Finlay Donovan Is Killing It(Finlay Donovan #1)(60)

“I respect you for telling me no,” she said over the music. “I understand your position.”

“You do?”

“And I respect you for insisting on more.”

“I wasn’t … I didn’t…”

“That’s right! Give me a little more, ladies!” the instructor roared.

“No,” I wheezed, “I don’t want any more.”

Irina smiled, endorphins loosening the stern lines of her face. She actually looked like she was enjoying this. The woman was a masochist. “It is a hard thing to be a woman in a man’s world,” she said over the music. “We are conditioned to believe we are not worthy. But this is why I believe in you. You will do this job for me. And I will pay you what Feliks would pay any man to do the same work. Women must stick together. It is the same reason Patricia gave me your number. Because this is something she understood.”

“Aren’t you the least bit worried about her?” I panted.

“Why should I be worried?”

“The police are searching for her. What if they find her?”

“What makes you think there’s anything left of her to find?”

My legs stopped moving, my shoes carried by the momentum of the spinning pedals as her words spun around in my head. “What do you mean?”

Irina’s eyes were cold and cutting as she looked at me sideways, her chin held high, above any judgment or remorse. “Patricia Mickler no longer exists. I made certain of it.”

I couldn’t catch my breath to speak. I looked around me, wondering if anyone else had heard what Irina Borovkov had just confessed. But all the eyes in the room were straight ahead, on the instructor. All but Irina’s. Her faintly amused and crooked smile was angled sideways, toward me. A bead of sweat trailed down her temple. Somehow, she looked cool in spite of it, as if her heart rate was completely unaffected by any of this.

“It is better for everyone this way,” she said. “Better for you, too. Patricia has always been skittish, easily intimidated. If the police pushed too hard, she might have said something foolish. And that would have been very bad for both of us.”

My mouth hung open, my legs numb as I struggled to keep up. Patricia Mickler was dead. Irina had had her killed just to keep her from talking. To conceal a crime I hadn’t even committed yet. I thought they were friends. What happened to women sticking together?

The music hit a fevered pitch, the thundering bass stealing every breath and every sound. My lungs burned. My mouth was so dry I was unable to form words. I told myself I would follow Irina to the locker room after class. That I would give her the backpack full of money and tell her I never wanted to see her again. Whatever had happened between her and Patricia had nothing to do with me. I cried out in relief when the music stopped and the women in front of us dismounted their bikes. Irina turned to me as she patted her face with her towel.

“You will be in touch when it is done.” She swung a leg over her stationary bike, threw her towel over her shoulder, and headed for the door before I could catch my breath to speak.

“No, wait!” I called after her. I brought my foot over the side of the bike, tripping over Delia’s backpack. My legs buckled out from under me, and I collapsed in a sweaty, clumsy heap on the floor. The cyclist in front of me turned, extending her hand to help me to my feet. I lost sight of Irina as she slipped into the hall. My knees were weak as I rushed to the exit, the backpack heavy against my cold, drenched shirt. By the time I shuffled out of the room, Irina was gone.

I trudged to the water fountain, eyes closed as I gulped mouthfuls of coppery cool water past the lump in my throat. Cupping some in my hand, I splashed my sweat-drenched face, wishing I would wake up and find this entire conversation had been a bad dream. The woman who’d hired me to kill Harris Mickler was dead—the one person who could both implicate and exonerate me—and I wasn’t sure how to feel about it. The only thing I was certain of was that Irina Borovkov was every bit as dangerous as her husband, and I still had her money. I wasn’t sure what would happen to me if I didn’t finish the job. Or, for that matter, what she would do to me after I did.

Every bone in my body groaned as I straightened and turned around, face-first into the person waiting behind me for the fountain.

The man gripped a racquet in one hand and held the hem of his shirt over his face with the other as he mopped sweat from his brow. A tight, tanned abdomen glistened beneath it. My throat closed around any coherent thought as his shirt fell back in place and Julian Baker raked back his curls. His cheeks were flushed with exertion, his honey-blond hair tinged dark with sweat.

I lowered my head, letting the hair that had come loose from my ponytail fall over my face. GMU was only a few miles away. And like an idiot, I hadn’t even considered the possibility that I might run into him here. Or what might happen if I did.

I shifted sideways away from the fountain as he moved to let me by. We accidentally stepped on each other’s feet.

“Sorry,” I muttered as he steadied me.

“No, don’t apologize, it was my fault. I wasn’t paying attention.” His hand was gentle on my upper arm. I averted my gaze as he tipped his head, trying to make eye contact. Turning tail and running would be suspicious … and rude. But if he figured out who I was—if he could place me here, in the same class with Irina Borovkov—then his next conversation with Detective Anthony could be (as Irina would say) very, very bad for both of us. Maybe he hadn’t noticed which room I’d come out of. If I walked away right now, maybe he wouldn’t recognize me.