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.