Finlay Donovan Knocks 'Em Dead(Finlay Donovan #2)(19)

“It was the only thing I could think of!” I needed time. Time to think. Time to figure out who FedUp was. Maybe this would buy me enough.

“Where are you?” Vero asked.

“In the eatery at the mall.”

“On your laptop?”

“Yes, on my laptop!”

“Jesus, Finn! What were you thinking?”

“You were the one who said you wanted to buy a chest freezer!”

“I was not suggesting you take an offer to kill your ex from the open Wi-Fi at the food court!”

I slammed my laptop closed with a gasp, my eyes darting to the tables around me. What had I done?

“Listen to me, Finlay,” Vero said with a forced calm. “Log off the forum right this minute. Pick up Delia from Career Day and do not breathe a word of this to your sister. We will deal with this ourselves. Just like we did before.”

I swallowed hard against the memories of dead bodies. Of the weight of a man’s life. Of endless hours of shoveling by moonlight.

Just like we did before was exactly what I was afraid of.





CHAPTER 9


A chill wind sliced through the open buttons of my coat as I cut across the packed parking lot of Delia’s preschool. As I wove between cars, I searched for my sister’s shiny blue Impala, but it was nowhere in sight. Digging my cell phone from my bag, I stood outside the front of the school, scrolling through the calls and messages I’d thumbed off while I’d been panicking in the food court. My heart stuttered when I skimmed the first of four missed text messages, all from Georgia. The first had come nearly an hour ago.

Emergency at work. Stuck on a scene. Dumbass #1 shot his brother in the foot. Dumbass #2 retaliated. Need to run them to the ER before booking. Not going to make it to school in time. Can someone else cover?



The second had come five minutes after.

How about Vero? Accounting is cool, right?



Then …

Never mind. Forget I said that.



Her last message had come more than forty minutes ago.

Don’t worry about Career Day. Tell Delia I’ve got it covered.



I rushed through the doors into the crowded lobby, muttering apologies as I nudged myself between a dad in an orange construction vest and a mom in blue scrubs. Stretching up on my toes, I peered inside Delia’s classroom. She stood at the front of the room beside her teacher, anxiously twirling a spike of her hair. I sagged with relief when I spotted an imposing figure in a padded SWAT uniform and helmet standing among the parents. A few moms whispered to one another, their gazes dropping appreciatively over the long legs of Georgia’s uniform as she cut a careful path through the cheering kids sitting crisscross on the rug, but my focus was rooted on Delia’s wide grin.

The applause quieted as Delia’s guest paused beside her and turned toward the class, reaching up to unfasten the SWAT helmet. When it lifted, two dark eyes—eyes that definitely did not belong to my sister—skimmed over the faces in the room, locking on mine. Nick tucked his helmet under his arm. A shy dimple cut into his cheek as several of the moms angled for a better view. Their shameless gazes climbed the length of his uniform, lingering over the holsters hugging his thighs and the formfitting tactical vest cinched around his chest.

Delia’s teacher read from a clipboard, silencing their whispers. “Class, Delia Donovan has invited a special guest to meet us today. This is Detective Anthony with the Fairfax County Police Department. Mr. Anthony is with a special division that monitors organized crime. I know we probably have many questions for the detective, but I do ask that parents keep the content appropriately suited to our young audience members.” The teacher looked at the parents over the rims of her glasses, lifting a brow at the whispering moms, making a few of them giggle.

The children arched up on their knees on the rug, arms held high. Delia picked one of her friends to ask the first question. The room hushed to listen, the deep timbre of Nick’s voice casting a spell over the room. Delia gazed up at him with an admiration she usually reserved for her father—as if he could fix anything. Last time I saw Nick, he’d asked me out and I’d gently turned him down. And here he was, standing in front of my daughter’s classmates in SWAT armor, the hero I never asked for and probably didn’t deserve.

My phone vibrated in my hand. Georgia’s name flashed on the screen. I stepped back from the crowded doorway, lifting the phone to my ear.

“Did he make it?” she asked.

“Yes. What the hell is he doing here?”

She expelled a relieved breath, the sound muffled by the garble of walkie-talkies and buzzing doors in the background. “I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t reach you and I didn’t want to mess up Delia’s Career Day.”

“And Nick just conveniently offered to show up at her preschool in tactical gear?”

“Not exactly. The gear was my idea. It looks cooler than jeans and a Henley. I thought it might impress Delia’s friends.”

I managed a begrudging thank-you. “You owe me for this,” I added. “Big-time.”

“Why? I was doing you a favor.”

“Volunteering for Career Day or sending Nick in your place?” My brain snagged on that last thought. “Wait … Did Mom put you up to this?”