Finlay Donovan Is Killing It(Finlay Donovan #1)(44)

My mouth fell open. Delia squealed as she managed to untangle the bow from the box and tear her gift from the paper. She gasped, the puppy on her wish list all but forgotten. The Barbie Dreamhouse was three stories high, just like Theresa’s town house. “We’ll take it to your room at Theresa’s,” Steven told her, hefting the box. “You can play with it tonight when you get home.”

Delia chased him to the door, clambering for one last look at it. The small plush dog I’d bought and gift wrapped for her suddenly seemed pathetic, a token of something she wanted that I couldn’t afford. Theresa was right. I had made this easy for them. And if I went to prison, Steven and Theresa were the only parents my children would have left.

I jumped as a car door slammed in the garage. Delia raced to the kitchen to meet Vero, who’d be walking in any moment with the pizzas. Steven hurried out the front door, ushering Theresa in front of him, anxious to be gone. “Make sure the kids are packed and ready by five. I’ll be back for them after the party,” he called over his shoulder. The front door closed just as Vero came in through the kitchen, a mountain of pizza boxes stacked in her arms.



* * *



That night, after Steven had picked up the kids, I sat on my front stoop, the cold from the concrete seeping through my socks as I stared after the shrinking taillights of his truck. The kids would only be gone one night. They’d be home again tomorrow, and they were only a few blocks away, but I hated how easily he swooped in, took what he wanted, and left. I hated how unfair it was, and how nobody else seemed to notice or care.

That had always been Steven’s MO. He’d always been smooth, quick to cover his tracks. Like today, when he’d slipped into Delia’s birthday party an hour late, accomplished exactly what he wanted, and slipped right out again before Vero ever laid eyes on him, without Delia even noticing he’d left. His sense of timing was impeccable, his shell game unerring. He’d been screwing Theresa for weeks behind my back. If Mrs. Haggerty hadn’t seen him and spilled the beans, I might never have known what they had been—

I lifted my chin from my hands. Across the street, Mrs. Haggerty’s curtain flashed closed. I got up and crossed the road, heading straight for her door. If anyone had seen two strangers sneaking around in my garage the night Harris Mickler died—if anyone could stand up for me as a witness and prove I was telling the truth—it would be the neighborhood busybody. I banged on the NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH sticker on the glass.

“Mrs. Haggerty?” I called through it. “I need to speak with you!” I pressed my ear to the door, certain she was listening on the other side. I banged again, harder this time. “Mrs. Haggerty! Will you please open the door? It’s important.” Her TV was on. A muted laugh track of some evening sitcom played in the background. “Fine,” I muttered, finally giving up.

This was all Steven’s fault. After she’d blown the whistle on his affair with Theresa, he’d called her an old hag and told her to mind her own damn business. I hadn’t been much kinder once I’d heard how far and wide the rumors of his affair had spread. She’d refused to speak to either of us since.

I shuffled back across the street in my socks, my feet numb by the time I reached my front door. I closed myself inside, leaning back against it, waiting for the feeling to return to my toes as I thought about Mrs. Haggerty.

Between the time I had arrived home with Harris and the time Vero had let herself in through the front door, someone had snuck into my garage without Vero or me noticing. Mrs. Haggerty was the president of the neighborhood watch. If she had seen anything suspicious, she would have called the police to report it before we’d even stuffed Harris in the trunk. But the police never came, so I could safely assume she hadn’t seen much.

So how did the killers get past Mrs. Haggerty without her noticing?

Vero and I had surprised each other that night because she’d come in through a different door. And Steven had missed Vero entirely at the party for the same reason. What if the killers had parked down the street and snuck through the neighbors’ backyards, approaching my garage from the back?

The more I thought about it, the less it all made sense. Andrei and Feliks didn’t seem like the types who’d sneak around. Andrei Borovkov had slashed up three men and left them bleeding out on a warehouse floor. He hadn’t gone to the effort to clean up and didn’t seem concerned about concealing his crime. Why bother? Georgia said nothing would stick to them anyway. Clearly, they’d had no problem bribing their way to a mistrial. So why frame a suburban mother of two for a bloodless, quiet crime? If they’d wanted Harris dead, why not slash his throat and leave him on the floor of my garage?

No, this MO felt cowardly. The killers never had to touch the body. Never had to shed blood. They didn’t even have to be present at the moment when Harris’s life left him. This didn’t feel like the work of two shameless violent criminals. I was willing to bet the killers had never done anything like this before. The timing of the whole thing felt opportunistic. Or impulsive.

But clearly, something had been planned. They’d staked him out at the bar, then stalked us to my house. They’d waited until he was unconscious and vulnerable to strike, just like …

Just like Harris had with each of his victims.

My back stiffened against the door. Maybe the MO wasn’t impulsive.