Finlay Donovan Is Killing It(Finlay Donovan #1)(99)

“Still,” I conceded. “I should have told you about the book.”

He shrugged, in dismissal or acknowledgment, I wasn’t entirely sure. “We did sort of use each other, I guess. But I was thinking…” His dimple flashed with his tentative, crooked smile. “If you’d like to use me again, maybe I could take you to dinner sometime.”

It was tempting. Nick was attractive. Steady, reliable. And my toes curled a little at the prospect of making out with him again. But I’d made more than my fair share of impulsive choices lately. And I’d spent a lot of time trying to be someone I wasn’t. Nick had never seen me in my wig-scarf or a dress. He’d never known me as Theresa or Fiona, or anyone other than Finlay Donovan. He’d been inside my house and met Vero and my kids. He’d seen me in my bathrobe and slippers, and yet … Nick didn’t really know me. Could never really know me. Because if he did, I’m guessing he wouldn’t like what he saw.

Like Steven, sometimes it felt as if Nick only saw the parts of me he wanted to. For once, I just wanted someone who saw and appreciated what was really there all along.

I touched the label on the pricey bottle of champagne cradled in my arm. “Can I think about it?”

Nick’s face fell. He quickly picked it up again. “Sure, absolutely. I understand,” he said, trying not to look surprised as he took a step back toward the door. “You know, call me. Anytime. If you change your mind.”

“Thanks again for the champagne. And good luck with the trial.” I hoped he’d be able to put Feliks away for good, for both of our sakes.

We said an awkward good-bye at the door, me inside and him outside, and I sighed as I closed it behind him, hoping I wouldn’t regret this in a few hours when I was lying in bed alone, staring at the ceiling.

Vero leaned around the corner. I held out the bottle of champagne. “Is it over?” she asked with a sympathetic smile. I wasn’t sure if she was talking about the investigation or my relationship with Nick.

“For now.”

She wrinkled her nose. Tipped her head toward the kitchen.

“The lasagna!” We ran to the oven as tendrils of smoke slipped out through the seams in the door. I flung it wide and dragged on my baking mitts, dropping the smoking casserole on the stove top. Vero opened the windows, waving at Mrs. Haggerty as a cold wind blew through the room.

“Pizza goes better with fancy champagne anyway,” she said over the blare of the smoke detector.

I leaned a hip against the counter, fanning smoke from my eyes as it billowed through the kitchen. “Pizza sounds perfect. I’ll buy.”

According to our agreement, Vero was entitled to forty percent of the large supreme with extra cheese we shared that night, but neither of us bothered to count the slices this time.





CHAPTER 43





A few hours later, after Vero and I had polished off all the pizza, an order of hot wings, and the last of the Oreos in the house, I carried my beer upstairs to my bedroom. The champagne had given me a headache after the first glass, and I’d poured mine down the drain, washing away the stubborn remains of Patricia’s letter.

Licking pizza grease from my fingers, I fell back on my bed. The ceiling was low and close, the house too quiet after the kids had gone to sleep. I swiped at a tomato stain on my T-shirt. The fabric was loose and stretchy, the color dull from years of washing. The graphics had peeled away in so many places, they were impossible to read. I didn’t feel like a soon-to-be bestselling author. But I guess I hadn’t felt much like a killer-for-hire either. I stared up at the ceiling, wondering who I was now that the nightmare was over, with my kids soundly asleep in the rooms beside mine and Vero settled across the hall. With Steven living alone in the trailer on his farm, and the threat of a custody battle finally behind me.

I leaned back against the headboard with my beer in my lap, peeling at the sweating edges of the label, thinking about Julian and what he’d said the first night we met at The Lush. How he’d seen right through my disguise.

What’s my type then?

Cold beer and takeout pizza. Barefoot, jeans, and a loose-fitting faded T.

I set the bottle on the nightstand and reached for my phone, my index finger hovering over his number. It was nine thirty on a Tuesday night.

You know where to find me.

I texted Vero across the hall.

Finn: You okay with the kids if I go out for a while?

Vero: Thought you’d never ask.

I swung my legs over the bed and dragged on my sneakers and a hoodie. My bedroom door creaked open as I threw on a baseball cap. Vero peeked around it.

She gave my jeans and T a pained once-over. With a resigned shake of her head, she tossed me a small Macy’s bag. “At least put some makeup on if you’re meeting with your attorney. I want to hear all about it tomorrow over coffee when you get home. I won’t wait up,” she said with a wink.

My door closed. I opened the bag and looked inside, expecting an explosion of color, surprised to find a tube of clear lip gloss and simple brown mascara. I leaned into the mirror and swiped them on, self-conscious but satisfied that the woman I saw staring back at me was someone I recognized.

On instinct, I reached for my diaper bag. Then set it down as I realized I didn’t need it. Not tonight. Instead, I took a small stack of cash from my desk drawer and stuck it in my purse. Something soft tickled my hand when I reached inside. I pulled out my wig-scarf. It was torn and tangled, the long blond tresses matted in clumps. I ran my fingers through it, smoothing over the wrinkled silk. With a sigh, I left it on my desk.