“Come on, Cherry,” Finley said as she extended her hand toward the other woman. “Let’s go. Your son will wonder where you are.”
Cherry pushed away from the wall and walked toward Finley. Next to her, Cecelia stiffened. Finley slid an arm around her and whispered, “It’s okay now.”
Finley wasn’t sure she would ever fully understand how she managed to usher the two women out of there without one attacking the other, but somehow she did. When they reached the outside, the sounds of sirens filled the air, and lights flashed from the tops of police cruisers and at least one ambulance.
Finley couldn’t recall when she’d been so glad to see the cops.
Matt came rushing toward them. Jack was right behind him.
Finley blinked back the moisture collecting in her eyes. Not tears. Just something in her eyes.
The case hadn’t ended the way she had expected, but that was life. You rarely got to choose the ending.
33
Saturday, July 16
9:30 a.m.
The Murder House
Shelby Avenue
Nashville
Finley sat in the rickety glider on her porch. It, too, had come with the house. The yellow paint was flaking and there was some rust, but she didn’t care. She was content just sitting there with the biggest mug she owned filled with freshly brewed coffee.
Been a hell of a week.
An understatement for sure. A big one. Cecelia Legard was being evaluated at Vanderbilt Psychiatric Hospital. She had been the one to thrust the knife into her mother’s chest. The effort was to somehow tie her death to their father’s, since she believed Olivia had killed them both. Cecelia had been treated for borderline personality disorder since she was twelve. After murdering her twin sister, she appeared to have developed dissociative identity disorder.
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.