Finlay Donovan Knocks 'Em Dead(Finlay Donovan #2)(18)

“What change?”

“She wants the hot cop back in the story. Just hear me out,” Sylvia said when I started to protest. “You can keep the lawyer—she liked that angle—but your readers will be expecting the cop to be in the book. It’ll add some internal and external tension, and a second love interest will spice up the plot.”

“Love triangles are too hard to juggle,” I argued.

“Then kill one of them off in the third act. Let the other one save her and give her a steamy happily ever after. Pick whichever one you want. Just make sure the hot cop makes it into the sample. Twenty thousand by next Monday, Finlay. Don’t let me down.”

Sylvia disconnected.

My Auntie Anne’s pretzel sat unfinished, going cold in a greasy puddle on my tray. Why did my heroine need a hero to save her? Why couldn’t she just be trusted to save herself?

For that matter, when did she get to do the rescuing?

Tearing off a mouthful of dough with my teeth, I closed my manuscript and opened my browser, glancing over my shoulder to make sure no one was watching as I navigated to the forum. I could log in and out in less than a minute. Just long enough to check the post. No harm, no felony.

I clicked on Bad Business, revealing the short thread.

I stopped chewing, my hand frozen over the track pad.

EasyClean: @FedUp, Steven Donovan sounds like quite a piece of work indeed. I’ve looked into the liar and cheat in question, and I’m in agreement. He could disappear next week and the world wouldn’t miss him. 50 Good reasons is all I need to start a conversation. If you’re ready to talk to someone who understands, DM me. I’m ready to listen.



A knot formed in my throat.

I stood, shoving my pretzel in my bag, preparing to pack up my laptop and head for Delia’s school. Georgia was there, presenting for Career Day. I could show her the post and make up some story about how I’d gotten an anonymous note in my mailbox (it wasn’t entirely a lie). I could do what I should have done weeks ago, let the police sort it out and— I stared at the screen as a new message appeared below EasyClean’s reply.

FedUp: It’s so kind of you to offer. I was beginning to worry I was doing this wrong. I don’t have much experience with this sort of thing. I’m grateful to have someone to talk to. I’ll send a message soon.



I fumbled in my computer bag for my phone and called Vero’s number.

Pleasepickup, pleasepickup, pleasepickup …

“Someone had better be dead,” she mumbled.

“You can’t possibly be sleeping. It’s almost eleven o’clock.”

“Zach’s taking a nap. I get one, too.”

“EasyClean took the job.”

Blankets rustled through the phone. Vero’s harsh whisper was suddenly clear and sharp. “What do you mean, EasyClean took the job?”

“I mean exactly what I said! I’m on the forum right now!” A woman at a nearby table gave me the side-eye. “We have to do something,” I hissed.

“Short of putting your ex on a plane to Siberia, I don’t think there’s anything we can do.”

“I’m picking up Delia in thirty minutes from school. Georgia’s there for Career Day. I’m going to talk to my sister.”

She sucked in a sharp breath. “And say what?”

“Only as much as I have to.”

“No, absolutely not, Finlay!”

I dropped my voice to a harsh whisper, angling away from the woman at the table beside me. “You saw how terrified the kids were at the tree farm. I can’t just stand by while someone’s trying to murder their dad!”

“If the police find this post, they’ll be all over this forum, and you know exactly where that will lead them. This is the same damn forum Patricia Mickler used when she was looking for someone to kill Harris, before she found you. That case is closed, Finlay. Feliks is in jail, and we’re off the hook. But if you blab this to your sister now, that investigation could be reopened before Feliks even goes to trial. And we could both go to prison for murder.”

I wiped sweat from my lip. Vero was right. It would be a huge risk involving the police in this, but I had to do something. Once FedUp and EasyClean moved their conversation off the group chat, I’d have no way of following it.

“Finlay?” It was the same tone Vero used when my children were too quiet. When we both knew they were up to no good. “What are you doing?”

I pulled my laptop closer and clicked Reply in Thread.

“You should come home,” she said sternly. “We should talk about this.”

My hands flew over the keys. It was the most I’d written in weeks. Because there was only one way I was going to let this scene play out.

Anonymous2: @FedUp: Sounds like you’d benefit from talking with a real professional. I’ve helped several women eliminate unwanted stress from their lives, and I’m confident I can assist with this particular problem. I don’t need any Good reasons up front to start a conversation. DM me. We’ll work it out.



“Finn, we have to be smart about this. Whatever you’re doing, stop.”

I clicked Submit, pushing my laptop away from me with a shuddering exhale.

The phone went deathly silent. “Tell me you didn’t reply.”