“I bet she did.” Because now that Feliks had been set up to take the fall, she didn’t have to worry that I would rat her out.
“And,” Georgia added, “she offered to turn over everything she knew about Harris’s laundering activities in exchange for immunity from any obstruction and withholding charges. She agreed to come in later today to give a statement and bring in Harris’s files.”
“I’m glad she’s okay,” I said through a forced smile. Though I guess it was mostly true.
“And get this,” Georgia said eagerly. “Andrei Borovkov’s wife offered her full cooperation with the police. She agreed to give a statement about her husband’s involvement with the mob. Her attorney worked out a deal with the prosecutors. Immunity for dishing dirt on Zhirov.”
So, the whole thing wasn’t exactly neat, but I was guessing Irina was happy. As far as she was concerned, the job was done, and I could wash my hands of her.
“Nick must be pleased with the way things turned out.”
Georgia licked sugar from her fingers. “Nick’s on cloud nine,” she said with her mouth full. “Between Patricia Mickler’s testimony, Irina Borovkov’s statement, and Theresa’s depositions, he should have enough to shut down Feliks’s operation for a long, long time. Nick might even come away with a promotion after this one.”
“So he’s not in trouble?”
“What? Because of your book?” Georgia made a face. “Nah. He’ll get a slap on the wrist for too much pillow talk—”
“It wasn’t pillow talk!” She raised an eyebrow, and I threw the rest of my donut at her. “It wasn’t like that! There were no pillows involved!”
“Whatever.” She pulled my cruller from her lap and dusted it off. “Back seat of his car then.”
“Front,” I corrected grudgingly. She smirked. “Is he still mad?”
Georgia shrugged. “He’ll get over it. But if he does come back, I wouldn’t make it too easy for him. Make him work for it.”
Mostly, when I’d imagined seeing Nick again, it involved an arrest warrant. All I could see when I pictured his face was the disappointment in his eyes after he’d tossed my wig-scarf at me.
“How’s Steven holding up?” I asked, changing the subject.
Georgia gave a slow shake of her head. “Not gonna lie. He was pretty torn up. Nick says he overheard Steven and Theresa arguing after her deposition. Steven told her he planned to move out. I’m guessing the engagement is off.” Georgia watched my reaction out of the corner of her eye. “If he asked, would you take him back?”
“I’m not in the business of plea bargains,” I said, wiping the glaze from my hands. “I’m moving on with my life. Steven’s a big boy. He’ll be fine.”
“Moving on, huh?” She raised an eyebrow. “You and Nick?”
“No.” I rested my sock feet on the coffee table, crossing them at the ankles as I considered the possibilities. It felt good, to have possibilities. “No. Just me. Me and Vero and the kids. We’re going to be okay.” The bills were paid, my van was back, and there was a little wad of cash under the broccoli in the freezer. I was pretty sure I knew how my story was supposed to end.
Georgia put her feet on the table, too. She leaned back and closed her eyes, wearing a contented smile. “Good. I guess I can finally stop worrying about you.”
CHAPTER 42
Picking up the mail wasn’t as daunting as it used to be. The box was usually empty now, with the exception of a few catalogs and coupon books, and the occasional insignificant bill. I crossed the lawn just before dark, hunched into my jacket, my hands jammed in my pockets against the cold as I dodged the paper skeletons hanging from the tree out front and the Styrofoam gravestones peppering my front yard. The air was redolent of chimney smoke and carved pumpkins, the misty night shimmering with the promise of Halloween.
Crisp blades of frozen grass crackled underfoot, and I waved at Mrs. Haggerty’s kitchen window, certain she must be watching me. I didn’t mind her nosiness so much anymore.
The hinge on the mailbox creaked as I fished out a short stack of envelopes. I thumbed through them mindlessly as I crossed the lawn back to my front door. Electric bill, water bill, internet and phone, the usual … I paused over a fat envelope from Steven’s attorney, which probably contained the new joint custody agreement he’d proposed this week.
As I flipped to the next envelope, my feet jerked to a stop. The thin letter had no postage. No return address. Just my name written in stark bold letters across the front.