Finlay Donovan Knocks 'Em Dead(Finlay Donovan #2)(6)

“How much of them did you actually read?”

The color deepened in her cheeks. “The first chapters.”

“Only the first chapters?”

“Of the first one.”

My mouth fell open. I knew—and was grateful for the fact—that my father hadn’t read my novels. The print was too small on those tiny paperbacks for him to bother. But I had assumed my mother, who lived for the opportunity to insert herself into my personal life, would have at least made the effort to finish one.

“The one I tried,” she explained, “it didn’t appeal to me. What?” she asked as I gaped at her. “I like Nora Roberts. Have you read Nora? She’s really very good.” She grunted as she hefted the turkey back into the oven. “See, this is another reason you should have a husband.”

“I can lift my own poultry, thanks.”

She looked to the ceiling, or maybe to god, as she shook open a dish towel and wiped off her hands. “Go tell your father the turkey will be ready in half an hour, and I need him to find the electric carver.”

Still shaking my head, I carried my beer through the swing doors. A football game blared in the next room, where Vero and my father were settled on the couch, shouting at the TV and arguing over first downs.

“Hey, Pop. Mom needs you in the kitchen.” I came up behind him and kissed his cheek. He patted my hand where it rested on his shoulder.

“Not so fast, old man,” Vero teased, holding her palm out to him as he rose stiffly to his feet.

My father dug in his pocket and peeled out a twenty. “I should stick to betting online.”

“You shouldn’t be gambling at all. It’s a bad habit. Terrible odds,” she said, taking his money with a wink.

“Says the girl who just cleaned my wallet. You should try some of those websites. It’s a big weekend for college ball. Take that twenty and put a few bucks on every game. Maybe you’ll have better luck than me.”

Vero’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully at the twenty in her hand as my father retreated to the kitchen. She slipped the bill in her pocket with a faraway look, hardly noticing when I collapsed into the warm imprint my father had left in the cushion beside her. I wondered if Vero was thinking about her cousin, wishing she was with him watching football on his couch. Had she only agreed to spend Thanksgiving with my family because I’d asked her to? Because my mother had insisted? Was there some unspoken moral code that said you had to suffer through turkey dinner with someone’s family, just because you’d buried a body together?

“You can still go to Ramón’s if you’re having second thoughts,” I offered.

She turned to me with a look of surprise, as if the suggestion had plucked her from wherever her mind had roamed. “But your mom—”

“My mom will understand. She’ll probably even pack you some turkey and pie to go.” As much as my family drove me nuts, I couldn’t imagine spending a holiday without them. I dragged my van keys from my pocket and dropped them in Vero’s hand.

“What about you?” she asked.

“I’ll catch a ride home with Georgia after the kids go to bed. Go spend the weekend with your cousin. I’ve got plenty to keep me busy.”

Her laugh was wicked. I knew she wasn’t thinking of the library when she said, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”





CHAPTER 3


My sister dropped me off at home just before eleven. My van was in the garage and Vero’s Charger was gone. She’d left a handwritten note on the counter, reminding me I had a pitch due to Sylvia on Monday, and I tucked it under a stack of bills, pretending not to think about it.

I bent in front of my open fridge, playing Tetris with the leftovers my mother had sent home with me, struggling to get the mountain of disposable Tuppers to fit. After I withdrew two beers to make room, the door still wouldn’t close, and I eventually gave up, removing a carton of ice cream from the freezer and shoving the last container of cranberry sauce in its place.

Triumphant, I kicked off my shoes, grabbed a spoon from the drawer, and retreated upstairs with my beers and Ben & Jerry’s, trying not to notice the stifling silence of the empty house. Vero’s bedroom door was closed, like it often was at night after she’d gone to bed, but her absence felt tangible. I should have been thrilled to have the house to myself, but now that I did, I wasn’t sure I liked it.

After changing into an old pair of sweats and a loose-fitting, faded T, I lay on my bed under the dim glow of the lamp on my nightstand, the open tub of ice cream resting on my chest. I sucked mint chocolate chunk off the spoon, torn between working on my pitch for Sylvia and grabbing a rare full night of sleep while I could. I didn’t even know what my next book was about. Every time I sat down at my computer to work, I ended up thinking about the women’s forum instead, worrying over the buried thread containing Steven’s name.

I jabbed the spoon in the container and stared at the ceiling. Maybe my mom was right. Maybe I should put some money aside for a decent attorney. Maybe I should fight for full custody. But what would I say? How would I justify it? Your Honor, I really can’t let my kids spend weekends with their father because there’s a bounty on his head, and I only know this because, given my recent success eliminating problem husbands, a former client thought I might be well suited for the job. And while I have no immediate plans to kill my ex-husband, I’d rather my kids not be with him if someone else decides to try.