Licking pizza grease from my fingers, I fell back on my bed. The ceiling was low and close, the house too quiet after the kids had gone to sleep. I swiped at a tomato stain on my T-shirt. The fabric was loose and stretchy, the color dull from years of washing. The graphics had peeled away in so many places, they were impossible to read. I didn’t feel like a soon-to-be bestselling author. But I guess I hadn’t felt much like a killer-for-hire either. I stared up at the ceiling, wondering who I was now that the nightmare was over, with my kids soundly asleep in the rooms beside mine and Vero settled across the hall. With Steven living alone in the trailer on his farm, and the threat of a custody battle finally behind me.
I leaned back against the headboard with my beer in my lap, peeling at the sweating edges of the label, thinking about Julian and what he’d said the first night we met at The Lush. How he’d seen right through my disguise.
What’s my type then?
Cold beer and takeout pizza. Barefoot, jeans, and a loose-fitting faded T.
I set the bottle on the nightstand and reached for my phone, my index finger hovering over his number. It was nine thirty on a Tuesday night.
You know where to find me.
I texted Vero across the hall.
Finn: You okay with the kids if I go out for a while?
Vero: Thought you’d never ask.
I swung my legs over the bed and dragged on my sneakers and a hoodie. My bedroom door creaked open as I threw on a baseball cap. Vero peeked around it.
She gave my jeans and T a pained once-over. With a resigned shake of her head, she tossed me a small Macy’s bag. “At least put some makeup on if you’re meeting with your attorney. I want to hear all about it tomorrow over coffee when you get home. I won’t wait up,” she said with a wink.
My door closed. I opened the bag and looked inside, expecting an explosion of color, surprised to find a tube of clear lip gloss and simple brown mascara. I leaned into the mirror and swiped them on, self-conscious but satisfied that the woman I saw staring back at me was someone I recognized.
On instinct, I reached for my diaper bag. Then set it down as I realized I didn’t need it. Not tonight. Instead, I took a small stack of cash from my desk drawer and stuck it in my purse. Something soft tickled my hand when I reached inside. I pulled out my wig-scarf. It was torn and tangled, the long blond tresses matted in clumps. I ran my fingers through it, smoothing over the wrinkled silk. With a sigh, I left it on my desk.
* * *
It was three minutes to ten when I parked beside Julian’s Jeep in the near-empty lot. The windows of The Lush were dim, the chair legs rising up from the tops of the tables silhouetted against the whisky-gold lights behind the bar. I cupped a hand and peeked through the door, surprised when it opened.
Julian stood with his back to me, restocking bottles on the liquor shelf above his head. His crisp white sleeves were rolled to the elbow and his collar was unbuttoned, as if he’d already clocked out for the night. “Sorry. Bar’s closing,” he called over his shoulder.
“I’m not exactly a top-shelf customer.” Julian’s hand stilled, his eyes finding mine in the mirrored wall. I set my purse on the bar and perched on a stool. “Am I too late for that beer?”
“Bottle or draft?” he asked quietly.
“Bottle’s fine.”
He reached into a fridge under the bar. Air rushed from the cap as he broke the seal and rested the bottle on a napkin in front of me. He slung a rag over his shoulder and leaned back against the counter behind him, taking me in as I sipped it. A curl hung over his eyes, their color decidedly gold against the amber glow behind him.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but we don’t normally get your type in here.”
“Yeah? What’s my type?”
He pushed off the counter and stood in front of me, his hands braced on the bar. “Unassuming famous authors. The kind who use fake names and wear terrible disguises.”
I set down my beer and extended a hand across the bar. “Hi. I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced. My name’s Finlay Donovan.”
He gave me a wan smile. “Not Fiona Donahue?”
“I can show you my ID, if you want to card me.”
He seemed to consider that. When he finally took my hand, it felt nice in mine, and I let it linger. Or maybe he did. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Finlay Donovan.”
I hid a blush behind my beer, liking the sound of my name when he said it.
“You doing okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, surprising myself. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I meant it. “I think I am.”