Finlay Donovan Knocks 'Em Dead(Finlay Donovan #2)(32)

My cell phone rang early the next morning as I pulled my minivan onto a dirt lane through a winter-gray farm. The frosted fields were lined with fences and dotted with cows. “Hey, Georgia,” I answered, my voice bobbing with the frozen ruts in the road. “Did Delia make it to school?”

“I just dropped her off. I’m on my way to work. I left Zach at your place with Vero. Did Steven call you?”

“No, why?”

“Someone made a bonfire of his sales office at the farm last night.”

“What do you mean?” I tried to infuse the question with a reasonable degree of surprise.

“The trailer’s gone. Someone burned it down.”

“Wow. Do they have any idea who it was?”

“The fire marshal’s still there. My contacts at Fauquier PD won’t have his official report for another couple of days, but all signs point to arson. They’re putting a couple of detectives on it. That’s all I was able to get out of him.”

Those detectives would likely be here in a matter of hours. “Will you let me know if you hear anything else?”

“I’m all over it,” Georgia assured me. “In the meanwhile, you should call Steven’s attorney. Ask him to suspend visitation until the investigation is wrapped up. This was no accident, Finn, and I don’t think the kids should stay at Steven’s place until we know what happened.”

“I’ll handle it. Thanks, Georgia.” I disconnected, slowing the van as a sprawling farmhouse came into view. Its crisp white siding dripped with icicle lights, and garlands dressed the rails of a wraparound porch. I parked alongside an ivory Lincoln Continental and a red Volkswagen bug I recognized as Bree’s. Hugging my coat around me, I climbed the porch steps and rang the bell. Wispy hot glue webs trailed from holly berries and sleigh bells on a homemade wreath on the door. Warm smells oozed from the house when the door swung open—spiced apples and bacon, the rich scent of cinnamon rolls wafting from the oven.

“Hello.” The woman who answered bore a striking resemblance to Bree. Her smile was polite but uncertain, as if she was struggling to place me. She wiped her hands on her jeans, leaving a patch of tiny dish bubbles to dissipate into the pale blue denim.

“Hi, I’m looking for Bree. Is she home?” I peeked over her shoulder into a wide, inviting foyer adorned with country landscapes and quaint hand-painted crafts. I had looked up the address on Bree’s time card, only mildly surprised to find her still living at home with her parents. I’d known that Bree was enrolled in community college from scouring public records, but it wasn’t until I was standing in front of her mother that the age gap between us felt quite so wide.

“Oh, of course!” She held out a hand, her short nails stained with Christmas-colored craft paint. “I’m Melissa. Would you like to come in…?” She inclined her head, waiting for me to offer my name.

“Finlay,” I said, taking her hand. It was warm, still damp from washing. Her lips thinned as she registered my name.

“You’re Steven’s wife.”

“Ex-wife.” My mouth pursed as I corrected her. The “ex” had always held a sour bite coming out.

Some of the warmth leeched from her smile. “I see. Bree’s probably out at the barn,” she said, pointing at an outbuilding past the fence. “You’re welcome to find her.” She let go of my hand, her invitation to come in quietly withdrawn.

“Thank you,” I said, stepping off her porch. I didn’t blame Melissa for closing the door, or for watching me through the slit between her living room curtains as I turned for the pasture. She clearly knew enough about Steven to dislike anyone with the last name of Donovan.

Ducking under a fence rail, I headed toward the barn. The metal rooster perched on its roof spun a few circles one way, then the other, the wind uncertain as I approached the wide barn doors. I inched one open. The air inside was warm and musty, thick with the smells of hay and manure.

“Bree?” My voice echoed from the shadowy corners of the loft.

“In here.” I wandered deeper into the barn, uncertain which direction her voice had come from. Pigs rooted in their stalls and goats bleated at me as I passed a wall studded with nails and hooks, each one holding a rake or a shovel. On the other side of the wall, Bree sat on an overturned bucket with her back to me. She picked at a knot in a length of rope where it looped around an old tire swing.

“Hi, Mrs. Donovan,” she said without looking up. Her phone sat on the floor beside her. Her mother must have told her I was here. “Guess you heard I’m not working at the sod farm anymore.” She kept her head down, pretending to be engrossed in her task. Her voice was flat, absent of that optimistic high note that always seemed to punctuate her sentences.

“Steven mentioned it a few days ago. He said the farm’s been struggling and he had to let some people go.”

Her snort was dry. “Typical,” she said under her breath.

“Steven’s never been the most forthright man,” I admitted. Bree had nothing to say about that, but I could sense something shift. She hadn’t once looked at me since I stepped inside that barn, but I felt a sudden curiosity under that prickly demeanor. I gestured to a column of buckets against the wall. “Mind if I sit down?”

She shrugged. I dragged one from the stack and set it upside down, taking a seat beside her.