The Last Lie Told (Finley O’Sullivan, #1)(92)

The truth was, no one could actually say if it was Olivia who was dead or Cecelia. None of the medical records mentioned identifying marks or characteristics of either twin. The truth had died with Sophia.

The remains of the murdered twin were being excavated from the Legard backyard.

Charles Holmes would get a new trial, but it wouldn’t be the one he wanted. He had murdered Officer Keaton—he’d admitted the crime to his sister. His sister, Cherry Prescott Inglewood, was only too happy to use that information to lighten her own sentence. She was taking a plea deal for the murder of Lance Legard. Charles refused to give a statement for or against her. Funny thing was, if he hadn’t been trying to wield control over his sister after she stopped visiting him, none of this would have happened. He’d done exactly what he’d hated his father for doing—trying to control the people he cared about.

A truly sick, sadistic man.

Cherry had admitted to taking Alisha Arrington’s driver’s license. They’d been in the same deli, and Cherry was desperate to figure out a way to go see Charles, thus keeping him happy without officially being tied to him.

District Attorney Briggs hadn’t said a word to Finley, but he had congratulated Jack for saving the taxpayers the cost of a new trial in the Legard case and for helping to see that justice was done.

The case was closed. Finley had rescheduled her trip to the lake house with her dad. She needed some time away, and her dad deserved some of her attention.

All work and no play have never led to happiness.

Derrick had reminded her all the time that she worked too hard, but he’d never complained. Never tried to change her.

Why did you lie to me, Derrick?

Like the identity of the surviving twin, the answer was one she might never find. Could she live with that?

Maybe. She thought of her dad and Jack and the firm. Matt too. She could probably live without the answer. There were people who needed her. People who loved her.

But she wasn’t giving up on proving who killed her husband. The bastard who’d taken him would not get away with what he’d done. The two remaining minions who had carried out his order wouldn’t either. No one could blame her for wanting justice. She wasn’t planning anything, but if the opportunity arose . . .

Finley sipped her coffee.

It was an oddly cool morning for mid-July. Her favorite weather guy had promised that would change by noon and the temps would hit near triple digits. It was going to be a long, hot summer.

Jack’s Land Rover rolled to a stop in front of her house. She sat up straighter. She hadn’t expected to see him this morning. He was supposed to be spending the weekend relaxing.

“Morning,” he called as he climbed out and walked to the back of his vehicle. He wore paint-stained jeans and a tee.

“Morning.” She stood, sipped her coffee again before putting it aside. “What’re you doing here?”

Not that she wasn’t happy to see him. He pulled two cans of paint from the Rover and headed up her walk.

“I came to paint,” he announced. He plopped the cans on the porch and strode back to his vehicle.

She walked over, stared down at the cans, read the label. Serene Blue.

“Blue?” She didn’t have a problem with blue, but did she want to be surrounded by it?

“It’s calming,” he announced as he returned to the porch with an armload of painting tools. Pan, brush, roller, and cover.

“You think I need calming?”

He glanced at her, gave a wink. “Don’t we all?”

He was right, she supposed. “So you’re not feeling the need for a drink?” Playing the part of fixer-upper seemed to be his primary coping mechanism when the urge grew too strong.

“Nope. Just tired of looking at this dump.”

Good point. “You want coffee?”

“Absolutely.”

“I’ll make a fresh pot.”

While Jack hauled in drop cloths and more paint, she set another pot to brew. She wandered to the porch behind him and out to the sidewalk. He grabbed two more cans of paint and headed back in.

She should change and give him a hand. The physical activity would be good. She’d already decided to start running again. When she turned back to the house, the door of her mailbox snagged her attention.

A couple of envelope corners jutted out of the partially open door. Jesus, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d checked her mail. She opened the door, and mail tumbled out. Not in a while, obviously.

She gathered the pile and went back into the house. “Give me a minute, and I’ll change so I can help.”

“It would definitely go faster that way.” He was already draping drop cloths around the living room.

She couldn’t say she would miss the grayish-white, stained walls. She and Derrick had talked about using earth tone natural colors. But blue worked.

In the kitchen she opened the trash can and started tossing junk mail. She set the utility bills aside. The hand-addressed letter stuck between two mail-order catalogs seemed out of place. She pulled it free of the junk mail, threw out the rest, and wandered back to the living room.

No name of the sender or return address on front or back. She ripped the envelope open and found a single folded page. Handwritten. She glanced down the page at the signature.

Martin Wellman.

Her gaze shot back to the top of the page. The letter was dated Wednesday, July 6. The day he died.