Finlay Donovan Knocks 'Em Dead(Finlay Donovan #2)(22)
Aimee’s eyes shimmered, her voice unsteady when she spoke. “I don’t know if Steven told you, but I used to see them every weekend. I used to take them to the park. Delia and I would give each other manicures and make cookies. And I just…” A tear fell, and she scraped it from her cheek. “I just miss them. My husband and I … we don’t have kids of our own. He never really wanted them, and Delia’s so great. We had a lot of fun together.” She sniffled. “I know this all probably sounds silly to you.”
I hated that it didn’t.
“Look,” she added quickly as I opened my mouth to ask her to leave, “I know you and Theresa don’t get along, and I don’t blame you. What happened between her and Steven must have hurt, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you hate me because of it. I mean, I get it; she’s my best friend. But no matter how badly she screwed up, she always will be. We share everything. Or at least we did, until this whole mess with Feliks.” Aimee shuddered. “Steven’s still pissed at me. He hasn’t returned my calls since I saw him at the jail that night. He blames me for not telling him that Feliks and Theresa were involved, but Theresa didn’t tell me everything … at least, not about that.” She flushed with guilt as her eyes lifted to mine. “What he’s doing—cutting me off from Delia and Zach because he’s mad at her—it’s not fair. I had to see them one last time. It didn’t feel right, disappearing from their lives. All I wanted to do was say goodbye.” She released a long, shaky breath and wiped her eyes. “Is Zach here?” she asked, peeking around me.
“He’s with his babysitter today.” I registered her quiet flinch. I was still struggling to process this new version of her. Not Theresa’s sorority sister Aimee, the woman my husband’s lover had confided in while he’d been cheating on me, but my children’s Aunt Aimee. The woman who had babysat them on Sundays and polished Delia’s nails. The woman who showed up at Career Day, even though Theresa couldn’t be bothered to care.
A sad smile bloomed on Aimee’s face as Delia emerged from the bathroom.
“Come on, Delia.” I scooped her backpack from the floor. “It’s time to go. Say goodbye to Aunt Aimee.”
Aimee gave me a small nod, letting me know she understood. She took Delia’s hand, watching me askance as we walked to the parking lot with Delia between us. Aimee’s eyes squeezed shut when we got to the van, a tear slipping free as she hugged Delia tight. She gave my daughter one last kiss on the cheek, her pain palpable as Delia climbed into her car seat.
After an awkward silence, Aimee and I settled on a handshake. Her lower lip quivered. “Will you tell Zach I said goodbye?”
Something inside me broke at the anguish in her voice. Even if Zach was too young to understand or care, I didn’t want to be the one to deliver that message. Delia twisted in her car seat, watching us through the window. I cleared a lump of emotion from my throat. “You said you and Theresa used to tell each other everything. Do you still?”
Aimee frowned. “What do you mean?”
“If you’re willing not to say anything to Theresa—no more video calls, no meetups with her, or trips to her home—then I won’t tell Steven I invited you to visit the kids.”
Aimee’s eyes snapped to mine, clearly wrestling with the wrongness of what I’d just asked of her; it was like asking me to keep a secret from Vero. Honestly, I wasn’t sure I could. But keeping Theresa out of the children’s lives was a point I wasn’t willing to budge on. “I can do that,” she said after a tense pause. “I’m off work this coming Saturday. I could come over then, if it’s okay with you.”
Steven had been firm about spending the weekend with the children. But after what I’d just seen on the forum, I had no intention of letting that happen. Aimee might not be my favorite person, but it was obvious she loved my children. They’d be far safer with her than with Steven.
I opened a new contact and handed her my phone. “Saturday will be fine.”
CHAPTER 11
Never go back to the scene of a crime. It’s simple common sense if you want to get away with murder. Right up there with don’t wrap a corpse in your shower curtain, don’t buy four gallons of bleach and a shovel with your credit card, and don’t keep a chest freezer in your garage. Why Vero had insisted on returning to the mall that afternoon was a mystery, even to me. And yet, that’s exactly where we found ourselves at four o’clock.
We wove between the crowds of shoppers, cutting through the long tail of the line of families waiting to have their pictures taken with Santa. The children’s play area behind Santa’s workshop was packed with frazzled childcare workers and shrieking toddlers. After we checked the kids in, signed the release forms, and left the attendant our phone numbers, Vero dragged me to a distant corner of the mall, where she pulled me into a computer repair shop.
“What are we doing here?” I asked.
“Just trust me.”
The kid behind the counter couldn’t have been out of high school. He hunched on a stool, his elbow perched beside the register, his head resting in the cradle of his hand and a name badge pinned to the front of his graphic T. He studied his phone through a mop of tangled hair as shrill guitar riffs ripped from a speaker behind him.