The Last Lie Told (Finley O’Sullivan, #1)(52)

“He was always going to sell it. He just figured he would finish his work first. But your husband came along and wanted it just as it was. Ted said he worried him to death until he agreed to sell. I guess you wanted it pretty bad.”

Finley managed a nod. Did everyone know this but her? “It was nice to meet you.”

She turned to go home.

“I’m sorry about what happened,” Helen said, stopping Finley’s escape. “Never had nothing like that happen in this neighborhood.”

Finley managed a tight nod. “Thank you. And thank you for calling for help that night.”

When the older woman said nothing more, Finley started for home again.

“He must have done something big in the backyard.”

The words followed Finley across the street. She paused on her side and turned back. “The backyard?”

Helen nodded. “He worked all hours of the night back there. I suffer with insomnia, so I sit on the porch a lot in the middle of the night. Until you moved in, he was out there every night doing something.” She smiled, but it reflected no amusement, kindness, or even remote pleasantness. Just a twitch of her lips.

“Patio,” Finley lied. “He wanted a nice patio.”

Finley dug for her keys as she strode the rest of the way to her door, then unlocked it and disappeared inside. She leaned against the door and took a breath, then another.

“What the hell were you doing, Derrick?”

She tossed her bag on the sofa and walked to the kitchen to stare out the back door. The yard was nothing but an overgrown mass of green. Not necessarily grass. More weeds, she suspected.

What on earth would he have been doing back there? The water and sewer lines were in the front yard. No patio. No shed. No nothing.

But there had to be something.

The sound of her cell ringing echoed from the living room. She pulled her mind away from the troubling thoughts and went in search of the intrusion. The possibility that this could be another revelation related to their case or to her husband was not lost on Finley.

“O’Sullivan.”

“Fin, it’s Vern.”

Nashville Driver’s License Division. “Hey, Vern. Thanks for getting back to me.” It was Saturday. She was lucky he was willing to go the extra mile.

“So I found three Alisha Arringtons. I have a seventy-year-old, an eighteen-year-old, and a thirty-year-old.”

Based on the image Arlo had sent, it had to be the thirty-year-old. “I’ll go with number three.”

“You owe me big-time for this one,” he warned. “I could lose my job.”

“You know I’m good for it.” Finley was well aware of the risk she’d asked him to take. She appreciated it more than he could imagine. “Rest assured, no one will ever know the information came from you.”

He called off a Riverside Drive address. She thanked him again and ended the call. Nothing like a little drive to the East Side on a Saturday evening.



Arrington Residence

Riverside Drive

Nashville, 6:15 p.m.

The rock house was nice. The neighborhood a well-established one. Neat landscaping. Quiet block.

There was a vintage Volvo wagon in the drive, so hopefully someone was home. Finley pressed the doorbell and waited.

Ten, then fifteen seconds elapsed. She started to press the bell again, but the sound of footfalls had her waiting. The lock tripped, and the door opened.

The woman looked from Finley to her Subaru and back. “May I help you?”

“Alisha Arrington?” Finley asked.

“Yes.”

Finley flashed her credentials—the ones she shouldn’t carry anymore since she no longer worked for the DA’s office. “I’m Finley O’Sullivan. I have a few questions for you.”

Arrington’s defenses fell into place. “Why would someone from the district attorney’s office want to ask me questions?”

“It’s regarding a court case, and I believe we can clear this up with just a few questions.”

The woman wasn’t happy about it, but she opened the door wider and allowed Finley inside. The door entered directly into her living room. “I’m sure you have me confused with someone else.”

“Possibly,” Finley agreed. “That’s why I’m here. It’s important that we sort this out.”

Alisha made her way to a chair and sat down.

Finley did the same. The home furnishings and decor were modest and sparse. Beige walls. Beige carpet. Very clean and tidy. Finley understood this was not the woman she was looking for even before she took out her cell phone and showed the image Mickey had sent. “Is this you?”

Arrington stared at the image for a few seconds, then shook her head. “I don’t have a hat like that or that sweater. She doesn’t even look like me.” She made a face and shifted her gaze to Finley. “What is this about?”

There was a slight resemblance. Mostly related to the blondish hair color and the line of her slim jaw.

“The woman in this photo was visiting an inmate in Riverbend—”

“The prison?” She shook her head. “I’ve never been to a prison in my life.”

The shock and horror on her face backed up her words. “You don’t know Charles Holmes?”