Finlay Donovan Knocks 'Em Dead(Finlay Donovan #2)(56)

My belly was pleasantly full, and my muscles were warm and loose from the vodka. And I had no desire whatsoever to go home and deal with Carl. As much as I hated to admit it, I’d had fun tonight. I slid my hand from Nick’s before I agreed to something I’d regret.

“I should probably get home. But thank you for dinner,” I said, hugging my coat around me. “Or maybe I should thank Feliks.”

Nick laughed, a hint of disappointment in his smile. “Right, I promised. Just dinner this time.” He leaned close, bending to pick up the bags, his breath warm against my ear, making me shiver when he said, “But next time, Finn, I’m not making any promises.”





CHAPTER 24


A single light was on in the living room when Nick dropped me off in front of my house. He idled in my driveway as I walked to my door, watching as I fumbled in my handbag for my house keys. As I slid them into the lock and turned the knob, a gas station receipt slipped from the doorframe. I bent to catch it before the wind could blow it from the porch, my steps faltering when I recognized the handwriting on the back.

I waved goodbye to Nick and ducked inside, silently slipping off my shoes and setting my handbag on the hall table when I noticed Vero sleeping on the couch. Her body was curled around a library book, the reading lamp still on beside her. I carried the note to the kitchen and held it under the night-light above the stove.

Just got back. Tried to call. Your mailbox is full. Talk tomorrow?—J

I read it again. No sorry I disappeared for a week? No had a great time but I wished you were there? What did talk tomorrow mean? If there had been a kissy emoji or a flame, maybe I’d have a better grasp of the subtext. But after being gone for a week and locking me out of his profile, talk tomorrow felt disappointingly … casual.

I reached for the house phone, my fingers hovering over the keypad. I’d never called him from my home phone before. I’d never even given him the number. My cell phone felt secure and private, only my own. Calling him from my house line felt like an invitation inside my home.

I reached to put the phone back in the cradle when I noticed the message light flashing. I held the phone to my ear, wincing at the horrid smell coming from my coat sleeve.

Finlay, it’s Sylvia. I haven’t gotten your twenty thousand words yet. They’re due by Monday, and I expect them to be fabulous. And don’t forget the hot cop.

“Fat chance of that,” I whispered. Monday was less than two days away. She would have to settle for ten thousand crappy ones. The only two men I wanted to think about right now were far from hot, and their names were Ben and Jerry. I took a spoon from the drawer and opened my freezer, head tipped curiously as I stared inside.

The food was gone, the frozen waffles, vegetable medleys, and nuggets all mysteriously absent. And worse, there was no trace of my Cherry Garcia anywhere. What had Vero done with all the food? On second thought, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

I shut the freezer and trudged to the coffee maker.

A sticky note hung from the pot. Vero had scribbled a dollar sign and the outline of a tooth. I swore quietly, set the coffee to brew, and tiptoed upstairs to the laundry closet to shed my foul-smelling clothes.

An overly sweet aroma wafted out as I slid open the door. Two heavy-duty air fresheners—the kind we used to mask the smell of Zach’s diaper pail—sat on the shelf over the machines. The mountain of unwashed towels we’d used to sop up water from the kitchen was piled beside them, mildewing on the floor. I stripped off Vero’s dress and lifted the lid of the washer. Bags of frozen broccoli and peas, loose cubes from the ice maker, and a pint of Chunky Monkey stared back at me. The corner of a black trash bag peeked out from under the tater tots.

With a shudder, I shut the lid, my fantasies of taking Ben and Jerry to bed officially ruined by the crime scene that had once been my washing machine.

The dryer, thankfully, contained nothing of Carl. I reached inside, dragged out a wrinkled T-shirt and pulled it over my head, then scraped a few crumpled dollar bills from the lint catcher. A small plastic disc slipped out with them. It was thinner and smoother than the ones in Delia’s game. I turned it over, squinting at the logo in the dim light of the dryer—THE ROYAL FLUSH CASINO HOTEL.

I frowned at the poker chip in my hand. Vero said she’d checked the forum over Thanksgiving weekend from a business center in a hotel. And she hadn’t spent the weekend with Ramón. Was this where she’d gone? If so, why hadn’t she told me?

Creeping into Delia’s room, I tucked the stiff bills under her pillow. It wasn’t the two hundred dollars she was expecting, but it was better than an IOU for a cash advance from my broken credit card. I paused beside her bed, toying with the black chip from the casino as I watched my daughter sleep, remembering what she’d said about Vero losing a marker and making someone mad. Those words had resonated with the same ominous tone as Vero’s hushed conversation with Ramón that morning, when he’d told her someone had gone to her mother’s house looking for her.

A seed of worry planted itself inside me as I wondered what it all meant. Brushing back Delia’s hair, I placed a kiss on her head before tiptoeing to the hall.

I paused in front of Vero’s bedroom, standing at her cracked bedroom door, listening to the house.

You’ve got some stranger you met less than a year ago living under your roof … What do you really know about her?