Format: Hardcover, 368 pages
Release Date: February 1, 2022
Publisher: Minotaur Books
Source: Publisher
Genre: Mystery / Thriller
From Edgar-Award nominee Elle Cosimano, comes Finlay Donovan Knocks 'Em Dead—the hilarious and heart-pounding followup to Finlay Donovan is Killing It.
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Finlay Donovan is—once again—struggling to finish her next novel and keep her head above water as a single mother of two. On the bright side, she has her live-in nanny and confidant Vero to rely on, and the only dead body she's dealt with lately is that of her daughter's pet goldfish.
On the not-so-bright side, someone out there wants her ex-husband, Steven, out of the picture. Permanently. Whatever else Steven may be, he's a good father, and Finlay is determined to keep him and her children safe. But doing so will lead her down a rabbit hole wherein soccer moms may be hit-women in disguise and the Russian mob is much more involved than she would like.
Meanwhile, Vero's keeping secrets, and Detective Nick Anthony seems determined to get back into her life. He may be a hot cop, but Finlay's first priority is preventing her family from sleeping with the fishes... and if that means bending a few laws then so be it.
With her next book's deadline looming and an ex-husband to keep alive, Finlay is quickly coming to the end of her rope. She can only hope there isn't a noose at the end of it...
Finlay Donovan Knocks 'Em Dead, by Elle Cosimano, is the second installment in the author's Finlay Donovan Series. 31-year-old Finlay Donovan's life is still a mess. Not only hasn't she finished the book that she promised her agent, but her daughter's goldfish just died and she's trying to keep it from her ex-husband. Finlay is hoping that the goldfish is the only dead body she has to deal with this week. She then learns someone is offering a whole lot of money to kill Steven. It seems as though there is a Mom's Support Group where grievances are posted against men like Steven, who left Finlay for a younger woman.
Finlay hates her cheating, lying husband as much as the next woman, but he's been a good father to their kids, and she doesn't want them to lose their father. A reminder: A month ago, after a woman named Patricia Mickler had overheard Finlay plotting a novel with her literary agent in a crowded sandwich shop. She’d offered to pay Finlay $50,000 to murder her husband, a horrible man who happened to launder money for the Russian mob. Finlay later got involved with yet another unhappy wife whose husband is as dangerous as they come thanks to his relationship with the Russian mobster.
Finlay's day-to-day life isn't quite as much of a dumpster fire, but she keeps getting in over her head (with Vero's help) with very bad dudes and contract killings. Finlay has to figure out who would want to kill the father of her children, and fast. In an attempt to figure out who this person is, she poses as an assassin for hire and goes head to head with someone else trying to get the job. Who wants Steven dead? Before they know it, Finlay and Vero are thrust into a complex story involving the Russian Mafia, a chopped-up body, Molotov cocktails, and a whole lot more.
To make things even more twisted, Finlay has two men on her mind and needs to make up her mind about who she really belongs with. The Detective who seems to honestly care about her, or the younger bartender wannabe lawyer who makes her blood run hot. Some of the shenanigans that Finlay and co. get into aren’t completely realistic, just like in the first book. Also, some plot points were hard to follow as the book tackles quite a variety of topics, scenarios, and bad guys (and gals).
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CHAPTER 1
Christopher was dead. They’d found him bobbing on the water’s surface, his eyes bulging and empty, just after dawn. While I couldn’t honestly say I’d ever killed anyone before, this time, there was no denying I was one hundred percent responsible.
“It wasn’t your fault.” Vero gave my arm an encouraging squeeze through the sleeve of my long black sweater. I hadn’t had anything else appropriate to wear; it’s not like I’d woken up expecting to attend a funeral. And yet somehow, my children’s young and ultra-hip nanny had managed to pull off a pair of formfitting slacks, a killer updo, and a designer blouse. She offered me a wan smile. “It’s not like you meant to do it.”
My daughter’s hand was frail in mine, her body tucked close to my other side, her eyes red from crying.
“In your defense,” Vero whispered, “the instructions were in very small print. And at your age—”
“I’m thirty-one.”
“Exactly. No one would expect you to be able to read those tiny letters clearly. You just gave him too much. That’s all.”
“He looked hungry.” The excuse sounded weak, even to me. But every time I’d stepped foot in my daughter’s room, Christopher had looked up from his bowl with those round, pleading eyes.
“I know.” Vero’s glossy lips pursed as she patted my shoulder. “You did your best, Finn.”
My daughter’s goldfish drifted in the cloudy water, his bloated belly pointing at me like an accusatory finger. Christopher had been a gift to Delia from her father, though I was certain Steven had bought the fish just to spite me. To pile one more responsibility onto my overflowing plate, just so he could watch me fail and then rub it in my face as he challenged me for custody. Ever since he’d left me for our real estate agent and they’d gotten engaged, he was determined to demonstrate that I was incompetent. It had become a competition for him, one that only became worse after he and Theresa split. I’d been bent on keeping the damn fish alive, to prove to my ex I was capable of providing for our children—and their pet—on my meager writing income without him. That I could feed and care for Delia, Zach, and Christopher on my own. Or at least, with Vero’s help.
Christopher had survived in my care for less than a month. And while Zach wasn’t old enough to rat me out to their father, Delia couldn’t keep a secret to save her life. There’d be no keeping the news of Christopher’s death from Steven. He’d gloat about it to Guy, his sleazy divorce attorney, and probably bring it up in court. Your Honor, I’d like to call your attention to the fish in the evidence bag marked Exhibit A. The deceased went belly-up after a mere three weeks in my ex-wife’s care. Clearly, she’s unfit to parent our children.
If Steven had any clue about the human who’d died while in my care over the last month (or where Vero and I had disposed of the body), he’d probably have a coronary—a possibility Vero had gleefully considered until she’d calculated the narrow odds of the news actually killing him. A month ago, after a woman named Patricia Mickler had overheard me plotting a novel with my literary agent in a crowded sandwich shop, she’d offered to pay me fifty thousand dollars to murder her husband, a horrible man who happened to launder money for the Russian mob. How Harris had come to be drugged in my minivan had been an accident, and though I wasn’t the one who’d actually murdered him, his wife had been certain I had. She’d passed on my name to her friend Irina, whose husband was an enforcer for said very scary mob. Irina’s husband’s death had also been an accident. Regardless, both women had expressed their gratitude by giving me copious amounts of cash. And a tip: that someone had posted an ad online, searching for a willing party to murder my ex-husband for money.
Vero held the green plastic net out in front of me. “Care to say a few words?”
Zach toddled toward the fishbowl on pudgy legs, the frilly ends of his diaper poking out from under his black shirt. His sticky fingers clamped around the edge of the dresser as he pulled himself onto his toes to see. He touched a finger to the glass, drool spooling from his chin. Delia’s breath hitched, her upper lip shiny with snot as she looked up at me expectantly. I took the net from Vero. “What am I supposed to say?” I whispered.
She nudged me toward the bowl. “Just say something nice about him.”
I held the net to my chest, struggling to find the words that would calm my grieving five-year-old, who’d been hysterical since she’d awoken and found her pet floating in his bowl like a Cheerio. I was a writer, for crying out loud. I strung words together for a living. This should’ve been easy. But every time I looked at Christopher, all I could picture was my ex-husband’s face. Not because I wanted to kill Steven. I mean, I did, I guess. Some days. Most days. Definitely whenever he opened his mouth. But no matter how contentious our relationship had become since he’d left me for our real estate agent, Steven loved our children, and they loved him. And I would never do anything to hurt Delia or Zach.
Someone wanted Steven dead. And it wasn’t me.
“What can I say about Christopher?” I glanced back at Vero for inspiration. The corner of her mouth twitched as she gestured for me to go on. “He was a good fish. A loyal and steadfast friend to all of us, he…”
There was a forceful tug on my yoga pants. “Tell them about his smile,” Delia said, wiping her nose on the sleeve of her black leotard. “And how he blew the best bubbles.” She crumpled into my side, burying her face in the folds of my sweater. Zach’s tiny forehead creased with concern. I was grateful he was too young to really understand what was happening as I echoed Delia’s sentiments and dipped the net into the water, scooping Christopher out.
She held my leg as we marched solemnly to the bathroom across the hall. Zach perched on Vero’s hip behind us, marking the end of our procession. We stood around the open lid of the toilet, paying our last respects as Christopher fell into the commode with a soft plink.
Delia grabbed my arm as I reached for the handle. “No, Mommy!”
“Sweetie, we have to. He can’t stay in the potty forever.”
“Why not?” she whimpered.
“Because…” I threw Vero a pleading look. This chapter was definitely not in my copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting. I wanted my money back.
“Because,” Vero supplied helpfully, “he’s going to start to stink—” I stepped hard on her foot.
“But I’ll never see him again,” Delia sobbed.
A bubble swelled from her nose and I wiped it on my sleeve. “We’ll always have his memories.” And the dozens of photos she’d made me post on #goldfishofinstagram.
“Maybe we could go to the pet store and get another one.” The words were out of Vero’s mouth before I could stop her. Delia erupted in a fit of keening wails. Zach’s lower lip began to tremble.
“I don’t want another fish!” Delia shrieked. “There are no other fish like Christopher!”
“You’re absolutely right,” I said, raising my voice as they both began to howl. “There will never be another fish like Christopher. We should honor his memory with a moment of silence.”
Delia’s mouth pinched shut. The bathroom fell quiet except for my children’s shuddering sniffles. I lowered my head, jabbing Vero in the ribs with an elbow until she bowed her head, too. I waited a full minute before reaching for the lever. This time, Delia didn’t try to stop me, and with a swirl of orange scales, Christopher was gone.
Vero gently ruffled the tear-soaked spikes of Delia’s hair. “Come on, Dee. I’ll make you some cookies.”
“Not too many,” I reminded her. My mother was preparing enough turkey and stuffing to feed an army, and she’d murder me if I spoiled the children’s appetites before dinner.
Zach squealed as Vero scooped him up and carried him downstairs. Delia lingered, giving the toilet one last look before following them to the kitchen.
As I reached for the light switch, I paused. Turning back to the toilet, I flushed it again. Because I’m not the luckiest person in the world, and I know better than to assume the dead don’t come back to haunt you.
CHAPTER 2
An hour later, Vero and I buckled Delia and Zach into their car seats. Vero wiped cookie crumb evidence from their cheeks as I hauled two small Rollaboards into the back of my minivan and slammed the hatch closed.
“What’s the luggage for?” Vero asked.
“I got an email from Steven this morning. He’s moved into his new place and he wants to take the kids for the weekend.” He’d attached photos of the restored farmhouse he’d rented in Fauquier County, careful to point out that the children’s bedrooms and toys were already unpacked, and the kitchen was stocked and ready for them. He’d cc’d his attorney, Guy, who had replied to both of us, congratulating Steven on finding such a “great place for the kids,” which was clearly lawyer-speak for you have no grounds to fight this.
It had been easy to keep the kids away from Steven’s farm since his ex-fiancée’s arrest. After five bodies had been found buried there and Theresa Hall had been implicated in the ensuing investigation, Steven had called off their engagement. He’d moved out of her town house within hours and had been sleeping on the sofa in the sales trailer on his farm since. He and his attorney had both agreed it would be best for the children to suspend their overnight visits until he was back on his feet. But they didn’t know what Vero and I knew. That someone had posted an ad on an online forum, offering a hundred thousand dollars to anyone willing to dispose of Steven Donovan. As far as Vero and I could tell, the forum was a virtual cesspool thinly disguised as a mom’s support group—an anonymous gathering space for hundreds of disgruntled middle-aged women to bitch about things that bothered them, namely their husbands, bosses, and boyfriends. Apparently, for those with means, it was also a way of getting rid of them.
Vero looked aghast as she slid the van door closed, shutting the children inside. “You’re not actually going to let them stay with him, are you?”
“Of course not. I called my parents and asked if the children could stay with them. Then I emailed Steven and told him the kids already had plans.”
A wicked smile pulled at Vero’s lips as we climbed into the van. Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper and she wagged an eyebrow. “Three whole days without the kids? I can spend a few nights at my cousin’s place if you want to invite Julian over to play house for the weekend.”
My face warmed when I pictured Julian in my kitchen. Or my bedroom. I snuck a shameful glance in the rearview mirror, but Zach’s head was already drooping against his car seat and Delia’s red-rimmed eyes were drifting closed. “I don’t have time to play house.” As tempting as it was to spend a weekend alone with the sexy young law student I’d been seeing, I had far more important things to do. “I have to figure out who posted that job offer. I won’t feel safe letting the kids spend the weekends with Steven until I’m sure nobody’s trying to kill him.” And if that wasn’t enough, I had a pitch due to my agent by nine A.M. Monday morning.
I turned the key in the ignition, wincing when the engine protested with a sputter before groaning to life.
Vero made a disgusted sound. “We’re going car shopping on Monday.”
“The van’s fine. Your cousin just fixed it.”
“No. Ramón put a Band-Aid on it. Face it, the van is toast.”
I threw my aging Dodge Caravan in gear, praying nothing shook loose and fell off—at least nothing important—as it rattled down the driveway. “I can’t afford to buy a new car right now. Not with Steven and his attorney scrutinizing all my expenses.”
“You could if you took that job on the forum. One hundred Gs would buy a pretty sweet car.”
“We are not killing my ex-husband for money,” I whispered, glancing back at my sleeping children.
“How much do you think we could get for his lawyer?” Vero suggested. I threw her a withering look. “Calm down. I’m kidding. But that transmission isn’t going to last much longer. You’d better get busy writing that book Sylvia thinks you’ve been working on.”
“I know. And I will.” My literary agent, Sylvia Barr, had been hounding me for sample pages of a novel I had supposedly started a month ago and my editor was expecting before the end of the year. “I’ll work on it this weekend. I’ll be at the library anyway.” Vero and I had been taking turns rotating among nearly a dozen branches of our local county library system, careful to delete our search history each time we used their computers to check that no one had accepted the job offer on the forum. A month had gone by without a bite, but that didn’t change the fact that someone wanted to murder my children’s father, and now that Steven had a place of his own, I had no reasonable excuse to keep the kids from him. I’d spend the entire weekend at the library if I had to. I’d scour that women’s forum until I figured out who posted the ad—probably one of countless women Steven had either scorned or managed to piss off. Then I’d make an anonymous call, report the woman’s intentions to the police, and hope like hell this was the end of it.
“I’ll come help you,” Vero offered as we merged onto the parkway.
“Silly for both of us to waste the weekend. Don’t you have any hot dates?”
“Please. You’re getting enough action for the both of us.”
My eyes strayed from the parkway to look at her. Vero had always been the one to lecture me about getting dressed in real clothes and going out. But she’d been staying in more and more lately. With the exception of her classes at the local community college, she’d been content to spend her nights off with me and the kids, watching movies in our pajamas. “Maybe you’d get more action if you left the house once in a while.”
She rolled her eyes.
“What about that guy, Todd, from macroeconomics?”
“Microeconomics,” she said, with an emphasis on micro. “If you’re trying to get rid of me so you can get naked with your boyfriend, I’d rather spend the weekend watching football with my cousin.”
The van swayed a little as I studied her between glances at the road, making the guy in the next lane lean on his horn. “I thought you said your family wasn’t spending Thanksgiving together this year because your aunt is sick.”
“She is. My mom’s taking care of her.” I knew Vero and her cousin were close—she’d been living on his couch before she’d moved in with us—but when it came to everything else about her family, Vero was unusually quiet. In the month she’d lived with us, her family had never called the house, and even though her mother and aunt both lived just over the bridge in Maryland, as far as I knew, Vero hadn’t once gone to visit them.
“If Ramón is home, why aren’t you having dinner with him?”
Vero’s answering laugh was dry. “Ramón’s idea of a home-cooked meal is mac and cheese out of the box. Besides, I’d rather spend the holiday with you.” She turned toward the window. I couldn’t shake the feeling there was something she wasn’t telling me, but as we turned in to my parents’ neighborhood, I opted to let it go. She would confide in me when she was ready. Families were weird sometimes. I should know.
My mom and dad still lived in the same house Georgia and I grew up in, a brick-faced two-story colonial in what had once been a quieter suburb in Burke. My mother swung open the front door as I pulled into their driveway. Her GRANDMAS FIX EVERYTHING apron was speckled with oil and dusted with flour. The mouthwatering smell of roast turkey and stuffing wafted from the house as I roused the children and ushered them inside. Five days each year, I was glad to live so close to my parents. The other three hundred and sixty? Maybe not so much.
Christopher was dead. They’d found him bobbing on the water’s surface, his eyes bulging and empty, just after dawn. While I couldn’t honestly say I’d ever killed anyone before, this time, there was no denying I was one hundred percent responsible.
“It wasn’t your fault.” Vero gave my arm an encouraging squeeze through the sleeve of my long black sweater. I hadn’t had anything else appropriate to wear; it’s not like I’d woken up expecting to attend a funeral. And yet somehow, my children’s young and ultra-hip nanny had managed to pull off a pair of formfitting slacks, a killer updo, and a designer blouse. She offered me a wan smile. “It’s not like you meant to do it.”
My daughter’s hand was frail in mine, her body tucked close to my other side, her eyes red from crying.
“In your defense,” Vero whispered, “the instructions were in very small print. And at your age—”
“I’m thirty-one.”
“Exactly. No one would expect you to be able to read those tiny letters clearly. You just gave him too much. That’s all.”
“He looked hungry.” The excuse sounded weak, even to me. But every time I’d stepped foot in my daughter’s room, Christopher had looked up from his bowl with those round, pleading eyes.
“I know.” Vero’s glossy lips pursed as she patted my shoulder. “You did your best, Finn.”
My daughter’s goldfish drifted in the cloudy water, his bloated belly pointing at me like an accusatory finger. Christopher had been a gift to Delia from her father, though I was certain Steven had bought the fish just to spite me. To pile one more responsibility onto my overflowing plate, just so he could watch me fail and then rub it in my face as he challenged me for custody. Ever since he’d left me for our real estate agent and they’d gotten engaged, he was determined to demonstrate that I was incompetent. It had become a competition for him, one that only became worse after he and Theresa split. I’d been bent on keeping the damn fish alive, to prove to my ex I was capable of providing for our children—and their pet—on my meager writing income without him. That I could feed and care for Delia, Zach, and Christopher on my own. Or at least, with Vero’s help.
Christopher had survived in my care for less than a month. And while Zach wasn’t old enough to rat me out to their father, Delia couldn’t keep a secret to save her life. There’d be no keeping the news of Christopher’s death from Steven. He’d gloat about it to Guy, his sleazy divorce attorney, and probably bring it up in court. Your Honor, I’d like to call your attention to the fish in the evidence bag marked Exhibit A. The deceased went belly-up after a mere three weeks in my ex-wife’s care. Clearly, she’s unfit to parent our children.
If Steven had any clue about the human who’d died while in my care over the last month (or where Vero and I had disposed of the body), he’d probably have a coronary—a possibility Vero had gleefully considered until she’d calculated the narrow odds of the news actually killing him. A month ago, after a woman named Patricia Mickler had overheard me plotting a novel with my literary agent in a crowded sandwich shop, she’d offered to pay me fifty thousand dollars to murder her husband, a horrible man who happened to launder money for the Russian mob. How Harris had come to be drugged in my minivan had been an accident, and though I wasn’t the one who’d actually murdered him, his wife had been certain I had. She’d passed on my name to her friend Irina, whose husband was an enforcer for said very scary mob. Irina’s husband’s death had also been an accident. Regardless, both women had expressed their gratitude by giving me copious amounts of cash. And a tip: that someone had posted an ad online, searching for a willing party to murder my ex-husband for money.
Vero held the green plastic net out in front of me. “Care to say a few words?”
Zach toddled toward the fishbowl on pudgy legs, the frilly ends of his diaper poking out from under his black shirt. His sticky fingers clamped around the edge of the dresser as he pulled himself onto his toes to see. He touched a finger to the glass, drool spooling from his chin. Delia’s breath hitched, her upper lip shiny with snot as she looked up at me expectantly. I took the net from Vero. “What am I supposed to say?” I whispered.
She nudged me toward the bowl. “Just say something nice about him.”
I held the net to my chest, struggling to find the words that would calm my grieving five-year-old, who’d been hysterical since she’d awoken and found her pet floating in his bowl like a Cheerio. I was a writer, for crying out loud. I strung words together for a living. This should’ve been easy. But every time I looked at Christopher, all I could picture was my ex-husband’s face. Not because I wanted to kill Steven. I mean, I did, I guess. Some days. Most days. Definitely whenever he opened his mouth. But no matter how contentious our relationship had become since he’d left me for our real estate agent, Steven loved our children, and they loved him. And I would never do anything to hurt Delia or Zach.
Someone wanted Steven dead. And it wasn’t me.
“What can I say about Christopher?” I glanced back at Vero for inspiration. The corner of her mouth twitched as she gestured for me to go on. “He was a good fish. A loyal and steadfast friend to all of us, he…”
There was a forceful tug on my yoga pants. “Tell them about his smile,” Delia said, wiping her nose on the sleeve of her black leotard. “And how he blew the best bubbles.” She crumpled into my side, burying her face in the folds of my sweater. Zach’s tiny forehead creased with concern. I was grateful he was too young to really understand what was happening as I echoed Delia’s sentiments and dipped the net into the water, scooping Christopher out.
She held my leg as we marched solemnly to the bathroom across the hall. Zach perched on Vero’s hip behind us, marking the end of our procession. We stood around the open lid of the toilet, paying our last respects as Christopher fell into the commode with a soft plink.
Delia grabbed my arm as I reached for the handle. “No, Mommy!”
“Sweetie, we have to. He can’t stay in the potty forever.”
“Why not?” she whimpered.
“Because…” I threw Vero a pleading look. This chapter was definitely not in my copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting. I wanted my money back.
“Because,” Vero supplied helpfully, “he’s going to start to stink—” I stepped hard on her foot.
“But I’ll never see him again,” Delia sobbed.
A bubble swelled from her nose and I wiped it on my sleeve. “We’ll always have his memories.” And the dozens of photos she’d made me post on #goldfishofinstagram.
“Maybe we could go to the pet store and get another one.” The words were out of Vero’s mouth before I could stop her. Delia erupted in a fit of keening wails. Zach’s lower lip began to tremble.
“I don’t want another fish!” Delia shrieked. “There are no other fish like Christopher!”
“You’re absolutely right,” I said, raising my voice as they both began to howl. “There will never be another fish like Christopher. We should honor his memory with a moment of silence.”
Delia’s mouth pinched shut. The bathroom fell quiet except for my children’s shuddering sniffles. I lowered my head, jabbing Vero in the ribs with an elbow until she bowed her head, too. I waited a full minute before reaching for the lever. This time, Delia didn’t try to stop me, and with a swirl of orange scales, Christopher was gone.
Vero gently ruffled the tear-soaked spikes of Delia’s hair. “Come on, Dee. I’ll make you some cookies.”
“Not too many,” I reminded her. My mother was preparing enough turkey and stuffing to feed an army, and she’d murder me if I spoiled the children’s appetites before dinner.
Zach squealed as Vero scooped him up and carried him downstairs. Delia lingered, giving the toilet one last look before following them to the kitchen.
As I reached for the light switch, I paused. Turning back to the toilet, I flushed it again. Because I’m not the luckiest person in the world, and I know better than to assume the dead don’t come back to haunt you.
CHAPTER 2
An hour later, Vero and I buckled Delia and Zach into their car seats. Vero wiped cookie crumb evidence from their cheeks as I hauled two small Rollaboards into the back of my minivan and slammed the hatch closed.
“What’s the luggage for?” Vero asked.
“I got an email from Steven this morning. He’s moved into his new place and he wants to take the kids for the weekend.” He’d attached photos of the restored farmhouse he’d rented in Fauquier County, careful to point out that the children’s bedrooms and toys were already unpacked, and the kitchen was stocked and ready for them. He’d cc’d his attorney, Guy, who had replied to both of us, congratulating Steven on finding such a “great place for the kids,” which was clearly lawyer-speak for you have no grounds to fight this.
It had been easy to keep the kids away from Steven’s farm since his ex-fiancée’s arrest. After five bodies had been found buried there and Theresa Hall had been implicated in the ensuing investigation, Steven had called off their engagement. He’d moved out of her town house within hours and had been sleeping on the sofa in the sales trailer on his farm since. He and his attorney had both agreed it would be best for the children to suspend their overnight visits until he was back on his feet. But they didn’t know what Vero and I knew. That someone had posted an ad on an online forum, offering a hundred thousand dollars to anyone willing to dispose of Steven Donovan. As far as Vero and I could tell, the forum was a virtual cesspool thinly disguised as a mom’s support group—an anonymous gathering space for hundreds of disgruntled middle-aged women to bitch about things that bothered them, namely their husbands, bosses, and boyfriends. Apparently, for those with means, it was also a way of getting rid of them.
Vero looked aghast as she slid the van door closed, shutting the children inside. “You’re not actually going to let them stay with him, are you?”
“Of course not. I called my parents and asked if the children could stay with them. Then I emailed Steven and told him the kids already had plans.”
A wicked smile pulled at Vero’s lips as we climbed into the van. Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper and she wagged an eyebrow. “Three whole days without the kids? I can spend a few nights at my cousin’s place if you want to invite Julian over to play house for the weekend.”
My face warmed when I pictured Julian in my kitchen. Or my bedroom. I snuck a shameful glance in the rearview mirror, but Zach’s head was already drooping against his car seat and Delia’s red-rimmed eyes were drifting closed. “I don’t have time to play house.” As tempting as it was to spend a weekend alone with the sexy young law student I’d been seeing, I had far more important things to do. “I have to figure out who posted that job offer. I won’t feel safe letting the kids spend the weekends with Steven until I’m sure nobody’s trying to kill him.” And if that wasn’t enough, I had a pitch due to my agent by nine A.M. Monday morning.
I turned the key in the ignition, wincing when the engine protested with a sputter before groaning to life.
Vero made a disgusted sound. “We’re going car shopping on Monday.”
“The van’s fine. Your cousin just fixed it.”
“No. Ramón put a Band-Aid on it. Face it, the van is toast.”
I threw my aging Dodge Caravan in gear, praying nothing shook loose and fell off—at least nothing important—as it rattled down the driveway. “I can’t afford to buy a new car right now. Not with Steven and his attorney scrutinizing all my expenses.”
“You could if you took that job on the forum. One hundred Gs would buy a pretty sweet car.”
“We are not killing my ex-husband for money,” I whispered, glancing back at my sleeping children.
“How much do you think we could get for his lawyer?” Vero suggested. I threw her a withering look. “Calm down. I’m kidding. But that transmission isn’t going to last much longer. You’d better get busy writing that book Sylvia thinks you’ve been working on.”
“I know. And I will.” My literary agent, Sylvia Barr, had been hounding me for sample pages of a novel I had supposedly started a month ago and my editor was expecting before the end of the year. “I’ll work on it this weekend. I’ll be at the library anyway.” Vero and I had been taking turns rotating among nearly a dozen branches of our local county library system, careful to delete our search history each time we used their computers to check that no one had accepted the job offer on the forum. A month had gone by without a bite, but that didn’t change the fact that someone wanted to murder my children’s father, and now that Steven had a place of his own, I had no reasonable excuse to keep the kids from him. I’d spend the entire weekend at the library if I had to. I’d scour that women’s forum until I figured out who posted the ad—probably one of countless women Steven had either scorned or managed to piss off. Then I’d make an anonymous call, report the woman’s intentions to the police, and hope like hell this was the end of it.
“I’ll come help you,” Vero offered as we merged onto the parkway.
“Silly for both of us to waste the weekend. Don’t you have any hot dates?”
“Please. You’re getting enough action for the both of us.”
My eyes strayed from the parkway to look at her. Vero had always been the one to lecture me about getting dressed in real clothes and going out. But she’d been staying in more and more lately. With the exception of her classes at the local community college, she’d been content to spend her nights off with me and the kids, watching movies in our pajamas. “Maybe you’d get more action if you left the house once in a while.”
She rolled her eyes.
“What about that guy, Todd, from macroeconomics?”
“Microeconomics,” she said, with an emphasis on micro. “If you’re trying to get rid of me so you can get naked with your boyfriend, I’d rather spend the weekend watching football with my cousin.”
The van swayed a little as I studied her between glances at the road, making the guy in the next lane lean on his horn. “I thought you said your family wasn’t spending Thanksgiving together this year because your aunt is sick.”
“She is. My mom’s taking care of her.” I knew Vero and her cousin were close—she’d been living on his couch before she’d moved in with us—but when it came to everything else about her family, Vero was unusually quiet. In the month she’d lived with us, her family had never called the house, and even though her mother and aunt both lived just over the bridge in Maryland, as far as I knew, Vero hadn’t once gone to visit them.
“If Ramón is home, why aren’t you having dinner with him?”
Vero’s answering laugh was dry. “Ramón’s idea of a home-cooked meal is mac and cheese out of the box. Besides, I’d rather spend the holiday with you.” She turned toward the window. I couldn’t shake the feeling there was something she wasn’t telling me, but as we turned in to my parents’ neighborhood, I opted to let it go. She would confide in me when she was ready. Families were weird sometimes. I should know.
My mom and dad still lived in the same house Georgia and I grew up in, a brick-faced two-story colonial in what had once been a quieter suburb in Burke. My mother swung open the front door as I pulled into their driveway. Her GRANDMAS FIX EVERYTHING apron was speckled with oil and dusted with flour. The mouthwatering smell of roast turkey and stuffing wafted from the house as I roused the children and ushered them inside. Five days each year, I was glad to live so close to my parents. The other three hundred and sixty? Maybe not so much.
