Page 7 of The Nature of Secrets

Then she remembered.

Payback.

It was the air she breathed ... the heat that kept her blood warm.

Anticipation welled inside her. This was a place where Finley’s situation contrasted sharply with that of Ellen Winthrop. Winthrop claimed she had no idea who had murdered her husband or why. Finley, on the other hand, knew the answer to both, where her own husband’s murder was concerned.

Brant stood from his table and headed for the bar. Finley watched his long strides, the relaxed set of his shoulders. His focus was straight ahead. Get the lady another drink. Maybe another for himself. Would he glance to his right and spot Finley seated in the darkest corner of the establishment? Maybe, maybe not.

Though she couldn’t hear his voice over the music filtering from the speakers, she studied his profile as he spoke to the bartender. The remembered feel of his weight on top of her pierced her with rekindled viciousness. She gritted her teeth. Reached for her beer.

The one who’d landed the fatal blow that killed her husband had gotten his recompense a couple of months ago. The memory of the scumbag’s blood and brain matter spraying across her face flashed through Finley’s mind. The clerk at the convenience store had put one right through his head. Finley’s presence at the store, face to face with him at the time of his death, had been one of those ironies life threw one’s way now and then. Though she was reasonably sure the detective investigating the shooting still didn’t see it that way.

One down, two to go.

But the truth was, Finley wasn’t a killer. She had graduated from law school at the top of her class. Spent four years in the DA’s office as an assistant district attorney fighting for justice. Now she fought for justice from the opposite side of the aisle.

What she did on her time off notwithstanding.

Strangely enough, her work as a case investigator for Jack, more so than her previous position as an ADA, made her acutely aware of killers like the man she was watching tonight. Hired guns who existed on the fringes of their employers’ world. If Tark Brant died, no one involved in his work would care. He was nothing. Less than nothing. His world revolved around getting the job done. He had one motto: kill or be killed. He truly was nothing. A piece of shit with a certain skill set. The bastard laughed at something the bartender said, probably some lame joke he’d been tossing out all night.

Finley rolled her eyes and dug for additional patience. Her primary goal in observing the two remaining assholes was twofold: to glean any potential evidence related to her husband’s murder and to make sure Brant and his pal got theirs—eventually. If her little “I’m watching you”game distracted her target at some key moment and prompted an early demise, all the better.

As if she’d somehow telegraphed the words to Brant, he turned, looked directly at her. Ice formed inside Finley. For one, two, three beats he held her gaze, and then he moved.

Towardher.

She polished off her beer and set the bottle on the counter. Determination seared through her, melting the ice. She would not show fear. She refused to be frightened. Ill at ease, maybe, but never ever afraid. Tonight—like the other times—was necessary to her goal.

He leaned against the counter between her stool and the next one. Set his drinks aside and smirked at Finley. This should be interesting.

“You know”—he exhaled a big bourbon-infused breath—“I don’t understand why you keep hanging on to the past. It’s bad for your health, O’Sullivan. I thought you would get that by now.”

Finley laughed. “Oh, I’m having way too much fun,” she explained, “watching you squirm. I can’t possibly stop now.”

His stare hardened, black-brown eyes glaring into hers. “If memory serves, you were the one doing the squirming the last time we were eye to eye.”

Outrage belted her, but she bit it back. “Does your friend”—Finley nodded to the woman waiting at the table—“know you’re a rapist and a killer?”

He leaned closer still. Finley held her breath and her ground. Refused to draw away.No fear.

“What about you?” he snarled. “What do you know about me or the reason you’re even still alive?”

She said nothing. He was baiting her. There was far more to be gained by listening even when every fiber of her being wanted to act. Patience, some claimed, was a virtue. But the true meaning of virtue had zero to do with what she felt or wanted from this man and his employer.

Her silence brought his grin back. “See, maybe you don’t know all you think you know.”

“Maybe not.” She shrugged. “I’m just waiting.” She glanced at the table he had abandoned. “Your friend is getting restless, by the way.”

“Waiting for what?” he growled, impatient, without looking away from Finley. He couldn’t care less what his friend was doing.

Finley smiled. This was one of her favorite things. That moment—that fleeting, infinitesimal instant—when she caught this guy or his remaining partner off guard by some action or comment. And yes, she had come to realize she might have been spared for a specific purpose. The concept was the reason these guys didn’t actually scare her.

Carson Dempsey hadn’t wanted her dead. No. He had wanted her to live ... to feel the pain and agony of loss. To suffer the guilt of believing it was her fault that her husband was dead. And probably it was, at least in part. Her final case win as an assistant district attorney had been to send Dempsey’s piece-of-shit son to prison. The headlines far and wide called Finley a hero and boasted the verdict was proof money couldn’t buy everything. The kicker happened mere days later when Carson DempseyJr.—a.k.a. Sonny—ended up dead on the prison floor with a shiv in his gut. Dempsey had been understandably devastated.

Then, fourteen days and twenty-one hours after that, Derrick had been murdered.

Classic revenge motive. Finley took something from Dempsey; he took something from her.

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