Finlay Donovan Is Killing It(Finlay Donovan #1)(23)

The call disconnected.

Numb, I lowered the phone from my ear.

“Do you think she meant all that … about people coming after you?” Vero asked, her eyes wide.

“I don’t know,” I said in a small voice. But I wasn’t sure I wanted to take any chances. Not with my kids. Or my life.

We were both quiet for a long time.

“Assuming you don’t get caught, she’s still going to pay you, right?”

“I guess.”

Vero paced the garage. She tapped her nails on her crossed arms, thinking. “And you know about this stuff? I mean, you write books about it, right?”

“Yes, but—”

“So you know how to get rid of a body.” Vero stopped pacing. She raised a thinly plucked brow when I didn’t answer. I knew how to get rid of a fictional body, but the one on my garage floor was very, very real.

“I think so.”

The tension slid from her shoulders, as if she’d resigned herself to some decision. “In that case, fifty percent.” My mouth hung open as she folded her arms over her chest. “I help you get rid of the body, and we split everything. Fifty-fifty.”

What was happening? Was my children’s babysitter seriously offering to help me get away with murder? This was definitely not okay.

With an impatient roll of her eyes, she said, “Fine. I won’t take a penny less than forty percent. But I want my job back. Plus forty percent of any referrals.”

“Referrals?” I sputtered. “What do you mean referrals?”

“We don’t have all night.” She planted her hands on her hips, tapping her nails on her waist when I didn’t answer. “Are we doing this together or not?”

Together.

This was not okay. We were not okay. But together sounded a whole lot better than doing this alone.

She extended her hand. My fingers trembled as I shook it. Hers did, too. Vero bent to put my pan back in her cardboard box. She pulled a fifth of bourbon out by the neck, twisted the cap, and took a sip, wincing as she held the bottle out to me.

“That’s mine, you know,” I said, snatching it from her hand as we both slid down the side of the van.

“Only sixty percent of it,” she said.

I threw her a sharp look as I took a swig.

“I should probably just move in with you,” she said. I choked, spraying bourbon down the front of my shirt. “Don’t worry. I’ll take the smaller bedroom.”

I took another gulp. It burned all the way down. When I opened my eyes, Harris Mickler was still there, one hundred percent dead, Vero was still sitting beside me on the floor next to a box of stolen household gadgets that, by my best estimates, were now only sixty percent mine, and I was pretty sure we’d spend the next forty percent of our lives in prison if we couldn’t find a way to pull this off.





CHAPTER 10





In fiction, it always came down to the shower curtain. A hotshot cop would tear a crime scene apart, searching for evidence, and immediately spot the glaring absence of a shower curtain. Because people use shower curtains. They need shower curtains. And if you’re involved in a homicide investigation and don’t have a shower curtain, you might as well call 911 and slap the cuffs on yourself.

Which was why I was wrapping Harris Mickler’s body in my best silk table linens.

They’d been a wedding present from my Great Aunt Florence eight years ago when I’d married Steven, and I had never once used them. And since I’d sold my dining room furniture six months ago on Craigslist to make my van payment, if some hotshot cop did come to search my house, I was pretty sure he wouldn’t even notice they were gone.

Vero and I spread the maroon fabric on the garage floor at Harris’s feet. Then Vero took his hands and I took his ankles. Together, we hoisted him a few inches off the ground and swung him down in the middle of the sheet.

I dropped his legs, rearranging the linens at an angle to cover him, kind of like arranging a sandwich on a sheet of cellophane. Then, with exhaustive effort and a lot of grunting, Vero and I rolled Harris Mickler into a giant corpse burrito.

“His feet are sticking out,” I panted as we finished the last roll.

“Better than his head.” Wisps of Vero’s hair had escaped her ponytail, and sweat bloomed on her chest. She was almost ten years younger than I was, and in far better shape. My muscles screamed as I bent over my knees.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked between labored breaths. She was young, single, smart. Once she finished her degree, she’d have her whole life ahead of her.

“I need the money.”

“What for?”

“Student loans.”

I put my hands on my hips, chest still heaving as I gaped at her. “Let me get this straight. You’re helping me dispose of a body to pay for school?”

“Clearly, you’re too old to remember how much a bachelor’s degree costs,” she said bitterly.

“I’m not too old. I just … never had to worry about it.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll be paying interest until I’m fifty.”

“Assuming we don’t get arrested first.” We both stared at the messy enchilada on the floor.

There was no way we were unrolling him—it had been hard enough to roll him up the first time—but he’d be far too unwieldy with his feet dangling out. Rummaging through the contents of Steven’s old workbench, I found a lone bungee cord in a bucket of rusted nails. The hook on one end was missing, which was probably the only reason he hadn’t taken it when he’d left. I wrapped the elastic around Harris’s ankles and tied it in a knot, leaving the single remaining hook wobbling off the end.