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“Your mother didn’t give me any grief for a change. You might want to check in with your dad and see if she’s okay.”
Finley chuckled. “It was probably the navy suit. That one really brings out the blue in your eyes.”
He grunted. “I may have cast a few charm spells in my time, but your mother was never one to fall victim.”
“I’m guessing this means we have news on the Winthrop case.”
“You got it. This is the good kind of news, though. Detective Ventura says you can do a walk-through of the crime scene. Give him a call. He’s available between now and two; then he has a meeting.”
“Good deal.” She and Ventura must be on the same wavelength. The worst part of investigating any case was the waiting for some sort of authorization. “I’ll call him now.”
“Catch up with me when you’re done for the day,” Jack said.
“Will do.”
Finley put her phone away and headed back to the table and her favorite forensic tech. “That was the boss. I’ve gotta run.”
Dennis stood. “We should do this again.” He gathered their lunch remains onto his tray. “You know, my brother is single now, and he’s always had a huge crush on you.”
“Thanks for the lunch and your expertise,” she said, dodging the comment. “Congrats again on the new baby.”
Finley hurried away. Part of her had wanted to explain to Dennis that she wasn’t interested in dating anyone. Just because her husband had been gone more than a year didn’t mean she was ready to move on.
Outside she slowed her pace. Caught her breath. At the Subaru door she hesitated before climbing inside. Why had the idea of moving on unsettled her so? Had her running for the nearest exit?
Derrick was dead.
Derrick had lied to her.
She swallowed a wad of emotion. Because she wasn’t ready to bury him—emotionally speaking—yet. She had to know everything first.
Living with the secrets wouldn’t work. She could not put him behind her until she knew all there was to know.
You may never know everything.
Matt had warned her. Jack too.
They were wrong. She would. Because she wouldn’t stop until she had what she wanted.
Winthrop Residence
Morningview Court, Brentwood, 1:30 p.m.
Finley parked at the curb outside the yellow tape that draped along the sidewalk and flanked the Winthrop property. She checked her teeth to ensure no lunch particles lingered, then climbed out. It was unseasonably warm, and she decided to leave her jacket behind. She tucked her cell into her bag and headed for the crime scene perimeter. She ducked under the tape and walked directly to the lanai, where Ventura waited.
Luckily the reporters hadn’t drifted back to the residence. Like her, they knew the victim’s spouse wouldn’t be coming back to the scene of the crime for a while.
“Thanks for meeting me,” Finley said as she approached the front door.
Ventura had already unlocked and opened it. He sported gloves and shoe covers. Noting her attention on his, he pulled a pair of each from his pocket for her.
“No problem,” he said. “Crime scene tours are part of the job.”
She slipped on the shoe covers, grateful for her practical flat mules—even if they were old. “Anything new on the investigation you can tell me about?”
He executed a tight shake of his head. “Nothing yet.” He raised his eyebrows. “You?”
“Nothing yet.” Finley tugged on the gloves. “Lead the way.”
