Finlay Donovan Jumps the Gun (Finlay Donovan, #3)(58)

I was pretty sure my heart stopped.

She drew on a pair of mirrored sunglasses and turned on the defroster. “Get in the trunk.”

My head snapped up. “I’m not riding in the trunk!”

“What if the cop in the security booth sees you?”

“Then I’ll drive and you get in the trunk!”

“I’m the one wearing the uniform.” Vero pulled a lever and the trunk popped open. She stared at me, waiting for me to get out.

I climbed out of the car with an exasperated huff. “Whatever you do, do not stop at the security booth,” I warned her. “Do not make eye contact or attempt a conversation with the duty officer. Just wave and keep driving when he opens the gate.”

“Where?”

“Head to the nearest town and stop at the first all-night convenience store you can find. We’re going to buy a prepaid cell phone so we can call Mrs. Westover. We’ll tell her to move Carl, and then we’re bringing the car right back.” I climbed inside the trunk, shoving aside a stack of orange training cones and contorting myself to fit beside them. The last thing I saw was Vero, her hair pulled back in a severe bun, a pair of mirrored sunglasses obscuring her face, and her petite frame swimming in Tyrese’s starchy uniform as she shut me inside.

My phone started to vibrate. I twisted sideways, working it free of my pocket. Vero’s name lit on the screen, filling the trunk with an eerie blue light.

I tapped the screen to accept the video call. Vero’s phone was propped on the passenger seat beside her, angled toward her to catch her profile in the frame. The windshield wipers slapped a steady beat across the glass.

“I figured you might get claustrophobic back there. See? It’s almost like a ride-along,” she said as the car bounced over a speed bump. Water splashed against the undercarriage as the cruiser jostled through puddles.

“I think I’m going to be sick.” I shut my eyes, breathing through my mouth. The smell of highway tar and plastic cones was thick in the cramped, dark space, and if Vero didn’t let me out soon, I was certain I was going to vomit.

“Don’t worry, Finn. We’ll have you out of there in no time.” She plucked the handheld microphone from under the dash.

“What are you doing?” I asked, my nausea suddenly overshadowed by raw panic.

She pressed the Talk button and held it to her lips. “Pretending to look busy.” Her voice boomed out across the parking lot, projected by a set of speakers in the grill. She rushed to turn it off, flipping switches and buttons at random. A country song blared over the radio. Blue lights swirled over her shocked face and the siren whooped twice before she managed to shut it all off.

I dropped my head back and shut my eyes. We’d been involved in the murder and disposal of four men, but we were going to prison because of Vero’s thong.

“Stay cool,” she said. “We’re coming to the security gate.”

I held my breath, my eyes glued to the screen as Vero dimmed the headlights and turned off the wipers. The cab, dark a moment ago, filled with the diffuse light from the security booth. It reflected off Vero’s shades. “What’s happening?” I asked, my heart suspended between beats as the car slowed.

“The officer is opening his window.” She dragged down her shades with a low whistle, angling to get a better look at him.

“Do not stop this car, Vero!”

“Relax,” she said, “it’s pouring out here. He can hardly see through the windshield. Oh … it’s working! The gate’s going up. He’s waving me through.”

I didn’t start breathing again until the car began to accelerate. My head bounced painfully off the floor of the trunk as we bumped over a pothole.

Vero winced. “Sorry.”

“Just hurry up and let me out!” I closed my eyes and concentrated on not puking as the minutes ticked by. The car made a sharp turn, throwing me against the cones. A moment later, the engine cut off. Then the phone. I pounded on the lid of the trunk.

Cold air rushed in and I drew it deep into my lungs. I grabbed Vero’s hand, clambering over the lip to the damp ground. Her tennis shoes glowed white against the slick dark pavement, the hems of Tyrese’s black uniform pants rolled in sloppy cuffs around them.

I got up and leaned on the rear bumper, struggling to get my bearings. We were behind a building. A gas station, judging by the smell of it.

“I’ll go inside and get us a phone,” Vero suggested.

“No!” I nearly fell over as I rushed to my feet. “You can’t go in there wearing that. Stay with the car. I’ll do it.” I drew my hood up to cover my face and circled the building, my feet tripping to a halt as I recognized where we were. The charter bus had driven through this intersection three days ago. The small stretch of shops between traffic lights had consisted of one gas station, a grocery, a bank … and a hardware store.

I dug the crumpled slip of paper from my pocket. The name on the sign over the hardware store across the street matched the one printed on the receipt I’d found during the crime scene exercise in the woods.

I walked around to the front of the convenience store. Two security cameras were mounted high above the doors, one angled toward the gas pumps, the other toward the road and (with any luck) the hardware store beyond it.

Bells on the door jangled as I stepped inside the store. A scruffy young man in a trucker hat hunched behind the counter, flipping the pages of an adult magazine, the crumbs from the MoonPie he was eating scattering over the centerfold. He sipped from his Coke can, swishing soda in his mouth, his throat bobbing around his swallow just before he released a belch. I found a cheap prepaid phone on a display beside the counter and set it in front of him. He looked up from his magazine, stuffing the rest of his MoonPie in his mouth as he rung up the charge on his register. I paid cash and took the phone, not bothering to ask for a bag as I left.