The Last Lie Told (Finley O’Sullivan, #1)(34)

“You don’t look so bad yourself, Arlo.”

He laughed. Any compliment she paid him made him smile.

“So, Charlie Holmes.” He scanned the visiting area, ever watchful. “He’s the talk of the house these days.”

“Is this whole ‘found Jesus’ claim legit?” She had her doubts, but it happened. There were inmates who found religion, decided to educate themselves or learn a trade. Being incarcerated gave one time to reflect and to change life for the better. It also provided an opportunity to go down a darker path. Prisons had their societal hierarchies and their secrets. There was more than one world within these walls. There were numerous kings and lords. The secret to staying alive was often as simple as keeping your mouth shut and your eyes forward. Other times it was a battle of wills or sheer luck.

“The guy Rudy, Rudy Davis,” Arlo explained, “Charlie’s best friend since like three months ago, is a serious Bible thumper. Walks around with the Bible in his hand all the time. Quoting scripture and shit, which is why they call him the Preacher.”

“Three months.” Didn’t seem like much time for a lifelong criminal to become a changed man.

Arlo leaned forward. “Story is, old Charlie is making preparations for taking care of his family.”

“Family?” He’d had one female visitor in all this time, and she hadn’t visited recently. “Are you talking about his followers?”

Holmes had a small cult following related to his short-lived attempt at fame in the country music industry. Dozens wrote to him. Women and men. Some claimed to be in love with him; others wanted to be him. It wasn’t unusual for a high-profile criminal to have followers. For a while there was some trouble in Nashville. Mostly private-property damage. Names of jurors were leaked and their homes vandalized. From time to time billboards were painted over with phrases proclaiming his innocence. Until recently, the group had basically faded into history. Now there was a social media page and protestors showing up on street corners who passed along warnings about the leads she was following. Finley expected to find them at her door any day now.

“I think it’s someone more personal than that,” Arlo suggested.

“An Alisha Arrington visited him once a month from shortly after he arrived at Riverbend until a few months ago. She signed the log as his sister. You heard anything about her?”

He considered the name for a moment. “Doesn’t ring a bell, but I’ll ask around. If this is right, I’m guessing the woman has more to do with Charlie’s sudden change of heart than the Preacher, since he claims he has a family.”

Finley agreed. It made a certain sense in terms of the timing. Holmes had been silent all this time, and suddenly he was ready to tell the whole story. If the notoriety garnered him a book deal or something on that order, he could certainly support a family. Especially if this sister got tired of visiting him in prison, as it appeared she had. Maybe he needed to make an impression for her. Or, more likely, money.

“I need anything you can find on this family. Whatever you can get.” Anticipation burned across her nerve endings. This could be a significant break.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Any other rumors going around about Holmes?” she asked. “Maybe speculation about the Legard case?”

“Not so far, but I’ve got my ear to the ground.”

They talked about how he was doing, and he asked Finley to check in on his mother. Then the bell signaling the end of visitation sounded.

“See you soon,” he said as he got up to leave.

“Thanks, Arlo.”

That familiar urgency she felt when she was onto something was pulsing through her veins on a burst of adrenaline. This female visitor was important. Finley felt it all the way to her bones.

She checked in with Mickey via text. He’d had no luck hooking her up with the Preacher. Maybe tomorrow. At least she wasn’t leaving empty handed.

Beyond the exit doors the humidity met her like a wall of Jell-O. The parking lot was all but empty now. The shiny red sports car parked next to her dusty Subaru stood out like a sore thumb. As she hurried to her car, the driver’s door of the red car—a Porsche no less—opened. A man sporting dark sunglasses emerged.

“Ms. O’Sullivan, I’ve been waiting for you.”

Thirtyish. Dark skinned. Maybe Hispanic. Tall, dressed like a businessman. The sort who made an impression. Not someone she’d met before. She would remember.

She leveled a long look at him across the top of her car. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.”

“My name is Xavier Stratford. Like you, I’m an investigator for a law firm.”

Now she got it. “You work for Siniard.”

“I do.”

“Then I suppose you’re here for the same reason as me.”

“I don’t think so.” He removed his sunglasses and leaned on her car. “You see, you can’t interview our client without our express permission. I certainly hope that’s not why you’re here.”

“Of course not. Why would I break the law? Have a nice day, Mr. Stratford.” With that she climbed into her car. Started the engine, turned the air-conditioning to full blast, and sped out of the parking spot, sending Mr. Stratford reeling back against his own car. She so disliked arrogance.