My feet were heavy as I descended the steps to the kitchen. I stood in front of the door to the garage, my forehead pressed against it as I convinced myself (again) that this was the right thing to do. Resigned, I opened the door. The air on the other side was thin and hot, and the fumes hit me like a punch to the throat. I choked into my sleeve, swatting away exhaust. The hum of the minivan seemed deafening in the closed space, and I rushed to throw open the door to the backyard before turning the ignition off.
Silence fell over the garage. The breeze that blew in from the yard was cold and crisp, and I leaned against the van’s hood, berating myself for leaving the damn thing running as the fumes began to filter out. Slightly light-headed, and maybe a little buzzed from the champagne and vodka tonics I’d drunk on an empty stomach in the bar, it seemed like a good idea to wait a few minutes for my head to clear and the garage to air out. Though if I were being honest with myself, I was only putting off the inevitable. I didn’t want to turn Harris Mickler over to my sister any more than I wanted to kill him. In fact, I didn’t want anything to do with Patricia or Harris Mickler ever—
Oh … Oh, no.
I lurched upright as the last of the fog drained from my head.
I’d left Harris Mickler in the van.
I ran to the passenger side and threw open the sliding door, unsure if I should be relieved or horrified that Harris was right where I’d left him.
“Harris?” I shook him by the feet. “Harris, are you okay?”
I climbed over Zach’s seat and knelt beside him, slapping the side of his face. When nothing happened, I slapped him harder. His cheek was a little warm, but then again so was I, and I was pretty sure my heart had stopped beating about thirty seconds ago. I called his name, uncertain of what I would do if he actually responded. I didn’t know what was worse: being trapped in the back of a van with a dead serial rapist I had abducted, or being trapped in the back of a van with a very angry, awake serial rapist I had abducted.
I pressed two fingers to the side of his neck and felt … nothing, which meant I was either doing it wrong, or—
Oh no, oh no, oh no …
I laid an ear against his chest. Nothing moved. I reached over the front seat for my purse, digging frantically inside for my compact and flipping open the mirror, holding it suspended under Harris’s nose. The glass didn’t fog, and I fell back on my heels.
Harris Mickler was definitely not okay.
“Oh, shit.” My thoughts sharpened with my sudden sobriety. “What would Georgia do? What would Georgia do?” Georgia would arrest me. Or shoot me. That’s what Georgia would do. A hysterical laugh bubbled out of me. Shock. I was in shock. That was the only explanation for it. “It was an accident. Negligent homicide’s a lesser charge. No big deal, right?” I babbled, my breaths coming faster. “Only it won’t exactly look negligent when they find out I drugged you and drove you to my house, then left you in the garage with the engine running.” Or when they found the hit order from his wife in my purse.
“No. No, no, no! You cannot be dead!” I hollered at his lifeless body in my most commanding mommy voice. Because it was not physically possible for my day to get any worse. Wedging myself in the space between my children’s car seats, I leaned awkwardly over Harris’s body. More than slightly revolted, I pinched his nose with one hand and pulled his chin down with the other. His slack mouth parted. It smelled like boozy garlic olives and cheese dip and I fought the urge to hurl. Eyes shut, I pressed my mouth to Harris’s quickly cooling lips, exhaling three quick breaths into his mouth. But it was no good. There wasn’t enough room. I couldn’t find the right angle and all the air escaped out the sides. It felt more like I was making out with a dead guy rather than trying to revive one, not unlike the last few times Steven and I did it before the divorce. Apparently, I couldn’t save anything then either.
I clambered out of the van, grabbed his shiny leather loafers, dug in the heels of my sneakers, and pulled. His body was like lead, his expensive suit clinging to the short fibers of the carpet on the floor of the van and snapping with static sparks.
“Come on, Harris, you sadistic fuck!” Leveraging my weight, it took me three hard tugs to move him. His butt hovered just over the running board and I threw my whole body into it as I pulled again. His rump slid forward, followed by the rest of him, his skull smacking the side of the van with a loud crack as he slumped out. I winced when it finally thudded against the concrete.
I let go of Harris’s feet. The soles of his dress shoes thumped against the floor. I dropped to my knees beside him, swearing to myself as I lowered my mouth to his. Suddenly, from behind me I heard—
“Oh, shit! Sorry, Ms. Donovan, I didn’t know you were home. I just came to get my…”
My head snapped up at Vero’s startled gasp.
My children’s nanny stood in the kitchen doorway holding a cardboard box. I swiped my lips furiously against my forearm. Her false lashes widened on Harris as I stumbled to my feet. “Vero? What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?” she asked, stealing narrow-eyed glances at the dead man behind my back.
“You first.” I planted my hands on my hips, standing as tall as I could make myself to shield Harris from view.
“Why?”
“Because it’s my house.” Sort of. Actually, it was Steven’s since he’d refinanced me out of it, making him my landlord. But that hardly seemed important at the moment. “How did you get in?”
“Through the front door. With my key. You said you were going out, so I came to get my stuff.” Vero hoisted the cardboard box higher on her hip, her crop top riding up her midriff as she peered around me. “Who’s that?”
“Who?”
She jutted her chin at Harris’s feet.
“Oh, him?” I scratched my neck, perspiration making the skin itch as I angled myself to stand in her way. “He’s just … someone I met earlier … in a bar.”
She leaned sideways to see around me. Her jaw fell open as she crept down a step closer. Her voice climbed an octave and broke. “Is he dead?”
“No!” My nervous smile made the muscles in my face do weird things, and I pressed my hand to my cheek, feeling the blood rush to it. “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would you think that?”
“Because he looks dead!”
I risked a glance down at Harris. His lips were purple and his skin was a strange shade of grayish blue. Oh, god.
She sidestepped away from me, toward the wall. “You know what? Never mind. I’m just going to go.” She tapped the button to open the garage door. The motor kicked on, whirring above our heads, but the door didn’t budge.
“Wait! I can explain.”
“Nothing to explain,” she insisted, smacking the button again, harder this time, her eyes darting between me and the garage door. “I didn’t see anything. I don’t know anything. I don’t care about the dead guy,” she said over the hum of the motor.
“Please,” I said. She jabbed her thumb at the button, cursing the garage door when it didn’t move. “Vero.” I lowered my voice, struggling to keep it steady. “I know how this must look, but it’s not what you think. This man is not a nice person. He did some very bad things.”
“I’m guessing he’s not the only one.” Vero backed toward the kitchen, muttering under her breath as the motor fell quiet, looking frantically around her, probably for a weapon. “You know what? You’re both crazy. You and your husband.”
“Ex!” I snapped. “Ex-husband!”
“Fine! Your ex-husband. Whatever. You’re both nuts!” She held the cardboard box out between us like some kind of a shield. A familiar stainless-steel handle protruded from the loose flaps on top.
“Hey!” I pointed at my favorite nonstick pan. “That’s mine! What are you doing with that?” I reached for the handle, but Vero grabbed it, letting the rest of the box fall to the floor. She crouched, wielding the frying pan like a bludgeon.
“Worker’s comp,” she said, her stance daring me to come near her.
“You think you’re entitled to cookware because my ex-husband laid you off?” She took a swing at me and I leapt backward, nearly falling over Harris’s body.
“Your husband didn’t lay me off! I quit!”
“Quit?” I reached behind me for the workbench, my fingers skimming the surface for a screwdriver or a hammer. Anything I could use to defend myself against my favorite All-Clad pan. My grip closed around the small pink gardening trowel and I held it out in front of me, crab walking around the perimeter of the garage away from her. “I thought you liked my kids!”
“I love your kids!”
“If you love my kids then why would you quit?”
“Because when I went to your ex’s house to collect my check, he told me he’d only keep paying me if I slept with him!”
My hand went limp. The garden shovel dropped to the floor with a hollow thud.
I laughed, silently at first, then out loud through my painfully tight throat, just to keep myself from crying. “Oh … Oh, that is so Steven.” I sank down on the rough wooden step to the kitchen. “You know what? Keep the damn pan.” She’d put up with enough. She deserved that much. I buried my face in my hands, revolted by the smell of vodka and Harris Mickler’s mouth on my own breath. “You’re right. We’re both nuts,” I muttered, swatting at a tear.
Vero eyed me sideways. She crouched a safe distance away, carefully placing the last of her spilled contents back inside her cardboard box as if she was afraid to make any sudden movements. She stood up slowly, the box tucked under her arm. I didn’t care how much of it was mine. What did it matter? I was going to lose everything anyway.
“It was stupid to think I could do this,” I said as she tiptoed to the garage door. She heaved it open a few inches with one arm, the box still propped under the other.
Great. The garage door was broken. Just one more thing Steven knew how to fix, and I didn’t. And now I’d have to pay some handyman to repair it.
I shook my head, mentally stacking one more bill on the pile outside on the stoop. “If Steven hadn’t insisted on being such an asshole, I never would have thought about it,” I said to myself. “I never would have gone to that bar and brought this creep home. But can you blame me? Anyone in my shoes would have considered it for fifty thousand dollars.”
Vero’s hand froze. The door hung open, level with her knee. “What did you say?”
I choked out a dark, desperate laugh. She already thought I was nuts. There was a dead guy on the floor of my garage and now I was talking to myself. “I said you’re right. My ex is an asshole. I’m sorry for what he did to you.”
The door fell closed, the clatter reverberating off the walls of the garage. I lifted my head, expecting her to be gone, but Vero was still there, holding her box to her chest.
“How bad?” Her eyes darted curiously to Harris’s body. Her ponytail bounced as she jutted her chin at him. “You said he did some bad things. How bad are we talking?”
“Really bad.”
“Fifty thousand dollars bad?”
Vero’s fingers closed tighter around the frying pan as I rose slowly to my feet. I crossed the garage to the van and fished under the seat for Harris’s cell phone. Angling it toward her, I swiped open his photo album and held it out for her to see.
“What’s this?” She set down the box, clutching the pan as she took the phone from me. I told her everything … about my meeting with my agent and the conversation Patricia Mickler had overheard. About the note Patricia had left me and what I had witnessed at the bar. Her expression warped with equal parts horror and disgust as she swiped from one image to the next.
“I never meant for this to happen,” I explained. “I only followed him because I was curious about why his wife would want him dead. I tried to tell her she had the wrong person, but then I saw him put that drug in that woman’s glass, and the next thing I knew—”
“You killed him.”
I winced. “Not intentionally.”
She passed me Harris’s phone. “What are you going to do?”
“I was going to turn him over to my sister, but then…” I glanced down at Harris. I’d made the decision to turn him over to Georgia while he was still breathing. Before I knew he was dead. “If I explain to the police that it was an accident, it won’t be so bad, right? It’s not like I murdered him. Manslaughter’s a lesser charge.”
“I don’t know, Finlay.” Vero set down her pan. “After the Play-Doh incident, this looks pretty bad.” She was right. The charges Theresa had filed against me were a matter of record. I had never intended to hurt her—only to damage her car—but to the police, it might look like I had used my car to poison Harris on purpose. Especially after I’d stalked him, drugged him, and brought him home.
I sniffed, exhaling a shaky breath as I considered what I was about to do. “Delia and Zach are already at Georgia’s place. If I turn myself in and the police arrest me, will you help her with the kids?”
Vero nodded, her full lips turning down at the edges.
“I guess I should tell Patricia that he’s…” We both looked over at Harris’s ashen face. If I told the police everything, Patricia would be implicated for conspiracy to commit murder. She would serve time in prison right alongside me. The least I could do was give her fair warning. With shaking hands, I pulled out my phone and dialed Patricia’s number.
“Is it done?” she asked with a desperation I finally understood. Harris was a horrible man. I couldn’t blame her for wanting him dead.
“Yes, but I think there’s been a misunderstanding. I’m not—”
“Did you get rid of his body?”
“No. That’s why I called. I can’t—”
“You have to,” she insisted.
“I’m turning myself in to the police.”
“You can’t do that!”
“You don’t understand. This wasn’t supposed to—”
“You have children, don’t you?”
My breath caught. Something in her tone had shifted, hardened. A deep crease of worry formed between Vero’s brows as she watched my face fall. She leaned closer, listening. “Why would you ask me that?”
“That was a diaper bag you were carrying in Panera. There were baby wipes inside. I saw them. If you love your children, you will dispose of my husband’s body.”
“Or what?” Vero and I locked eyes.
“Or the police will be the least of your worries.” The words shook. “My husband was involved with some very dangerous people. And if they find out what we’ve done, they’ll come for both of us. They will find us, and they will kill us. It won’t matter if we’re behind bars. They have eyes and ears all over this town. They have friends in very high places. You and your children will never be safe. They can’t know. No one can know. Do you understand me?”
“What kind of people?” I asked.
“Believe me, you’re safer if you don’t know.” I did believe her. I believed the wobble in her voice that said she was every bit as afraid of these people as she had been of her husband. Maybe more. “Get rid of Harris tonight. I don’t care where. Just make sure no one ever finds him. That’s the only way we’ll both be safe. Don’t contact me again until it’s done.”
The call disconnected.
Numb, I lowered the phone from my ear.
“Do you think she meant all that … about people coming after you?” Vero asked, her eyes wide.
“I don’t know,” I said in a small voice. But I wasn’t sure I wanted to take any chances. Not with my kids. Or my life.
We were both quiet for a long time.
“Assuming you don’t get caught, she’s still going to pay you, right?”
“I guess.”
Vero paced the garage. She tapped her nails on her crossed arms, thinking. “And you know about this stuff? I mean, you write books about it, right?”
“Yes, but—”
“So you know how to get rid of a body.” Vero stopped pacing. She raised a thinly plucked brow when I didn’t answer. I knew how to get rid of a fictional body, but the one on my garage floor was very, very real.
“I think so.”
The tension slid from her shoulders, as if she’d resigned herself to some decision. “In that case, fifty percent.” My mouth hung open as she folded her arms over her chest. “I help you get rid of the body, and we split everything. Fifty-fifty.”
What was happening? Was my children’s babysitter seriously offering to help me get away with murder? This was definitely not okay.
With an impatient roll of her eyes, she said, “Fine. I won’t take a penny less than forty percent. But I want my job back. Plus forty percent of any referrals.”
“Referrals?” I sputtered. “What do you mean referrals?”
“We don’t have all night.” She planted her hands on her hips, tapping her nails on her waist when I didn’t answer. “Are we doing this together or not?”
Together.
This was not okay. We were not okay. But together sounded a whole lot better than doing this alone.
She extended her hand. My fingers trembled as I shook it. Hers did, too. Vero bent to put my pan back in her cardboard box. She pulled a fifth of bourbon out by the neck, twisted the cap, and took a sip, wincing as she held the bottle out to me.
“That’s mine, you know,” I said, snatching it from her hand as we both slid down the side of the van.
“Only sixty percent of it,” she said.
I threw her a sharp look as I took a swig.
“I should probably just move in with you,” she said. I choked, spraying bourbon down the front of my shirt. “Don’t worry. I’ll take the smaller bedroom.”
I took another gulp. It burned all the way down. When I opened my eyes, Harris Mickler was still there, one hundred percent dead, Vero was still sitting beside me on the floor next to a box of stolen household gadgets that, by my best estimates, were now only sixty percent mine, and I was pretty sure we’d spend the next forty percent of our lives in prison if we couldn’t find a way to pull this off.