“Don’t ask me,” she warned. Though she wholeheartedly agreed with him, some part of her understood she was in no position to judge anyone.
At the gate to the Legard residence, she pressed the call button, then provided their names. The towering iron gates slowly swung inward. She silenced her phone and focused on the primary questions that stood out after reading the file. Why would Holmes come forward half a decade later with this earthshaking news? Had he decided spending the rest of his natural life in prison was not as much fun as he’d first thought? Not that overturning this one murder conviction would change his sentence. Maybe he was merely looking for a little more media attention? Maybe he was bored. Wanted a book deal.
Or revenge.
If a member of the family had paid him to clean up the mess, was there supposed to have been more money? Possibly some other promise had not been kept. Money wasn’t necessarily a surefire way to guarantee a successful prison break. What did he have to gain? Nothing, as far as Finley could see.
Revenge. Had to be.
How was Jack connected to the family?
She glanced at her boss as they readied to exit the vehicle. Something about this case had shaken him to the core. More importantly, why was it—whatever it was—a secret?
Finley studied him over the top of her Subaru as she closed her door. “Anything else I should know, Jack?”
He straightened his jacket. Tugged at his tie one last time. “That’s what we’re here to find out.”
Just what she’d expected. A nonanswer.
They walked side by side across the cobblestones and up the wide steps. “I hope you were able to sleep last night after sleeping all day.”
“Like a rock.” He removed his sunglasses and tucked them into a pocket. “That’s what Ambien is for.”
A frown needled at her. “Wasn’t Ambien blamed in a sleepwalking murder once?” she asked. “Wait, no—it was like a whole crop of cases.”
He rolled his eyes. “We’re not having this conversation.”
She moistened her lips to hide a smile. No man liked admitting he needed assistance for anything. Jack was no exception.
A press of the doorbell, and a tune of double notes echoed through the house. “When you wake up on the roof of the Drake or in the middle of the freeway naked, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
The door opened before he could fire off a comeback. Finley had anticipated a member of the household staff would greet them, but she had guessed wrong.
Sophia Legard, looking as regal as ever, stood before them. Her dark hair was cut and styled in an elegant blown-back bob, revealing smooth skin highlighted with just the right amount of makeup. As in her media photos, it was her green eyes that grabbed your attention. Wide, watchful. Cautious, maybe. She wore a sophisticated black formfitting dress.
“Good morning,” Finley offered, propping a smile in place. “I’m Finley O’Sullivan.”
Sophia blinked at Finley and immediately turned her attention to the boss. “Jack, we’re so glad you’re here.” She opened the door wider and ushered Jack inside, her arm entwining with his.
First-name basis. Touchy feely. Note to self: What the hell, Jack?
Finley followed, closing the door behind her.
The vast foyer was exactly what Finley had expected. Lavish. Museum-like. She should have felt right at home, except she hadn’t felt at home where she’d grown up in a long time now.
Derrick had changed everything. Her heart skipped a beat.
She blinked away the painful distraction.
“Knowing you would be here is the only reason I slept at all last night,” Sophia said as she glided along the marble floor like an otherworldly being in a wisp of black silky smoke curling around Jack in his handsome navy suit.
At a towering set of french doors, they entered a grand parlor decorated in the same untouchable luxury. Perched on a long white sofa was Cecelia Legard with her shaggy dark hair. She didn’t look up. Her attention remained transfixed on her fingers where they lay knotted in her lap. Her dress was a charcoal gray, almost black as well. Unlike her mother, who wore designer shoes with daggerlike heels, Cecelia’s feet were bare; her toenails, like her fingernails, were short and unpainted.
“Cecelia, you remember Jack,” Sophia said to her daughter.
Cecelia glanced up at Jack and gave a vague nod.
“Cecelia,” he said.
“This is his associate, Finley O’Sullivan.” Sophia gestured to Finley.
Cecelia gave Finley the same sort of acknowledgment.