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A voice Finley had silenced about a year ago attempted to resurrect and remind her that she was—had been—an attorney, an officer ofthe court. She knew better. She should be ashamed of what she had allowed to happen last night ... of her failure to report the crime to the authorities.
But she wasn’t.
The reality that she had become someone else gnawed at her. She thought of the shattered mirror in her bathroom. The broken pieces of her reflection.
Her grip on the steering wheel tightened. Too late for regrets now.
Besides, there was something to be said for seeing both sides of the story. A good district attorney should look more deeply. Like Briggs was ever going to do that.
Maybe it was time someone put the good old boy out of office. Someone who lived in the real world. Someone who had actually suffered some of the sadder realities of life.
Like you?
The idea startled Finley. Had to be last night’s overdose of wine.
She was never drinking that much again. Ever.
Jones Residence
Ninth Avenue North, Nashville, 8:10 a.m.
Imagine It owner Celine Jones lived in a downtown brick town house that reminded Finley of something that might be found in Chicago’s Gold Coast neighborhood or Brooklyn’s Prospect Park West. Fallen leaves tumbled along the tree-lined street. It was hard to believe all the big holidays were just around the corner.
Finley wasn’t ready, but time just kept marching along. Her world had come to a crashing halt for her last year. When did she start moving forward again?
Just as soon as you stop living in the past.
She banished that nagging voice, parked at the curb, and emerged from her car. She grabbed her bag, surveyed the street, and started walking. The neighborhood was a quiet one. Highly sought-after properties.
A few steps along a cobblestone walk, and she was at the door. She rang the bell and prepared to give her pitch.
“May I help you?” filtered from the popular doorbell that was a camera and a speaker all in one.
Not ideal. It was always easier to talk her way in with a face-to-face situation. Not so much through a slab of wood, using a speaker box and a lens.
Under the circumstances Finley moved to plan B. She reached in her bag and withdrew her official credentials from her former employer. It wasn’t a badge, but it provided the effect.
“Ms.Jones, my name is Finley O’Sullivan, and I’m here to speak with you regarding Jarrod Grady.” She held up the creds, back far enough to not provide easy reading.
Hesitation. No surprise.
“I’ve already spoken with that detective.”
“Ventura,” Finley provided. “Detective Ventura and I are working together.”
Liar. Liar.
More hesitation, then: “Okay.”
The sound of tumblers rotating announced the lock had been disengaged.
Easier than Finley had expected.
The door opened, and the woman whose face—creamy caramel skin with dark eyes, all framed in long, lush, curly black hair—was front and center on her business website greeted Finley.
“I have a Skype meeting in half an hour,” Jones warned.
Finley tucked her expired credentials away. “I only need a few minutes.”
