Finlay Donovan Knocks 'Em Dead(Finlay Donovan #2)(100)

“Don’t get on me. I’m having a day.” She poured a second glass and pushed it in front of me.

“I don’t need a drink,” I said.

“Your face says otherwise. And you’d better answer that. It must be important.”

I reached for my phone, catching the call before it slipped to voicemail. “Hey, Syl.”

“Finlay, where the hell have you been? I left you a voicemail last night.”

“I was dealing with a family emergency. What’s up?”

“I talked to your editor. She loved the sample. That scene in the jail with the hot cop was top-notch. She still thinks you should consider killing off the lawyer in the third act.”

Vero smirked as I reached for the wine. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

“And she wants the rest of the manuscript right after the holidays.” I downed half my glass. Of course she did. “One more thing. I sent the pitch to a film agent. He loved it. He’s got a big-name producer who might be interested, and he wants to set up a call.”

Vero’s eyes bugged wide.

“But Sylvia, the manuscript isn’t even halfway—”

“We’re talking A-list actresses, a big Hollywood studio, and lots of media exposure, Finlay. This could be very good for both of us. Don’t let me down.”

I sighed. I’d already seen this story play out and it had been terrifying enough the first time, but it didn’t sound like Sylvia was leaving me any choice. “Fine.”

Sylvia and I exchanged a few trite holiday greetings and she disconnected.

“It’s a great story, Finn,” Vero said, refilling my glass. “Don’t undersell yourself.”

“You’ve read my story. When do I get to hear yours?” Vero’s eyes lifted to mine, the empty bottle suspended between us. Vero’s and my story had begun in medias res, in the middle of an already rapidly moving plot, leaving us to discover so many things about each other as events unfolded. But every great mystery starts somewhere else, deep in the backstory. And if Vero and I were going to solve her problem, I needed to know who the real Vero was. “What are we?” It was the same question I had asked Julian a moment ago, only with Vero, I knew the answer.

“We’re friends,” she said.

“No, we’re more than that, Vero. We’re partners. Friends make mistakes. Partners face them together. No more secrets.” I held out my glass.

She tapped hers tentatively to mine. “No more secrets.” After a few quiet sips, she said, “I’ve been thinking. The car belongs to us now. But we can’t use it. I could ask Ramón to strip it. Javi could sell the parts. You could keep the money. All of it.” There was an apology in that offer. The promise of a down payment to repay what she’d lost. But that car wasn’t Vero’s or mine; it was Feliks’s. And I had no interest in touching it.

I rose from the table, carried his envelope to the stove, and lit the burner. Holding the edge of the paper to the flame, I watched the bill of sale and registration burn. Smoke rippled through the kitchen as I carried the flaming mess to the sink. The smoke detector blared to life, then the garbage disposal, as I washed the remnants of Feliks’s favor down the drain.





CHAPTER 46


My mother’s house smelled divine, like maple, citrus, and allspice. Vero made a small noise of pleasure that bordered on indecent. Pots and pans clattered in the kitchen, and I set the children loose to assault their grandfather where he lounged on the couch in front of the TV as I hung up their coats. Vero followed them, greeting my father with an enthusiastic hug.

A kitchen cabinet slammed, and I followed my nose to the kitchen. My mother stood in front of the stove in one of her favorite Christmas sweaters, fussing over a steaming glazed ham. I kissed her on the cheek.

“Hey, Ma.”

She was unusually tight-lipped, her jaw hard-set as she jerked tiny clove grenades from the skin and tossed them into the sink. “Where’s Vero? I thought I told you to invite her for dinner.”

“She’s in the living room with Dad. Need any help?” I asked, careful to keep my distance as she dropped a lethal-looking serving fork on the platter and plucked a carving knife from the block.

“You can carry this to the table. Tell your father and your sister to turn off the TV, and bring the children in for dinner.” She jammed serving spoons into the au gratin potatoes and roasted brussels, and slapped a set of tongs on the tray beside the rolls.

“Everything okay, Ma?”

“Everything’s fine.”

I rested a hand on hers, forcing her to set down the sprig of garnish she was dismembering. She blew out a heavy sigh. “I’m fine,” she said softly as she gathered herself. “I’m just irritated with your father. That’s all.”

“What’d he do?”

“He sat on the couch all day watching football, while I wrapped and baked and cleaned and cooked. What else?” My sympathetic laugh dragged a reluctant smile from her.

“You and Dad okay?”

She squeezed my cheek. Her fingers smelled like rum balls and gingerbread. “We’re always okay. He may be difficult to live with at times, but goodness knows, I’m no peach. There comes a time in your life when it’s easier to take the good with the bad, Finlay. Anything else is too much work. No man is perfect. The best we can do is settle for a good one. Now help me get all this out to the table before the brussels get cold.”