Olivia.
29
Olivia
11:30 p.m.
I park well down the street from my childhood home. It will be best if no one sees me going in, which is why I have to do this well after dark. Last night was extremely difficult because Cecelia refused to cooperate. I finally managed to force her into the gardening shed. Restraining her was yet another struggle. I have never felt such relief in my life as when she sat helpless before me, her hands and feet fully secured.
Well, that isn’t true. I felt incredibly relieved when I left nearly five years ago. Mother was going to see that Cecelia never had the opportunity to hurt anyone ever again. She would keep her in the house and tell everyone that she’d developed agoraphobia after Father’s murder.
Mother had set up a perfect life for me in San Diego. I wondered at the time if it was the life she wished she’d had. She hadn’t been happy in a very long time.
The plan seemed perfect. What could go wrong?
But then Charles Holmes started his crazy shit all over again. He is the reason our lives have fallen apart a second time.
The reason everything has turned upside down.
The reason I had no choice but to return.
My destination is the side gate Cecelia used back in high school for sneaking in and out at night. The key was hidden under one of the stones in the column. A little tug, and a stone comes free of its place—and there’s the key.
With a single twist I unlock the gate and slip through. Heart pounding, I hurry to the shed, the bottles of water and the snack crackers in my bag bouncing against my leg. I slow my breathing and remind myself I have everything under control now. This is for the best.
I creep inside without turning on the overhead light. The flashlight app on my cell helps me thread my way to the back, behind all the tables and shelves the gardeners and landscapers used over the years.
“I brought you—”
My breath catches.
She is gone.
My heart threatens to leap out of my chest. Cecelia is gone.
She might be anywhere. Doing anything. How in the world did she escape?
A crunch beneath my right shoe draws my attention to the floor. Cecelia has torn open a bag of wood-mulch nuggets and used the pieces to spell out a message.
YOU ARE DEAD.
30
Tuesday, July 12
9:00 a.m.
The Murder House
Shelby Avenue
Nashville
Finley used her towel to swipe the fog from the mirror over the bathroom sink. She finger combed her wet hair and trapped it into a ponytail. She still hadn’t found her hairbrush. She studied her reflection. Sighed. The circles under her eyes were darker than usual. Last night had been a long one.
After her meeting with Bethany, she’d called Jack, and they’d gone to talk to Olivia—who was, of course, nowhere to be found. She wasn’t at her hotel as Finley had instructed. Not that she’d actually expected her to be. Calling her cell got them nowhere.
Cecelia was still MIA. Her phone now went straight to voice mail on the first ring. The battery was dead.
Ultimately, they’d decided on a stakeout. Jack had taken the hotel where Olivia was supposed to be. He knew the manager, who’d insisted he use a comfy corner reading nook with a free tab for soft drinks and coffee.
Finley, on the other hand, had spent the better part of the night strolling the perimeter of the Legard property or sitting in her car eyeing the main entrance. If Cecelia had wanted her sister dead five years ago, maybe she still did. Finding both of them as quickly as possible was crucial.
A thermos of coffee and a couple of energy drinks had kept Finley’s eyes open all night. There were moments when she wasn’t sure she was actually awake. Reminded her of cramming before exams in college. During law school, since Matt had been a year ahead of her, he had always grilled her before exams. Only it was more like he was cross-examining her in a murder case than quizzing her for the coming test.
She smiled. She should call him and let him know what was going on. They hadn’t talked since—God, she couldn’t remember when. Her mind was a blur this morning.
Five days since she and Jack first interviewed the three Legard women, and every damned thing had gone to hell.
A firm series of knocks on the front door shook her from the sorts of thoughts one drifted into when sleep deprived. She checked her reflection one last time and headed for the front door. Another firm trio of knocks sounded before she reached her destination. A peek out the window told her the two suits on her porch were cops.
She hoped like hell they didn’t have another dead client. This was not looking good for Jack’s firm. She opened the door. “Did I win the lottery?”