Finlay Donovan Knocks 'Em Dead(Finlay Donovan #2)(105)

I clutched the collar of his coat, my knees a little weak. “Who says I’d let you kiss me anyway?”

He tipped his head toward the sprig of mistletoe above us. Then he dipped his chin, brushing his lips softly over one corner of mine, his chaste kiss leaving me breathless and wanting. “Merry Christmas,” he whispered. He drew back slowly as my traitorous mouth followed.

I let go of his jacket, unsteady on my feet as he turned to go. Head resting against the doorframe, I touched the tingling edge of my lips as he hobbled on his crutch to his car. My mother appeared beside me, drying her hands on a dish towel. She sighed, watching him over my shoulder. “He really does have very nice biscuits.”





EPILOGUE



I set my screwdriver down beside the level and tape measure on the mantel and straightened Vero’s hot pink stocking on its hook. It looked nice there, bookended between the children’s and mine, filling out the empty spaces between us and returning a sense of balance.

I stole the glass of eggnog from the hearth that Vero and the children had left out for Santa, and I sipped it under the lights of the tree Steven had picked out. Feeling nostalgic, I remembered the significance of each of the ornaments I’d hung on it tonight: first steps, first birthdays, and now first lost teeth … There was another box of ornaments upstairs, packed away in my closet: first date, the wedding, our first anniversary. Somehow, the tree didn’t look any less full or shiny without them.

Vero was upstairs in her room, wrapping the last of the presents she’d bought for Delia and Zach. The kids were fast asleep in their beds and the house was blissfully quiet.

I dragged my computer into my lap and opened my manuscript, determined to put a dent in it while the children were sleeping. A dam had broken in my writer’s block, and the story was finally coming together in ways that made sense. My heroine had broken out of jail, recovered her stolen bounty, and found her missing attorney on her own. But in the end, she made the decision not to go back with him to stand trial; she hadn’t been guilty of anything she wouldn’t have made the choice to do again. And Sylvia was happy. The hot cop was back in the plot, determined to catch the assassin, the two of them slow dancing on a tightrope that felt dangerous and uncertain, but also inexplicably right.

My assassin just wasn’t sure she was ready to be caught yet. She was content to be the hero of her own story for a while.

My phone vibrated on the coffee table, the screen glowing with a new notification: Julian Baker wants to connect with you on Instagram.

My thumb hovered over the Accept button.

Vero crept up behind me and peeked over my shoulder. She set three presents under the tree and sat down beside it, her head tipped back against the arm of the sofa. “Which one of them is your heroine going to choose in the end?”

“Who says she has to pick one?” I closed the invitation and set down my phone.

“So she’s just going to ride off into the sunset with all that book money on her own?”

“And end the story there? No,” I said thoughtfully, “I have to leave my heroine a few mysteries to solve. Besides, she’s not keeping the money.”

“She’s finally getting around to buying a new car?”

“No. She’s giving it to her accountant.”

Vero went very still. Tree lights glistened on the sheen in her eyes. “Why would you do that?”

“Because you need it. And we’re family.” I swung my legs off the couch and tossed her a bag of stocking stuffers before either of us started crying. “As soon as the holidays are over, we’re going to Atlantic City to deal with this lost marker. And then we’re going to get the people you owe off your back. Now, grab me those stockings so we can get them filled and go to bed. I’m exhausted.”

I tore open a bag of candy, stealing a few pieces for myself as Vero gathered the empty stockings from the mantel. She held mine aloft with a bemused frown. It crinkled when she squeezed the fabric.

“There’s something in yours,” she said, setting the others aside. She reached in, withdrawing a cream-colored envelope. My heart stopped when she turned it over, revealing a crimson wax seal.

Vero came to sit beside me on the couch, both of us too stunned to speak as she passed me the envelope.

Slowly, I tore it open, unfolding several sheets of printed images on computer paper. Vero read over my shoulder as I skimmed them.

“They’re screenshots. From the women’s forum,” I said. The posts had been decoded in the margins in pen: drop locations for drug deals, shipment information for weapons, names of Feliks’s associates and targets. Someone knew that site was a front. And they knew exactly who was behind it.

A price had been written in bold, red ink. The message had been signed.

“EasyClean’s blackmailing Feliks,” I whispered. “He wants two million dollars to keep quiet.”

I turned to the last page and found a message for me.

Someone is making a mess, Ms. Donovan.

I want EasyClean found and this business tidied up.

Don’t disappoint me. —Z





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS



This novel was written during the COVID-19 pandemic. My deadlines and word count goals were bookended by lockdowns, a tumultuous election, and an endless stream of horrifying news headlines. There were many days (and most nights) when I stared at an empty screen for hours, wondering if I could dredge up an ounce of humor from a well that felt discouragingly dry. Writing comedy is hard; writing comedy when the world is on fire takes “hard” to a whole new level. Sometimes I wasn’t sure I could. I have many people to thank for helping me bring this book to the finish line.