Finlay Donovan Jumps the Gun (Finlay Donovan, #3)(2)
I dumped the contents of the diaper bag onto the floor. My police officer sister, who would rather clean up crime scenes than wipe her nephew’s backside, had spent the last few weeks attempting to potty train my son despite my insistence that Zach wasn’t ready. While my barely-two-year-old now grasped what he was expected to do in the bathroom, Georgia’s training strategy had only managed to whet his appetite for bribes. “He wants a reward.”
“A reward?! Why would it expect a reward for this?”
I grabbed a plastic baggy of Cheerios and thrust it under the door. Zach turned toward the sound as I shook the cereal inside, his chubby hands chasing the bag as I drew it closer toward me. As soon as my son was within reach, I looped an arm around his waist and dragged him out of the stall.
Mo’s hands fell limp at his sides. I plopped Zach down on the floor beside me, wiping my brow as he puzzled over the seal on the snack bag.
“It’s safe, Mo. You can come out now.” I gathered the diaper creams, packets of wipes, and random mom-survival gear, stuffing them back into my purse. A quick glance under the stall revealed that Mo hadn’t moved. “Mo?” I paused, listening for signs of life through the door. “Mo? Are you okay?” For the love of god, let him be okay.
“I am far from okay.”
I released a held breath. “Do you need me to call for help?”
“I’d rather you just go,” he said, “and take the tiny demon with you.”
“Fair enough.” I plucked the bag carefully from Zach’s hands and scooped him up. Holding him over the sink on one raised knee, I washed both of our hands twice, rigorously and with plenty of soap, before returning the bag of snacks to him.
“It was nice meeting you, Mo,” I called out.
A stoic grunt issued from the stall. I comforted myself with the fact that at least Mo had survived. It was past noon, twelve days into a brand-new year, and I hadn’t broken any of my three resolutions—at least not yet.
CHAPTER 2
After a quick diaper change and several more rounds of handwashing, I hefted Zach into a shopping cart, handed him his threadbare nap blanket and a sippy cup, and pushed him around the store, searching for Vero. I found my children’s nanny in the women’s clothing department, scrutinizing a generic fleece hoodie, which did not jibe with the brand-name-wearing, hip fashionista I’d grown to know and love. She jumped nearly a foot when I rolled my cart up behind her and tapped her on the shoulder.
“What are you doing?” I asked as she dropped the sweatshirt into her cart. She pushed a pair of oversized sunglasses up the bridge of her nose. I could hardly see them under the low bill of the baseball cap she’d been wearing since we left the house that morning. “You already have a black hoodie.” I gestured to the designer logo on the one she was presently wearing. She looked like a cat burglar in yoga pants.
“You can never have too many hoodies.” She darted cautious glances around the women’s department, giving a heavy dose of side-eye to a sketchy-looking man with a greasy comb-over who was talking to himself as he browsed through a rack of padded bras. He’d either shoplifted a pair of tube socks or he was sporting a boner—I didn’t want to think very hard about which. She grimaced as he gave a set of double D’s an inquisitive squeeze. “How much longer until the van’s ready?”
I checked my phone. “At least another thirty minutes. And we still have an hour before we have to pick up Delia at preschool.”
“Let’s head over to the accessories department. This guy’s freaking me out, and I could use a few extra pairs of shades.”
“If you were so worried about being seen in public, we could have taken my minivan to your cousin’s garage instead of bringing it here. Ramón probably would have changed the oil for free.”
Vero gave a vehement shake of her head. “No way. We’re safer here.” Her last address of record had been her cousin Ramón’s apartment, which, according to Vero, was too close for comfort to his auto repair shop to risk being seen there.
“I don’t get it, Vero. All this paranoia doesn’t make any sense. You’re in debt to a couple of sorority girls in Maryland, so you drop out of school and leave the state, and the second these girls’ parents show up at your cousin’s door looking for you, you run off to Atlantic City and take a marker from a loan shark? Wouldn’t it have been easier to just drive back to Maryland and tell your sorority sisters the truth, that you didn’t take their money so you can’t give it back?”
“I told them a year ago, and they didn’t believe me.”
“Then they’re not worth the effort you’re putting into avoiding them. Are you just planning to wear disguises and stay in the house indefinitely?”
“If a couple of sorority girls managed to track me all the way to my cousin’s place because they think I stole their stupid treasury money, how long do you think it will take a professional loan shark to find me after I lost his two hundred grand trying to pay them back?”
“You can’t hide forever. The spring semester at the community college starts in two weeks.”
“Doesn’t matter, because I’m not going.”
My cart lurched to a stop. Zach gripped the handlebar and giggled in his seat, spilling juice down his overalls. I used his nap blanket to wipe him up. “Vero, you’re only a few credits away from your accounting degree!”