The Last Lie Told (Finley O’Sullivan, #1)(79)



With a single twist I unlock the gate and slip through. Heart pounding, I hurry to the shed, the bottles of water and the snack crackers in my bag bouncing against my leg. I slow my breathing and remind myself I have everything under control now. This is for the best.

I creep inside without turning on the overhead light. The flashlight app on my cell helps me thread my way to the back, behind all the tables and shelves the gardeners and landscapers used over the years.

“I brought you—”

My breath catches.

She is gone.

My heart threatens to leap out of my chest. Cecelia is gone.

She might be anywhere. Doing anything. How in the world did she escape?

A crunch beneath my right shoe draws my attention to the floor. Cecelia has torn open a bag of wood-mulch nuggets and used the pieces to spell out a message.

YOU ARE DEAD.





30


Tuesday, July 12

9:00 a.m.


The Murder House

Shelby Avenue

Nashville

Finley used her towel to swipe the fog from the mirror over the bathroom sink. She finger combed her wet hair and trapped it into a ponytail. She still hadn’t found her hairbrush. She studied her reflection. Sighed. The circles under her eyes were darker than usual. Last night had been a long one.

After her meeting with Bethany, she’d called Jack, and they’d gone to talk to Olivia—who was, of course, nowhere to be found. She wasn’t at her hotel as Finley had instructed. Not that she’d actually expected her to be. Calling her cell got them nowhere.

Cecelia was still MIA. Her phone now went straight to voice mail on the first ring. The battery was dead.

Ultimately, they’d decided on a stakeout. Jack had taken the hotel where Olivia was supposed to be. He knew the manager, who’d insisted he use a comfy corner reading nook with a free tab for soft drinks and coffee.

Finley, on the other hand, had spent the better part of the night strolling the perimeter of the Legard property or sitting in her car eyeing the main entrance. If Cecelia had wanted her sister dead five years ago, maybe she still did. Finding both of them as quickly as possible was crucial.

A thermos of coffee and a couple of energy drinks had kept Finley’s eyes open all night. There were moments when she wasn’t sure she was actually awake. Reminded her of cramming before exams in college. During law school, since Matt had been a year ahead of her, he had always grilled her before exams. Only it was more like he was cross-examining her in a murder case than quizzing her for the coming test.

She smiled. She should call him and let him know what was going on. They hadn’t talked since—God, she couldn’t remember when. Her mind was a blur this morning.

Five days since she and Jack first interviewed the three Legard women, and every damned thing had gone to hell.

A firm series of knocks on the front door shook her from the sorts of thoughts one drifted into when sleep deprived. She checked her reflection one last time and headed for the front door. Another firm trio of knocks sounded before she reached her destination. A peek out the window told her the two suits on her porch were cops.

She hoped like hell they didn’t have another dead client. This was not looking good for Jack’s firm. She opened the door. “Did I win the lottery?”

“Ms. O’Sullivan, I’m Detective Gordon Barry, and this is Detective Bob Tanner.”

Though she didn’t recognize the faces, she knew the names. The detectives on the Holmes/Legard case. Definitely not good.

“How can I help you, Detectives?”

“We need you to come downtown, ma’am. We have some questions.”

“You can ask me anything you’d like right here.” The home field advantage was always preferable.

The two shared a glance. So that wasn’t happening.

Ah, it gets worse.

“Ma’am.” Tanner spoke this time. “This will go a whole lot faster and a lot smoother if we just get on with it.”

Translation: Come with us quietly. Now. Or there will be unpleasant moments.

“I have the right to know what this is about,” she pointed out. Even a suspect being arrested had the right to know the reason.

“Cherry Inglewood went missing yesterday,” Detective Barry explained.

There it was—the not-good part she’d expected.

“What about her son? Is he okay?” Finley hoped this mess hadn’t spilled over to the child. Brantley was what? Four years old?

“Yes. He’s with his father,” Barry confirmed. “According to the home-security surveillance system, you were the last person besides her husband to see Mrs. Inglewood before she disappeared.”

Finley nodded her understanding. “I’ll get my shoes.”

She slid her feet into a pair of sneakers and grabbed her bag. Her cell was in the back pocket of her jeans. Since she hadn’t dressed for a trip downtown, she glanced at her chest to see what was plastered across her white tee. She’d grabbed the first one her fingers landed on this morning.

Allegedly, it proclaimed.

Fitting, she decided.

She locked her front door and followed the detectives to their car, where Tanner opened the rear passenger door for her.

“Thanks.” As she was getting in, she noticed Helen Roberts watering her plants and watching her. She didn’t bother looking away when Finley noticed her. She never did. Finley gave her a little wave, but the woman didn’t wave back. Just watched.

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