The Last Lie Told (Finley O’Sullivan, #1)(88)

Somehow Charles Holmes had prompted all this with his decision to request a new trial.

Had this been his ultimate goal? A showdown of some sort between the three women closest to Lance Legard?

Drawing all the players back into this sick game of who did it?

Finley started moving again. When she reached another corridor that went left and right, she paused once more. She didn’t see anything resembling a door in either direction. Didn’t hear a damned sound.

She hadn’t seen any other vehicle. But Cherry had said she’d been in a trunk. Cecelia must have driven her mother’s car since she didn’t have one of her own. If Olivia was here, where was her rental car? Finley supposed one or both could have parked anywhere and walked to their destination.

She moved on. The silence had a sort of swell about it, as if she were underwater. A creepy feeling tapped its way up her spine. Up ahead, she saw a door on the right. About time. She was beginning to think there was nothing down here but empty corridors to nowhere.

“I knew you’d find us.”

Finley whirled around. Cecelia stood a few yards behind her. She appeared uninjured. Her jeans were muddy. Her pink tee was stretched and wrinkled as if someone had tried tugging it off her. Her short shaggy brown hair stood in tufts here and there as if she’d been wearing a hat. A large canvas bag or purse hung on her shoulder, rested against her hip.

Where was the gun?

Finley ordered her heart rate to slow. For the good it would do.

“Are you all right, Cecelia?”

She nodded. “I’m glad you came. We’re all here. To finish this.”

Finley ignored the pulse pounding louder in her ears. “What can I do to help?”

Cecelia walked directly up to Finley, grabbed her hand, and pulled her forward. “You can be the jury.”

Finley didn’t argue. Just allowed herself to be tugged forward. They rushed along the dimly lit corridor until they reached a door on the right. Cecelia opened the door and entered more slowly, almost warily.

Finley stayed close behind her. An overturned table and several chairs sat in a disorganized pile. Boxes, taped and labeled, stood in precarious stacks. That dusty, closed-up smell crowded into Finley’s lungs.

A gasp echoed from somewhere deeper inside. “Help me . . .”

The soft cry drew Finley’s attention to the corner on the other side of the room. Cherry sat huddled into herself, her knees pressed against her chest, her arms locked around her legs. There was blood on her forehead.

“You okay?” Finley asked.

Cherry lifted her head to meet Finley’s gaze. “I think so.”

“She’s only here because I was afraid you wouldn’t come otherwise.” Cecelia pointed to the other woman.

Finley gave her a nod. “I understand. How do we begin?” She dismissed thoughts of whether the gun was in Cecelia’s bag and focused on the moment.

“She’ll kill us all,” Cherry warned. “She has a gun!”

Now that Cherry had brought it up, Finley turned back to Cecelia to ask about the gun. She was tugging at her hair.

But it wasn’t Cecelia. Blonde. It was Olivia.

Wait. Wait. Wait. Finley studied the woman. Her blonde hair was tousled and lopsided.

Not her hair. A wig.

The muddy jeans and wrinkled pink tee were what Cecelia had been wearing.

A fresh wave of adrenaline fired through Finley. The wig—expensive, realistic. She glanced at Cecelia’s—or whoever’s—hands. No flashy red nails like Olivia’s. Stick-on nails? Was it the residual glue that Cecelia had always been picking at? An almost calming rush of knowing rolled through Finley. There was only one twin.

The question was, Which one?

Olivia or Cecelia reached into the bag and drew out a handgun.

Finley steadied herself and addressed the woman based on who she appeared to be for the moment. “Olivia, you don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“She’s guilty too.” Olivia gestured to Cherry. “But that’s not why we’re here.” Her attention shifted to Finley then. “It’s about what Cecelia thinks I did.” The hand holding the weapon wobbled. “I need to clear my name.”

“What does Cecelia think you did, Olivia?”

“She thought it was me,” she said, her chin lifting in defiance. “But it wasn’t me.”

“I don’t understand. Can you be more specific?” Finley felt the phone in her back pocket vibrate. If she was lucky, it was Matt. When she didn’t answer, he would come.

She knew he would.

He never let her down.

“She thought I killed him, but I didn’t.” Olivia’s eyes flashed with emotion. “I loved him. I would never hurt our father.” She shook her head, the wig flopping precariously. “She said she saw me, but it was a lie. She just said it to make Mother hate me. It’s the only possible explanation.”

“It was him,” Cherry screamed. “Charles Holmes killed your daddy. You know that, you crazy bitch.”

Olivia turned to Cherry, the gun shaking in her hand. “Shut up, you whore!”

“Olivia,” Finley urged, “it was Holmes. It wasn’t you. We know it wasn’t you.” She had to bring the tension down a notch or two.

“Cecelia said she saw me.” Olivia pounded on her chest with her free hand. “She said I stabbed him over and over. And Mother believed her. Mother always loved Cecelia more than me. She shouldn’t have believed her.”