Her hands closed over her face, and she sobbed for a moment. Finley draped an arm around her shoulders in a gesture of comfort. “I know this is difficult, but I need your help right now.”
Cecelia swiped at her eyes and nose and nodded her understanding.
“When was the last time you saw your mother alive?”
“At dinner last night. She was all upset. She had a call from someone that morning. She had to leave. She said it was urgent. But she acted strange after she came back. Even at dinner she just sat there at the table. Didn’t eat or drink or talk.”
The Preacher had claimed he’d called her. Evidently that part of his statement had been true. “Do you know who called her?”
Cecelia’s head swung side to side, more tears slipping down her cheeks. “She wouldn’t say, but I know she was going to that prison.”
“How do you know this, Cecelia?”
“Because she took money from the wall safe. She said she was going to pay someone to end all this so we wouldn’t have to worry anymore. Did she go visit him?”
“Who?” Finley asked, pretending not to know who she meant.
“Him,” she pressed. “Holmes?” Hope glinted in her eyes.
“Your old friend?” Finley pointed out.
“I didn’t know him.” Her gaze lowered to the sofa.
Definitely a lie. Finley opted not to go into what Bethany Briggs had told her at this point. “What time did you find your mother . . . still in bed?”
“I dreamed about bad things last night.” Cecelia reached for a bottle of water. The blanket fell away from her upper body. No sign of blood or injuries. “It woke me up over and over. And I kept hearing voices.” She opened the water and chugged several swallows.
“Are you sure the voices weren’t part of your dreams?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“But you eventually went to sleep and woke up this morning?”
She nodded. “I went downstairs, and later I went back up looking for her. I found her in the bed.” She stared at the water bottle in her hands, picked at the label.
“Can you tell me what you saw?”
“She was just lying there.” Her hand went to her chest. “There was that big knife from the kitchen in her chest.”
“You recognized the knife?”
She nodded. “I knew this would happen.”
“What do you mean?”
“Olivia. I knew she would kill us. You’ll see—I’ll be next. That’s why I hid. I knew she’d be back to finish the job.”
“How can you be sure it was Olivia?”
“She said she was going to do it. She said it was the only way she would ever be free.”
“Do you have any evidence she came into the house and did this?”
“Her fingerprints are probably on the knife, right?”
“Not if she wore gloves.”
“She knows the code to get into the house. It’s the only way someone could have come in without waking me up.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be enough to prove Olivia came into the house and hurt your mother. You could have hurt her and be trying to blame your sister.” Not to mention that the code hadn’t been changed in ages.
Cecelia’s eyes widened in panic. “She’s all I had. She took care of me. What am I supposed to do now? I don’t even know. Why would I hurt her?”
“Did you hurt your father?”
“No! I didn’t do anything. I told you this! The letter wasn’t mine. It’s him and her. How easy would it have been for her to copy my handwriting? They did this, and now they’re trying to frame me.”
“Who do you mean?”
“Holmes and Olivia. It was always them. They are the ones who started all this. Now they just want me out of the way so they can have everything.”
People had killed for a hell of a lot less. Not that Finley found Cecelia even remotely convincing.
“Your best friend from high school, Bethany,” Finley countered—it was time to go there now—“claims it was you who had a relationship with Holmes.” Bethany hadn’t claimed any such thing, but she’d been lying or—at the very least—evading. Either way, Finley wasn’t above stretching the truth to prompt an honest response.
“Bethany is lying.” Cecelia held Finley’s gaze as if she might actually be telling the truth now. “She’s the one who was obsessed with him.”
And just like that, a hint at the real story popped out.