Finlay Donovan Knocks 'Em Dead(Finlay Donovan #2)(10)
The thread died there, a disconcerting, unspoken, yet tangible silence hanging in the wake of the last reply. No one liked to be reminded that the pricey grass that covered their manicured lawn had been seeded in the same dirt as organized crime. And this post felt like more than an expression of solidarity. It reeked of ill will, the coded language of illicit business.
A real piece of work sounded an awful lot like a contract. And 100 Good reasons sounded suspiciously like a price. Steven’s full name and the location of his business had been clearly spelled out, and the world would be better off without him … well, that part was obvious.
I relaxed a little as I closed the thread. There had been no new replies since Vero’s last library visit three days ago, but there was still the problem of figuring out who FedUp really was. I spent the next few hours dipping into rabbit holes in the forum, searching for her other posts, but as far as I could tell, this message about Steven had been FedUp’s only contribution. According to her profile, she had registered as a member two days before posting the job and hadn’t posted since. But she was clearly still active; her last log-in had been earlier this morning.
“Who are you?” I asked, staring at FedUp’s scant profile. Clearly, this was a woman. Someone Steven had either lied to or cheated on. Someone with questionable moral character. My obscured reflection stared back at me from the glass, and I wondered if FedUp was on the other side, lurking in the shadows, waiting for someone to write back.
CHAPTER 5
On Sunday morning, I left the library for the last time with exactly zero clues about FedUp’s identity, and even fewer about the plot of my next book. I picked up Delia and Zach from my parents’ house, relieved beyond measure when my garage door ground open and I saw Vero’s Charger parked inside. Holding Zach in one arm and dragging two Rollaboards, my laptop, and the diaper bag with the other, I wrestled open the kitchen door.
“Vero!” I called out. Zach slid from my arms and toddled to the playroom. Delia tossed her coat over a chair. Vero’s name echoed through the otherwise silent house. I dumped the luggage and bags on the floor, expecting her to burst into the room with a gleeful cheer after a whole weekend away from us. I called out again as I fished an empty sippy cup from the diaper bag and set it in the sink, surprised to find it full of the breakfast dishes I hadn’t had time to clean before I’d rushed off to the library that morning. The coffeemaker was still half-full of cold grounds, the counter still dotted with toast crumbs.
While I hadn’t intended to leave her a mess, it wasn’t like Vero to walk past one without tidying up.
I stood at the bottom of the steps in the foyer, listening for the sound of a shower running upstairs or the thump of reggaeton through the walls of her room.
“Where’s Vero?” Delia asked.
“She must be taking a nap. Why don’t you go play with your brother,” I suggested, nudging my daughter toward the playroom.
I climbed the steps to Vero’s bedroom. Soft music bled through the closed door, a moody boy band ballad I’d never heard before and was sure she’d make fun of if it came on the radio in her car. I knocked, listening to the creak of her bedspring and the slow shuffle of feet on the floor. Her door opened and she peeked through the crack, wearing a mismatched pair of flannel pajamas I’m pretty sure were mine. Her eyes were ringed in day-old mascara, half-hidden behind wisps of tangled dark hair that spilled from her loose topknot.
“Who are you?” I asked, pushing open the door. “And what have you done with my nanny?”
I waited for her to remind me that she was actually my accountant, but Vero only turned back to her bed and plopped facedown onto it. I sat on the edge of her mattress, wedged my hand between her face and the pillow, and pressed my palm to her forehead. Her skin wasn’t clammy or hot, but her hair smelled faintly like a dive bar.
“Your weekend with your cousin was really that good, huh?” It wouldn’t be the first time she’d come home hungover after a night out with Ramón. But it was the first time she came home from her cousin’s looking glum. She buried her face deeper in the pillow, and a knot of worry cinched in my chest. “You want to talk about it?”
“No,” came her muffled reply.
I was pretty sure there was only one thing that would pull her out of this funk. “Then get up,” I said, rising to my feet and dragging the pillow out from under her head, making her hair stand up with static. “We’re going shopping.”
She opened one eye, wide and uncertain. “For what?”
“Christmas presents. And Dairy Queen drive-through.” Vero had never met a chili dog or a milkshake she didn’t like. “But if you’re too tired to come along—”
“Don’t leave,” she said, bolting upright in the bed. “And do not buy anything without me. I’m coming with you.”
Two minutes later, the shower sputtered on in her bathroom and that knot of worry finally began to unwind. Vero was obviously having trouble with her family, and as much as I loved that she felt so at home with mine, it bugged me that she didn’t seem ready to confide in me about it.
After a quick run through the DQ drive-through, she started to perk up, only to wilt again as I pulled the van into the packed parking lot of the home improvement store.
“What are we doing?” she asked.