves allowed, “had his weapon aimed at the clerk and was threatening to shoot. When he shifted his attention to you, the clerk pulled a gun from beneath the counter and fired.”

“Yes.” A smart witness never said more than necessary to answer a question. It was the first rule defense lawyers taught their clients. It was also the principal focus of an ADA when questioning a witness for the defense—make them say more than they intended.

“Were you aware the store was equipped with video surveillance?”

She couldn’t stop her outward reaction quickly enough to prevent his seeing her surprise. Not that she should have been. Just because the Shop Easy was run down and in the worst part of town didn’t mean the owner couldn’t afford the best in security measures. “I’m certain the video footage confirmed our statements.”

Graves held her gaze a moment before responding.

She held her breath.

“It did.” He nodded. “But it also showed something else.”

Finley said nothing. This was his dance; she had no problem allowing him to lead.

“You baited the perp,” he accused.

“I believe the word you’re looking for is distracted,” she argued.

“Really?” he tossed back.

“I distracted the perp,” she explained, “preventing him from shooting the store clerk and most likely me as well.” Finley felt confident a jury would see it the same way.

Graves reached for the laptop he’d placed on the table when he’d first entered the room. “Why don’t we review those thirty-eight seconds that elapsed before the clerk drew his weapon from under the counter?”

He hit play, and she looked away. Didn’t need to see the rerun. Repetitiveness got on her nerves like nothing else.

The clipped, tense words captured electronically floated in the air. The perp demanding the money from the register. Threatening to shoot. The clerk pleading for his life. And then, her voice . . .

If you want to shoot someone, why not me?

The perp had swung his attention to Finley. She’d met his gaze, daring him to act . . . emboldening him. He, of course, shouted for her to shut up. She, of course, did not, and on it went for a few more seconds before he . . . recognized her.

That instant clicked like a gun blast in her brain. She blinked.

“You stepped toward him,” Graves said as he paused the video. “That’s when he turned his gun on you.”

She met the detective’s accusing gaze. “Allowing the clerk to save both our lives.”

Graves started the video again.

Shut up! Stay back!

But she hadn’t. She had stepped even closer, allowing the muzzle of his weapon to press against her.

Go ahead. You want to shoot someone, shoot me.

Wait . . . I know—

The would-be shooter’s words ended abruptly when the clerk pulled the trigger of the weapon he’d snatched from beneath the counter.

The bullet plowed through the perp’s head, splattering his blood and other matter across Finley’s face, effectively obliterating the word he would have said next.

The brief flutter of disappointment she’d felt when he failed to fire his own weapon rushed through her now. It was the oddest, most unexpected reaction. Some small part of her had felt relief, but mostly she’d experienced a sort of regret.

She was still alive.

Her therapist would be disheartened by her momentary lapse, which was why she had no intention of telling him. What the man didn’t know couldn’t hurt him; however, if he were to find out, it would certainly cause a pain in Finley’s ass.