“All righty. Let me look back one second here.”
Finley’s heart thudded harder and harder as she waited for the news.
“Derrick Reed purchased the property on February twenty-second of last year.”
The bottom dropped out of Finley’s stomach. That couldn’t be correct. She and Derrick had met in March. They’d married in April and then . . .
“Thank you.” Finley cleared her throat. “This will really help.”
“Anytime,” Sandy assured her. “It’s terrible what happened to your husband.”
Finley managed a nod, then remembered Sandy couldn’t see her. “Yes, it was. Thank you again.”
Finley ended the call. Her body felt like ice. Her mind like a black hole. Why would Derrick have misled her about when he purchased the property? He’d told her at least a dozen stories about his ongoing reno over the months prior to their meeting.
She closed her eyes a moment and forced her mind to quiet. There would be a logical explanation. All she had to do was locate this Ted Walker.
A quick search of her favorite look-up service and she had a cell number for Walker. He was sixty-nine and had a wife named Suzy.
More pacing as she waited for an answer. The third ring and then a male voice. “Who’s this?”
“Mr. Walker?”
“That’s right. Who’s calling?”
“My name is Finley, and my husband bought the house on Shelby Avenue from you. Derrick Reed.”
“Yep, I remember him. Quite the persistent fella. He just showed up out of the blue one day and wanted to buy the place. He worried me to death, I’m here to tell you. I was in the middle of flipping it, and he just appeared and started throwing numbers at me. Wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
Her chest constricted. She forced a laugh. “That’s Derrick.”
“When the offer went high enough, I couldn’t say no. I asked him why he was so determined to buy that rundown place, and he said his wife had fallen in love with it. I guess he wanted to make you happy.”
Except she hadn’t been his wife at the time.
“Thank you, Mr. Walker. I appreciate you sharing this with me.”
“I sure was sorry to hear about his death. I hope you’re doing all right.”
“Thank you. I’m hanging in there.”
“Well, if it’s any comfort to you, I think he would have done anything to see that he got that house for you. Even when I told him I’d already planned out the place. Bought materials and all. He still wanted it.”
Finley swallowed. Found her voice. “You picked out vintage white cabinets for the kitchen?” Every part of her stilled in anticipation of the answer.
“Me and my wife—yes, ma’am. We went to dozens of places, searching through old cabinets. People love that vintage stuff.”
The urge to vomit rose in her throat. “You did a great job. They’re perfect.”
Walker rambled on for a bit, but very little of what he said sank in. Lies. Derrick had told her so many lies about the house. He’d gone on and on about his combing through junk and antique stores looking for just the right cottage-style cabinets.
When the call ended, she only stood there, looking around at the house she had believed was so much a part of their relationship—of him.
Her phone chimed with an incoming text message. She struggled to draw in a breath and forced herself to look at the screen. A text from Arlo, Jack’s favorite jailhouse snitch. She opened it and read the words.
Preacher had a visitor today.
Another message popped up. This one an image.
Finley stared at the photo for a long time. All other thoughts disappeared.
Sophia Legard.
Drake Motel
Murfreesboro Pike
Nashville, 1:20 p.m.
Finley parked in the slot next to Jack’s Land Rover right in front of the door to his rooms. The photo of Sophia Legard signing the visitor log to see the Preacher at Riverbend was startling to say the least. Particularly since Rudy Davis—the Preacher—was purportedly the best friend of Charles Holmes.
But even that eye-opener couldn’t shake the haze of disbelief shrouding her.
Derrick had lied to her.
Her cell rang, shattering the silence. She swallowed, accepted the call without even looking at the screen.
“O’Sullivan.”
“You coming in or what?”
Jack.
“Coming in.” She ended the call and grabbed her bag and keys.
He opened the door, and she walked in, thankful for the dim lighting and the morgue-like temperature. He’d cleaned up the mess, but the wall still looked like a surgery patient who hadn’t been sutured up after the operation.