Vero shuddered. “For both our sakes, I hope we never find out.”
Our feet dragged on our way to the shed. The weight of everything that had happened this week—of everything we had learned during the brief time we’d spent in Charlie’s car—was impossible to carry, or even make sense of, on so little sleep.
Vero popped the lock on the shed, drawing the doors open wide. We stood side by side, staring at the dusty blades of sunlight that sliced through the cracks in the ceiling to the tire tracks on the empty floor.
“I’m. Going. To. Kill him!” Vero threw down the padlock, turning back to the parking lot, her gait fast and her eyes wild. “I’m going to run over him with my car and set him on fire!”
“Maybe don’t say that out loud,” I shushed her. My wet soles chafed my heels as I hurried to keep up.
“He stole our car!”
“You’re assuming the worst. We have no reason to believe that.”
“You have no reason to believe that,” she reminded me.
“Maybe you should give him the benefit of the doubt. He probably just moved the car. He probably worked things out with his buyer and he’s just running late with the money. Try calling him.”
“I have called him, Finlay! Seventeen times! And I’ve been texting him for hours!”
“It’s early. He’s probably asleep.”
“When I find him, I’m going to throw a Molotov cocktail through his window!”
I cringed, slamming into her back as she jolted to a stop in front of the gate. She looked up at the security camera mounted above it. Her fists clenched as she turned on her heels, storming toward the back door of the garage.
She fumbled over her keys as she rushed to unlock it, mumbling to herself in short, irate bites about Javi. How he was a no-good, selfish thief and a liar. How he disappeared whenever it was convenient for him. The door banged into the wall as Vero shoved her way inside. I chased her down the hall as she slapped on the lights and dropped into the chair behind the desk in her cousin’s office. She scooted close to the monitor and wiggled the mouse, clicking windows open. Two sets of video footage popped open on the screen: the gate to the salvage yard on the left and the parking lot on the right.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m doing exactly what you said, giving him the benefit of the doubt. And when I see him drive that car off the lot, I’m going to his apartment and I’m going to strangle him with your hair dryer cord.”
Vero dragged her cursor over a scroll bar. The grainy black-and-white images on the monitor moved rapidly in reverse. The parking lot was dark, the gate locked. A raccoon’s eyes glowed as it waddled backward across the screen. Vero paused the footage as Javi’s black Camaro pulled into the lot. Vero pushed the Play button. We watched as Javi got out of his car and unlocked the gate. He appeared a moment later in the second window, his image captured by the second camera as he strode into the salvage yard. Vero stiffened, slowing the video as two figures snuck up behind him. There was a burst of motion, and we both gasped as Javi slumped and hit the ground.
The men knelt beside him, rummaging in his pockets before stepping over him and moving deeper into the salvage yard. Vero sped up the footage, ten minutes passing in a handful of seconds. She slowed the recording as a set of headlights approached the gate and the Aston rolled to a stop in front of Javi’s motionless body.
The two men got out of the car. Exhaust billowed from the tailpipe, the headlights illuminating them as they bound Javi’s wrists and ankles, dragged him to the back of the Aston, and tossed him into the trunk. Vero didn’t breathe as the car drove out of the gate.
Neither of us moved. We watched as the Aston appeared on the right side of the screen. The passenger door opened. One of the men got out. He climbed into a familiar Audi with New Jersey license tags. The Audi’s headlights came on, and we watched as the driver followed the Aston out of the parking lot.
Vero blinked at the screen. Then she deleted the footage. Every frame.
“Vero? What are you doing?”
“Get your suitcase,” she said, swiping a set of keys from her cousin’s desk. “We’re going to Atlantic City.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As Finlay Donovan’s circle of support continues to grow, so does my own. I am immeasurably grateful for the following people, who remind me every day why I love my job.
For my agent, Steph Rostan, words are insufficient to express my gratitude. I was orphaned when I began writing this book, the ink still drying on my contract. I was angry, angsty, and grieving, but mostly I was terrified that I might not find an agent who would welcome the workload Finlay and I carried with us—two yet unwritten books meant two full years of representation that wouldn’t yield much of a payoff. But after we spoke, that fear gave way to hope. You have been my tireless champion since, and I am the luckiest author in the world to have you in my corner. Michael Nardullo, Cristela Henriquez, Courtney Paganelli, Miek Coccia, and Melissa Rowland round out my dream team at LGR—what an incredible home I’ve found with you all!
For my editor, Catherine Richards, who loves Finlay as deeply as I do and continues to come up with the very best titles—working with you has been an honor and a joy. Kelley Ragland, Jennifer Enderlin, Nettie Finn, Sarah Melnyk, and Allison Ziegler, your enthusiasm for Finlay is contagious and your confidence in me is unwavering. I can’t tell you how much your support means to me or how grateful I am for each of you. Katy Robitzki, Claire Beyette, Amber Cortes, Asharee Peters, Amanda Crimarco, Samantha Slavin, David Rotstein, David Lott, Paul Hochman, John Morrone, Janna Dokos, Laura Dragonette, and proofreader Jeremy Pink, thank you for all you do in support of my books. And can we talk about these incredible audiobooks? I am so lucky to have the extraordinary and talented Angela Dawe narrating the voice of Finlay!
For Sanjana Seelam and everyone on Team Finlay at WME, the indomitable Marlene King and Lauren Wagner, and everyone at 20th Television Studios. I’m so lucky for the opportunity to have shared this journey with you.
For my writing besties, Megan and Ashley, thanks for letting me lean on you so hard this last year. For absorbing my tantrums and my tears and for reminding me how to laugh through it all. I’m so damn proud of us and how far we’ve come. We’re definitely going to need a bigger shelf.
For Kara Thomas, Bethany Crandell, and Andrea Contos, thank you for reading the earliest draft of this story. Your notes made me think, made me laugh, and challenged me to write a better book. I’m so lucky to be part of this community of supportive, talented, badass mom-writers.
For Heather Gudenkauf, Gwenda Bond, Sophie Cousens, Liv Constantine, Chantel Guertin, Rachel Lynn Solomon, Kaira Rouda, and Hank Phillippi Ryan, thank you for reading Finlay Donovan Knocks ’Em Dead and offering such lovely endorsements about my book. I’m honored by them.
Many thanks to the following experts who offered professional feedback and resources during the drafting of this story. To Amy Impellizzeri, for her courtroom advice. To my husband, Tony, for answering all my IT and networking questions. To Lee Lofland, for creating the Writers’ Police Academy, which has provided me with endless resources and years of inspiration. I am a better novelist because of it. And many thanks to instructors Mark and Reese at Colonial Shooting Academy in Richmond, Virginia, for an outstanding beginner handgun class. Any mistakes I’ve made in this book are my own and sometimes intentional, in the spirit of creating more engaging fiction.