Finlay Donovan Knocks 'Em Dead(Finlay Donovan #2)(70)

That was close. Too close.

I sighed with relief when the engine started. Cold air blasted from the vents, and I cranked the heat, cupping my hands in front of the fins. A dim light issued from my open purse, and I reached inside it for my phone.

“How’d it go?” Vero asked in a low voice. The kids were long asleep. In the background, I could hear the squeak of the pantry door and the telltale rustle of a bag.

“Terrifying.”

“Did you make it in to see Feliks?”

“Yeah, but I ran into Nick on the way out.”

Vero gasped. “Did he recognize you?”

“No, thank god.”

“What did Feliks say?”

“Apparently, we have a deal. Did you dig up any information on Carl?”

“Nothing helpful. As far as I can tell, in the four months he’s been dead, not a single person has reported him missing. Don’t you think that’s odd?”

“Theresa mentioned that Carl and his wife had split up. Maybe she didn’t know anything was wrong.”

“But why wouldn’t Steven be looking for him?”

“Theresa said Carl and Steven weren’t close. Were you able to figure out who the other silent partner was?”

“I’m not certain, but I have a pretty good guess. Theresa said the other partner’s name was Ted, which is a common nickname for Edward. When I Googled Carl, another name kept popping up. Turns out, Carl owned a few farms with his cousin, Edward Fuller.”

“Fuller. As in Bree Fuller?” I couldn’t believe I hadn’t made the connection before. Bree had been in the photo, sandwiched between the three of them. And she’d said her father had been the one to get her the job at the farm. But if Ted Fuller and Carl Westover were cousins, why hadn’t he reported Carl missing either?

My phone vibrated. I drew the phone from my ear, swearing at Steven’s name on the screen.

“I have to take this,” I told Vero.

“Pick up some chips and ice cream on the way. I’ll keep looking and see what I can dig up on Carl’s wife.”

I clicked over to Steven. “What the hell are you trying to pull?” he shouted.

I squeezed my eyes shut, struggling to hold the reins on my temper. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“All this drama about arsonists trying to blow up my house … it’s all one big plot you’ve concocted in your head. And now I’ve got cops all over my property, convinced someone’s trying to kill me.”

“Did you ever stop to think maybe someone is trying to kill you?”

“That’s a load of horseshit! I heard the security recording. You and I both know who set that fire.”

I gripped the steering wheel. “Look, I admit I was at the farm that night, but I swear, Steven, I didn’t start that fire. You have to believe me.”

“I don’t have to believe anything—not a word you just said or the voice on that stupid recording! But so help me, if you pull one more stunt like this last one, I’m going to tell the cops it was you in my trailer!”

Rain spattered the windshield. “Wait … they don’t know?”

“Of course, they don’t know! You think I want my children to see their mother sent to prison for arson? I told them I didn’t recognize the woman’s voice on that recording, but if you insist on spreading all these wild conspiracy theories, convincing the police that some psycho is out to kill me just so you have an excuse to keep the kids away from me, I’m going to get Guy involved and then I’m calling your sister.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Watch me.” Silence fell like a hammer, the windshield wipers making angry passes back and forth. “I’m serious, Finlay. Back off and stay the hell off my property. As soon as the dust settles on this mess, I want my weekends with Zach and Delia back.”

“But Steven, it’s not—”

Click.

I tossed the cell phone in the cupholder. The van had grown uncomfortably warm, and I dragged the wig from my head. My wet shoes stuck to the blisters on my feet. I was drenched through my clothes, and all I wanted was to go home.

The van rattled in protest as I put it in gear and nosed out of my hiding space behind the maintenance truck. My headlights cut a swath through the heavy mist as I navigated toward the only open gate to the street. As I rounded the building, I slammed on my brakes. Blue lights flickered through the steady slap of my windshield wipers. Two cruisers blocked the exit in front of me, their doors thrown open, officers kneeling behind them with their weapons drawn.

Nick stood behind them, squinting at my windshield, a radio clutched to his lips, the hard lines of his face captured in the glare of my headlights.

“Turn off your engine and step out of the vehicle with your hands up.”





CHAPTER 32


Nick escorted me into the station himself, his grip firm on my arm as he guided me through a side door and deposited me into an interrogation room.

“Do you want me to call Georgia?” he asked as he unfastened my cuffs.

“No. Please,” I added, rubbing my wrists as he folded the cuffs into the pocket of his jacket. He pulled out a chair and directed me to sit, his eyes raking over my drenched overcoat and heels. My reflection was jarring in the dark mirror on the wall, my wet hair plastered to my forehead and long smears of mascara streaking from my eyes. “Not Georgia.”