Finlay Donovan Is Killing It

by Elle Cosimano

  Who was I kidding? My writing was terrible. Sylvia probably wouldn’t make it through chapter two before she kicked it back to me and told me to start over.

  I drew in a slow breath. The entire house smelled like burned tuna and cheese and my stomach growled. Feeling hollow, I trudged back downstairs and found Vero sitting at the kitchen table, her head braced on her hands, a shot glass beside the open bottle of bourbon we’d started drinking the night we buried Harris. I wasn’t sure how much we’d have left by the end of the night.

  She filled the shot glass and pushed it toward me. It burned going down. My eyes watered as I stared at the stack of money. At least if my editor dropped me, I’d have a way to pay back the advance I owed my publisher.

  Three weeks … I had three weeks to finish a book and find a way out of this.

  I peeled a fifty off the stack.

  “Subs or Chinese?” I asked Vero. “Even killers have to eat, right?”

  CHAPTER 22

  The animal shelter parking lot was packed on Tuesday after school, so I grabbed the last available spot along the road, making sure to leave plenty of room between the front of my van and the car parked in front of me in case the van decided not to start and I had to call for a tow. Julian was right. I needed to get it looked at, but if I took it to a mechanic, they were going to find a laundry list of problems—the alignment was off, it was overdue for a tune-up (or two), the brake pads were shot, the transmission was rocky, I was late for a state-mandated emissions test, and I could probably use a few new tires. For now, I was throwing up a prayer and a swear every time I turned the key. It was cheaper.

  “We could have taken your car,” I grumbled at Vero.

  “Nu-uh. My car is a pet-free zone.” Vero hefted Zach from his car seat, I grabbed Delia’s hand, and we crossed the street to the shelter.

  “We’re only looking. We’re not bringing one home.”

  “Why not?” Delia huffed. “Daddy said we could have a dog when we go live with him.”

  “Did he?” I muttered. Considering the shade of Theresa’s immaculate carpets, I guessed she hadn’t been around when Steven had dangled that little carrot in front of our daughter. “Then why don’t we make Daddy a list of the ones you like the best?”

  A clamor of barks and whines assaulted us as we neared the high perimeter fence. Zach covered his ears and burrowed into Vero’s shoulder. I let go of Delia to swing open the heavy door. The reception area wasn’t much quieter. The plexiglass viewing window hardly muted the torrent of barking on the other side of the desk. A woman sat in front of her computer playing solitaire, and I peeked past her, through the window into the kennels, searching for familiar faces from Patricia’s photos.

  “Hello?” The attendant dragged her attention from the screen. “My children and I are interested in adopting a dog,” I said. “We were wondering if we could look around.”

  “Sure. But don’t let the children put their hands inside the enclosures. The hinges are self-closing and they might get pinched. If you see a dog you like, let me know, and I’ll have a staff member set up a visitation room for you.”

  She pressed a button under her desk. The sound of the buzzer made me shudder. All the plexiglass and bars felt a little too much like the ones where Georgia worked. All I wanted was to find a clue to Patricia’s whereabouts—to find her before the police or the mafia managed to—so I could figure out who killed Harris, find proof of my innocence, and go home.

  Dogs stood on their hind legs against the sides of their kennels to bark at us as we shuffled the kids into the deafening room. I could hardly hear Delia’s squeals of delight as she hopped from door to door inspecting each dog. She paused, kneeling in front of one of the enclosures.

  The dog huddling in the back corner of the cage was small with shaggy tangles and eyes as aching and desperate as my daughter’s.

  “Would you like to pet him?” asked a voice behind us.

  “Can I, Mommy?” she asked with a pleading look as the young volunteer knelt beside her. He fished a set of keys from his pocket. He was gangly and tall, with unruly curls and watery blue eyes. I recognized him immediately from the team photo on Patricia’s Facebook page. HELLO. MY NAME IS AARON was printed on his name tag.

  “Sure,” I said, “if Aaron says it’s all right.” Vero and I locked eyes over his head. She must have recognized him from Patricia’s Facebook photos, too.

  Delia clapped as he thumbed through his ring of keys and unlocked the crate. The dog whimpered, curling deeper into his enclosure as Aaron slipped the leather belt from the loops around his waist. Careful not to startle the dog, he wedged it into the hinge, propping the kennel door open. Then he reached inside his pocket and put a dog treat in Delia’s hand. He sat on the floor, patting the space beside him. She sat quietly, following Aaron’s lead, holding the treat out in front of her.

  “This one’s special,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper over the howls and yelps from the other cages. “His name’s Sam. He’s a little shy, so we have to be really gentle with him and help him feel safe. Can you do that?”

  Delia nodded.

  The dog’s nostrils fluttered out from the shadow of his kennel. He dipped his head, inching forward, his ears pulled flat and his tail tucked between his legs. Aaron whispered to Delia, encouraging her to be patient. That the dog would come to her when he knew it was safe.

  Delia sucked in a shallow breath when the dog finally poked his head from the crate, his nose extended toward the treat. Slowly, he approached her, taking it gently in his mouth. Distracted by the chewy morsel, he didn’t object when Aaron lifted him and settled him in Delia’s arms.

  Zach started to fuss, reaching for the cages. Vero bounced him on her hip, giving me a pointed look as she carried him away, jutting her chin toward Aaron as she wandered from view.

  “What happened to Sam?” I asked, noting the small cast on the dog’s hind leg.

  “Sam was a rescue.” Aaron smiled as he watched Delia stroke Sam’s back. “I found him about a few weeks ago, caught up in his own chains. Sam’s sweet. He’s just a little anxious. Nothing a loving home won’t fix. Rescues make great companions.” He reached for the clipboard hanging beside him on the wall. “Speaking of which, we ask all of our adopting families to fill out an application.” He passed me the clipboard and a pen.

  While Delia played with Sam, I stared awkwardly at the questionnaire. The last thing I wanted was a record of my visit here, but it might seem suspicious if I refused. Aaron smiled politely, trying not to be obvious as he checked the time on his phone.

  I started filling out the form, putting Theresa’s and Steven’s names and address in the blanks. It seemed fitting, since getting a dog had been Steven’s idea, and he’d promised Delia it could live with them.

  Delia giggled at my feet as Sam showered her with kisses, eager for another treat. She cooed in the dog’s ear, fussing over his injuries. No wonder Patricia spent so much time here. It probably made her feel good to care for these animals who had been abandoned or unloved or saved from horrible owners. It probably felt safe to be around people like Aaron, who were gentle and kind, after being chained to a man like Harris for half her life. If this shelter was her safe place, and these people she worked with were the closest thing she had to a family, wouldn’t she have confided in someone here?

  I handed the form back to Aaron. “Last time we visited, I spoke with a woman named Patricia about a particular dog—it had a black spot around its eye and mottled fur, about this big,” I said, gesturing with my arms as I described the dog I’d seen her holding in the photo.

  “You mean Pirate?”

  “Yes! That was his name. I don’t see him here. Do you have a number where I can reach her to ask about him?”

  “No, I wish I did,” he said, his face falling. “We’ve all tried calling her. Patricia didn’t come in last week, and no one’s heard from her since. As for Pirate, he and his sister, Molly, were adopted together a fe
w weeks ago. I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, that’s a shame,” I said, scrambling for a new angle. “I’d really like to get in touch with her. Patricia said she had a great Pilates instructor, but I lost the name of the club she belonged to.”

  Aaron shrugged, his cheeks going pink as he skimmed my application. “Sorry, I wouldn’t know. Pilates isn’t really my thing. And she never mentioned anything about a club.”

  “Was she friends with anyone else who might know where I can find her?”

  He looked askance at me. “I don’t think so. The police have already asked everyone else.”

  “The police?” I asked, feigning surprise. “Why would the police be looking for her?”

  He frowned. “It was on the news. Patricia and her husband are missing. No one knows where she is.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” It wasn’t hard to look upset by the news. If she hadn’t talked to anyone here, this was just one more dead end. “Do the police have any leads?”

  “They didn’t say. A detective searched her locker. He asked a lot of questions. I told him she’d been anxious and a little jumpy the last few shifts, but she never mentioned anything about going anywhere. Mostly, they wanted to know about her husband. A few of us…” His weak jaw clenched. He cast an anxious glance around us and lowered his voice. “A few of us think she might not have had the best relationship with him. He sounded like a real dick.” Someone called Aaron’s name. He rose up on his toes, searching over my head. He lifted a finger to them, indicating he’d be right there.

  “I should probably put Sam away,” Aaron said, his frown lingering as he bent to extricate the dog from Delia’s hands and return Sam to his crate. “Did you want to see any other dogs while you’re here?”

  “Sure,” I said, catching Vero’s eye across the room. “We’ll look around a little more if you don’t mind.” Vero walked briskly toward us, accidentally bumping into Aaron as he threaded his belt through the loops of his pants. They exchanged hurried apologies. As soon as he turned the corner I asked, “What did you find?”

  “There’s an employee lounge in the back,” she said quietly. “The door’s unlocked. I poked my head in, but there are a few volunteers hanging out in there.”

  “What did you see?”

  “Every employee has a locker with their name on it.”

  “Did Patricia have one?”

  Vero nodded. “It’s worth a try.” Maybe there was something in Patricia’s locker that would give us a clue to where she was. But how would we open it without being seen?

  “We can’t exactly waltz in and snoop around.”

  “Leave that to me.” Vero waved Aaron’s key ring in front of me.

  “Where did you get those?”

  “Slipped them off his belt loop just now. He didn’t feel a thing.” She dumped Zach in my arms. “Meet me in front of the lounge.”

  “When?”

  “You’ll know.” She slunk off into the rows of cages. I followed Delia from kennel to kennel, eyes peeled for Vero’s sign, unsure exactly what I was looking for.

  A sudden high-pitched yowl erupted, followed by the slam of a crate door. A cacophony of shrill barks ripped through the shelter as two cats tore down the center aisle, tails flared and backs arched. Another slam. Four dogs barreled in their wake, teeth bared and jaws snapping in pursuit. Children wailed and parents shrieked as the animals flew past. Zach burrowed into my shoulder. Delia didn’t object when I reached for her hand and hurried her down the aisle toward the lounge as the last of the volunteers rushed out to wrangle the loose animals.

  Vero waved me along faster, scooping Zach from my arms. “Hurry, the room’s empty, but I don’t know for how long.” She checked to make sure no one was looking, then shoved me inside, the sounds of shrieking cats and howling dogs muffling as the door fell closed. I made a beeline for the row of lockers, searching the names until I found Patricia’s. If there had been a lock, it was gone now. Which meant Aaron was right, the police had already searched it.

  The metal door clanged open, rustling the yellow police tape stretched across the opening. The inside of her locker door was covered with animal photos—mostly of Pirate and Molly. A business card was stuck in the corner: Detective Nicholas Anthony, Fairfax County Police Department. He was probably the detective assigned to Patricia Mickler’s case.

  Careful not to disturb the police tape, I rummaged through the contents of her locker, pulling back a sweatshirt from its hanger. The navy fabric was layered in black and white dog hair, obscuring the Tysons Fitness Club logo on the front. The shelf above it contained a rolling sticky brush, a receipt for dog food, and one for a couple of coffees from Starbucks. Unless the police had discovered something I hadn’t, there was nothing here to suggest where Patricia had gone.

  I shut the locker, scanning the lounge for anything Vero or I might have missed. Brightly colored thumbtacks dotted the bulletin board by the door. Team photos and work schedules. Patricia was on the Tuesday/Thursday team along with Aaron and a handful of others. She sat close beside him in the photo, wearing the same gym sweatshirt I’d seen in her locker, with Pirate and Molly perched on their laps. I leaned closer to the photo, my gaze narrowing on her hand. Her ring finger was naked, her diamond-encrusted wedding band noticeably absent.

  A commotion rose from the kennels. I cracked open the door and peered out. A few yards away, Vero was distracting two volunteers in shelter uniforms. Her eyebrows rose, her expression urgent as I slipped out of the lounge.

  “Mrs. Hall? Mrs. Hall?” A voice called over the barking dogs. “Theresa!” Louder this time. I turned. Aaron was rushing down the aisle toward me, looking flustered, and I realized with a start he was talking to me. “You haven’t by any chance seen a set of keys, have you? I must have dropped them in all the commotion.”

  I shook my head, my hands reaching instinctively to a phantom itch in my hair. I never should have written Theresa’s name and address on that form. The police had already been here, I reassured myself. They’d already searched Patricia’s locker and questioned everyone. And yet, I couldn’t shake the feeling I’d made a terrible mistake coming here. “Sorry, I haven’t found any keys.”

  My skin prickled with regret as an orange tabby darted between us, and Aaron took off after it.

  CHAPTER 23

  I shot bolt upright in bed, eyes wide and blinking, roused from sleep by a sudden loud buzz. This was it. They were coming to arrest me. I started, clutching my blankets to my chest as my cell phone vibrated across the nightstand. Sylvia’s number glowed in the dark. I fell back against my pillow, waiting for my heart to slow. Not the police. Just my agent.

  I reached blindly for my phone and checked the time, unsure if it was quarter to six in the morning or at night. I’d stayed awake for most of the last three nights, working through the list of Harris’s victims, determined to figure out who’d killed him, and I’d still only managed to narrow the list from seventeen possible suspects to nine. Exhausted and no closer to solving the crime, I’d quit and fallen into bed an hour before dawn.

  “Hello?” I grumbled into the phone.

  “I hope you sound tired because you’ve been writing all day.” Night then. I rubbed my eyes. “Are you sitting down?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “I read your manuscript.” I threw an arm over my face and braced for the worst. “I sent it to your editor last night. She’s prepared to make you an offer.”

  I sat up slowly, my mind groping for a scrap of sense. “An offer? But I’m already under contract for the book.”

  “Not anymore.”

  I clapped a hand over my eyes. This was worse than I’d thought. The offer was probably a re-payment plan. Not only had I lost my contract, but I’d have to return the advance. And Sylvia’s commission. And then she would probably drop me as a client. I didn’t even want to think about what Steven would say when he found out. “Sylvia, I’m sorry. Isn’t there anything we can—”

  �
��I told her I was buying you out of your contract.”

  I shook my head, certain I’d misheard. “You did what?”

  “I told her I knew this book was going to be a huge breakout hit, and they weren’t paying you enough for it. I told her I would personally pay back your advance, and I wanted your rights back.”

  I flipped on the lamp in case I was still sleeping. My watering eyes narrowed against the light. “What did she say?”

  “She read your draft. And she agrees with me. She thinks you’re on to something big with this one.”

  “She does?”

  “It’s a fabulous setup—the timid wife hiring someone to kill her horrible husband, the plucky heroine and the hot young lawyer … They have great chemistry on the page, by the way. I mean, it’s sizzling, Finn. Your best work yet. I’m dying to see who the killer is.”

  A dark chuckle slipped past my lips. “Me, too.”

  “Your editor’s offering a preempt if you promise not to take it anywhere else. She’ll increase your offer to two books, raise your advance, and give you an extension to finish the draft.”

  “Raise my advance? To how much?”

  “Seventy-five thousand per book.” I’m pretty sure my jaw was somewhere in my lap. My editor was going to pay me one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. For the story of Harris Mickler’s murder. In which I’d described every detail of the crime. Which was currently under investigation, and which I was secretly a party to. “Finn? Are you there?”

  “I’m here,” I croaked. “Can I have a few days to think about it?”

  “Believe me, Finn.” Sylvia’s voice was honeyed butter. “I know exactly how you feel. The same thought crossed my mind.”

  I choked back a slightly hysterical laugh. “I seriously doubt that.”

  “I get it. I do. And you’re right. The pitch is strong enough that we could probably buy out the contract, take the manuscript to a few other big-name editors, and maybe it would go to auction. But this is a bird in the hand, Finlay. And with your crappy sales record, we probably shouldn’t get too cocky. I say we take the money and give them what they want.”