“You,” he confessed. “What better hobby could I have than spending time with my best friend?”

  See, I told you the guy’s in love with you.

  Finley pushed her husband’s voice out of her head. Derrick had sworn on more than one occasion that Matt was secretly in love with her. She was fairly certain she would know if he were. Besides—she smiled back at her friend—Finley suspected her husband simply had never had a friend like Matt.

  “I don’t count,” she argued.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he began and then didn’t go on.

  Well, that couldn’t be good. Anytime Matt felt compelled to beat around the bush, it was no doubt going to be a touchy subject.

  Then she got it. “If the DA or anyone at Metro PD has a complaint about me or something I’ve done,” she warned, then shook her head. Did they have someone monitoring her every move? Jesus Christ. It wasn’t like she’d set out to piss off the whole world. “I swear, they can’t prove anything. Jeez, for law enforcement these people are seriously oversensitive.”

  She might push the boundaries. She might even bend the rules, but she always pulled back before going too far—or covered her tracks when that didn’t work out. As much for her boss’s sake as her own. She owed it to Jack never to push too far. His reputation would be the one on the line if she screwed up. He’d done enough damage himself in the past. He didn’t need any help in that regard from her.

  “Fin, it’s . . . ,” he started once more.

  Then she got it. “It’s the Judge, isn’t it?” A different kind of irritation sparked. The two of them had pretty much stayed out of each other’s way since Derrick’s death. Finley would be immensely happy if they stayed that way. Her father was the only one who wanted the whole picture-perfect-family package to include dinners and holidays. Finley tried. She really did, but she and her mother just weren’t ever going to get along, much less agree.

  Matt put up his hands in surrender. “Hold on, it’s not the Judge or any one of the three. It’s me.”

  Oh crap. Maybe he was sick. “Just tell me it’s not terminal.” Her chest tightened. She did not want to lose Matt to some dreaded disease.

  Pain speared through her. She didn’t want to lose him at all.

  He laughed, a quick, short burst. “I’m not dying, and no one is currently upset with anything you’ve done.” He frowned, searched her face. “Have you done something I should know about?”

  “Absolutely not.” Maybe. Hopefully.

  He nodded, his expression suggesting he was not thoroughly convinced. “Anyway, I’ve been poking around a little in Derrick’s background.”

  If he’d said he had quit his job and was moving to South America, she wouldn’t have been more startled. Or worried. “What exactly does that mean?”

  She watched his face grow more serious as he explained that he thought he might be able to find something she had overlooked, et cetera. Part of her wanted all the help she could get since she still had nothing on Derrick’s history. What she had learned so far was that the vast majority of what she’d thought she had known about her husband was lies. She had no idea about his reasons for seemingly having lured her into a relationship. Or for not telling her the whole truth about himself. She was, however, reasonably confident he had loved her. He’d fought to the death to protect her that night.

  Would a man who hadn’t loved her have done that?

  “No,” she said flatly, the taste of beer going sour in her mouth.

  “What?” Matt made a face. “Why?”

  The question forced her to lie. She hated deceiving Matt. It wasn’t like she hadn’t done it before, but she didn’t like lying to him. He and her father—and Jack—mattered most to her. Honesty counted when it came to the people who mattered. At least most of the time anyway. But there was no way out of this situation. A lie was necessary. Poking around in Derrick’s past could put Matt in danger. She refused to allow that to happen.

  She couldn’t lose him too.

  “I’ve decided to put the past behind me.” She moistened her lips, swallowed the bitter taste of deceit. “Continuing to dig around in that part of my life isn’t going to change anything. I need to move on.”

  Matt blinked, but not before she saw the surprise in his eyes. “That’s a good step, Fin. A really good move.”

  It would be if it were true. Liar. She hated herself right now, particularly considering the hope in his voice.

  “It’s time,” she said, turned her attention to the Guinness to wash it all down.

  Keeping this secret . . . telling the lies necessary to keep it . . . would come back to haunt her one day. Sooner rather than later, most likely. She knew this better than anyone.

  Changing the subject, she said, “Jack has a new, very high-profile client.”

  “Sounds intriguing,” Matt offered, seemingly forgetting the idea of looking into Derrick’s past.

  Work was the best distraction.

  Work kept her mind off the lies she told and the secrets she kept.

  4

  11:50 p.m.

  The Murder House

  Shelby Avenue, Nashville

  Finley shifted into park and sat for a long moment.

  This was home. She surveyed the small dark structure, which still desperately needed a coat of paint on the exterior. The small front porch continued to lean to one side. Definitely not Brentwood. She did a mental eye roll. She’d grown up in Belle Meade in a house that was more a museum than a home. After law school she’d come back to Nashville, landed the job as an assistant district attorney for Davidson County, and snatched up a highly sought-after condo on Woodmont Boulevard.

  She’d made it, right?

  The Judge had been thrilled, and her father couldn’t have been prouder of her. All had been right in the world.

  Then, a few years later, everything changed.

  Meeting Derrick Reed had drawn her to this east-side fixer-upper. It was a dump. Truly in every definition of the word, but Derrick had assured her that he’d been working on it for months and had big plans. Several houses in the neighborhood had already been transformed. He had been so excited about doing the same with this place. Oddly enough, she’d felt more at home here than she had anywhere else. It could have been a tent, and she would probably have felt utter happiness as long as she was with Derrick. His plans and dreams had made her feel so alive. Had made her want to grab a hammer and a paintbrush and help him. Except she’d always been working. He’d insisted that she needn’t worry. While she fought evil and saved the world, he would turn this dump into their dream home, he’d promised. Even now, with all that she knew, the memory prompted a tiny smile while emotion threatened to leak from her eyes.

  None of those things had happened.

  Finley forced the memories away. It was late. She was tired.

  She pushed open her car door and got out. Grabbed her bag and shoved the door closed. Bugs flitted around the bare bulb struggling to light the front porch. As she climbed the steps, a cat scurried from under the yellow glider. The cat was fairly new. He’d shown up about a month ago, staying a night here and there. After the first week, she’d started leaving food and water out for him. Probably a mistake, but the animal had been too skinny, and she’d felt sorry for him.

  The scraggly cat fit with the shabby house. Shabby might be an understatement. Besides the exterior being in need of paint and the grass being more brown than green, the last surviving shrub planted by the previous owners had died during the long, dry weeks of August. Week before last her dad had come over and planted a rosebush. He’d insisted the place needed brightening up.

  So far, the rosebush was still alive. Part of her suspected her dad dropped by and watered it since she had a history of forgetting that part of gardening. She glanced across the street. Or maybe her flower-enthusiast, nosy neighbor had done the honors. She seemed to spend most of her time watching the place.

  Finley shoved her key into the lock and opened the door. Inside she clicked on the overhead light. “Home sweet home.”

  You’re home late. Have you eaten? The memory of Derrick’s voice echoed through her.

  That was Derrick. Always worried about her, always ready to help. Of course, her answer had consistently been no. Work consumed her life. She had no time to eat. If not for Matt and her dad, she would likely never eat. As for being late, she always got home late. Still did. Like tonight.

  After tossing her bag on the couch, she ran her fingers through her hair and pulled her ponytail holder loose. The fresh coat of serene blue paint Jack and Matt had helped her apply to the walls, along with the clean white added to the ceiling and trim, had brightened things up inside. There was still a lot to be done. A bucket remained in the tiny hall for when it rained, since the roof continued to leak in that spot.

  After what had happened—in this very house—most people didn’t understand why she stayed in the unfixed fixer-upper. It certainly wasn’t because she had friends who lived on the block. In fact, she didn’t actually know any of her neighbors. Except for the nosy one across the street, Helen Roberts, and she didn’t really know her beyond her name and strange staring habits.

  After that night, many who lived on the block had dropped by to offer sympathy. All insisted they were there to help with anything she needed. Finley figured most were probably more curious about the murder in their neighborhood than interested in her well-being. The curiosity didn’t bother Finley, since it had faded just as quickly as it had appeared.

  The one thing that had stuck—at least in Finley’s mind—was the moniker a local reporter had used. He had dubbed this the murder house. Finley couldn’t think of it any other way.

  Her husband had died here.

  When she looked back, the part that still held an unrelenting grip on her throat was that she should have known something bad was coming.

  The vague threats that had begun during the early pretrial preparations in the case against Dempsey’s son had returned with fervor. Finley had recognized she was being watched. Ambiguous warnings, like a flat tire when it was time to go home at the end of the day or the front door standing open when she arrived. Not actually surprised by the tactics, Finley had diligently reported the incidents to Briggs, her boss, and he had without hesitation or consideration dismissed her concerns. She was overreacting. He was busy.

  Frankly, she had surmised from the beginning that Briggs hadn’t really wanted to pursue the Dempsey case and, in the end, hadn’t at all liked sharing the resulting limelight with her. Not much of a stretch was required to assume he might even have secretly enjoyed that she had to deal with some sort of repercussions. He was only human, after all, right?

  Finley had her doubts on that one. Though after Derrick’s death, Briggs had at least pretended to regret his dismissal of her concerns.

  Too little, too late.

  Finley walked into the kitchen and opened the cupboard next to the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of wine. As was her nightly ritual, she opened it and poured a glass. When she had downed a good portion, she refilled her glass and headed back to the living room, the bottle in her left hand.

  There was comfort in routine, right?

  If there had been any doubt as to who was responsible for Derrick’s murder, Brant, the bastard who’d raped her, had cleared those up with his harshly whispered message.

  You take something from me. I take something from you.

  She hadn’t remembered his message until months after the hospital and rehab stays. In fact, the detectives working the investigation had grown more than a little frustrated by that point with what they’d called her lack of cooperation. But that night had been too fuzzy in the beginning, and she had been too damaged to allow the memories back in.

  Eventually, she’d noticed the eyes watching her again. Slowly the moments from the invasion of her home and the attack had surfaced and started to clarify. She had recalled the faces of the invaders first.

  When Finley was strong enough, she had turned the tables on the three bastards. She had watched them the same way they watched her.

  Now there were only two.

  One down, two to go.

  She collapsed on the sofa—Derrick’s consignment store sofa—and placed the bottle on the floor next to her. She considered turning on the television but decided against it. The news was depressing, and apparently no one knew how to make good movies anymore.

  For a moment she savored her wine and considered what the hell she was doing still living here. It was the burning question in everyone’s mind, right? She should move on, shouldn’t she? Why linger in this dump of a house, where her dead husband’s clothes still hung on one side of the tiny closet they’d shared in the unfinished bedroom. Outside, in the visibly leaning old garage, his vintage truck remained.

  She could move back to the Woodmont condo. Another gulp of wine was required to swallow that thought. The tenant’s lease would be coming up for renewal soon.

  But she wouldn’t go back. Could not go back.

  She couldn’t leave this house, because she had unfinished business here.

  Derrick still existed in this place. He had touched every part of it just as he had touched every part of her. If his truck or his clothes and other stuff—or this house—could help her find the answers she needed, she had to stay close . . . couldn’t let go. The fact was, all of it was evidence.

  Evidence of his murder and of his lies . . . his secrets.

  Derrick Reed, the man she had fallen for in record time and subsequently married without even warning her parents, had not been working on this house for months as he’d told her. She remembered vividly how he’d gone on and on about falling in love with the original floors and personally rewiring the electrical and updating the plumbing. Et cetera. Lies. Every word. He’d bought the house just a couple of weeks before the two of them met.

  He had lied about everything.

  She hadn’t known this for more than a year after his murder.

  In the beginning the physical pain of healing and the emotional pain of facing the fact that Derrick was dead and she wasn’t had been all-consuming. With nothing else to do and desperately needing to occupy her mind, she had returned to work at the DA’s office. Everyone had insisted that was the best thing to do. She needed to focus on something—anything—besides Derrick’s murder. Bravo to her for having the courage and the strength to move forward until—in the middle of her first big postrecovery case—she fell apart.

  She laughed and refilled her glass. “Fell apart?”

  The term was like calling a hurricane a breeze. The diagnosed psychotic episode was a complete breakdown that had required thirty days of a different kind of hospitalization and rehab. In the end she’d walked away from her position at the DA’s office and given up practicing law altogether.

  Turned out it was the right decision.

  Which reminded her—Finley dug her notepad from her bag and flipped to the page where she had jotted her thoughts regarding the firm’s new client.

  Ellen Winthrop. Finley thought of the woman who had spoken so carefully with a believable amount of emotion infused in her voice and actions here and there. Her story was precisely crafted. So exact. She could explain everything. She hadn’t been in the house. Her security system proved as much. She had no idea what had happened.

  This needled at Finley. It was too perfect, too detailed.

  Except Winthrop couldn’t explain how someone else had entered the house undetected by said security system or how they had acquired access to that titanium hammer used as a murder weapon.

  The detective had pointed this out more than once during the official questioning. Winthrop hadn’t wavered in her answers. Once her statement was completed and signed, she had been allowed to leave.

  Finley and Jack had reached the same conclusions about their new client. They agreed that by the end of the week, Winthrop would likely be arrested for the murder unless another suspect came to light. That could happen over the coming days. It would take some time to process the scene and the evidence. There were friends and neighbors to interview. A forensic accounting of the missing money would be required. And numerous other details to confirm. The investigation had only just started.

  But the bottom line was not optimal.

  Jack had warned Winthrop that she should expect and prepare for an arrest.

  Like Finley’s mother, the Judge, Winthrop was an intelligent, powerful woman. She had run an extensive background check on her husband before they married. The Judge had done exactly that with Derrick, as had Finley. Neither she nor Finley had found anything suspicious. Winthrop said the same about her husband. She’d found nothing negative about Jarrod Grady. Finley could empathize to some degree with the idea. The part she couldn’t see was Winthrop having no idea whatsoever of who might have wanted him dead. Maybe she was merely in shock and ideas would occur to her later.

  Winthrop couldn’t possibly have reached her current career pinnacle without making a few enemies. No matter how nice she might be, there would be bodies in the wake of her climb to the top.

  Finley had other questions as well. A woman like Winthrop wouldn’t leave important details like a choice of attorneys to the last minute. She had attorneys, yet she had chosen Jack for representation at possibly the most perilous time of her life. Why would a woman in her position call in an attorney she had never met or who had not been recommended by one of her trusted attorneys? Winthrop had insisted that she’d heard about Jack back in July during the Legard case. The claim was certainly possible. The high-profile murder case involving twin daughters and the death of their music-legend father had rocked the Nashville area when it happened and then half a decade later when the whole truth finally came out.

  Jack and the firm had been in the news a lot back in the summer because of that case, but Winthrop’s answer still didn’t sit right with Finley.

  It was true that Jack was an exceptional defense attorney. Finley would certainly want him on her team if she were ever charged with a crime. But this was not your average woman. This was a woman who had built a financial empire. A woman savvy in business and certainly in the law. Why wouldn’t she have her personal attorney present as well?