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Shit.
It was him.
She focused forward. Considered the best route to take. Going to her father’s house with this guy on her tail was out of the question.
Call Houser?
Maybe. Not yet.
An intersection was coming up. Mack Hatcher Memorial Parkway.
Finley steeled herself, focused on the traffic. She had the green light. As she neared the intersection, it shifted to yellow. She floored the accelerator. The Subaru rocketed forward.
The light changed to red.
Finley didn’t stop.
The black sedan sped up.
A brown car whizzed around the black sedan and then slammed on its brakes, forcing the bastard to stop for the light or plow into him or her.
Finley barreled forward, putting as much distance as possible between her and that intersection. Whoever the driver in the brown vehicle, she appreciated his or her indecision about running the light.
An incoming call yanked her attention to the dash, where her cell had connected to the car. Local number. She tapped Accept.
“O’Sullivan.” Her fingers tightened on the wheel as she navigated the next right turn.
“Ms.O’Sullivan, this is Laurie Gifford. I’m a nurse at the hospital. You’re the only contact listed for Helen Roberts.”
Finley made another unnecessary turn and braced for bad news. “Is she okay?” Surely the woman hadn’t died. She’d looked okay last night.
“Well, that’s the problem. We don’t know. She removed her IVs and left without telling anyone. Security started a search of the hospital but didn’t find her. A review of the security camera footage showed that she left through the main exit. We have no idea where she is, but it’s imperative that we find her as soon as possible. She is very ill and should not have left the hospital.”
What the hell? Had the woman lost her mind?
“I’ll go to her house now,” Finley said. “Maybe she went home. She mentioned wanting to get home.”
“Please let us know, Ms.O’Sullivan. She still needs care.”
Finley assured the woman she would and ended the call. She pressed forward, moving from lane to lane between cars. Then she made several turns, continuing to zigzag her way toward Shelby Avenue in hopes of ensuring the guy in the hoodie didn’t catch up with her.
Surely Roberts wasn’t that worried about her dog.
Whatever the woman had been thinking, Finley had no choice but to put off confronting her father and tracking down Brewer for the moment.
Jesus. What next?
Roberts Residence
Shelby Avenue, Nashville, 1:20 p.m.
Finley parked on the street. She glanced at her house out of habit, then emerged from her Subaru. A car was parked in Roberts’s drive. It sat back from the detached garage the way a visitor would.
A frown tugged at Finley’s face. Had someone picked Roberts up and brought her home? A taxi? Uber? If she’d paid someone to drive her home, why were they still here?
Not once in the nearly two years that Finley had lived on this street had she seen a vehicle—other than Roberts’s personal one—go into or come out of her driveway. And she hadn’t seen that old Buick come and go more than once or twice.
As Finley walked toward the house, she took a big breath and focused on calming down. The appearance of her damned follower had set her nerves on edge. Speaking of which, she glanced toward one end of her street and then the other. No sign of a dark sedan. The tense band of muscles around her skull and neck relaxed a little. Between that creep show and the story Downey had told her, Finley was way beyond rattled.
