Finlay Donovan Is Killing It(Finlay Donovan #1)(65)

Steven’s number flashed on the screen, and I contemplated not answering.

“Hello,” I said, rubbing my eyes as I registered the time. The kids were probably already in bed. I hadn’t even kissed them good night.

“Hey, Finn. ’S it a bad time to call?” A slur smoothed over the worn edges around my name. I wondered how many drinks it must have taken for it not to sound like a curse coming out of his mouth.

“Why?”

“Just needed to talk.” He sounded tired, and maybe a little defeated, and I hated myself for the soft spot in my chest that still managed to ache at moments like this, even after all he’d done.

“You okay?” I turned off my monitor and sat in the dark, listening to liquid bubbling down the neck of a bottle and his hard swallow on the other end of the line.

He coughed. Said in a rough voice, “I don’t know. Maybe. Not really.”

The fact that he’d called me instead of his fiancée told me a lot, and at the same time, opened the door to so many more questions. A year ago, we were together, all four of us under one roof. Why’d he have to go and screw everything up?

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s Theresa,” he said. “I’m worried I made a mistake.” I held my tongue, biting my lip to keep from saying the harsh things I wanted to say. “I was stupid to trust her. She’s hiding something. I don’t know exactly what it is, but…”

“But what?” I asked cautiously, afraid of scaring him away. “Why do you think she’s hiding something?”

He hesitated. Took another swig and swore under his breath. “I found cash in her underwear drawer. A lot of cash, Finn. And some cop called the house the other day looking for her. When I asked her about it, she got all defensive and refused to talk.”

“Maybe there was nothing to talk about.”

“I don’t know, Finn. She’s got this new big-shot client. She’s with him all the time. She says he’s only looking for property, but I’ve seen the guy and he’s…” Steven’s voice trailed.

“Attractive?”

“Sleazy’s more like it,” he grumbled. “I looked him up, Finn. He’s into some shady shit. What if he gave her all that cash? What if she’s planning…?” Steven fell quiet.

“To leave you for someone else?” In the silence, a siren wailed, and I heard it in stereo, loud outside my window and more faintly through his cell phone. “Where are you right now?” I pushed my chair from the desk and crossed the room, peeling back the blinds to find Steven’s truck parked outside. He waved sheepishly through the window. “Hold on,” I told him. “I’m coming out.”



* * *



I bundled on a coat and slipped on my tennis shoes. I didn’t bother to check my hair or change out of my yoga pants. Steven and I were beyond all that. Arms folded against the cold, I crossed brittle grass to his truck. He reached over the front seat to open the door for me, and I climbed inside the cab. The air was close and warm, thick with the tang of whisky on his breath and the earthy smell of his farm that still clung to his clothes.

He looked awful, and for the first time in a long time, I didn’t take any joy in that. An empty pint bottle lay on the bench between us. His jacket hung open over his untucked flannel, and his hair stuck up as if he’d been dragging his fingers through it.

A curtain shifted in Mrs. Haggerty’s kitchen window. She’d be on the telephone first thing tomorrow, making sure all the neighbors knew Steven was here, having a clandestine meeting in his truck with his ex-wife. “You want to go somewhere else?”

Steven followed my line of sight to Mrs. Haggerty’s house. His shoulders shook with a somber laugh as he turned the key in the ignition and made a clumsy three-point turn, his huge tires chewing tracks in her front lawn.

Steven’s hand was loose on the wheel. I wondered if I should offer to drive, but a moment later he pulled over in front of the small community park at the end of our street. He killed the engine and got out, and I followed his slow, unsteady steps to a set of swings illuminated by a dull halo of moonlight.

The chains groaned as he eased into one. I settled into the swing beside him, shivering as the cold seeped from the hard plastic seat through my clothes. We sat, listening to the low hum of traffic on the nearby highway, watching the flashing lights of the planes overhead.

“This reminds me of the night Delia was born,” he said, staring up at the night-bright sky. I gave him a long side-eye. Our memories of that night were very different. All I remembered was the pain and the long hours of labor, leaving frantic messages for him between contractions as the time between them grew shorter. All I remembered was Georgia’s face. The smell of coffee on her breath, her hand clutching mine as she shouted at me in her police officer voice to keep pushing, and the fat lip she gave my husband in the hospital parking lot when he finally showed up, hungover and terrified. He’d been there all night, drinking in this park, afraid of becoming a father and screwing it up. “I’m scared, Finn.”

“Of what?”

“I’m scared Theresa’s involved with him.”

I raised an eyebrow, twisting in my seat to look him squarely in the face. The chains spun around each other, keeping tension on the swing. If I took my feet off the ground, they’d turn me away from him and pull me straight again, and I found something oddly reassuring about that. “Aren’t you involved with someone, too?” I asked.