Page 78 of The Nature of Secrets

The Murder House

Shelby Avenue, Nashville

Finley parked in her driveway. She was surprised Houser wasn’t there already. They had agreed on six. Maybe he had been delayed by work the same way she had, except he likely hadn’t been breaking and entering—not that she’d broken anything. The door had been unlocked. That part would work in her favor.

She needed to find Marsh. The answers to a couple of follow-up questions would have been nice about now. Damn it.

The pieces of the puzzle she had found today didn’t all fit together neatly, but they all meant something. She needed more.

Finley thought of what she’d learned about Winthrop’s early years from Duncan’s mother. She grabbed her cell and started to search. It took several minutes, but she found an obituary. Luther Winthrop. Another minute and numerous searches later, and she found a brief mention of his accident. His own vehicle had rolled over him. Kind of a strange way to go. The short snippet didn’t mention the circumstances, but the event had been labeled a bizarre accident. Definitely bizarre.

Finley glanced at the street. Still no sign of Houser, so she climbed out of her car, grabbed her bag, and headed for the porch. No sooner had she plugged the house key into the lock, than Houser’s shiny silver sedan slowed to a stop in front of her house. She pushed the door inward, tossed her bag onto the sofa, and waited for the detective to join her on the porch.

“Sorry I’m running late,” he offered.

Houser was about her age. Attractive with military-short dark hair. He wore those snug-fitting suits men his age appeared to prefer, and judging by the fabric, they wouldn’t be found on a rack in just any store. Finley had done a little research on the guy. He came from money. Never married. No steady girlfriend. Had a reputation for playing the field. His parents and one sibling, an older brother, were all medical doctors. But not Eric. He had dropped out of medical school midway and applied to the police academy. Six years later he was a homicide detective for the Nashville Metro Police Department.

She expected this decision still didn’t sit right with his family. This was a place she knew well. Her mother had stopped being happy with Finley’s decisions when she revolted against the pink paint in her bedroom at age ten. Sometimes Jack suggested they were too much alike to get along, but Finley disagreed.

She was nothing like her mother.Liar.

Jack’s revelation about his and the Judge’s falling-out attempted to intrude, but she pushed it away.

“No problem,” Finley assured Houser. “I just got here myself. Come on in.” She led the way. “You want a beer? Some wine?”

“I better not.” He closed the door behind himself. “Since you called, I’m assuming this has something to do with Derrick’s case, which means I’m on the clock.”

“Trust me”—Finley headed for the kitchen—“we’re both going to need something.” She grabbed a couple of beers from the six-pack in the fridge and rejoined Houser in the living room. He stood near thedumpy sofa. “Sit,” she ordered. She passed a can to him. Then she popped the top on hers and settled into her chair. She would have preferred wine, but this was easier, and time was of the essence.

“Thanks.” He popped the top and downed a sip.

“During the past two months,” Finley began, “I’ve been checking up on you.” Beyond his personal life, she’d done some digging into his work at Metro.

He smiled. “I’ve done some checking up on you as well. You’ll be pleased to know my initial assessment was correct.”

Finley indulged in a long drink of her beer. “That doesn’t sound like a compliment.”

“It’s a compliment.” He studied her a moment. “You’re above average in intelligence. Graduated at the top of your class. Had a perfect record of winning in the courtroom.”

“Not perfect,” she countered. “I did lose one case.”

“The last one,” he said.

The infamous meltdown case. Technically it wasn’t a loss. The judge had declared a mistrial. Houser said as much.

“Sometimes you can be good at one thing,” Finley pointed out, “and screw up everything else.”

“Your marriage,” he guessed.

“I fell for a guy I thought I knew, but ...” She shrugged, feeling damned guilty no matter that she was justified. “I didn’t know him. Apparently.”

“You think he was involved somehow with the trouble that took his life.”

She appreciated that Houser didn’t mention what happened to her. “Off the record?” She held his gaze with that question ringing in the silence. Her nerves twisted into a knot along with her emotions. But it was time. She had to do this at some point. Now was as good a time as any.

He gave a nod. “Tonight can all be off the record if that’s what you need it to be.”

Surprised but grateful, Finley nodded. “I’m going to tell you a story, Detective. I want you to bear all of this in mind as you proceed with the investigation into my husband’s murder.”

---