Finlay Donovan Knocks 'Em Dead(Finlay Donovan #2)(67)

“Hello?” His favorite songs played softly in the background, his voice deep and relaxed. I could picture him sitting up in bed, his back against the headboard, studying by the white glow of the Christmas lights he’d tacked along the edges of his room.

“Hi, it’s me.” I closed the visor mirror; it felt too much like a lie. “I finally got a new phone.”

“I was hoping you’d call.” There was a thump, like a textbook falling closed. “I hated not being able to reach you yesterday. I wanted to apologize for what happened when you came by on Sunday. My friends … they weren’t trying to be assholes. They were just giving me a hard time. I still really want to see you this weekend. Think you can make it?”

I couldn’t make myself answer that. So much had happened in the last few days, I couldn’t begin to imagine how it would all get resolved before Friday. “Actually, there’s another reason I called. I was hoping I could ask you a legal question. For my book.”

“Sure.” The music in the background quieted, the silence narrowing until it felt like we were in the same room. “How can I help?”

My mouth went dry. I hated how easy he was making this. I’d never lied to him like this before—not since that night when I’d told him everything. Julian had been the one person aside from Vero who knew all my most horrible secrets. But if he’d been worried a few Instagram photos might compromise his future, what would he think if he knew what I was about to do? “I’m having trouble with a scene. My character is an attorney, and she’s visiting her client in jail. I need to know the process—what happens from the time she walks into the jail to the time she leaves—so I can accurately describe it.”

“Well,” he said, his box spring squeaking. I could picture him lying back on his mattress, one hand behind his head. “There’s usually a visitation desk where she’d be asked to sign in. She’ll surrender any personal effects they don’t allow inside—keys, phones, sharp objects, hardback books, anything that can be made into a tool or a weapon. She’ll be asked for her license or some form of identification.”

“Would a business card work?”

“No, it would have to be government-issued. A photo ID.”

I shook out my hands, resisting the urge to start the van and drive home. This was exactly what I was afraid of. “Then what?”

“From there, she would pass through security—metal detectors and maybe a pat-down. Then an officer would escort her to a meeting room, and she’d be given a set amount of time to speak privately with her client.”

“There wouldn’t be a guard in the room?”

“No, but there might be one outside.”

A terrifying image flitted through my mind. “Would her client be restrained?”

“Possibly, if the client was known to be dangerous, or if the attorney requested it because she felt unsafe.” Feliks wouldn’t pose a risk to his attorney. And he definitely wouldn’t want anyone listening to their conversation. Which meant I would be alone in a room with him. No shackles. No cuffs.

“Finn, are you okay? You sound stressed.”

I glanced up, catching my reflection in the rearview mirror. “I’m fine! It’s just … you know, this damn book. Sylvia’s really breathing down my neck. Deadlines and all … I should probably get back to work.”

“Okay,” he said, the words still tinged with worry. “Call me later if you need to talk anything through.”

“I will. And Julian? Thanks. For everything,” I added before he could disconnect. In case I never got another chance to tell him.





CHAPTER 30


My heels clicked with purpose over the tiled entry of the jail. Resisting the urge to conceal my face, I held my chin high, swiping away a long dark strand of the wig as it blew into my eyes. I could do this. My name was Ekatarina Rybakov. I was Feliks Zhirov’s personal attorney, here to review some court documents with my client. I clung to my messenger bag. The papers inside were copies of Vero’s last accounting exam. Delia had scribbled smiley faces on them with watercolor markers, and I was pretty sure the green blob was a booger of Zach’s. Hopefully, the guard would be too busy trying to look down my blouse to notice.

The attendant at the counter was an older woman with thinning gray hair and red-framed glasses. She handed me a basket without looking up. Her name badge said OFFICER LOIS PYLE.

“Keys, cell phone, anything in your pockets,” she droned, sliding a clipboard across the counter. I surrendered all my personal belongings and signed the form using Kat’s name. “ID?”

I snapped the edge of Kat’s business card as I set it in front of her. Officer Pyle’s eyes slid to it, then back to her screen. “I’ll need to see some identification.”

The fact that she didn’t seem to know Kat personally felt like a small victory. I studied my nails, channeling Theresa’s unflappable inner bitch. Vero had glued on falsies and polished them a deep blood-red, the same color I’d seen Kat wearing in the restaurant. “I left my license in the pocket of my other suit. It’s currently at the dry cleaner’s, enjoying a hot tumble. Which is more than I can say for myself. And yet, duty calls, so here I am. If we could just get on with it.”