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1
The Murder
Sunday, September 18
9:35 a.m.
Winthrop Residence
Morningview Court, Brentwood
This had been an enormous error.
She shouldn’t have permitted the indulgence.
She should have been stronger. Need was weakness. No one knew this better than her. Trusting him had been a mistake.
She smiled. Well, perhaps she had notreallytrusted him. She’d spent so much time “in character” lately that at times it was difficult to step back. Actually, all had gone entirely according to plan.
Now it was time to finish this.
It was him or her, and it was not going to be her.
She smiled again. It was always going to be him.
Self-preservation was something she had learned at an early age. In this instance, outwitting him had not been so complicated. He wasa mere man, after all. A cheater, a thief, the sort that thought only of himself when the chips were down.
She hadn’t expected more from him.
The sound of water spewing from the dozen or so body sprayers in the shower abruptly stopped, leaving only the soft music from his chosen playlist and the knowledge of what must be done.
She waited and watched. Patience was essential at this pivotal moment. From her position near the door, she observed him stepping from the shower, droplets sliding over contoured muscle and slipping down tanned flesh. He reached for the towel, wiped his eyes and face first, then started the methodical ritual of smoothing the thick cotton over his body.
He adored his body. Was completely absorbed in admiring himself as he swept the towel over his skin. So much so he didn’t even notice her approach. Never sensed her presence. A tragic lapse in judgment.
She was quite close behind him before he recognized her presence. Likely noticed her scent. Every woman possessed a unique scent, whether she chose to wear perfume or not. A man—especially a man who had been with her—recognized her scent.
She drew back her chosen weapon like a baseball bat as he turned, surprise marring his handsome face. She swung the weapon with all her might, twisting through her hips and driving hard into her target. The blow connected with his temple, sent vibrations along her arms, and propelled him forward. He went down. His head bounced off the tiled curb of the shower as he landed on the floor.
She stood over him to ensure the job was done ... to witness the not-so-grand finale. He stared up at her. He didn’t move. Likely couldn’t. But he could see as the last moments of his life narrowed to this one unexpected instant. She wanted him to know who had ended his game ... his life.
She smiled as the essence of him slipped from his gaze.
It was done.
Now, she drew in a deep breath and tossed the weapon aside. Time for the most important role of her life.
2
5:15 p.m.
Brentwood Police Department
Maryland Way, Brentwood
Finley O’Sullivan climbed from behind the wheel of her Subaru and fished around in the back seat for her emergency meet-a-client business jacket. Sunday was the one day each week she set entirely aside for following up on certain personal things. It wasn’t a day she dressed for work.
Frankly, there were a lot of things she didn’t do on Sundays that other people did. She didn’t do church. She didn’t do family dinners or even visit family. Finley had stopped feeling guilty for those abandoned customs more than a year ago, when her husband was murdered.
