The Last Lie Told (Finley O’Sullivan, #1)(32)

She hugged him. “Come on in. I’ll make coffee.” She loved the person who’d created single-serving coffee pods. Fast and close enough to brewed to keep her taste buds happy.

When they were settled at the small metal table that had been in the backyard when Derrick bought the house and was given new life as their dining table, her dad passed around the bagels and condiments.

“Your mother says you’re working on the Legard case.” He said this while spreading cream cheese on his bagel. A packet of strawberry jam waited close by to join the cream cheese. Her dad never ate cream cheese without strawberry jam. Routine was his middle name.

Finley dipped a finger into her little tub of cream cheese, licked it off, and then took a bite of bagel. She no longer had a routine. Go with the flow, or fight against it—anything else was basically irrelevant. That was her current motto. “Jack is representing the daughters.”

Her dad nodded slowly, then bit into his bagel.

He and the Judge had discussed the news. Not that Finley was surprised. They’d been married more than half their lives—they talked about everything. The question was, Why had he shown up this morning, bagels in hand? Not that she actually needed to ask. The answer was easy. The Judge had something to say about the case and Finley’s involvement.

“She doesn’t want me on the case,” Finley said, going straight to the most likely point. No doubt the Judge had been privy to the discussion between the unholy trinity.

He frowned innocently. “She didn’t say anything to suggest as much to me.”

Maybe she hadn’t. Then again, her dad worked particularly hard not to take sides. “She probably thinks the case will be too stressful.”

“She does worry about you,” he agreed. “We both do. Especially . . .” One shoulder lifted in a hesitant shrug. “When things happen.”

Aha, the Judge had heard about the convenience store shooting. “It could have happened to anyone,” Finley said without preface. “Nashville is a big city. Robberies happen on a regular basis. It was just my turn to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Statistics. No one could avoid them unless they stayed home twenty-four seven, and even then, criminals broke into private homes all the time. A perfectly logical explanation.

The thought of her missing hairbrush poked at her. She remembered using it last night. But it was nowhere to be found this morning. The towel she’d thrown on the floor after her shower was spread across the rim of the tub. Her discarded clothes were in the hamper. Maybe she’d done those things and forgotten. She’d been tired and distracted last night. Wouldn’t be the first time she’d forgotten something.

Yet, it felt wrong. As if muscle memory were denying any such activities.

Her dad placed his half-eaten bagel on the napkin in front of him and sat silent for a moment. Finley’s senses went on high alert.

“She saw the security video, Fin. She—we—were terrified by what happened.”

Not good. “You saw it, too, I guess.” Great. Graves was at the top of her shit list now for sure.

Her dad nodded. Emotion shining in his eyes. “She showed it to me.”

Appetite gone, Finley pushed the remainder of her bagel away. “It was a snap decision,” she said, going for gentle but not quite making it. “It was an attempt to distract the guy, and it worked. Most likely saved my life as well as the clerk’s.”

Relief flashed in his eyes. “I told her you probably knew exactly what you were doing.”

She reached across the table and grasped his hand. “I knew exactly what I was doing. Trust me.” Did that make her a killer? Maybe. No guilt. The memory of the bastard’s face so close to hers as he growled cruel words flashed. She blinked it away.

Her dad smiled. It was a bit wobbly, but the expression made her heart lighten. She assured him, “The Judge always thinks the worst.”

He chuckled. “She worries.”

They talked awhile longer and finished their coffee before her dad announced he had an appointment and should be going. Finley was thankful not to have to usher him away with her tight schedule.

“Don’t forget your mother’s birthday,” he called out as he loaded himself into his electric-powered Prius.

How could she forget when he kept reminding her?

Finley promised she wouldn’t and waved as he drove away. Before heading to Riverbend, she walked through the house once more and tried to recall moving her towel and clothes. And where the hell was her brush?

She would find it later. Had to be here somewhere.

Less than an hour later she was turning onto Cockrill Bend Boulevard. The maximum-security prison was located on well over a hundred acres and divided up into about twenty buildings. Riverbend housed nearly a thousand inmates, including all the state’s death row convicts. Finley was to meet her contact at the loading docks behind the commissary. Mickey Kruger, a kitchen manager with ten years at the prison under his belt, knew his way around the place. Knew the personnel, including guards, who would look the other way for the right price.

Jack had an endless list of contacts, any one of which he could name without thinking twice. He refused to have the names and contact info written down anywhere. He always tapped his temple and said the safest place was right there.

At the security gate Finley showed her ID and was allowed to enter the property. Her name was on the list for visiting Arlo Gates, one of Jack’s favorite jailhouse snitches. Jack took care of Arlo’s elderly mother, and Arlo took care of Jack’s needs inside the prison walls. A mutually beneficial arrangement.