The Nature of Secrets (Finley O’Sullivan)
PRAISE FOR DEBRA WEBB
The Last Lie Told
“A complex case fraught with angst and danger ends with surprising revelations.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Debra Webb writes the kind of thrillers I love to read. Sure, there is a murder or more. Yes, a twisted mystery to be solved. Once again, in The Last Lie Told, her characters are fully rendered and reveal themselves authentically as her novel unfolds and careens to its stunning conclusion. The Last Lie Told is her best yet. Webb is the queen of smart suspense.”
—Gregg Olsen, #1 New York Times bestselling author
Can’t Go Back
“A complex, exciting mystery.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Police procedural fans will be sorry to see the last of Kerri and Luke.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Threats, violence, and a dramatic climax . . . Good for procedural readers.”
—Library Journal
Gone Too Far
“An intriguing, fast-paced combination of police procedural and thriller.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Those who like a lot of family drama in their police procedurals will be satisfied.”
—Publishers Weekly
Trust No One
“Trust No One is Debra Webb at her finest. Political intrigue and dark family secrets will keep readers feverishly turning pages to uncover all the twists in this stunning thriller.”
—Melinda Leigh, #1 Wall Street Journal bestselling author of Cross Her Heart
“A wild, twisting crime thriller filled with secrets, betrayals, and complex characters that will keep you up until you reach the last darkly satisfying page. A five-star beginning to Debra Webb’s explosive series!”
—Allison Brennan, New York Times bestselling author
“Debra Webb once again delivers with Trust No One, a twisty and gritty page-turning procedural with a cast of complex characters and a compelling cop heroine in Detective Kerri Devlin. I look forward to seeing more of Detectives Devlin and Falco.”
—Loreth Anne White, Washington Post bestselling author of In the Deep
“Trust No One is a gritty and exciting ride. Webb skillfully weaves together a mystery filled with twists and turns. I was riveted as each layer of the past peeled away, revealing dark secrets. An intriguing cast of complicated characters, led by the compelling Detective Kerri Devlin, had me holding my breath until the last page.”
—Brianna Labuskes, Washington Post bestselling author of Girls of Glass
“Debra Webb’s name says it all.”
—Karen Rose, New York Times bestselling author
ALSO BY DEBRA WEBB
The Last Lie Told
Can’t Go Back
Gone Too Far
Trust No One
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Otherwise, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2023 by Debra Webb
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781662508820 (paperback)
ISBN-13: 9781662508813 (digital)
Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant
Cover images: © Magdalena Wasiczek / Arcangel; © KorradolYamsatthm / Shutterstock; © onair / Shutterstock
This book is dedicated to a pair of very special friends: Vicki Hinze and Peggy Webb, two ladies who have always had my back and who are always there to lend a helping hand—Vicki with the flashlight and Peggy with the shovel. Twisted sisters, you are the best!
CONTENTS
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
All secrets become deep. All secrets become dark. That’s in the nature of secrets.
—Cory Doctorow
1
The Murder
Sunday, September 18
9:35 a.m.
Winthrop Residence
Morningview Court, Brentwood
This had been an enormous error.
She shouldn’t have permitted the indulgence.
She should have been stronger. Need was weakness. No one knew this better than her. Trusting him had been a mistake.
She smiled. Well, perhaps she had not really trusted him. She’d spent so much time “in character” lately that at times it was difficult to step back. Actually, all had gone entirely according to plan.
Now it was time to finish this.
It was him or her, and it was not going to be her.
She smiled again. It was always going to be him.
Self-preservation was something she had learned at an early age. In this instance, outwitting him had not been so complicated. He was a mere man, after all. A cheater, a thief, the sort that thought only of himself when the chips were down.
She hadn’t expected more from him.
The sound of water spewing from the dozen or so body sprayers in the shower abruptly stopped, leaving only the soft music from his chosen playlist and the knowledge of what must be done.
She waited and watched. Patience was essential at this pivotal moment. From her position near the door, she observed him stepping from the shower, droplets sliding over contoured muscle and slipping down tanned flesh. He reached for the towel, wiped his eyes and face first, then started the methodical ritual of smoothing the thick cotton over his body.
He adored his body. Was completely absorbed in admiring himself as he swept the towel over his skin. So much so he didn’t even notice her approach. Never sensed her presence. A tragic lapse in judgment.
She was quite close behind him before he recognized her presence. Likely noticed her scent. Every woman possessed a unique scent, whether she chose to wear perfume or not. A man—especially a man who had been with her—recognized her scent.
She drew back her chosen weapon like a baseball bat as he turned, surprise marring his handsome face. She swung the weapon with all her might, twisting through her hips and driving hard into her target. The blow connected with his temple, sent vibrations along her arms, and propelled him forward. He went down. His head bounced off the tiled curb of the shower as he landed on the floor.
She stood over him to ensure the job was done . . . to witness the not-so-grand finale. He stared up at her. He didn’t move. Likely couldn’t. But he could see as the last moments of his life narrowed to this one unexpected instant. She wanted him to know who had ended his game . . . his life.
She smiled as the essence of him slipped from his gaze.
It was done.
Now, she drew in a deep breath and tossed the weapon aside. Time for the most important role of her life.
2
5:15 p.m.
Brentwood Police Department
Maryland Way, Brentwood
Finley O’Sullivan climbed from behind the wheel of her Subaru and fished around in the back seat for her emergency meet-a-client business jacket. Sunday was the one day each week she set entirely aside for following up on certain personal things. It wasn’t a day she dressed for work.
Frankly, there were a lot of things she didn’t do on Sundays that other people did. She didn’t do church. She didn’t do family dinners or even visit family. Finley had stopped feeling guilty for those abandoned customs more than a year ago, when her husband was murdered.
She hesitated, jacket in hand. His murder remained unsolved as far as the Nashville Metro Police Department was concerned. Her parents, friends . . . they all believed the same. But not Finley. She knew exactly who had murdered Derrick.
Proving it was the issue. She shrugged on her jacket. But she wasn’t giving up. No way. She would not stop until justice was done. Which was why she typically spent a great deal of her personal time, including Sundays, tuned in to that singular goal.
As much as Finley liked having her off-the-clock time for her own purposes, working with Jack Finnegan, she had come to realize that criminal lawyers never knew when duty might call. Business hours weren’t nine to five or Monday through Friday, so Finley kept a work jacket in the car. Lightweight enough for any season and black to match basically any outfit. A black jacket could elevate even an overly casual outfit like jeans and a tee to reasonably presentable attire.
Half an hour ago, her boss had called to sa
y he was headed to the Brentwood police precinct and he needed her to meet him there. They had a new client. Finley wasn’t a lawyer anymore, by choice mostly. Last year, after a great deal of pleading from Jack, she had accepted the position of investigator at the Finnegan Firm. She had never fully recognized just how important the role was to any law firm. Frankly, she enjoyed the work more than she’d anticipated. In part, she supposed, because Jack—her boss—was also her godfather. But the ability to see the case from another perspective was definitely an added perk.
She liked the view. A lot.
Finley shifted her focus to the here and now and walked toward her boss’s vintage Land Rover.
Their new client’s husband had been murdered, and she, one Ellen Winthrop of Winthrop Financial Consulting Group—the very same one featured in Time magazine last year—was obviously the prime suspect. The woman had built a Fortune 500 financial empire and operated it exclusively with the help of other women. Her history as a women’s advocate and as a force to watch in the financial world was unparalleled. Sadly, with power often came other, less desirable assets and liabilities. All manner of crimes—or in this case motives—from fraud to embezzlement flitted through Finley’s mind.
“Hey, kid,” Jack said as she slid into the passenger seat next to him. “Sorry I had to interrupt your day.” He shrugged. “Murder waits for no one.”
This was true.
“No problem.” Finley was well aware of the urgency involved in a murder case. Their new client would need protection from a potential murder charge. Whether the client was guilty or not, it was Jack’s job to disprove her responsibility in the matter or at least to cast enough doubt to sway a jury.
The concept was a whole different ball game from Finley’s days in the district attorney’s office, where the sole goal was to prove guilt beyond a shadow of doubt. “What do we know so far?”
“Not much beyond the fact that Winthrop’s new husband, Jarrod Grady, was murdered this morning,” Jack explained. “She and Grady married just two months ago. Whirlwind-style, according to some of the gossip on social media.”
Finley’s eyebrows reared up. “Since when do you do social media?” This was news to her. She’d never known Jack to acknowledge any of the platforms even existed, much less to scroll the feeds. Interesting. Maybe an old dog could learn new tricks, though she had her doubts.
He sent her a sidelong glance. “I leave that unreliable and completely obnoxious resource to you, but a ‘just breaking’ clip interrupted my favorite rerun of Perry Mason. The reporter mentioned the social media buzz that had surrounded the wedding. This is one old dog with no interest in learning new tricks in that arena.”
Had she mentioned he was a mind reader? Not really. She’d tossed the old-dog tag at him too many times, she supposed. Jack remained an old-fashioned-news guy. The Tennessean was delivered to the office every day. He still watched the news on a local cable television channel rather than streaming it.
“Have they arrested her?” she asked.
“Not yet, but we both know unless they find another suspect, it’s only a matter of time before she is.”
No question.
“Do you know Ellen Winthrop?” Finley imagined he did. Jack seemed to know everyone in Nashville. A woman in Winthrop’s position likely wouldn’t retain an attorney she’d never met for such a serious matter.
If the woman wanted the best on her team, she’d made the right decision. Jack was, unquestionably, the best. Admittedly, her godfather’s reputation as a legal eagle had taken a bit of a beating a few years back, but that hadn’t changed the community’s awareness of his legal prowess. If anything, he was viewed as a bit more cutthroat these days—a bit more of a rogue. Who didn’t love a wounded hero? He even looked the part, with his long grayish-blond hair secured at the nape of his neck and his comfortably aged vintage suit worn with the kind of confidence only a handsome, damned-good-at-his-job rogue would possess.
Jack glanced at his watch—the one on his wrist and not on his cell. Another throwback. “The detective should be ready for us now.”
“Let’s do this thing,” Finley said, already reaching for her door. The beginning of a new investigation was always exciting. There was nothing more satisfying than taking all the jumbled pieces and putting them together one by one to recreate the picture—the story—of the crime in question.
They exited the Land Rover and headed across the parking lot. The main office was closed at this hour, but a tall figure—presumably the detective on the case—now waited at the door. Any reporters who had shown up had abandoned the hope of a statement and left at this point.
As they approached the entrance, the man in the wrinkled “it’s been a long day” suit opened one of the doors. “I’m Detective Sid Ventura.”
Finley stifled a grin at the thought of the pet-detective movie. Derrick, her late husband, had claimed it as his favorite. God, she’d forgotten that bit of trivia until just this moment. Strange how even after more than a year things popped back into her head with the right trigger. Somehow it always seemed to happen at the most unexpected times. Like when she was completely exhausted or when she was in the middle of work—times when her guard slipped and she couldn’t push the still-raw emotions away. She exiled the thoughts. Now was certainly not a good time to drift off in the past.
“Jack Finnegan,” Jack said with a nod as he waited for Finley to enter the precinct ahead of him.
“Finley O’Sullivan,” she offered as she sidled in past the detective. She chastised herself for allowing her focus to slip.
Ventura gave her a nod. Once Jack was inside and the door closed and locked, the two men shook hands. The detective reached for her hand next. He had loosened his tie and opened the top button of his shirt. His strawberry-red hair was tousled as if he’d run his fingers through it too many times. Along with the light-red hair came a scattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks. His hazel eyes were bright, but the bags beneath spoke of weariness. The most telling was what Finley didn’t see—that hardened bearing of a seasoned homicide detective.
“How do you want to do this?” Ventura asked Jack.
The question confirmed Finley’s assessment that the guy didn’t have a tremendous amount of experience with investigating homicides.
“I’ll need some time alone with my client first,” Jack told him.
“No problem. She’s in an interview room. Follow me.”
Ventura led the way through the lobby and into the inner depths of the department. Most of the offices were dark, save one where another detective sat hunkered over a file spread across his desk. He didn’t look up as the group passed.
Beyond the offices were more doors and a small waiting area. Just past the small lobby, Ventura reached for the second door on the left.
“Let me know when you’re ready to move forward on her official statement and the additional questions I have for Ms. Winthrop.”
“You got it,” Jack confirmed.
Ventura wandered back in the direction of the offices, and Finley entered the interview room ahead of Jack.
Ellen Winthrop was seated in the lone chair on the far side of a narrow beige table. The side no one wanted to find themselves on, because you were facing either the CCTV camera or the one-way viewing window so that your every response could be observed. She sat straight, shoulders square, though she looked exhausted and sad beneath the smattering of makeup that had faded over the course of the day. Her dark-brown hair was arranged in a chin-length, face-hugging style. The black pullover she wore matched the leggings that topped off black flat-heeled shoes. Both feet rested firmly on the floor, knees together. No crossed legs or overly casual positioning. A barely touched bottle of water sat on the table to her right.
The door closed, and Jack took care of the introductions. Handshakes were exchanged. The older woman’s hand was cold, and her fingers trembled ever so slightly, but then she squared her shoulders once more and lifted her chin in preparation for battle. This might not be her first encounter with the police, though Finley imagined it was her first for murder. Ellen Winthrop had a reputation as a tiger in the business world; whether it would stand up in a moment like this was yet to be seen.
“Ms. Winthrop,” Jack began as he and Finley took the seats on their side of the table.
“Call me Ellen, please,” Winthrop suggested. Her voice was steadier than her hand and pleasantly toned.