Finlay Donovan Jumps the Gun (Finlay Donovan, #3)(77)

I let the door fall closed and headed to the vending machines, praying I wouldn’t have to commit a misdemeanor as I fed a handful of crumpled dollar bills into the snack machine. The last packet of Pop-Tarts dropped into the dispenser. Feeling lucky, I tried the drink machine. A Dr Pepper fell with a satisfying thump.

I carried the snacks back to the locker room and flipped on the lights, following the sounds of Vero’s sniffles to the only closed bathroom stall. I lowered my head, tilting to see underneath the partition, and spotted a familiar pair of pink-and-white Skechers in front of the commode. I knocked on the stall door.

Vero’s voice was muffled as she blew her nose. “I’m not coming out unless you have a warrant.”

“Vero, it’s me. Open the door.”

“So your sister can arrest me?”

“She’s not going to arrest you.”

“Then your boyfriend will.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.” And I was pretty sure he never would be after the conversation we were likely to have later. “Nick’s not going to arrest you either. Neither is anyone else here, for that matter.”

“They have to. I’m a wanted fugitive.”

I rolled my eyes and thrust the Pop-Tarts under the partition.

“Are you seriously pulling a Zach on me?”

“Are you seriously making me? Let me in.”

“I can’t,” she said.

“Why not?”

“Because I handcuffed myself to the toilet paper dispenser.”

With a heavy sigh, I dropped down onto my belly to slither under the door. “You know, I’m getting really tired of crawling around on public restroom floors.”

“Are you alone?”

“Were you expecting a posse?” I asked, dragging myself into the stall.

Vero sat on the toilet lid, her wrists cuffed around the dispenser beside her. Her nose was red and her eyes were puffy. I sat on the floor by her feet with my back against the wall.

“Where did you get the cuffs?”

“From the mat room down the hall.”

“Where’s the key?”

“In the toilet with my phone.” At my raised eyebrows, she said, “I accidentally dropped it while I was trying to call Javi to come pick me up.”

I rolled onto my knees and opened the stall door. “I’ll go get someone to help.”

“No!” She leaned back on the seat lid and kicked the door shut, holding it closed with her sneaker. “I’m not leaving this bathroom. And I’m not going back to Maryland.”

“No one is taking you to Maryland. Steven didn’t tell anyone but me about the warrant. Unless you get yourself arrested again, you probably have nothing to worry about.”

“That’s a comfort,” she deadpanned.

I shoved her foot out of the way and sat back down, holding a chunk of Pop-Tart where she could reach it. “Eat this. You’re missing dinner.” When she took it, her sleeve was wet with snot.

“We’re both missing dinner.” She leaned forward to nibble off a corner. “Did you bring anything good to drink?”

I laughed. “Under the present circumstances, I didn’t think stealing liquor from the faculty lounge would be the wisest choice.” I opened the soda can and held it to her mouth. “Why didn’t you tell me there was a warrant out for you?”

“Because you were letting me live in your house—with your kids—and I didn’t want you to change your mind and kick me out.”

“Let me get this straight,” I said, pulling the soda from her lips. “You show up in my garage and find me standing over Harris Mickler’s lifeless body, and you’re, like, Sure, I’ll help you bury the dead guy. Where’s my forty percent? While we’re at it, let’s become serial killers. There’s a sale on chest freezers at Lowe’s and I’ve got three thousand feet of Cling Wrap in the trunk of a sports car I bought with money I negotiated from the Russian mob. But you thought the fact that you were wanted for petty larceny—of a sorority house treasury fund,” I emphasized, “was the most concerning part of all that?”

“Because I didn’t do it!” she said adamantly.

“I know that!”

She looked surprised. “You do?”

“You told me you didn’t steal that money. Of course I believe you.” Some of the tension left her shoulders as I held the soda out to her. “Is there anything else I should know?” I asked, tipping the can for her as she sipped.

“You know as much as I do now. I only found out I’d been formally charged because the cops went to my mother’s house looking for me and she freaked out.” She rested her head against the side of the stall. “She called my cousin and told him there was a warrant out for me, and I haven’t crossed the state line since.”

I offered her another piece of Pop-Tart, perplexed by Maryland and New Jersey’s geography. “If you never went back to Maryland, how did you get to Atlantic City?”

“Drove around it,” she said with her mouth full. A laugh started deep in my chest. “What’s so funny?” she asked, spraying crumbs at me.

“Nothing,” I said, attempting to stifle it. “It’s just … you went to all that trouble for a year, evading an erroneous theft charge, only to meet me and get wrapped up in all this.” I waved my hands around, gesturing at everything.