The Last Lie Told (Finley O’Sullivan, #1)(8)

She understood now. For whatever reason, he’d wanted a drink. He threw down the gauntlet by putting the goods front and center, even going so far as to open the bottle. Then the battle began.

“I painted one wall and then another,” he explained. “Every time I moved on to the next wall without taking a drink, it was another win for me. I painted until I was physically exhausted, and then I crashed.”

“How about coming to my place the next time this happens?” Her entire house needed painting—inside and out.

He chuckled and reached for his coffee. “It works better if I do this alone.”

She figured.

“Nita’s pissed,” Finley warned.

He threw back more of the coffee. “I work all week and most weekends. Can’t a guy take a break now and then?”

“Sure.” Finley rose, crossed to the counter, and poured herself a cup of coffee. “All you have to do is tell someone. You can’t just disappear. You have obligations and people who depend on you.”

“Everything and everyone was fine,” he argued. “I had the situation under control.”

Only an alcoholic could rationalize skating that close to the edge so reasonably. “You’re a grown man; you can risk screwing up if you want to. It’s just not your usual MO, which is why I’m guessing something disturbing happened.” Wasn’t his case because he’d aced it.

“I met with a new client yesterday afternoon.”

“So you didn’t come here immediately after the hearing?”

“No. We had lunch together.”

Good. At least he’d eaten at some point in the past twenty-four hours. “Tell me about this client.”

“The media will be all over this one.” He sat his cup on the table. “Look, I know your father was hoping you’d go to the lake house with him for a few days, but I need you with me on this one. Right now.”

Finley felt guilty for being relieved. She’d hoped for an excuse to avoid the lake trip her father had planned for next week. It wasn’t a matter of avoiding her father’s company, but she simply wasn’t ready for a stay at the lake house. The last time she’d gone had been with Derrick. Knots tightened in her belly.

Derrick Reed. Her husband. Her murdered husband. The one whose name she’d chosen not to take for career reasons. An ache pierced her at the memory of how confused he’d been when she first told him.

It’s very common for career women, she’d assured him.

He’d pretended not to mind, but deep down he had. He never said anything, but she recognized the hurt later . . . too late to make it right.

She should have compromised on that one. The name thing had been far more personal than the damned prenup Matt had prodded her into.

“Not a problem.” Finley pushed the memories away. “Tell me about the case.” Maybe this crappy week could be salvaged after all. She was off the hook with her dad, and there was a new case.

“Charles Holmes,” he said. “Five years ago, he murdered Lance Legard.”

“The Lance Legard who owned the music label?” Finley remembered the name and the tragedy. The Legard label had and still carried some of the biggest stars in the country music industry.

“That’s the one. Holmes claimed he killed Legard for his Jag. Was halfway to Mexico when he was caught. He let the investigation and trial play out like some sort of chess game before confessing.”

“Holmes was a repeat offender who hadn’t been caught,” she said, recalling more details of the case. “The Legard case ended up connecting him to several others.”

“Exactly.” Jack stood and walked back to the coffee pot. He refilled his cup. “Mr. Holmes has allegedly found Jesus and decided to confess the whole truth about what he claims actually happened.” Jack leaned against the counter. “He insists his other victims deserved what they got, but not Legard.”

“His decision to murder Legard and steal his car was outside his usual MO.” Finley recognized the dissimilarity. Legard’s murder had been a random act of violence, according to the statements Holmes had made at trial.

“That particular murder is supposedly weighing on his conscience.”

“Since he found Jesus,” Finley suggested.

Jack nodded. “In fact, he now claims he didn’t murder Legard. He only cleaned up the mess for his girlfriend—the man’s daughter.”

Now there was a hell of a one-eighty. Parricide was one of those things people didn’t like to think about, but it happened. “Too late for any sort of appeal,” Finley noted. “Does he have evidence to support this new claim? Was his confession coerced?”

“Apparently he has evidence of some sort. The timing of the confession coincided with his previous crimes coming to light during the trial, but he now maintains it was a lie.”

Not all clients of the firm were saints, but Holmes was a new low altogether. “Are you planning to represent him?”

Jack laughed. “Not in this lifetime. Sophia Legard—”

“The widow,” Finley offered.

Jack’s gaze sidled away. “Yes.”

Finley wondered about the abrupt eye shift. Jack was typically very straightforward when discussing their work. No beating around the bush. No dodging scrutiny.