Finlay Donovan Jumps the Gun (Finlay Donovan, #3)(8)

I paused over the waste bin, sifting aside the scraps I’d just tossed in. A thick, brown envelope had come loose from the pile of junk mail Javi had delivered. Vero’s name was written on the front. The absence of a return address piqued my curiosity and I fished it out of the can. I held the envelope under the light, squinting at the postage stamp.

“This was mailed from Atlantic City.”

Vero’s face sobered as I held it out to her. She took it, wedging a finger inside and tearing the seal. A black poker chip fell into her palm. A photo slipped from the envelope, a grainy image of Vero getting into her car. We both sucked in a breath. The picture had been taken in the drop-off lane at Delia’s preschool.

“I never thought I’d say this,” Vero said in a small voice, “but maybe the kids should stay with Steven for a while.”



* * *



It was long past midnight, but neither of us could sleep. Vero and I sat at the kitchen table in our pajamas, an empty bag of Goldfish crackers in front of me and an empty bag of Oreos in front of Vero.

I rubbed my temple. “Exactly how much did you say you owe this loan shark?”

“Two hundred thousand,” Vero said hopelessly, her head resting in the cradle of her hand as she traced dollar signs in the crumbs with her finger.

That was one hundred and ninety thousand more than we had. “At least he doesn’t know where you live.”

“Not yet, anyway.” Vero had been living with me when she’d purchased the Charger in the photo, but she’d registered it under her cousin’s address, hoping her former sorority sisters would be less likely to find her. “Did you call Steven?” she asked.

I nodded. “His flight gets in tomorrow afternoon. He’ll swing by and pick up the kids on his way home from the airport. He agreed to keep them for the week. That should give us a few days to figure out what to do about this Marcus person.”

“Marco,” she corrected me.

“Do you know his last name?”

Vero shook her head. She’d been introduced to the loan shark in the lounge of a hotel and casino called the Royal Flush. Aside from his first name and a physical description of him, we didn’t have much to go on.

“How about a phone number?” I asked.

Another shake of her head. “The bellman at the hotel schedules all of Marco’s meetings for him.”

If we were to drive to Atlantic City and start asking for the loan shark by name, he’d probably find us before we managed to track him down.

My sigh smelled like cheddar-flavored crackers and resignation. “You know there’s only one way to fix this.”

“Kill him?”

“Pay him back!”

“I was afraid you were going to say that.”

“First thing tomorrow, we’ll take your Charger to the car dealership down the street and see how much we can get for it. Then we’ll contact the bellman at the casino, arrange to give Marco what we have, and tell him we need more time to come up with the rest.”

Vero sat bolt upright. “I can’t sell my car!”

“You can use my minivan to get back and forth to classes. We can get by on one vehicle for a while.”

“Finlay, they’re called loan sharks for a reason! He’s not going to be satisfied with a payment plan. If I pay him twenty percent of what I owe him, he’ll still break eighty percent of the bones in my body and charge me interest on the ones he left intact.”

“What choice do we have? It’s not like we have two hundred thousand just sitting in the bank.”

Vero glanced up at me with a sheepish expression. “Not exactly in the bank,” she said, gnawing her lip. “Remember when I said I would get rid of the Aston…?”

I gasped. “You and Ramón were supposed to destroy that car!” They were supposed to put it in the giant crusher behind his garage, then bury every last trace of it.

“It’s a good thing I didn’t!” she argued. “Even with bullet holes, that car is worth more than what I owe. If we strip it, we can get rid of the car and make enough to pay off Marco. All we need is someone who knows where to sell the parts.”

“You promised your cousin you wouldn’t tell anyone about the car.” He’d refused to help her sell it, too afraid his business would get implicated in whatever shady dealings the car had been involved in. He’d been adamant that no one—not even his best friend—ever know about the Aston Martin we’d left in his garage.

“Ramón doesn’t have to know. If I ask Javi to keep a secret for me, he will. He’s done it before.” Color rushed to her cheeks, hinting at the kinds of secrets Javi had kept hidden from Ramón. “I’ll tell Javi to meet us at the garage tomorrow night after it’s closed. I’ll show him the car and ask him how much he thinks he can get for the parts.”

“What you’re asking him to do is probably illegal.”

“It’s nothing he hasn’t done before.”

My head felt heavy as I stared at the picture on the table, taken at the crosswalk in front of Delia’s school. It felt disturbingly like the kind of veiled threat Feliks would have sent. If Feliks Zhirov wouldn’t settle for half a job, why should I assume Marco would settle for twenty percent of the money Vero owed him?