Finlay Donovan Knocks 'Em Dead(Finlay Donovan #2)(63)

My mother folded her dish towel, settling into Vero’s empty chair once we were alone. “You’re handling Steven all wrong, sweetheart. There’s no sense locking horns with an ox. Fighting with him only gives him exactly what he wants.”

“What’s that?”

“Your attention,” she said with a sympathetic smile. “He’s like a toddler, Finlay. He’s done playing with his toy, but he doesn’t want anyone else to have it, and he’s going to throw a tantrum until he gets his way.” She sighed as she tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. “He doesn’t deserve you. He never did. Find someone else. Someone who makes you happy. Someone worthy of you and the children.”

I swirled the wine in my glass. Nick and Julian both made me happy, I supposed. But I wasn’t entirely sure I was worthy of either of them. I turned to my mother. “How did you know Dad was the one?”

My mother laughed. “Who says I ever did? Most days, I’m still not sure.”

“But not because you didn’t really know him,” I clarified. “I mean, Dad was always honest with you, right?”

My mom’s hand closed softly over mine. “All couples have secrets, Finlay. You don’t have to tell each other everything to know what’s in each other’s hearts. But the kinds of secrets Steven was keeping … those weren’t the same kind.”

“So Dad never cheated?”

“Not unless you count that once with Jennifer Aniston.” At my dubious look, my mother’s grin became wry. “Your father fell for one of those internet scams. He clicked a link in an email offering to show him Jennifer Aniston’s breasts. He learned his lesson the hard way,” she said with a shake of her head. “Your father contracted a nasty virus and I had to hire one of those nerd people—you know, the ones that drive those tiny cars—to come to the house and clean it all up. She was a very nice girl; discreet,” she said, “but very expensive. I made your father pay for it.”

I drank the last of my wine, still chuckling to myself, having learned more about my parents’ relationship than I cared to. Maybe she was right. Maybe sometimes we were better off not knowing.

The house was beginning to smell good. The table and high chair had been set for four. The prep dishes were all washed and put away, and the dishwasher hummed a soothing rhythm.

“Thanks, Ma,” I said, feeling the weight of the day ease a little.

My mother stood and slipped on her coat.

“You’re not staying for dinner?”

“No, I have to get home and heat up leftovers for your father. He thinks I’m out Christmas shopping. If he knew I made a pot roast that wasn’t for him, I’d never hear the end of it. I’ll pick up the kids on Friday after school.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to. If they’re with me, Steven won’t bother you.” She bent to kiss my cheek. “Give Nicholas a call. Go out and have some fun. But if you’re going to try his biscuits, be sure to use protection.”

Upstairs in the bathroom, Vero cackled.

I rolled my eyes to the ceiling. “Goodbye, Ma.”

I followed her to the door, resting my head against it as I locked it behind her.





CHAPTER 28


The one piece of advice no one ever gives you when you divorce is never take a shower when all the towels are in the laundry. I’m pretty sure it’s right up there with check to make sure there’s toilet paper before pulling down your pants and never accept an offer to murder your ex while using public Wi-Fi.

Vero had let me sleep in after a second long night of writing. By four in the morning, I’d managed to eke out a messy draft of a few opening chapters, which I had emailed to Sylvia without bothering to proofread before falling into a brief and fitful sleep. By the time I’d rolled out of bed at nine, Vero and the kids had already left to take Delia to school. I’d been relieved to wake up to a quiet and empty house, but as I shut off the water and stood in the shower, groping for a towel on the empty hanger, the inevitability of my situation sank in with cold, sharp teeth.

Arms folded around myself, I slunk out of my bedroom, goose bumps pebbling my bare, wet skin. A wave of cinnamon apple air freshener and eau de slowly thawing dead guy washed over me as I opened the door to the laundry closet at the end of the hall. I reached inside the empty dryer and swore.

My mother would insist this was some form of divine retribution, punishment from god for keeping a dead body in my house. Honestly, I’d rather pray the rosary. Someplace warm. With clothes on.

Crossing the hall, I grabbed a marginally clean Disney Princess towel from the hanger in the children’s bathroom. Shivering, I wrapped it around me and knotted the ends of the tiny pink swatch around my chest.

A floorboard creaked down the hall. I paused, head tipped toward the sound of the furnace clicking on. Warmth drifted from the register above my head to combat a sudden icy draft that was creeping up the stairs, as if a door had been left open. I stiffened at the familiar telltale squeak of the riser on the top step.

Searching the bathroom for a weapon, I cursed myself for the childproof locks on all the cabinets. As the slow tread of footsteps grew closer, I grabbed the only pointy object I could find. With my toilet plunger poised to strike, I pressed my back against the bathroom wall. Breath held, I listened as, one by one, the bedroom doors swung slowly open. A dark shadow fell over the carpet beside me. With a feral yell, I raised the plunger over my head and leapt into the hall. My scream died in my throat as I stared down the barrel of a gun.