“Hey, Vero. Is Finlay here?” My spine drew up tight when I recognized the gravelly voice outside.
“Detective Anthony,” Vero said loudly enough to give me fair warning. “We weren’t expecting you.”
Georgia hadn’t mentioned any new developments in the ongoing investigation when I had talked to her earlier. As far as I knew, the depositions had gone well. And Feliks had pled not guilty on every count, so Harris’s death didn’t necessarily stand out from the others. Nick and I hadn’t talked since the day he’d seen the press release about the book. So what reason did he have for coming here now?
I stood frozen in the kitchen through Vero and Nick’s awkward pause.
“Can I come in?”
“Sure, yeah, sorry,” Vero sputtered.
Steeling myself, I came out of the kitchen. Nick stood close to the door wearing a grim expression. His dark brows pulled lower when he saw me, and he held something behind his back. I hoped to hell it wasn’t an arrest warrant. “Hey, Finlay.”
“Hey,” I said, one eye on his hidden hand.
“What’s he doing here?” Delia asked, peeping around the stairs in the pink satin princess costume she’d been wearing all week. Vero and I looked to Nick for an answer, waiting through the tense silence. The shadow of his jaw was freshly shaven, the dark waves of his hair neatly combed back. He wore his signature black jeans and a hunter-green Henley, and through the open lapels of his leather jacket, I could just make out his sidearm in its holster. I couldn’t tell if he was dressed for work or a date, or if there had ever been any difference for him.
“I just came to visit your mom,” he said.
“Oh.” She fidgeted with her plastic tiara, her scrunched-up face the picture of bemused innocence. “My daddy says you’re an asshole.”
Vero expelled a hard cough into her hand. She pressed her red lips tight.
“Delia Marie!” I pointed with a hard finger to her room. With a huff, she tromped up the stairs. Nick took the hit with a self-effacing smile, wincing as if maybe it still stung a little.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Don’t be. Her dad’s probably right.” He cleared his throat, looking down at the floor.
“I … should check on the kids,” Vero said, disappearing up the stairs.
Nick didn’t speak for a painfully long time. “Is everything okay?” I asked. My gaze slid purposefully to the hand behind his back. If he was serving me a warrant, there was no sense dragging it out.
“Oh, I almost forgot.” Every nerve in my body sagged with relief as he pulled a bottle of champagne from behind his back. “I never told you congratulations. For your book.”
Guilt gnawed at me as I reached for the bottle. “I should have congratulated you, too. Georgia told me you earned a promotion.”
“Yeah, well,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “I didn’t exactly do it alone.” His eyes lifted to mine. I studied the bottle, feeling my cheeks warm. It wasn’t a cheap brand. He’d gone all in for the good stuff.
“You didn’t have to, really.”
“No, I did.” He rubbed his empty hand, as if he weren’t sure what to do with it now that the bottle wasn’t there. “I’m sorry for the things I said. I was just … caught off guard by the article in the paper. And you were right. About everything. It wasn’t your fault. I was the one who got you involved.”
“Still,” I conceded. “I should have told you about the book.”
He shrugged, in dismissal or acknowledgment, I wasn’t entirely sure. “We did sort of use each other, I guess. But I was thinking…” His dimple flashed with his tentative, crooked smile. “If you’d like to use me again, maybe I could take you to dinner sometime.”
It was tempting. Nick was attractive. Steady, reliable. And my toes curled a little at the prospect of making out with him again. But I’d made more than my fair share of impulsive choices lately. And I’d spent a lot of time trying to be someone I wasn’t. Nick had never seen me in my wig-scarf or a dress. He’d never known me as Theresa or Fiona, or anyone other than Finlay Donovan. He’d been inside my house and met Vero and my kids. He’d seen me in my bathrobe and slippers, and yet … Nick didn’t really know me. Could never really know me. Because if he did, I’m guessing he wouldn’t like what he saw.
Like Steven, sometimes it felt as if Nick only saw the parts of me he wanted to. For once, I just wanted someone who saw and appreciated what was really there all along.
I touched the label on the pricey bottle of champagne cradled in my arm. “Can I think about it?”
Nick’s face fell. He quickly picked it up again. “Sure, absolutely. I understand,” he said, trying not to look surprised as he took a step back toward the door. “You know, call me. Anytime. If you change your mind.”
“Thanks again for the champagne. And good luck with the trial.” I hoped he’d be able to put Feliks away for good, for both of our sakes.
We said an awkward good-bye at the door, me inside and him outside, and I sighed as I closed it behind him, hoping I wouldn’t regret this in a few hours when I was lying in bed alone, staring at the ceiling.
Vero leaned around the corner. I held out the bottle of champagne. “Is it over?” she asked with a sympathetic smile. I wasn’t sure if she was talking about the investigation or my relationship with Nick.
“For now.”
She wrinkled her nose. Tipped her head toward the kitchen.
“The lasagna!” We ran to the oven as tendrils of smoke slipped out through the seams in the door. I flung it wide and dragged on my baking mitts, dropping the smoking casserole on the stove top. Vero opened the windows, waving at Mrs. Haggerty as a cold wind blew through the room.
“Pizza goes better with fancy champagne anyway,” she said over the blare of the smoke detector.
I leaned a hip against the counter, fanning smoke from my eyes as it billowed through the kitchen. “Pizza sounds perfect. I’ll buy.”
According to our agreement, Vero was entitled to forty percent of the large supreme with extra cheese we shared that night, but neither of us bothered to count the slices this time.
CHAPTER 43
A few hours later, after Vero and I had polished off all the pizza, an order of hot wings, and the last of the Oreos in the house, I carried my beer upstairs to my bedroom. The champagne had given me a headache after the first glass, and I’d poured mine down the drain, washing away the stubborn remains of Patricia’s letter.
Licking pizza grease from my fingers, I fell back on my bed. The ceiling was low and close, the house too quiet after the kids had gone to sleep. I swiped at a tomato stain on my T-shirt. The fabric was loose and stretchy, the color dull from years of washing. The graphics had peeled away in so many places, they were impossible to read. I didn’t feel like a soon-to-be bestselling author. But I guess I hadn’t felt much like a killer-for-hire either. I stared up at the ceiling, wondering who I was now that the nightmare was over, with my kids soundly asleep in the rooms beside mine and Vero settled across the hall. With Steven living alone in the trailer on his farm, and the threat of a custody battle finally behind me.
I leaned back against the headboard with my beer in my lap, peeling at the sweating edges of the label, thinking about Julian and what he’d said the first night we met at The Lush. How he’d seen right through my disguise.
What’s my type then?
Cold beer and takeout pizza. Barefoot, jeans, and a loose-fitting faded T.
I set the bottle on the nightstand and reached for my phone, my index finger hovering over his number. It was nine thirty on a Tuesday night.
You know where to find me.
I texted Vero across the hall.
Finn: You okay with the kids if I go out for a while?
Vero: Thought you’d never ask.
I swung my legs over the bed and dragged on my sneakers and a hoodie. My bedroom door creaked open as I threw on a baseball cap. Vero peeked around it.
She gave my jeans
and T a pained once-over. With a resigned shake of her head, she tossed me a small Macy’s bag. “At least put some makeup on if you’re meeting with your attorney. I want to hear all about it tomorrow over coffee when you get home. I won’t wait up,” she said with a wink.
My door closed. I opened the bag and looked inside, expecting an explosion of color, surprised to find a tube of clear lip gloss and simple brown mascara. I leaned into the mirror and swiped them on, self-conscious but satisfied that the woman I saw staring back at me was someone I recognized.
On instinct, I reached for my diaper bag. Then set it down as I realized I didn’t need it. Not tonight. Instead, I took a small stack of cash from my desk drawer and stuck it in my purse. Something soft tickled my hand when I reached inside. I pulled out my wig-scarf. It was torn and tangled, the long blond tresses matted in clumps. I ran my fingers through it, smoothing over the wrinkled silk. With a sigh, I left it on my desk.
* * *
It was three minutes to ten when I parked beside Julian’s Jeep in the near-empty lot. The windows of The Lush were dim, the chair legs rising up from the tops of the tables silhouetted against the whisky-gold lights behind the bar. I cupped a hand and peeked through the door, surprised when it opened.
Julian stood with his back to me, restocking bottles on the liquor shelf above his head. His crisp white sleeves were rolled to the elbow and his collar was unbuttoned, as if he’d already clocked out for the night. “Sorry. Bar’s closing,” he called over his shoulder.
“I’m not exactly a top-shelf customer.” Julian’s hand stilled, his eyes finding mine in the mirrored wall. I set my purse on the bar and perched on a stool. “Am I too late for that beer?”
“Bottle or draft?” he asked quietly.
“Bottle’s fine.”
He reached into a fridge under the bar. Air rushed from the cap as he broke the seal and rested the bottle on a napkin in front of me. He slung a rag over his shoulder and leaned back against the counter behind him, taking me in as I sipped it. A curl hung over his eyes, their color decidedly gold against the amber glow behind him.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but we don’t normally get your type in here.”
“Yeah? What’s my type?”
He pushed off the counter and stood in front of me, his hands braced on the bar. “Unassuming famous authors. The kind who use fake names and wear terrible disguises.”
I set down my beer and extended a hand across the bar. “Hi. I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced. My name’s Finlay Donovan.”
He gave me a wan smile. “Not Fiona Donahue?”
“I can show you my ID, if you want to card me.”
He seemed to consider that. When he finally took my hand, it felt nice in mine, and I let it linger. Or maybe he did. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Finlay Donovan.”
I hid a blush behind my beer, liking the sound of my name when he said it.
“You doing okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, surprising myself. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I meant it. “I think I am.”
“You want to talk about it?”
I picked at the edge of my napkin. “It’s kind of a long story.”
“I’m not in any rush.” He reached into the cooler and popped a cap off a beer, his eyes never leaving mine as he took a long, slow sip.
I glanced up at him from under from the shadow of my baseball cap. “Would our conversation be protected by our attorney-client privilege?” My teasing lilt suggested I was flirting, but the question danced around the edges of my very real fear. No one but Vero knew my whole story.
He watched me over another sip of his beer. “I’m not an attorney yet. And you’re not a client. But any bartender worth the salt around his glass will uphold a solemn unspoken oath with the customers who frequent his establishment.” He leaned forward, his arms folded over the bar, his voice falling soft as he toyed with the neck of his bottle. “Call it a duty of confidentiality.”
The bar was empty. The lights over the booths in the back switched off in sections, until all that was left were the soft glow behind Julian’s head and the bright white light through the swing door to the kitchen, where glassware clanked and dishes clattered, the sounds muted under a high-pressure spray.
I took off my baseball cap and set it beside me on the bar, raking back my hair as Julian’s eyes moved over my face. I fortified myself with a long, slow breath, and then I started where every story truly starts—not on page one, but at the very beginning. I told him about my family and my childhood, about Georgia and my parents and my marriage to Steven. I told him about my job as an author and the books I’d written that no one had read. I told him about Theresa and how my marriage had ended. About Vero and my children and the day the electric company turned out the lights. About my meeting with Sylvia at Panera, and how my life had spiraled out of control after that. I told him everything, holding nothing back, watching his face for reactions as I recounted the night I’d slipped out the back of The Lush with Harris slung under my arm. Julian listened, looking away only once to replace my empty beer with a new one. There was no disapproval on his face, no judgment in his eyes. The quickening beat of his pulse in the tight, tanned skin above his thumb as I recounted our escape from Andrei at the farm was the only clue to his thoughts.
When I reached the end, our beers were empty. He didn’t offer me another. I let out a long, shuddering breath as I opened my purse and laid a twenty on the bar. “Thanks for the drinks. And for listening. I should probably go—”
Julian’s hand closed over mine as I reached for my hat. “My shift’s over. Feel like grabbing something to eat?”
My heart hitched. “I’d like that.”
Julian held my stare, his gold eyes warming as he called out to his boss, “Hey, Les, I’m heading out. See you tomorrow.” He set his rag on the bar and shrugged on his coat, meeting me on the other side. I felt his eyes trail over me, a smile creasing their edges when they fell on the long T-shirt peeking out from under my hoodie. He held the door open for me, raising an eyebrow when I pulled my keys from my purse. “Where are we headed?” he asked as he followed me to my van.
Sometimes, I decided, you just had to sit down in front of a blank screen and start typing. My minivan was clean. My alternator was fixed. I had a babysitter and plenty of cash in my pocket.
“I don’t know yet,” I said. But I had a pretty good feeling this chapter would have a happy ending. “Get in. We’ll figure it out.”
CHAPTER 44
It was nearly ten o’clock the next morning when I reluctantly tumbled out of Julian’s apartment. Barefoot and shirtless, he’d backed me to the door, his jeans riding low on his hips and his hands knotted in my hair, whispering good-byes between kisses I felt everywhere. Wearing a stubborn smile, I sat at a red light, singing along to the radio and raking the tangles from my hair, wondering what I would tell Vero. Technically, I only owed her forty percent of the story. But it was nice to know there was someone there waiting, eager to know what happened, when I got home.
Across the busy intersection, the parking lot of the Panera was lightly peppered with cars. I checked the time on my dashboard clock. Patricia Mickler was probably already inside waiting for me. But why? What could she possibly have to offer me except an explanation? Or an apology?
The light turned green. The Mercedes behind me leaned on his horn. Instead of proceeding straight across the intersection, I put my foot on the gas and cut the wheel hard, crossing two lanes of traffic and sliding into Panera’s lot. Idling in front of the restaurant, I stared through the tinted glass windows into the dining room, but I couldn’t make out the faces in the booths inside.
Maybe Vero was right, and I did have a few things I needed to get off my chest. I pulled into a parking spot, slung my purse over my shoulder, and crossed the lot before I changed my mind.
The line at the counter was short, and the heads behind the registers all looked u
p as I blew in. Frankly, I didn’t care if Mindy the Manager happened to recognize me. The worst she could do was ask me to leave or call the police. Let her try. Head held high, I strutted into the dining room with all the confidence of a woman who’d just spent the night with a pretty fantastic attorney.
I skimmed the faces, searching for Patricia’s, stopping short when Irina Borovkov waved casually from her booth.
She sat alone in the far corner, watching me over her coffee, her crimson-lipped smile curling up at the edges as I gaped at her. She gestured to the empty seat in front of her. I hitched my purse higher on my shoulder, steeling myself as I crossed the room.
“Ms. Donovan,” she greeted me as I slid into her booth, “I’m glad to see you got my note.” A cold shiver trailed up my spine. The way she spoke my name—the subtle way she had of making it clear that she knew exactly who I was and where to find me—reminded me a little too much of Feliks and our conversation in Ramón’s garage.
Irina traced the lip of her mug with a long manicured nail. Her other hand was concealed under the table, and I stiffened as it occurred to me that she might be armed.
“I thought I was meeting Patricia,” I said.
Irina nodded, a thoughtful dip of her head. “Patricia’s given her statements. By now, she and her young companion are on a flight to Brazil, to start their new life someplace warm.”
“You’re happy for her.”
“Of course,” she said, her raven-black hair falling over her eyes. “Otherwise, I never would have arranged for her to leave.”
“And what about you?” I asked. “What will you do now that…?” I shuddered at the memory of Andrei’s bloodied face. At the heavy, hollow sound he’d made when Vero and I dropped him in the ground.
“Now that my husband is gone?” Irina gave an elegant shrug. “Someone needs to stay and make sure Feliks ends up where he belongs. He will not be happy once he figures out how Andrei died. You and I have cost him too much, and Feliks is no fool. It won’t take him long to figure it out.”
Finlay Donovan Is Killing It Page 30
