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One call was from her gynecologist’s office reminding her that she’d missed her annual exam and should reschedule. She would be billed a no-show fee since she’d failed to cancel the appointment.
Finley rolled her eyes. “Whatever.”
Message number two was from the public utilities company reminding her that her power would be disconnected if she did not pay her bill.
Finley groaned.
Nita had noted along the bottom that she had paid the bill and that Finley should set up autopay.
Another eye roll, and Finley was on to message number three.
Her appointment with Dr.Mengesha was at eleven this morning. Normally Finley would reschedule when in the middle of a case (and sometimes when there was no case), but not this time. Winthrop had been a patient of Mengesha’s a few months back. Not that Finleyexpected him or anyone on his staff to tell her anything, but she would ask anyway. The response wasn’t always in what a person said but in the physical reaction—the eyes, the face, the posture—when asked.
Between now and then, Finley had plenty of time to follow up on a couple of items on her checklist. So far, she had interviewed those closest to Winthrop. The women who worked at Winthrop’s firm were her friends, close friends. She felt confident the women weren’t entirely unbiased. Laney Pettit wasn’t either. Finley needed to dig deeper.
Winthrop apparently had no friends outside work other than Pettit. No big surprise when it came to the all-work-and-no-play crowd. Ensconced firmly in that same category, Finley basically had none either. She frowned at the idea. Actually, she supposed Matt counted, since they didn’t work at the same place. But he was more like family. There was the other issue with digging up details on Winthrop. She had no family. No siblings. Both parents were deceased. Finley needed to dig deeper. Someone had raised Winthrop ... been a friend before her rise in the financial world.
Perhaps more important than what Finley didn’t have on Winthrop was what she didn’t have on Grady. She needed significantly more information on Jarrod Grady. Winthrop insisted she was not aware of him having any family or close friends. But she knew the name of his former employer—Imagine It, a well-known event-planning agency.
If you can imagine it, we can make it happen!
Finley checked the time: not quite eight. Since the Imagine It office wouldn’t be open, she would need to try a home visit. A few clicks on the internet, and she had the owner’s name and address.
Another woman.
This was good. A woman would surely be more sympathetic to Winthrop’s plight. Sympathy could lead to sharing.
Finley found her toothbrush and, oddly enough, a spare hairbrush and disappeared into the bathroom long enough to make herself slightly more presentable.
Before leaving the office, Finley logged on to the utilities website and set up autopay for her monthly fees. Nita would be proud of her.
On the way out she thanked the drill sergeant for the messages and the great coffee.
At the door, Finley paused. “I signed up for autopay, by the way. Thanks for the reminder and for bailing me out.”
Nita gave her a nod. “Good. You should have done it months ago.”
If Finley had expected a pat on the back, she had been wrong. But Nita was right. She should have done this months ago.
There were many things Finley had fallen behind on. Guilt settled on her chest. One was thanking her friend Matt for taking care of her all the times he had since Derrick’s murder. Like last night.
She owed him. She adored and appreciated him even if she didn’t always show it.
But there was so much she couldn’t tell him.
She slid behind the wheel of her Subaru. Like watching a man get murdered just last night. Showering his blood off her skin. Burning her bloody clothes. Not going to the police.
Finley forced away the memories.
Sharing those details wouldn’t help anyone.
Unless the girlfriend ended up charged with the bastard’s murder. Whitney would spew Finley’s name in a heartbeat.
Worry nagged at her. Finley hoped like hell that didn’t happen. Convincing her parents, her boss, her best friend—not to mention the police—that she hadn’t killed anyone and that the shooting had all been as big a surprise to her as it was to them would be like trying to move a mountain with a shovel.
No easy feat.
Besides, Tark Brant had gotten what he deserved, just as his cohort Billy Hughes had.
