“Thanks. I’m okay.” I pressed my lips shut to keep myself from babbling and saying too much. I was far from okay. There was an unconscious pervert stuffed in the back of my minivan and an IOU in my purse from the woman who wanted me to kill him. And I was going to be late to pick up my kids from my sister’s house, which meant she was going to start looking for me. I thumbed my cell phone awake, surprised Georgia wasn’t already blowing it up.
“Can I see your phone?” Julian asked. I handed it over to him. There was something so disarming about him. About the softness of his voice and the earnest concern in his eyes. He opened my contacts and programmed his number. “Just in case you need it,” he said, returning it to me and tucking his hands in his pockets. “Or … you know … in case you change your mind about going out with me sometime.”
He backed away from my van, his narrow waist silhouetted by the streetlight behind him. He cut a nice shape against the darkening sky, and a not-so-small part of me wished I had stayed to hang out with him at the bar earlier, even if I was too old for him.
“I have kids,” I called across the parking lot. “Two of them.”
His smile caught the lamplight. “I’ve got nothing against minivans.”
I fought back a surprised laugh as I watched him go. What the hell was happening, and how was this my life? I climbed into the driver’s seat and stared at his number. If I made it through the night without being arrested by the highway patrol—or worse, by my sister—maybe I’d call him sometime.
With a heavy sigh, I pulled the crumpled note from my purse and dialed Patricia’s number. Listening to the ring through my Bluetooth, I pulled into traffic heading in the vague direction of the Micklers’ home. Finally, Patricia answered.
“Is it done?”
“Are you home?”
A pause. “Yes.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Thank god.” I reached into the center console for a pack of gum. I smelled like a distillery. “Your husband tried to drug some woman at a bar. I … He accidentally drugged himself instead. I have him and I’m bringing him home,” I said, feeling oddly connected to this woman I hardly knew. And far too familiar with her husband. I merged into the far-right lane, staying under the posted speed limit.
“No! You can’t bring him here!” Her objections rose to a fevered pitch. “You have to get rid of him. I’m not paying you unless you get rid of him like you said … neat!”
“I never said I would do anything. You overheard a conversation you didn’t understand.” An Audi cut me off as it darted to make the ramp to the toll road. I leaned into the horn, adrenaline pumping as I checked my rearview mirror for flashing lights, relieved to find none. “Look, just because he’s an asshole and a creep doesn’t mean he deserves to—”
“Do you have his phone?” Patricia asked.
Her question pulled me up short. “Maybe. I don’t know.” I knew Harris had his wallet. Last I’d seen his phone, he was tucking it into the breast pocket of his jacket. “I think so. Why?”
“Find it. His password is milkman. Go to his photos. Then call me when it’s done.”
“I don’t want to see his—”
The line disconnected. I smacked the steering wheel, uttering a swear. What was I supposed to do now? Clearly, Patricia wasn’t going to open the door if I showed up at her home. With my luck, a neighbor would see me dump him in his yard and report my license tag number.
Crap. This night kept getting better and better.
I pulled off the toll road into a corporate center parking lot and put the van in park. Lifting my armrest, I climbed into the back of the van, trying not to impale Harris Mickler with my heels. The state would like to present Exhibit A for the prosecution, the defendant’s right Louis Vuitton knockoff, also known as the murder weapon, Your Honor. I choked out a laugh, wondering how Julian would defend me from that as I squeezed into the space between my children’s car seats and fished around in Harris’s jacket pocket for his phone. The screen was locked. I cringed as I typed in his password.
My finger hovered over the icon for his photos. Knowing what I knew of Harris Mickler, what awaited in that app at best would not be pleasant, and at worst could be potentially scarring. Or at least vomit-inducing. Against my better judgment, I tapped it anyway. A handful of files with the usual titles: Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, Screenshots, Camera … Private.
Peeking through one eye, I tapped the last one, surprised when it wasn’t a collection of really gross porn. Instead, I found a collection of numbered folders. Thirteen of them. All labeled with names: SARAH, LORNA, JENNIFER, AIMEE, MARA, JEANETTE …
I opened the first folder and scrolled through the contents, slowly at first, pulling the screen closer to make sense of the images as Harris snored shallowly beside me. As far as I could tell, it was a series of candid shots of a woman, captured from odd angles, as if they’d been surreptitiously taken. A blond woman in line at a coffee shop. The same woman getting into her car. Another shot of her pushing a grocery cart through a parking lot, this one revealing a clear shot of her face. I recognized her. She was the same woman I’d just doused with tomato juice in the bar.
Harris Mickler was a stalker.
If it was just the once, maybe I would understand, but there have been others. So many others.
I closed that folder and opened the next one. My breath caught in my throat.
These photos started just like the others, with dozens of surreptitious pictures. But the photos in these other twelve files gave way to more disturbing ones: posed images of Harris with these women, seemingly on a date, same as he had been tonight. Then those same women in various staged poses—naked, eyes closed, expressions slack as he touched and kissed and violated them, their glittering custom wedding bands always carefully captured in the frame.
I swallowed back bile, scrolling through countless images of these other twelve women he’d stalked and then dated over the last thirty-six months, all of them slightly similar in appearance and build, sickened by the realization he’d probably drugged and raped them all. The final image in each woman’s folder was a horrifyingly intimate photo with a message pasted in text over top.
Do exactly as I said, and be discreet, or I’ll show these pictures to your husband and tell him what you’ve done.
I felt sick as the puzzle pieces slammed into place. He was blackmailing them. Blackmailing them to ensure their silence. Harris was preying on married women with children. Women with successful, rich husbands who had the means, social standing, and resources to completely ruin their lives. He had purposefully taken misleading photos, suggesting he’d been dating his victims, that the sex was consensual. When in fact, Harris was a twisted, sick predator who apparently preferred his victims passed out in the back of his car.
I sagged against the bench seat and stared at Harris’s phone. Then at Patricia’s note. Patricia was right. I didn’t know where I was taking him, but there was no way I was returning this monster to Patricia Mickler’s home.
CHAPTER 8
It was nearly ten o’clock when I jerked to a stop in my driveway.
And I still hadn’t figured out what to do with Harris Mickler.
I sat in the van, engine idling, knuckles white on the steering wheel as the garage door lifted on its track. The headlights reflected off the pegboard as I pulled inside, casting eerie shadows over the interior of my garage.
This was not okay.
The unconscious kraken on the floor of my minivan was not okay.
I should call Georgia and tell her everything. She would know what to do. And she probably wouldn’t let anyone put me in jail because then she’d be stuck watching my kids indefinitely.
I got out of the van, my body dimming the headlights as I navigated the tight space between the bumper and Steven’s workbench, the humming engine warming my legs as I brushed past. The night had grown cold, and the exhaust from my van billowed in thick white clouds down the
driveway toward Mrs. Haggerty’s house. Her kitchen windows were dark across the street, and I sent up a silent prayer of thanks that the neighborhood busybody had already gone to sleep.
I threw open the door to the kitchen. The room smelled like the wet waffle scraps on the piled dishes in the sink, and the cordless phone was still sticky with syrup, on the table exactly where I’d left it. I hit redial and pressed it to my ear, counting rings as I slid down the back side of the door in the dark, too afraid to turn on the light.
“Finn?” Zach wailed in the background. I pinched my forehead. My children’s cries were a language I’d learned to understand through years of trial and error and sleepless nights.
“Couldn’t get him to sleep, huh?”
“What am I doing wrong?” she asked, a little breathless. Georgia was cool in a hostage crisis, but a toddler meltdown was obviously more than she felt qualified to handle.
“Nothing. He’s just overtired,” I said, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes. Funny how the sound of your child screaming could silence everything else in your mind.
“Then why won’t he sleep?”
“Because he’s two. Listen carefully to my instructions,” I said in my best hostage-negotiator voice in the hopes that it would calm my sister and keep her focused. “Do you have his blanket?”
Her shuffling was drowned out by his howls. “Yes, I have his blanket.”
“Wrap it over him and hold him against you. Then put his paci in his mouth. Press it in place with a finger while you pat his back.”
“I’m not an octopus.”
“Or you can let him scream until I get there.”
“How long until you get here?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
I rested my forehead on my knees. “How long will a grown man stay unconscious after taking a roofie?”
Georgia’s pause was punctuated by Zach’s pathetic whines. “You lost me.”
“Research. I’m working on a book.”
“I thought you said you had something important to do tonight.”
“This is important.” Why did everyone think my job wasn’t important? “I’m stuck on a plot point.”
“Roofies?” she mumbled. “Depends on the size of the man and the strength of the drug. Maybe a couple hours. Maybe a whole night.” The phone rustled as Georgia wrestled Zach into his blanket, his cries stifled by the pacifier she’d popped in his mouth. More rustling. Zach sniffling. “Okay, I think it might be working.”
“So if you were the heroine of a story, and you drugged a really terrible man who’d done really horrible things—?”
“Like what kind of things?”
“Illegal things.”
“Are we talking misdemeanor things or felony things?”
“Definitely felony things. And let’s say he was passed out in the trunk of your car. What would you do with him?”
“Could you prove he had committed felonious crimes?”
“Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters,” she said, as if the answer should be obvious. “If your heroine has evidence, she ought to dump him at the police station and turn that evidence over to a detective. Let the authorities handle it.”
I lifted my head, blinking in the dark of the kitchen. Harris’s cell phone pictures. I had physical evidence that he had surreptitiously photographed and blackmailed who knows how many women. And I’d witnessed him try to drug one of those women, which supported the likely fact that he had drugged the others as well, which was evidence of assault. I could turn him over to the police and give them Harris’s phone. Hell, I could take him to Georgia’s house and leave him and his cell phone with her. I didn’t have to tell her about Patricia’s note. I’d just tell her I was out at a bar, realized he was trying to drug someone, and switched his drink. “Would I … Would my character get in trouble for drugging him?”
“Depends on the circumstances. Premeditated? Illicit drugs? Probably.”
“Are we talking a lot of trouble, or a little trouble?”
“Does it matter? It’s a romance novel.”
“Yes, it matters! I want it to be accurate.”
Georgia heaved a sigh. “Well, I guess if she turned herself in, a prosecutor might go easy on her and cut her a deal.”
I sat up. That was it. I could turn myself in to Georgia. Given the choice between arresting me or letting me go, she would definitely let me go. The alternative was being stuck with my kids until someone posted bail for me, and she wouldn’t keep them a minute longer than absolutely necessary.
“So are you coming to get Zach and Delia now that we’ve solved your fictional problem?”
Zach was asleep. I could hear his snotty-nosed soft baby breaths over the quiet hum of the van in the garage and the distant barks of a neighbor’s dogs down the street.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m wrapping things up now. I’ll be over soon.”
Georgia disconnected. I set the phone on the floor. It was still sticky, furry with strands of Delia’s hair. Somehow, the day had gone from bad to worse. I was no further along on my book, and no closer to being able to pay my own bills. And once the police report was filed, Steven and Theresa’s attorney would have one more reason to paint me as an unfit parent. It wouldn’t matter that a monster like Harris was in jail and off the street. I’d been out at a bar in a wig and a stolen dress, drinking the money my husband had given me for gas. I had drugged a man, and then abducted him in the back of the family minivan.
Or …
I could make Harris Mickler disappear, pray Patricia Mickler wasn’t lying about the money, and hope I was lucky enough not to get caught.
I pushed myself to my feet and brushed waffle crumbs off my backside. Then I carried my heels and my wig-scarf upstairs to change into a pair of clean underwear and comfortable clothes, just in case I ended up getting arrested after all. I took my time brushing the taste of the bar from my teeth, washing Harris’s spit from my ear, and wiping the makeup from my face. When I was done, I stood in front of my bathroom mirror and took a deep breath, preparing myself for what I was about to do. I was going to turn Harris Mickler—and my statement—over to my sister.
Because, let’s face it, I’m not exactly the luckiest person I know.
CHAPTER 9
My feet were heavy as I descended the steps to the kitchen. I stood in front of the door to the garage, my forehead pressed against it as I convinced myself (again) that this was the right thing to do. Resigned, I opened the door. The air on the other side was thin and hot, and the fumes hit me like a punch to the throat. I choked into my sleeve, swatting away exhaust. The hum of the minivan seemed deafening in the closed space, and I rushed to throw open the door to the backyard before turning the ignition off.
Silence fell over the garage. The breeze that blew in from the yard was cold and crisp, and I leaned against the van’s hood, berating myself for leaving the damn thing running as the fumes began to filter out. Slightly light-headed, and maybe a little buzzed from the champagne and vodka tonics I’d drunk on an empty stomach in the bar, it seemed like a good idea to wait a few minutes for my head to clear and the garage to air out. Though if I were being honest with myself, I was only putting off the inevitable. I didn’t want to turn Harris Mickler over to my sister any more than I wanted to kill him. In fact, I didn’t want anything to do with Patricia or Harris Mickler ever—
Oh … Oh, no.
I lurched upright as the last of the fog drained from my head.
I’d left Harris Mickler in the van.
I ran to the passenger side and threw open the sliding door, unsure if I should be relieved or horrified that Harris was right where I’d left him.
“Harris?” I shook him by the feet. “Harris, are you okay?”
I climbed over Zach’s seat and knelt beside him, slapping the side of his face. When nothing happened, I slapped him harder. His cheek was a little warm, but then again so was I, and I was p
retty sure my heart had stopped beating about thirty seconds ago. I called his name, uncertain of what I would do if he actually responded. I didn’t know what was worse: being trapped in the back of a van with a dead serial rapist I had abducted, or being trapped in the back of a van with a very angry, awake serial rapist I had abducted.
I pressed two fingers to the side of his neck and felt … nothing, which meant I was either doing it wrong, or—
Oh no, oh no, oh no …
I laid an ear against his chest. Nothing moved. I reached over the front seat for my purse, digging frantically inside for my compact and flipping open the mirror, holding it suspended under Harris’s nose. The glass didn’t fog, and I fell back on my heels.
Harris Mickler was definitely not okay.
“Oh, shit.” My thoughts sharpened with my sudden sobriety. “What would Georgia do? What would Georgia do?” Georgia would arrest me. Or shoot me. That’s what Georgia would do. A hysterical laugh bubbled out of me. Shock. I was in shock. That was the only explanation for it. “It was an accident. Negligent homicide’s a lesser charge. No big deal, right?” I babbled, my breaths coming faster. “Only it won’t exactly look negligent when they find out I drugged you and drove you to my house, then left you in the garage with the engine running.” Or when they found the hit order from his wife in my purse.
“No. No, no, no! You cannot be dead!” I hollered at his lifeless body in my most commanding mommy voice. Because it was not physically possible for my day to get any worse. Wedging myself in the space between my children’s car seats, I leaned awkwardly over Harris’s body. More than slightly revolted, I pinched his nose with one hand and pulled his chin down with the other. His slack mouth parted. It smelled like boozy garlic olives and cheese dip and I fought the urge to hurl. Eyes shut, I pressed my mouth to Harris’s quickly cooling lips, exhaling three quick breaths into his mouth. But it was no good. There wasn’t enough room. I couldn’t find the right angle and all the air escaped out the sides. It felt more like I was making out with a dead guy rather than trying to revive one, not unlike the last few times Steven and I did it before the divorce. Apparently, I couldn’t save anything then either.
Finlay Donovan Is Killing It Page 6
