Finlay Donovan Knocks 'Em Dead(Finlay Donovan #2)(57)

Quietly, I nudged her door open. It hadn’t been locked, I told myself. And this was my house, after all. Vero had more than once admitted to snooping around in my laptop and my nightstand. I was only going to leave the casino chip on her desk, where she’d be sure to find it.

I switched on the small lamp on her desk. The surface was piled with accounting textbooks, the nightstand stacked with self-help manuals she’d checked out of the library, about smart goal setting and thinking big. The wall beside her bed was covered with pictures Zach and Delia had drawn for her.

I set the plastic chip on her desk. My hand slid down to the drawer and drew it open. Pens, pencils, notebooks, and calculators were neatly arranged inside, and I quietly slid it shut. I turned toward her nightstand, peeping through one eye as I opened that, too.

A framed photograph rested inside it.

I lifted it out, angling it toward the light. A young Vero and Ramón smiled back at me, along with two women who, based on obvious resemblances, could only be their mothers. The glass in the frame was clean, the stand intact, a tiny crack in the wood carefully glued back together. This photo was clearly precious to Vero, and I couldn’t help but wonder why she kept it in a drawer.

I returned it to its place, standing beside her neatly made bed as I turned a slow circle around the room, hungry to learn more about her. To understand why she’d kept so much of herself hidden when she knew everything there was to know about me. The closet was open, her endless supply of trendy brand-name clothes neatly packed to fit on the rod above a row of brightly colored shoes. A stack of books perched on a high shelf: probability and statistics, odds and profits, algorithms for winning, the mathematics of chance … and a photo album. I pulled it down, careful not to disrupt the rest of the stack.

Sitting on the edge of Vero’s bed, I thumbed through the early pages of her baby book, skipping ahead toward the more recent photos at the back. There were dozens of pictures of Vero and her mother, her aunt, and her cousin. Several of her extended family. Even a few of her friends from high school. I flipped through photos of her homecoming, prom, and graduation, noting the honor society adornment on her gown. I turned the page. A loose piece of paper stuck to the clear plastic film.

Congratulations! You’ve been accepted to the University of Maryland Robert H. Smith School of Business.

Along with a full-tuition merit scholarship for all four years.

The last name on the letter wasn’t one I recognized.

Veronica R. Ramirez.

Not Veronica Ruiz.

If Vero had earned a full ride to a major university in Maryland, what was she doing taking community college classes here in Virginia? Why had she agreed to help me dispose of a body for money, claiming she needed it because she was buried in student loans?

The best place to hide a dirty secret is across a state line.

But what dirty secrets was Vero hiding?

The scent of brewing coffee drifted up from the kitchen. I slipped the photo album back in its place. I hadn’t found anything about this mysterious marker Delia claimed Vero had lost, and yet I felt like I had learned more than I was entitled to.

When I crept downstairs, Vero was still fast asleep on the couch. Careful not to rouse her, I drew a warm blanket over her and switched off the lamp. Her laptop awoke on the coffee table, casting a pale blue glow over her sleeping face as a notification popped up on the screen. I angled the laptop toward me. The page was opened to the mail program I’d used to set up the account on the forum, on a message Vero must have sent to FedUp while I’d been out with Nick.

Dear FedUp, It’s very important that I speak with you. Can we meet for coffee? I promise to be discreet.—Anonymous2



A response had appeared below it.

Dear Anonymous2, I’m sorry. I really don’t have time right now. I thought I made it clear, I prefer to chat after the holiday. Please contact me then. Sincerely, FedUp



In Vero’s defense, I hadn’t expressly told her not to email FedUp. And there hadn’t anything too incriminating in the message itself. FedUp obviously wasn’t willing to talk until the job was done, but at least Vero had tried.

I checked the locks on the front door on my way to the kitchen. Then I fixed myself a cup of coffee strong enough to raise the dead. I had eight hours until morning. Eight hours to start drafting a sample of my story. Eight hours to figure out how to delete my posts from the forum and what to do with Carl. And maybe, if I was lucky, a few precious hours to sleep.

I retreated to my office, opened my laptop, and started typing. About the defense lawyer who’d disappeared without a trace. About the assassin who’d lost her mark and evaded capture. About the only friend in the world she could trust to help her, a woman with too many secrets of her own. About a star witness to a murder who’d mysteriously gone missing—a woman who could put the heroine in prison for life—and a cop from her past, who was determined to find her.





CHAPTER 25


Irina Borovkov wasn’t an easy woman to find. I had only ever met Irina in two places: Panera and her fitness club. When I’d asked the receptionist at the health club if Irina was in, she’d informed me Irina didn’t usually come on Sundays. And I didn’t take Irina Borovkov for the type of woman who’d hang out in a crowded sandwich shop. At least, not without a compelling reason, like murder for hire.

So I’d called the only other place I could think to try: the front desk of the extravagant high-rise address she’d written on the slip of paper she’d given me when she’d asked me to kill her husband. The bellman who answered had placed me on hold for a discomforting length of time, then returned with instructions to proceed to this address.