Frustrated, hot, and exhausted, she grabbed the shovel and headed to the garage just in time for the rain. Was it supposed to rain? She stared up at the sky. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d watched the weather news.
Ignoring the rain, she walked around the rear corner of the house, and her gaze collided with that of Helen Roberts. Her fuzzy white lapdog tugging at the leash, she gave Finley a nod from beneath her umbrella and walked on across the street.
Finley ducked into the garage feeling completely foolish. She tucked the shovel away. She’d forgotten the gloves. Didn’t care. She was done. She kicked off the boots, closed off the garage, and plodded back to the house as the rain grew heavier.
She needed a shower. She had that damned party this afternoon.
Cranking up the heat on the tap, she climbed into the shower and stood there until her skin felt blistered. She washed her hair, forced herself to go through the motions of washing her skin and shaving the necessary areas. She should probably wear a dress to the party. She had one somewhere. She’d gone a little overboard after quitting the DA’s office and burned half her wardrobe in the backyard firepit. She never wanted to dress that part again.
She rubbed the towel over her hair, then wrapped it around her body. When she’d first started at Jack’s firm, she’d had a hard time getting into the groove. A few weeks later she had hit her stride, and life had purpose again.
She refused to allow whatever was going on with their damned clients or Metro and her husband’s case to pull her back to that dark place. She’d worked too hard to escape. In whatever way this new detective tried to find some way to make Derrick look like the bad guy—or Finley, for that matter—she knew who the bad guy was. She knew why her husband was dead.
Before she could close that door, memories flooded her.
The murder weapon hadn’t been found. The medical examiner had believed the weapon to be a baseball bat or other rounded club. Since they’d had nothing like that in the house, the perps had obviously brought it with them.
She and Derrick had made love that night. Showered together. Finley had grabbed a towel and rushed to the kitchen to turn off the oven. She’d almost forgotten about the meat loaf. As she turned to go back to the bedroom, someone attacked her from behind. The first blow to the back of her head had put her down. Rattled her for several seconds.
She’d seen the boots. Black. Like hunting boots. Whatever trousers the intruder had worn had been tucked into those boots or concealed in some other way. She’d heard the yelling. Objects shattering. The grunts. More shouts.
At first she’d had to drag herself across the floor. Eventually she’d risen up onto her hands and knees. She saw the boots again. Saw Derrick’s naked legs. Blood on the floor. Struggling. Then she’d seen Derrick’s face. Eyes unblinking. Blood trickling down his skin. Then the kick to her side.
He was there . . . over her. But he wasn’t alone. There were three. She’d gotten glimpses, but those brief images were enough.
The one who’d raped her had whispered that message in her ear. You take something from me. I take something from you. Then there was nothing.
She’d awakened two days later in the hospital, her father on one side of her, Matt on the other. For weeks she hadn’t been able to remember many details. Then, as the investigation played out and her frustration had grown, she’d started to remember bits and pieces. She’d tried explaining what she recalled, but no one had believed her. Over time more fragments had come to her, but by then her statements had been deemed irrelevant and unreliable, so she’d stopped talking and decided to find the evidence she needed on her own.
But what if she’d been wrong all this time?
The idea shook her to the very core of her being. Derrick hadn’t been completely truthful with her. There could be a perfectly logical explanation . . . but what if he—
The shrill of her cell phone pierced the air, jerking her back to the present.
Finley headed in that direction, her legs shaking just a little. Reliving those memories still had that effect on her. She’d been raped, yes, but most of that horrific act had occurred while she was unconscious. The realization made her sick still, yet the other feelings she’d expected were oddly missing. She didn’t want to feel any of it. Those emotions would make her weak. Would make her hesitate going forward.
Another ring, the sound seeming far too loud, as she fished around the sofa cushions for her phone. By the time she found it, a third ring had screamed at her.