The Last Lie Told (Finley O’Sullivan, #1)(43)

Finley understood exactly where this was going. “She made you believe she needed someone. A protector and savior. That she’d never gone down that road before.”

He nodded. “I fell for it hook, line, and sinker.”

“How did it end?”

“Her husband was murdered, and we just kind of moved apart. She was busy putting the pieces of her life back together, and I was busy trying to rebuild my career. We had a thing, and then it was over.”

A rock settled in Finley’s stomach. She didn’t have to tell him this sounded very much like a motive for murder.

Except this was Jack. He wasn’t a murderer.

“Make sure it stays that way,” Finley warned. As brilliant as Jack was, he could still be a sucker for a woman in distress.

“Since you’re here,” Jack said, dragging her attention back to the present, “Nita sent me the scoop on what she’s dug up on Olivia Legard’s life out in Cali.”

“I’m guessing it’s not as cut and dried as we were anticipating,” Finley suggested.

“Did you really expect it would be?” He headed across the room, yanked back the plastic divider, and stepped into his office.

“That would be a no,” Finley said as she followed. Nothing else about this case had been—why hold out hope now?

Focusing on the wall behind his desk, she surveyed the case board Jack had developed. Headshots of all the players were taped to the wall. He’d created a timeline much the same way a detective would. Dozens of colorful sticky notes were scattered around each photo. His notes. On his wall back at the office were certificates and photos—the artful display of his credentials for clients to see. Here, he pieced together his working scenarios and theories. Like her, Jack had a mind that didn’t stop when he left the office.

He paused at the eight-by-ten of Olivia and tapped the first of about a dozen notes around her image. “We have her college roommate.” He glanced at Finley. “Nita tracked her down in record time. I think you’re rubbing off on her.”

Finley tugged the note from the wall. Holly Thompson. Her address and other pertinent info were listed beneath her name. “She lives in Seattle now?”

Jack nodded. “She’s a high school teacher there.”

“If she’s willing to talk,” Finley offered, “we could use more info on Olivia. Since Cecelia has been here all along, putting together her story has been fairly easy.” Like the identity of her best friend at the time of her father’s murder and the fact that she had been basically housebound right here at home since the murder.

“What we don’t have,” Jack said, “is a handle on Olivia’s life around the time of her father’s murder and in the years since.”

“Other than her college transcript and a few notes from various professors who considered her delightful and bordering on brilliant.” Finley considered the photo of the woman who had bleached her hair blonde so she no longer looked like her twin at first glance. “According to Bethany, Olivia was a loner. Cherry mentioned the same.”

“If we’re lucky,” Jack suggested, “her roommate might have some details about her and her friends at the university. Who knows? Maybe Olivia talked about the murder and her family at some point over the years.”

“I’ll get in touch. See what she’s willing to share.” Face-to-face worked better in these types of interviews, but Finley could start with a phone convo.

In the end, Finley noted, the twins not only lost their father when he was murdered—they lost each other.

Or had they pushed each other away because one or the other was guilty?





15


8:30 p.m.


Drake Motel

Murfreesboro Pike

Nashville

Jack had insisted Finley stay and have dinner with him. He was actually an excellent cook. They hadn’t talked about the case any further. A break was in order. He promised he would not call or visit Sophia Legard without Finley.

For now, the bourbon had stayed in the bottle.

Finley climbed into her Subaru and pulled out of the parking lot. She’d made it half a block before her cell rang.

Matt.

“Hey, thanks for getting back to me.”

“Sorry it took so long. What’s up?”

She switched on her blinker for the next turn. “Jack got a call from a friend who says Briggs and Lawrence are suggesting there’s some issue related to me and Derrick’s case. I guess word is getting around. Have you heard anything else?”

“I’ve been in meetings all day, so no, I haven’t heard anything else. But believe me when I say I will find out.”

“Thanks. This is beginning to sound a little conspiratorial.” Finley had that uneasy feeling deep in her gut. This, whatever it was, was deepening, expanding.

“Damn straight it does. Anything else going on? You sound a little stressed.”

“Just the case. I keep finding all these new pieces, and they don’t want to fit neatly together.”

“Sounds to me as if the DA and the chief should be concerned about where the Legard investigation is going.”

“I don’t have anything concrete yet, but it’s stacking up to be a real shake-up.” She thought about how she’d felt things were out of place at home. “There is something else,” she confessed. “The weirdest thing happened this morning. I got up and my hairbrush was missing. The bathroom was tidied up. Not that I mind the tidying up—I just can’t remember doing it. I swear it’s like someone was in my house while I was asleep.”