Olivia, on the other hand, had gone blonde and wore her hair around shoulder length—the way the twins had five years ago. According to her essentially inactive social media page, she had graduated from USC and worked at a small advertising firm. Her apartment was in a more modest area of San Diego. No record, not even a parking ticket. According to what Jack had learned from the mother, Olivia was headed to Nashville but wouldn’t arrive until late tonight. She’d wanted to do her interviews via Skype, but Jack nixed the idea. Not only did he want to interview the twins in person; he was well aware Judge Ruth O’Sullivan would never allow a remote deposition in a murder case unless there was simply no way around it.
Finley considered the Legard home. Elegant. European style situated on a large treed estate lot in one of the city’s grandest communities. The twins had attended a premier private school. A deeper search of social media prior to the father’s murder showed glamorous trips abroad and huge parties. In the many photos still available on the net, the two had been photographed more often with their doting father than with their mother.
Finley had studied the way the father looked at his daughters. Where his hands rested whenever he touched one or the other. Nothing overtly sexual. Cecelia and Olivia appeared as fond of him as he was of them. There were slightly more pics of Olivia with her father than of Cecelia. But not enough of a difference to represent any significant relevance.
The media snapshots taken during the trial had showed three women, mother and daughters, all seemingly equally devastated. Once the trial was over, the surviving Legards seemed to fade into the sunset. Olivia moved away, and Cecelia withdrew into the massive mansion. Sophia worked primarily behind the scenes, leaving the day-to-day operations of the family businesses to trusted staff. She was rarely mentioned in news released about the company. Her charity involvements landed her an occasional appearance in the Inside Nashville section of the Tennessean or a mention in the Nashville Lifestyles magazine.
Lance Legard had no history of noteworthy issues, personally or professionally, that had attracted unwanted attention. No lawsuits. No nasty rumors. He had either been very discreet or incredibly careful.
Finley started her car and eased away from the curb. Going from this neighborhood to her fixer-upper on Shelby Avenue was like moving from Neiman Marcus to Walmart. Not that she cared. She’d grown up in a house not unlike the Legard residence. More a museum than a home. When she and Derrick met, he’d been working on a fixer-upper on the East Side, and she’d felt more at home there than she’d ever felt in her condo on Woodmont Boulevard or her childhood home in Belle Meade.
A mere two weeks after they met, she had been spending more time at his place than her own. Barely a month later she’d leased her condo and moved in with Derrick. After what happened—in that very house—most who knew her didn’t understand why she kept staying in the fixer-upper that remained unfixed. Her husband had died there. She didn’t know a single one of her neighbors. People had come by after her release from the hospital to offer their support and/or sympathy. She didn’t recall their names. In all probability most were more curious about the murder in their neighborhood than in her well-being.
Over the past year, many of the houses along her block had been completely renovated, while hers remained a bit of an eyesore with its ragged siding and sagging front porch. Roof still leaked. A bucket to catch the rain was a fixture in the dinky hall. Inside, the walls were only partially done. Electrical wiring and plumbing remained exposed in some areas. The original floors were in great shape, comparatively speaking. Derrick had said those floors had been the main draw for him.
Finley nosed her car into her cracked driveway. Grass had sprouted in the gaps of concrete. Walking to the front door, she ignored the fact that the tiny yard desperately needed a good mowing. She should hire someone. The neighbors’ Fourth of July decor finally coordinated again with the stuff that had been hanging on her porch since July of last year. She’d meant to take it down, but each time she started, her mind played a nasty trick on her by replaying the night she and Derrick had hung those lights and the red, white, and blue decorations. Laughing. Lighting sparklers. She shook off the memories and unlocked the door.
As much as she loved those memories, they remained too tender to touch with any regularity.
After wrestling the box of files in from the front passenger seat, she shoved the door closed with one hip and hauled the unwieldy package into her living room.
For about ten seconds she stood still, eyes closed in the darkness. She allowed the memory of his voice to echo through her.