Finlay Donovan Is Killing It(Finlay Donovan #1)(21)

“Oh, shit! Sorry, Ms. Donovan, I didn’t know you were home. I just came to get my…”

My head snapped up at Vero’s startled gasp.

My children’s nanny stood in the kitchen doorway holding a cardboard box. I swiped my lips furiously against my forearm. Her false lashes widened on Harris as I stumbled to my feet. “Vero? What are you doing here?”

“What are you doing here?” she asked, stealing narrow-eyed glances at the dead man behind my back.

“You first.” I planted my hands on my hips, standing as tall as I could make myself to shield Harris from view.

“Why?”

“Because it’s my house.” Sort of. Actually, it was Steven’s since he’d refinanced me out of it, making him my landlord. But that hardly seemed important at the moment. “How did you get in?”

“Through the front door. With my key. You said you were going out, so I came to get my stuff.” Vero hoisted the cardboard box higher on her hip, her crop top riding up her midriff as she peered around me. “Who’s that?”

“Who?”

She jutted her chin at Harris’s feet.

“Oh, him?” I scratched my neck, perspiration making the skin itch as I angled myself to stand in her way. “He’s just … someone I met earlier … in a bar.”

She leaned sideways to see around me. Her jaw fell open as she crept down a step closer. Her voice climbed an octave and broke. “Is he dead?”

“No!” My nervous smile made the muscles in my face do weird things, and I pressed my hand to my cheek, feeling the blood rush to it. “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would you think that?”

“Because he looks dead!”

I risked a glance down at Harris. His lips were purple and his skin was a strange shade of grayish blue. Oh, god.

She sidestepped away from me, toward the wall. “You know what? Never mind. I’m just going to go.” She tapped the button to open the garage door. The motor kicked on, whirring above our heads, but the door didn’t budge.

“Wait! I can explain.”

“Nothing to explain,” she insisted, smacking the button again, harder this time, her eyes darting between me and the garage door. “I didn’t see anything. I don’t know anything. I don’t care about the dead guy,” she said over the hum of the motor.

“Please,” I said. She jabbed her thumb at the button, cursing the garage door when it didn’t move. “Vero.” I lowered my voice, struggling to keep it steady. “I know how this must look, but it’s not what you think. This man is not a nice person. He did some very bad things.”

“I’m guessing he’s not the only one.” Vero backed toward the kitchen, muttering under her breath as the motor fell quiet, looking frantically around her, probably for a weapon. “You know what? You’re both crazy. You and your husband.”

“Ex!” I snapped. “Ex-husband!”

“Fine! Your ex-husband. Whatever. You’re both nuts!” She held the cardboard box out between us like some kind of a shield. A familiar stainless-steel handle protruded from the loose flaps on top.

“Hey!” I pointed at my favorite nonstick pan. “That’s mine! What are you doing with that?” I reached for the handle, but Vero grabbed it, letting the rest of the box fall to the floor. She crouched, wielding the frying pan like a bludgeon.

“Worker’s comp,” she said, her stance daring me to come near her.

“You think you’re entitled to cookware because my ex-husband laid you off?” She took a swing at me and I leapt backward, nearly falling over Harris’s body.

“Your husband didn’t lay me off! I quit!”

“Quit?” I reached behind me for the workbench, my fingers skimming the surface for a screwdriver or a hammer. Anything I could use to defend myself against my favorite All-Clad pan. My grip closed around the small pink gardening trowel and I held it out in front of me, crab walking around the perimeter of the garage away from her. “I thought you liked my kids!”

“I love your kids!”

“If you love my kids then why would you quit?”

“Because when I went to your ex’s house to collect my check, he told me he’d only keep paying me if I slept with him!”

My hand went limp. The garden shovel dropped to the floor with a hollow thud.

I laughed, silently at first, then out loud through my painfully tight throat, just to keep myself from crying. “Oh … Oh, that is so Steven.” I sank down on the rough wooden step to the kitchen. “You know what? Keep the damn pan.” She’d put up with enough. She deserved that much. I buried my face in my hands, revolted by the smell of vodka and Harris Mickler’s mouth on my own breath. “You’re right. We’re both nuts,” I muttered, swatting at a tear.

Vero eyed me sideways. She crouched a safe distance away, carefully placing the last of her spilled contents back inside her cardboard box as if she was afraid to make any sudden movements. She stood up slowly, the box tucked under her arm. I didn’t care how much of it was mine. What did it matter? I was going to lose everything anyway.

“It was stupid to think I could do this,” I said as she tiptoed to the garage door. She heaved it open a few inches with one arm, the box still propped under the other.