Finlay Donovan Is Killing It(Finlay Donovan #1)(20)

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 pretty 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.

I clambered out of the van, grabbed his shiny leather loafers, dug in the heels of my sneakers, and pulled. His body was like lead, his expensive suit clinging to the short fibers of the carpet on the floor of the van and snapping with static sparks.

“Come on, Harris, you sadistic fuck!” Leveraging my weight, it took me three hard tugs to move him. His butt hovered just over the running board and I threw my whole body into it as I pulled again. His rump slid forward, followed by the rest of him, his skull smacking the side of the van with a loud crack as he slumped out. I winced when it finally thudded against the concrete.

I let go of Harris’s feet. The soles of his dress shoes thumped against the floor. I dropped to my knees beside him, swearing to myself as I lowered my mouth to his. Suddenly, from behind me I heard—