Page 2 of All the Little Truths

The tiniest flicker of regret flared inside her.

Stop. Remember the bigger picture.

His grin widened, and her heart thumped harder. She really, really hadn’t meant to like him so much. He would get into serious trouble for all that he’d told her already.

How did her mother do it?

“Come on. Let’s get out of here.” He put his arm around her and ushered her toward his car.

They usually met somewhere like this and then went out in his car. She had been too afraid of running into some of her friends and her car being recognized. He could never know that she was the daughter of Louise Scott, the hottest investigative reporter in the Southeast. She glanced up at him, studied his profile in the moonlight as they walked through the darkness. He trusted her.

How would he feel when he learned the truth? The knots in her belly tightened.

He paused at the passenger side door and opened it. Lucy stood in the V made by the open door and waited for him to go around to the driver’s side. When he opened his door, she bit her bottom lip, then smiled. He smiled back at her. This was it. Tonight, she would get the whole story on his family. All the secrets that had stayed hidden for decades. Nothing else mattered.

Her mother was going to be stunned. Maybe even speechless.

She settled into the passenger seat and closed the car door. He slid behind the steering wheel and did the same. For one long moment before starting the engine, he simply stared at her. Her skin prickled with anticipation. Or was that fear?

This is it, girl. Stay cool.

Rather than start the engine, he reached toward her. “I’m sorry, Lucy.”

Before his murmured words were fully out of his mouth, something closed around her neck ... tightened until she couldn’t scream ... couldn’t breathe.

Heart thundering, she clutched at the thing ... choking her ... frantically dug at her skin to get her fingers beneath the thin wire ...

Help!What should have been a scream was nothing more than a squeak of pathetic sound.

He stared at her ... his eyes full of something like ... regret. His mouth was moving with the words he spoke, but she couldn’t understand. Her ears were filled with the sound of her blood roaring ... her heart pounding.

Help! Help!But the words couldn’t get free.

His door opened, and he got out.

Help!

She kicked. Twisted her body. Dug her fingers deeper ... blood oozed between them, down her throat.

Her car door opened ... hands grabbed at her body, but the noose grew tighter and tighter ... her legs flailed helplessly, and then her fingers slid away from her throat. The hope that he would rescue her died.

Her vision faded to darkness, and she thought of her mother and her father. How sad they would be. She should have listened to all their warnings.

2

Now

Monday, December 4

The Finnegan Firm

Tenth Avenue, Nashville, 2:30 p.m.

Finley O’Sullivan watched from the corner of her eye as Nita Borelli, the firm’s receptionist—office manager and drill sergeant, really—hung a holiday wreath on the open door of Finley’s office. The woman had been decorating for Christmas since Thanksgiving.

Finley blinked, refocused on the case report on her laptop screen.

Nita scooted around behind Finley’s chair and placed a mini tree with glittering red balls on the credenza.

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