The Last Lie Told (Finley O’Sullivan, #1)(6)

“What I need,” she grumbled at herself for even going down that path, “is to find Jack.”

The traffic vanished as the woods crowded in on the two-lane road that led to the rustic cabin Jack considered his getaway. He swore he’d won the place in a poker game way back when he was working his way through law school. This might or might not be accurate. Jack wasn’t always completely straightforward. Particularly if whatever he was hiding involved stretching or otherwise manipulating the boundaries of the law.

Jackson “Jack” Finnegan was the sweetest, most caring person—besides her father—Finley had ever known. He worked extra hard to take care of those who needed him most. A real-life hero for the underdog.

If not for the drinking, he would be the top attorney in the Southeast. He had an incredible legal mind. The Judge used to tell stories about Jack Finnegan’s legal prowess. The two of them had been good friends—like Finley and Matt. They’d grown up in the same neighborhood and attended school together. Jack was Finley’s godfather. He’d been a part of the family until five years ago during her final year at law school. But something had happened between him and the Judge, and even Jack wouldn’t talk about it. Whatever it was, the two of them were no longer on speaking terms.

Jack had been sober for twenty-five years when the falling-out and his dive off the wagon happened. Finley had no idea if one had anything to do with the other, since he’d quit the law office where he’d been a senior partner for decades and disappeared for six months. Finley had graduated and taken a position with the Davidson County District Attorney’s Office by then. In true Jack fashion, he’d reappeared one day and started renovating that church. He’d sold his bungalow over on the West Side and moved into the Drake. The resurrection of his career appeared to have come with a mission: to represent the people no one else wanted to bother with. The Judge had been appalled. Finley, on the other hand, had considered his decision quite selfless. Much to the Judge’s dismay, Finley and Jack had remained close as if nothing had happened. And why wouldn’t they? He was her godfather. He’d always been a part of her life.

Every time he won a case, Finley ensured her mother heard about it. Not that he ever lost. He always won. It drove the Judge and lots of other people quite mad that Jack had rebounded so brilliantly. There had been something different about him when he returned. Finley called it his “no more Mr. Nice Guy” attitude.

He was as cutthroat as they came. Winning was his only goal. Well, that and making money. Most in the profession would call him ruthless. They would speculate that he would do anything—make a deal with the devil himself—to win. Which made his decision to buy the old church and turn it into his firm all the more ironic. Society didn’t exactly consider lawyers virtuous. “A necessary evil” was the more prevalent classification. But Jack Finnegan was a legend twice over in Davidson County. No one liked squaring off with him in a courtroom.

Despite his ruthless reputation, Finley was well aware that deep down Jack remained first and foremost a champion of the small and vulnerable. He was the quintessential good guy when no one was looking. All his testing of the boundaries was always for the right reason.

She took the next left onto a gravel-and-dirt road. The tree canopy over the road was so thick it blocked the sun entirely, plunging the narrow road into darkness. A half mile after the turnoff, the trees opened up into a clearing. The rustic cabin sat back against the tree line on the other side of the clearing. A path through those trees led to the lake. Everyone assumed Jack came here to fish, but he didn’t. Other than the johnboat left behind by a previous owner, he didn’t even own a boat, much less a fishing pole. This was where he came to clear his head or, if he felt on the verge of relapse, to battle his demons.

Since his vintage Land Rover sat in front of the cabin, she assumed he was here.

She parked and collapsed back against her seat for a moment. She and Jack were a lot alike. They were both broken to some degree. Few people understood them. For the first time she wondered if this was all there was for people like her . . . and Jack. People who had given everything to their work and then ended up alone for one reason or another. Alone and in pieces.

Her cell chimed, and she dug it from her bag. She had a voice mail and new emails. The voice mail was from Detective Wellman. Her pulse thumped at the idea that maybe, finally, he’d caught a break on Derrick’s case. His message asked her to call him back when she could. She did immediately, and the call went straight to voice mail.

She left him a message. “Hey, sorry I missed your call. Call me back.”

Finley ended the call and checked the emails. A notification of her upcoming appointment from her therapist’s office. An official complaint from yet another Metro detective she’d rubbed the wrong way. She rolled her eyes. The primary issue the detective had was that she didn’t play by his rules. This was actually one of the perks of being an investigator for the firm. She wasn’t a cop, so she wasn’t bound by the same rules. She didn’t need a warrant for cell phone records. She had other sources. This, more often than not, ticked off the law enforcement folks working a case.

A year ago she would have been appalled at the idea of not playing by the rules. But things were different now.

She was different.

As Jack would say, You gotta do what you gotta do.

She climbed out of the car and tucked her phone into her back pocket. Watching her step, on the lookout for snakes, she trudged through the ankle-deep grass to reach the porch. Jack’s lawn service must have taken a couple of weeks off. She banged on the door. Listened to the silence on the other side for about ten seconds, then banged again.