She considered the idea again.
Wasn’t that really the same thing?
Only the rules of play were different.
11
Cecelia
10:55 p.m.
Legard Residence
Lealand Lane
Nashville
They want everyone to believe it was me.
I know they do.
I know she does.
After all this time, how dare she come back and act as if she did nothing wrong. It was her. She loved making everyone believe I was the bad daughter. She was no angel. She just never got caught.
Even now she is fearless. She realizes this new person investigating the case will find her out, and still she dares to pretend she is innocent.
I smile. I hope Finley O’Sullivan finds the truth. Then it will all be over. I never have to be afraid of my sister again. Ever.
Look at her. She acts as if she is too clever to be caught. Slipping in, slipping out. If she makes a mistake, they will find a way to blame me. I am all too familiar with how her mind works. How they work together.
Finley O’Sullivan lies asleep in her bed. Did she not lock the door? She seemed so much smarter. She knows things. Sees things. I watched her when she wasn’t looking at me. She’s more than simply smart . . . she feels things deeply.
The cell phone camera focuses on her face. Her wide mouth. I like her lips. It’s too bad ours aren’t fuller. Olivia and I always hated our lips. Maybe if things had been different, one or both of us would have had some augmentation done. My wicked sister is thinking about the same thing. That’s why she has the camera so focused on this investigator’s lips.
Finley sleeps in an oversize tee. Probably belonged to her dead husband. I find it ironic that she lives in that house after her husband was murdered there. The killer did things to her too. The news articles I found on the net didn’t spell out all the details, but I read between the lines. Her husband was murdered right in front of her. Then she was knocked unconscious. When she woke, she was restrained. Then she was raped. Beaten. The articles said she almost died.
I wonder if she realizes how close to death she is at this very moment with my evil twin looming over her. The soft flutter of her pulse at the base of her throat could be stopped with little effort.
My heart beats more quickly. I don’t want her to go away. I like her.
The camera scans over Finley’s room. It’s too dark to make out the details of the interior of the house. Quite shabby. The visual moves through the back door and into the yard. It’s too dark to see. Then the video sent to me via text ends.
What would my sister do if I called the police and told them what she had done?
She would only find a way to blame me.
It wouldn’t matter that I’m a prisoner in this house. Or that my nightmare has never ended and likely never will.
This is my sentence for the part I played in what happened.
I close my eyes and throw my phone across the bed.
Someone else will die.
There is no way to stop what is happening. Not now. Not with the cat out of the bag.
I can only brace for what is coming next.
And hope it won’t be me who ends up dead.
12
Friday, July 8
7:00 a.m.
The Murder House
Shelby Avenue
Nashville
Two cups of coffee down, Finley checked her bag once more to ensure she had everything she would need. Spiral with her notes. Relying on her memory was something she’d learned the hard way didn’t always work out. Two pens, one pencil. ID, wallet, dental floss, and breath mints. Along with a fresh stack of business cards.
She’d gone over today’s plan with Jack, and he’d signed off on it. Her actions reflected on him, so she attempted to be cautious, particularly when her intent was to bend the rules by bribing prison personnel and basically trampling all over the rules of evidence.
Nothing more than a typical day’s work, and nothing like the “color only within the lines” work she used to do.
When she’d awakened this morning, her first thought was of Detective Wellman. Usually Derrick was her first thought. In that moment before fully waking up, her mind would bring him into focus and she could almost feel him next to her, hear him breathing. But then her mind moved into full consciousness and reality rammed its way deep inside her like a knife.
But today she hadn’t suffered that sharp, piercing pain of personal loss because she’d thought of Wellman and his death. Why would he commit suicide? Why had he called her that same day? It made no sense at all. She’d picked up nothing that suggested he felt at his wit’s end or despondent during their last conversation. She should ask Matt the name of the detective investigating his death. There had to be something more. Maybe like Montrose, Wellman had learned he was dying. Still didn’t make sense.