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This was home. She surveyed the small dark structure, which still desperately needed a coat of paint on the exterior. The small front porch continued to lean to one side. Definitely not Brentwood. She did a mental eye roll. She’d grown up in Belle Meade in a house that was more a museum than a home. After law school she’d come back to Nashville, landed the job as an assistant district attorney for Davidson County, and snatched up a highly sought-after condo on Woodmont Boulevard.
She’d made it, right?
The Judge had been thrilled, and her father couldn’t have been prouder of her. All had been right in the world.
Then, a few years later, everything changed.
Meeting Derrick Reed had drawn her to this east-side fixer-upper. It was a dump. Truly in every definition of the word, but Derrick had assured her that he’d been working on it for months and had big plans. Several houses in the neighborhood had already been transformed. He had been so excited about doing the same with this place. Oddly enough,she’d felt more at home here than she had anywhere else. It could have been a tent, and she would probably have felt utter happiness as long as she was with Derrick. His plans and dreams had made her feel so alive. Had made her want to grab a hammer and a paintbrush and help him. Except she’d always been working. He’d insisted that she needn’t worry. While she fought evil and saved the world, he would turn this dump into their dream home, he’d promised. Even now, with all that she knew, the memory prompted a tiny smile while emotion threatened to leak from her eyes.
None of those things had happened.
Finley forced the memories away. It was late. She was tired.
She pushed open her car door and got out. Grabbed her bag and shoved the door closed. Bugs flitted around the bare bulb struggling to light the front porch. As she climbed the steps, a cat scurried from under the yellow glider. The cat was fairly new. He’d shown up about a month ago, staying a night here and there. After the first week, she’d started leaving food and water out for him. Probably a mistake, but the animal had been too skinny, and she’d felt sorry for him.
The scraggly cat fit with the shabby house.Shabbymight be an understatement. Besides the exterior being in need of paint and the grass being more brown than green, the last surviving shrub planted by the previous owners had died during the long, dry weeks of August. Week before last her dad had come over and planted a rosebush. He’d insisted the place needed brightening up.
So far, the rosebush was still alive. Part of her suspected her dad dropped by and watered it since she had a history of forgetting that part of gardening. She glanced across the street. Or maybe her flower-enthusiast, nosy neighbor had done the honors. She seemed to spend most of her time watching the place.
Finley shoved her key into the lock and opened the door. Inside she clicked on the overhead light. “Home sweet home.”
You’re home late. Have you eaten?The memory of Derrick’s voice echoed through her.
That was Derrick. Always worried about her, always ready to help. Of course, her answer had consistently been no. Work consumed her life. She had no time to eat. If not for Matt and her dad, she would likely never eat. As for being late, she always got home late. Still did. Like tonight.
After tossing her bag on the couch, she ran her fingers through her hair and pulled her ponytail holder loose. The fresh coat of serene blue paint Jack and Matt had helped her apply to the walls, along with the clean white added to the ceiling and trim, had brightened things up inside. There was still a lot to be done. A bucket remained in the tiny hall for when it rained, since the roof continued to leak in that spot.
After what had happened—in this very house—most people didn’t understand why she stayed in the unfixed fixer-upper. It certainly wasn’t because she had friends who lived on the block. In fact, she didn’t actually know any of her neighbors. Except for the nosy one across the street, Helen Roberts, and she didn’t really know her beyond her name and strange staring habits.
Afterthatnight, many who lived on the block had dropped by to offer sympathy. All insisted they were there to help with anything she needed. Finley figured most were probably more curious about the murder in their neighborhood than interested in her well-being. The curiosity didn’t bother Finley, since it had faded just as quickly as it had appeared.
The one thing that had stuck—at least in Finley’s mind—was the moniker a local reporter had used. He had dubbed thisthemurder house. Finley couldn’t think of it any other way.
Her husband had died here.
When she looked back, the part that still held an unrelenting grip on her throat was that she should have known something bad was coming.
The vague threats that had begun during the early pretrial preparations in the case against Dempsey’s son had returned with fervor. Finley had recognized she was being watched. Ambiguous warnings, like a flat tire when it was time to go home at the end of the day or the front door standing open when she arrived. Not actually surprised by the tactics,Finley had diligently reported the incidents to Briggs, her boss, and he had without hesitation or consideration dismissed her concerns. She was overreacting. He was busy.
Frankly, she had surmised from the beginning that Briggs hadn’t really wanted to pursue the Dempsey case and, in the end, hadn’t at all liked sharing the resulting limelight with her. Not much of a stretch was required to assume he might even have secretly enjoyed that she had to deal with some sort of repercussions. He was only human, after all, right?
Finley had her doubts on that one. Though after Derrick’s death, Briggs had at least pretended to regret his dismissal of her concerns.
Too little, too late.
Finley walked into the kitchen and opened the cupboard next to the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of wine. As was her nightly ritual, she opened it and poured a glass. When she had downed a good portion, she refilled her glass and headed back to the living room, the bottle in her left hand.
There was comfort in routine, right?
If there had been any doubt as to who was responsible for Derrick’s murder, Brant, the bastard who’d raped her, had cleared those up with his harshly whispered message.
You take something from me. I take something from you.
She hadn’t remembered his message until months after the hospital and rehab stays. In fact, the detectives working the investigation had grown more than a little frustrated by that point with what they’d called her lack of cooperation. Butthatnight had been too fuzzy in the beginning, and she had been too damaged to allow the memories back in.
Eventually, she’d noticed the eyes watching her again. Slowly the moments from the invasion of her home and the attack had surfaced and started to clarify. She had recalled the faces of the invaders first.
When Finley was strong enough, she had turned the tables on the three bastards. She had watched them the same way they watched her.
