Finlay Donovan Knocks 'Em Dead(Finlay Donovan #2)(92)

“Oh, thank god. I’ve been worried sick. Wait…” she said, her tone growing suspicious, “why are you out with Steven?”

“He had a little car trouble and I came to pick him up.”

“It’s not a date, is it?”

I laughed. “No.”

“Good. Oh, and call your sister. She’s looking for you.” My mother disconnected.

I reached to set my phone down as a notification popped on my screen. An email from EasyClean, replying to the message Vero had forwarded to him.

Anonymous2, Nice try with the pics. Seems we both got duped. A little professional advice? Always insist on half up front. And next time, stay the hell out of my lane.



Steven opened the door and dropped into the passenger seat. I closed the message and tossed the phone in my lap.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“Fine,” I said. “Turns out the impressive bounty being offered for your murder was an empty promise. Vero and I sent some very convincing photos of your corpse, but it appears the person who wanted you dead never intended to pay up.”

Steven unzipped his coat, plucking at the raspberry-colored stain on his sweatshirt. He licked the tip of his finger and laughed. “Someone’s not going to be happy when they realize I’m still alive.”

“Probably not, but I doubt that guy with the gun is going to come after you again.” I released a heavy sigh. “Nick’s a good cop. He’ll chase down the evidence from the gas leak and your slashed tires. Eventually, he’ll get to the bottom of it. But in the meantime, maybe you could try not to piss anyone off?”

“I’m trying.” He stared out the windshield, tracing the frame of his window with a finger. “So you and Nick, huh? I’m not saying I’m happy about it, but I guess I’m okay with it.”

“I don’t remember asking your opinion or your permission.”

“At least he’s old enough to shave.”

“You said you were trying,” I reminded him.

“You’re right, I’m sorry.” He sniffed, wrinkling his nose. “If you’re sure that guy’s not coming back, maybe we can get out of here. That dumpster reeks.”

I sniffed, too. The sweet, putrid smell of decay wafted from somewhere behind our seats, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t coming through the broken window. In all the chaos, I’d forgotten all about Carl.

“About that,” I said, starting the engine. “There’s something I need your help with. And I need you to trust me. Completely.”

Steven looked hesitant, even as he nodded. “Name it.”

My hands ached with phantom blisters as I gripped the wheel and hit the road for the farm. “I need to borrow a backhoe.”





CHAPTER 42


On the way to Steven’s farm, I told him all about what had happened to Carl. Steven had already known Carl was ill, but he took the news hard, a tinge of remorse touching the corners of his eyes. I explained how Theresa had used the farm’s business account to pay for the storage unit to hide Carl’s body, and how Vero and I had found the records when we’d broken in the night of the fire. He laughed in spite of himself when I told him how we’d delivered the contents of the freezer to Theresa’s door, and how Vero and I had been so terrified for the children when we’d left Theresa’s house, we’d forgotten we’d left a piece of Carl in the trunk of Vero’s Charger. Steven’s smile withered, a look of horror flashing across his face as he realized what was causing the smell in the back of the Aston Martin.

“You want me to help you bury him. On my farm.” I thought maybe it was shock that had flattened his voice. After all, it had been a strange night. I imagined it might take a lot to surprise him anymore. And maybe that was for the best.

“I can’t take Carl back to his house,” I reasoned. “The place is crawling with cops. And I definitely can’t take him home with me. The farm is the safest place. For now.” Maybe one day, after the dust settled, Steven could coordinate with Barbara and return this last piece of Carl to his final resting place behind the Westovers’ house.

Steven nodded slowly, coming to terms with the fact that this was our only option.

We took the back entrance into the farm, the Aston Martin crawling over the deep ruts in the gravel road. Déjà vu hit hard as we passed the fallow field where Vero and I had buried Harris, and I had to resist the urge to turn my head and look. Steven was quiet as we passed it.

“There.” He pointed behind one of his outbuildings, where the long neck of a backhoe was silhouetted against the night sky. Steven directed me across a narrow stretch of grass between the fields.

“Wait here,” he said, getting out of the car.

I rolled down the passenger side window and called after him, “I can help, you know.”

He turned, smiling at the lines of adhesive on his wrist. Hands braced against the side of the car, he leaned into the open window, something akin to pride in the gleam of his eyes. “I know you can. But it’s better if you stay in the car.” He pointed to my shoes and bare hands. “As far as the police are concerned, you were never here.”

A laugh burst out of me. “If I didn’t know better, I might think you’d done this before.”