“Aunt Vero, huh?”
Vero smirked. “If Theresa can have an Aunt Amy, you can have an Aunt Vero.”
Zach laughed in his high chair, his own hair gelled into matching spikes long enough to curl over themselves. My poultry shears were nowhere to be seen, and no one was bleeding or throwing a tantrum. Too tired to argue, I lumbered sleepily to the table.
“Go get dressed,” she said, setting a cup of coffee in front of me and giving me a cursory once-over. I took a greedy sip. “And do something with your hair. You’re meeting Mrs. M at Panera in an hour. Try to look the part.”
I choked, spitting coffee down the front of my shirt. “What did you do?” It sloshed over the sides of the mug as I rushed to pick up my phone. I scrolled, my face falling, numb as I read the two-word message from Vero to Mrs. Mickler.
It’s done.
Mrs. Mickler had replied almost immediately. Panera 11:00.
“Jesus, Vero,” I whisper-hissed, hoping the children wouldn’t notice. When I glanced over, they were engrossed in whatever cartoon Vero had playing on the TV in the next room. “No, I am not meeting with her!”
She planted her hands on the table in front of me. “You are meeting with her. How else are we going to get paid? I did not get these calluses for nothing.”
I grabbed Vero by the sleeve and dragged her into the dining room, pitching my voice low. “I am not taking that woman’s money. If I do, that makes us guilty of murder for hire.”
“As opposed to what?” she hissed back. “Just murder? The only difference between them is fifty thousand dollars. Fifty. Thousand. And I vote we take the money.”
“Oh, you vote? Well, last I checked, I still held a majority. Which means my vote counts more!”
“Think about it, Finlay. We need that money.” She gestured with a sharp finger behind her. Stacks of bills were piled on the folding table, sorted in order of importance. House payments first, then van, then HOA, insurance, and electric bills, followed by a stack of miscellaneous overdue invoices to credit card companies for accounts I’d maxed out months ago. “We finished the job and we might as well get paid for it. Just give her Harris’s wallet and phone and take the money. That’s all.”
I looked at the mountain of envelopes on the table. Maybe Vero was right. Not paying my bills wasn’t going to make me a better person or absolve me of what I’d already done.
Vero’s shoulders unwound, as if she sensed I was giving in. “I put Steven’s shovel in the back of the van. The sooner we get rid of it, the better. You can drop it by Theresa’s shed on the way to meet Mrs. Mickler. Then take the van to the car wash and vacuum the shit out of it on the way home. I’ve watched every episode of Bones. If Brennan and Booth can get a conviction with a single speck of pollen, then those boneheads your sister works with could probably arrest you for a freaking hair from Mickler’s pants.” I grimaced as she held out the van keys.
“I’ll clean the car and return the shovel, but I’m not meeting Patricia. How am I supposed to look her in the eyes?”
Vero snatched up an envelope from the dining room table and held it in front of me. The scales of justice were emblazoned on the top left corner in dark red ink—another unopened letter from Steven’s attorney. “You can either look Patricia in the eyes and take her money. Or you can look in the eyes of your husband’s lawyer as he takes your children from you.” She held the van keys and the unopened custody letter side by side. One of them felt decidedly more wrong than the other. I took the keys. Then I sucked down my coffee, kissed my children on their heads, and stomped upstairs to get ready to take Patricia Mickler’s money.
CHAPTER 14
The wig-scarf itched like hell. I was clearly being punished. God or karma or Harris Mickler’s ghost was determined to make me miserable. I wedged a finger inside it and scratched, hoping a brown strand didn’t come loose as I searched the packed dining room of Panera through the dark lenses of my sunglasses. My gaze settled on the tables we’d occupied the first time Patricia and I had laid eyes on each other. I heaved a relieved sigh when I didn’t see her sitting there. Now I could honestly tell Vero I’d come and I’d tried, and Patricia Mickler hadn’t shown up. Then I could go home and eat a bucket of Ben & Jerry’s and cry. I just wanted to put this whole nightmare behind me and pretend it never happened. Regardless of how creepy Harris Mickler was, or the terrible things I knew he’d done, I’d killed him. Killed him and buried his body where I hoped no one would ever find it. And it seemed wrong to collect a reward for that.