The Last Lie Told (Finley O’Sullivan, #1)(87)

“Olivia is there?” Damn it! Finley fought the urge to get out of the car and pace along the side of the road. “Tell me where you are!”

“They’re screaming at each other.” Cherry made a fretting sound. “Please tell my son I love him.”

“Cherry,” Finley said firmly, “where are you?”

“I . . . I think we’re at the castle. You know, off Centennial Boulevard. I’ve been here before. A lot of us who hung out at Paradise used to come here . . . to smoke dope and stupid shit like that. Oh God . . .” A keening sound echoed from her.

Finley checked the traffic and eased back onto the highway. “The old prison? Are you sure? Didn’t they shut that place down a while back? It’s restricted. Maybe guarded twenty-four seven. People may have gotten in there five years ago but—”

“I don’t know,” Cherry cried softly. “When they dragged me out of the trunk, I saw . . . a No Trespassing sign. And . . . and what looked like a chapel in the distance.”

She stopped talking. Finley heard a voice or voices in the background. Her heart thudded harder. The voices faded.

“Did you call the police?” Finley asked, pressing harder on her accelerator.

“The police? No! Then Elton will know and . . .” She started to sob. “Please. You can help me. I know you can. He can’t know any of this.”

It was far too late for the woman’s husband to be kept out of the loop, but Finley opted not to point out the obvious.

“I’m on my way,” Finley assured her. “Tell me more about what you saw when you got there.”

“She . . . she forced me through a door,” Cherry said, whispering again. “There . . . there was a sign on the door. Maintenance. We went down some stairs. It’s like a basement with long corridors. Please help me! She has a gun!”

Finley’s heart sank into her gut. “I’m coming,” she promised. “Just stay on the line with me as long as you can.”

The call dropped.

Finley stared at the now black screen.

A horn blared.

She swerved back into her lane.

“Damn it!” Finley couldn’t risk calling her back and alerting Cecelia or Olivia if the phone was not silenced.

She called Jack. Got his voice mail. Hung up and called Matt. Voice mail.

“Shit!” She waited for the beep and left him a message about the call from Cherry.

Her thumb went instinctively to the nine, but she hesitated. If she called 911 and alerted the police, all three women could end up dead. Cecelia had a gun.

That would not end well.

She thought of Cherry’s little boy, and she flung her phone onto the passenger seat.

Finley wanted these women alive.





32


5:30 p.m.


The Castle

Centennial Boulevard

Nashville

Finley drove around the decaying castle that fronted the old state prison until she could see the chapel. She parked at the nearest entrance and scrambled out of her car. She had tried Matt again and left a second voice mail.

She glanced around. Didn’t see anyone. Didn’t hear anything except the rumbling of the traffic on the nearby interstate. She silenced her cell, tucked it into one of her back pockets and her keys into the other, then started walking. Graffiti marred the walls. Discarded trash littered the ground. Vandals. Teenagers looking for a cool place to do stuff they couldn’t do at home. Apparently, that hadn’t stopped. A safer place for the homeless than the street. Anyone could be hanging out here if there were no longer any guards. The last Finley recalled reading about the place, parts of it were used for storage.

MAINTENANCE.

She spotted a door like the one Cherry had mentioned and headed toward it.

The door opened with ease. She went through it, allowing it to close behind her. Scenes with the lead character entering an unlocked door in every bad horror flick she’d ever watched scrolled through Finley’s head.

As Cherry had said, there were stairs that disappeared downward. Peeling paint and evidence rodents called the place home kept Finley watching her step.

She imagined there were tunnels and underground storage or mechanical rooms all over the property. Hopefully this was the right one. Back in high school some of her friends had slipped in and explored the prison. She’d never had any desire to do so. Really didn’t now, but if she could find Cherry and the twins, it would be worth the effort.

Effort . . . or risk?

She would know soon enough.

The stairs ended at the entrance to a long, relatively wide corridor. Since it was underground and there were no windows, she was grateful for the lighting, dim as it was. At least the emergency lighting was still operating. She started forward, listening carefully for any sound.

Still nothing. Her arms and legs tingled with the rush of adrenaline pulsing through her veins. Why hadn’t either of the twins called her?

Was this some sort of final retribution? Some showdown?

Or just a plan to force a confession?

But from whom?

Olivia swore Cecelia was the one. Cecelia said the same about her sister.

Was Cherry caught in the middle, or had she played some more pivotal part in the murder than she’d shared so far?

Finley cleared her head. What difference did it make? More importantly, why now?