Finlay Donovan Is Killing It

by Elle Cosimano

  I stood in Steven’s foyer, amid the countless posed portraits of Steven and Theresa that ran from the landing all the way to the front door. Their bedroom was probably covered in them, too. Every inch of his place was a reminder of why he was here and who he was attached to, lest he forget, like he did before with me when Theresa came along.

  When Steven and I had lived together, less than a handful of framed photos of the two of us had dotted the walls—a candid from our college formal taken by friends we hadn’t talked to since the divorce, our engagement photo with my parents, and one of us stuffing cake in each other’s faces at our wedding were the only ones I could recall. Maybe that was where I’d gone wrong. Maybe I hadn’t memorialized us enough. Maybe I’d failed to remind him of what we had, or what he stood to lose. Or maybe none of that would have made a difference at all. He wasn’t exactly Old Faithful; just because Bree-from-the-sod-farm wasn’t caught in the frame of any of Theresa’s pictures didn’t mean she wasn’t in the background somewhere.

  My shirt was wet under Zach’s round cheeks. His nose was running, and I resisted the temptation to slide a finger under it and wipe a booger under one of the glass-covered portraits, right under Theresa’s nose. But that would be petty. A booger wouldn’t go unnoticed in Theresa’s perfect world for long, and, with any luck, neither would Bree.

  Calling Delia’s name again, I pulled a tissue from a box in the kitchen. Theresa’s laptop sat open on the breakfast bar beside it, the Windows logo bouncing from one end of the screen to the other while it slept. Curiosity got the better of me, and I tapped the space bar. The laptop came to life without prompting me for a password, revealing the home screen—a search engine. A cursor blinked in the empty search field.

  I peeped around the corner into the hall. Delia’s conversation with her Barbies trailed down the stairs from her room. Zach wriggled as I shifted him to my other shoulder, his eyes drifting closed again as he sucked softly on his pacifier.

  With my free hand, I henpecked Harris Mickler’s name.

  Social media accounts and photos flooded the screen. Facebook, LinkedIn, Instagram, Twitter. I clicked open his Facebook profile. An attractive forty-something man smiled back at me. Harris Mickler, age forty-two, married to Patricia Mickler, and vice president of customer relations for some up-and-coming financial services firm.

  Patricia … It felt strange to put such an innocuous name to the face of the woman who’d offered me fifty thousand dollars to kill her husband. Sifting through his online albums, I managed to find only one picture of them together—a single token anniversary photo taken five years ago. The wide-eyed surprise captured by the flash of the camera was the same expression she’d worn when I’d caught her staring at me in Panera.

  Delia’s make-believe princess voice tinkled quietly upstairs. Zach’s paci fell limp between his lips as he slept. I clicked on Patricia’s profile. I don’t know what I’d hoped to find—a duck-face selfie attention-seeker? One of those annoying social media friends who vaguebooks between posting online quizzes and political memes?—but Patricia was none of those things. Her posts were spare and thoughtful, and she rarely included photos of herself. According to her profile, she was an investment banker, which you’d think would make her an entitled, rich asshole. Instead, as far as I could tell, she was equally unpretentious with her money. She volunteered frequently at her local animal shelter, made donations to crowdsourced fundraisers for friends who were down on their luck, and seemed most comfortable in faded denim and sweatshirts. The only ostentatious thing about her was her wedding ring, crusted in diamonds and boasting a grossly large center stone. It seemed disproportionately extravagant, given the little I knew of Patricia. And yet, it featured prominently in every photo of her.

  Curious, I zoomed in on one. Patricia cuddled a shelter cat in her arms, the ring on full display. Everything else about her was casual and plain: unadorned jeans, well-worn sneakers, a shelter T-shirt covered by a simple blue hoodie … I tipped my head, angling to look more closely. A black band peeked out from the sleeve of her sweatshirt, looping around her hand and circling her lower thumb—a wrist brace. I clicked backward through her photos, pausing on one taken three months earlier—a bandage on her forehead. Then another before that—a splint on her finger.

  I can’t tell him I know. That would be … very, very bad.

  I clicked back through her photos again, searching for bruises in the dark rings under her eyes, for a telltale knot in the aquiline shape of her nose, or the bulge of a cast under a baggy sweatshirt, liking Harris Mickler less and less with every blemish on Patricia’s body that may or may not have been a scar. I clicked back to his Facebook profile, even though I knew I shouldn’t. He was a member of dozens of social networking groups, as far east as Annapolis and as far south as Richmond.

  And just like Patricia had said, he was confirmed to attend an event tonight at a trendy bar in Reston. The Lush was only a few miles from here …

  I tried to brush off the errant thought, but it stuck. I could go. Just to see. I could have a cocktail and watch him from a discreet corner of the bar. Just out of concern for Patricia.

  I closed the browser and cleared the search history. This was ridiculous. I didn’t even have anything to wear.

  From upstairs came the soft chime of Delia’s voice as she played. I laid Zach on the sofa with his blanket and his paci and crept back up the steps, pausing in front of Steven’s bedroom. Theresa had been inside my house just that morning. She’d told Steven my door was unlocked, a fact she would only have known by testing it. At least I had been given a key.

  Steven’s bedroom door was cracked, and I nudged it open with a finger, surprised by the chaos on the other side. I’d expected to find the bed linens pressed and throw pillows artfully arranged. Had braced myself for silk flowers on the vanities and candles around the bathtub. But Theresa and Steven’s bedroom was a disaster. Their bed was a temple of unmade sheets. Bras and socks had been strewn everywhere, and the only thing adorning the tub was a pile of mildewing towels. A single framed photo of the two of them hung crooked on the wall. All this time, since I’d first caught them cheating, I’d feared the private spaces they shared would look far tidier than my own. But as I kicked a pair of Steven’s boxer shorts aside and stood in front of their open closet, their life behind closed doors didn’t feel much different from the way mine and Steven’s had, and suddenly it made sense to me why Theresa didn’t want me inside her home.

  I crept to her side of the closet. Shirts, dresses, and skirts hung in no particular order—just enough space between them to keep her clothes from wrinkling so no one would suspect she was secretly a slob. Sliding the hangers over one by one, I paused at a little black dress. She had at least five of them, by my count. Slipping it from the rod, I draped it over myself in front of the mirror. With a tuck and a few pins, I’d look good in this. She probably wouldn’t even notice it was gone.

  I gnawed my lip, considering all the things she’d ever secretly taken from me. All the things she was still trying to take from me. Before I could change my mind, I rolled the dress into a ball and tucked it under my arm, leaving her bedroom door cracked exactly as I’d found it.

  I called Delia’s name, insistent this time. Her heavy sigh reminded me more and more of her father, and her tiny feet tromped sluggishly down the stairs behind me.

  “Can’t we stay longer, Mommy?” she whined.

  “It’s time to go home.” I stuffed her arms into the sleeves of her coat. She stomped her foot as I wrangled her into her shoes.

  “This is going to be my home. Daddy said so.” The words cut like a knife through my heart. I bit back a wince as I scooped up Zachary with his blanket and paci and grabbed Delia’s hand, careful to take every last trace of my children with me. And as I locked my ex’s house tightly behind me, I couldn’t help wondering what kind of custody lawyer fifty thousand dollars could buy.

  CHAPTER 6

  I stuck the kids in front of t
he TV with a bowl of Goldfish crackers and dialed Vero’s number as soon as I got home, afraid that if I thought about it too much longer I might lose my nerve.

  I waited for the beep. “Hi, Vero? It’s Finlay. Look, I know Steven told you we wouldn’t be needing you to watch the kids anymore. That wasn’t my choice, by the way. Clearly, he didn’t ask me before he decided to … you know … let you go,” I said through a grimace. I had no business asking her for anything. I took a deep breath and asked anyway. “But something’s come up tonight, and I could really use a sitter. Seven o’clock would be great if you’re free. I won’t be out long.” But if I was going to pay for a sitter anyway and get all dressed up, I might as well give myself the evening off. “Eleven at the latest,” I added. “I know it’s last minute, but I can pay double your usual rate.” From Steven’s PayPal account. The password still worked. I’d been saving it for an emergency, but after the day I’d had, I was pretty sure my need for a drink qualified. “If you can’t”—or won’t—“I totally understand. I can probably take the kids to my sister’s. But if you get this message in the next few minutes, give me a call and let me know. Please?”

  I set the phone down and watched the screen dim. Then I picked it up, checking it as I paced the kitchen and chewed on my thumbnail. Theresa’s little black dress hung from the knob on the pantry door. With a plunging neckline, a fitted waist, and a seductive slit up one thigh, it looked like something the heroine in one of my stories would wear. I bet it looked amazing on Theresa. I hadn’t seen a single pair of mom-sweats or practical underwear in those messy piles on her floor.

  I swiped on the phone and dialed my sister’s number.

  “Hey, Finn.”

  “Hey, George. Are you working tonight?”

  The heavy pause was telling. My sister’s a terrible liar. She’s honest. Too honest for her own good. Which is probably what makes her such a good cop. “Why?” she asked cautiously.

  “I need to bring the kids to your place.” My sister wasn’t good with kids. She was good with criminals. Georgia had been single since she came out of the womb, and, according to her, she preferred it that way. She’d rather spend her nights busting down doors and issuing arrest warrants than watching Sesame Street and Dora the Explorer. For that matter, wouldn’t anyone? “Just for a few hours,” I pleaded. “I’ll feed them first and Zach will probably conk out for the night before we even get to you. They’ll sleep most of the time, I promise.”

  A news broadcast played in the background. “Sorry, Finn. I can’t. Haven’t you seen the news? The local arm of the Russian mafia scored another win in court this morning. I’m supposed to meet up with a few of the guys from OCN tonight to talk about it.” OCN. Organized Crime and Narcotics. Georgia worked in Violent Crimes.

  “You don’t work Narcotics.”

  “No, but I keep them company when they cry in their beers.”

  The channel changed in the background. A theme song played, reruns of some evening cop drama Georgia watched just so she could bitch about all the details of her job the writers got wrong. “Come on, Georgia. This is important.”

  “Can’t you call Vero?”

  “Steven laid her off this morning and she won’t even answer my calls. I don’t have anyone else. And I really need to do this.” Do what? What the hell was I doing? Jesus, was I actually doing this? Yes, goddamnit. I was actually doing this. “It’s research for a project I’m working on, and I can’t take the kids with me.”

  “What about your friends? Can’t they help?”

  “They’re not close enough.” I dug my fingers into my temple, thinking of the handful of people I probably could call, but wouldn’t. Steven had never liked my friends. Maybe because they had never liked him. And over the years, consciously or not, I’d let them all drift. I’d chosen Steven over all of them. And in the divorce, Steven’s friends had chosen him.

  She muted the TV in the background and swore quietly. “Isn’t there a babysitter in the neighborhood who can watch them?”

  Right. Like Aunt Amy? “My babysitter just hired an attorney to file for custody of my children, and he laid off my nanny! So no, Georgia, I don’t have anyone else to watch them.”

  She heaved a sigh that could blow the doors off a meth lab. “Fine. But just for a few hours. If you’re not back by ten, I’m putting out an APB and organizing a manhunt.”

  With a rushed thanks, I disconnected before she could change her mind. I popped a tray of chicken nuggets in the oven, bathed and fed the kids, and put a fresh diaper on Zach before rushing upstairs to get ready for the night. As I blew the dust from an old beaded black handbag and stuffed my wig-scarf and makeup inside, I wondered what Harris Mickler was like behind closed doors. What kinds of secrets did he and Patricia hide in their closet, and were Harris’s faults really worth fifty thousand to get rid of?

  CHAPTER 7

  I’d been to my share of bars. College bars, dive bars, upscale bars with Steven when he was wining and dining clients, cop bars with Georgia, gay bars (also with Georgia), and seedy strip bars in the not-so-nice parts of town in the name of research for a book you’ve probably never heard of. But no matter how many bars I’d stepped foot in before, it was always unsettling to walk into one alone. I hated that feeling of every eye in the place turning to check out who just came in.

  Or worse, when none of them bothered to turn at all.

  The Lush was packed with suits and ties and little black dresses, and no one seemed to notice or care when one more squeezed in. I checked to make sure my wig-scarf was securely in place, drawing my oversized sunglasses down the bridge of my nose to let my eyes adjust to the dim light inside. The brass-and-cherry island bar was dressed in colorful bottles and backlit etched glass, studded with unreasonably attractive young bartenders who probably spent their days circulating headshots and skimming the internet for casting calls in DC. I wove through the place, nudging my way around high tables and tight knots of conversation, finally managing to grab the last empty stool at the far end of the bar. I reached to sling the strap of my diaper bag over the back of my chair before remembering I’d left it at Georgia’s with the kids. Instead, I set my handbag down on the counter in front of me, feeling uncomfortably light without all my usual baggage, as if I’d forgotten something important at home. Aside from my ID, all I had with me was a tube of burgundy lipstick, Steven’s twenty, my phone, and the crumpled slip of paper from Harris Mickler’s wife.

  I searched the faces of the men at the tables. Then the women. They all reminded me vaguely of Steven and Theresa, but I was pretty sure I didn’t know any of them. I peeled my glasses off and tucked them in my handbag. I thought about ordering a beer, but this place didn’t exactly give off Budweiser vibes. Instead, I ordered a vodka tonic, casually scanning the bar for Harris Mickler as I sipped it. Medium height, medium build, pepper-brown hair a little salty at the temples. His eyes, small for his face, thinned to two deep creases when he smiled. I didn’t see anyone who resembled him anywhere, so when the bartender passed, I raised a finger, catching his attention. He leaned across the bar, his hands flat against it, tipping his ear to hear me better over the hum and chatter.

  “Where do the corporate types usually hang out?” I asked him.

  He glanced at the bare ring finger of my left hand. With a knowing smile, he jutted his chin toward a loud group of men and women laughing around a handful of raised tables. “Real-estate types usually huddle over there.” Then he tipped his head to the group beside them. “Banking and mortgage types don’t stray far.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder toward a lively group at the other end of the bar. “Entrepreneurs, pyramid schemes, home-based businesses,” he said with an annoyed quirk of his brow that suggested he’d picked this side of the bar for a reason. “The top-shelf corporate suits usually reserve the booths in the back.” He plucked a glass from under the counter, letting his eyes slide over me. “You don’t look like the top-shelf type.”

  I stabbed my lime with my
stirrer and sucked down the last of my drink. “And you don’t look old enough to serve me.”

  “Ouch!” he said through a laugh. He bit his lip and eyed me with renewed interest. “I only meant you don’t seem clichéd and uptight.”

  I swirled the ice in my glass. “Mmmm … clichéd. Is that an SAT word?”

  Our fingers brushed as he took my empty glass. “LSAT, actually.” He paused, gauging my reaction before swapping the glass for a new one. I hadn’t even noticed he’d been making me another. “What’s your name?”

  I sucked on a lime wedge while I considered how to answer that. What the hell. Why not? “Theresa,” I said, holding out a hand.

  “I’m Julian.” His handshake was good. Not a testosterone-driven assertion of dominance. Not a weak suggestion that he underestimated mine.

  “What are you planning to study, Julian?”

  “I’m in law school,” he corrected me. If I’d hurt his feelings, he didn’t let on. “Third year of criminal law at GMU.”

  I raised a cynical brow. “Aren’t state prosecutors also clichéd and uptight?”

  He slung a bar rag over his shoulder. “I don’t have such lofty aspirations. I figure the world could use a few good public defenders. How about you? What do you do?”

  I nursed my drink, letting the ice clink against my teeth while I thought about what to say. I’d made it a point never to tell strangers what I did for a living. The conversations always turned weird. And memorable. I looked down at Theresa’s dress and picked a lint fuzz off the fabric. “Real estate.”

  “Sounds boring.”