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Roberts didn’t move, not even her eyelids. She looked even paler than before, which hardly seemed possible. Finley hadn’t really paid that much attention to the woman’s features in the past. She was reasonably tall, maybe five eight. Thin but strong. Her face was lined, but she had high cheekbones and well-formed lips. Nice nose. Her hair was quite silky now since it had been combed out. She could only imagine how that detangling session went. The nurse who had volunteered for that task likely hadn’t realized what she was getting into.
Her neighbor’s hands were small with long, thin fingers. Nails were a mess. She needed a manicure. Like Finley had any room to talk. She couldn’t remember when she’d last indulged in a mani-pedi. Mostly she clipped her nails short and left it at that. She didn’t work with her hair the way she used to. These days she only blow-dried it and went on. Hair clips and ponytails were her friends.
In all this time, Matt and her father hadn’t said a word about her decision not to bother with makeup or hairdos. Her father had told her plenty of times he was just grateful she had survivedthatnight—the night her husband was murdered and she was brutalized nearly to death. Nothing about her was the same after that night. She didn’t dress the same or walk the same or feel the same.
But she wasn’t living in the past anymore; that was the upside. She had uncovered the truth, and those involved with what happened that night were either dead or awaiting trial.
She had moved on.
She and Matt were happy. Jack was back on good terms with her parents (not that her father had ever been upset with him). She apparently was going to run against Briggs for Davidson County DA, andeven she and her mother could get along in the same room together these days.
Frankly, if not for this new follower, she wouldn’t have thought much about Dempsey—at least not until his trial started.
It was all good, she told herself.
Then why did she feel as if something was off?
There was a piece missing in all this, and she couldn’t put her finger on it. Whenever she was investigating a case, she was generally so absorbed with the players and the events she paid attention to little else.
Maybe it was this dipstick following her that had her out of sorts. Even the scumbags who had followed her around before had never approached her. Well, except for that awful night, and at the time she hadn’t known who they were. None had come near her after that. She was the one who had approached them when she’d figured out who they were. But this time was different.
She had no idea who this guy was or really who had hired him. Dempsey did appear the most likely candidate, but she couldn’t be sure.
If not Johnson or Dempsey ... maybe someone else who wasn’t happy with how Derrick had turned the pharmaceutical empire upside down.
And then there was the unsettling aspect of her father having a part in the Lucy Cagle case. That scared her a hell of a lot more than the guy in the hoodie.
Finley sighed as another wave of exhaustion washed over her.
Roberts remained asleep or pretended to be. Finley wasn’t sure which.
“Well, I should get going. See you tomorrow.” Finley gave her hand a pat. A bumpy spot drew her gaze to the place she had touched. A raised scar cut through the webbed space between the woman’s thumb and pointer finger, extending toward her wrist. It wasn’t so noticeableon the hand, but it was thick and hard in the webby area. Finley traced the mark, and the elderly woman flinched.
So maybe not asleep.
It was possible she simply didn’t want to talk. Finley got it. She had been there before too. Funny how she so easily related to all the fucked-up people around her. Poor Matt. He so did not deserve all her baggage.
Finley said good night and left the room. She waved to the nurses at the station and headed for the elevator. She pressed the button and closed her eyes. She thought of how her father had lied to her again today.
Whatever he was hiding, it couldn’t be that bad. Her father was a good man.
She trusted him.
Then act like it, Finley, and let this go for now.
When he was ready, he would tell her whatever part of the story he was leaving out.
O’Sullivan Residence
Shelby Avenue, Nashville, 7:35 p.m.
Finley stood at the door and listened a moment before going inside. Matt had his favorite soft rock playlist going. She loved that he was such a romantic. That he still parked on the street, no matter that he arrived home before her most evenings. Leaving the only spot in the driveway available for her was just one of the ways he proved what a gentleman he was. Really, a true gentleman in the fullest sense of the term.
She opened the door, thinking instantly that she needed to tell him to keep it locked under the circumstances. She closed and lockedit. He wasn’t in the living room, so she wandered into the kitchen. Lucky lifted his head and stared at her from his place curled up on a chair next to the table. Finley wiggled her fingers at him. Matt stood at the stove, stirring a pot. Judging by the smell, it was his famously amazing chili. Finley had never tasted chili as good as Matt’s. That was another upside to the cooler weather of December. All manner of soups would be on the menu. Even more appetizing than the incredible scent of his culinary creation was the gentle sway of his body to the music.
The thought of him being hurt again because of her was more than she could bear.
“Smells good.”
