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Shelby Avenue, Nashville
The house was dark when Finley’s eyes cracked open.
Pain crashed into her skull.
Hangover.
Blood all over her.
Two down, one to go.
Finley bolted upright. The spinning forced her eyes closed again. Whatever was in her stomach threatened to make a reappearance. Wine. Way too much wine. When she’d calmed the roiling in her gut and her brain had reset, she opened her eyes again. Her bedroom.
Matt.
She threw back the cover and settled her feet on the floor. More spinning. One, two, three ... up. Finley stood. A moment was required to steady herself in that upright position, and then she took a step. And another.
She found Matt asleep on the sofa. He’d tucked the cushions back into place.
Memories of him holding her in his lap, against his chest, rocking her like a baby as she sobbed, filtered through her mind. She had no idea how long he’d held her that way, and then he’d taken her to her room and tucked her into bed. She’d held on to his shirt, needing to feel him against her. Desperation had clawed at her with such ferocity that she’d been certain she wouldn’t survive the intensity of the need.
Instead of climbing into bed with her, he’d sat on the edge and stroked her hair, whispered assurances to her until the craving had settled and she’d fallen asleep. She’d slept like the dead.
Tark Brant is dead.
Dread dragged at her, making her want to collapse into a depleted heap on the floor.
She was part of the reason, and ... Finley searched her foggy brain ... she was glad. Not for a second would she feel regret or sympathy. The crush of his body on hers ... the feel of his hands and mouth suffocating her, tearing at her, made her stomach pitch.
Bastard. She was damned glad he was dead.
She stared again at Matt asleep on her sofa.
He’s in love with you—you know that, right?
No. No, he wasn’t. She’d told Derrick time and again that Matt was her friend. Her best friend. If there had ever been a question, last night had confirmed his feelings. She’d clung to him in those desperate moments, but he hadn’t wanted to go there.
Regret and humiliation funneled through her.
She had behaved like an idiot.
He had been the smart one.
She pushed the memory away; there was only one thing to do now. She had to get out of here. Facing Matt this morning would be way too hard. Too awkward.
Her bag in one hand, keys and phone in the other, she slipped out of the house and eased the door closed behind her. Thankfully Matt’s car was parked on the street. She slid behind the wheel of her Subaru and backed out of her driveway.
Though it was still dark, her gaze snagged on a figure standing beneath the streetlamp directly across from her house.
Nosy neighbor Helen Roberts. She was, as usual, staring at Finley. Her leashed dog at her feet, its head up, gaze following Finley just like its master’s.
Did the woman never sleep?
Finley waved, the movement robotic, and then rolled forward. At the cross street she braked. Stared down at herself. She couldn’t work in her sweats. She shifted her attention to the rearview mirror, thinking how easy it would be to go back home and get dressed.
No way.
On autopilot she drove the fifteen minutes to the Walmart on Powell Avenue. The parking lot was mostly empty. Who shopped before six in the morning? Only her, apparently.
