“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.
I pushed my dark glasses up the bridge of my nose, ready to leave, when I caught a flicker of movement in the corner of my eye. Mrs. Mickler hunched in a booth in the corner, her purse tightly clenched in one hand, her other still raised as if she’d been waving me over. It withered as our eyes met. She cast an anxious glance around the dining room as I tucked a blond lock behind my ear and walked briskly toward her.
Her face was as pale as I remembered, with that same wide-eyed look she’d worn when I’d caught her staring at the bloody rag and duct tape in my diaper bag, her expression vacillating between horror and fascination as I slid into her booth.
I clutched my own purse tightly under my elbow. Harris’s wallet and car keys and cell phone were in it, Exhibit A, just in case Mrs. Mickler insisted on seeing proof. But in truth, all I wanted was to be rid of them. All I wanted was to get out of here and spend fifty thousand dollars’ worth of quarters on the industrial vacuum at the car wash—to suck every cell and fiber that had ever belonged to Harris Mickler from my life.
“It’s really done?” she asked with a furtive glance at the neighboring tables.
I nodded.
Patricia’s hands shook as she withdrew an envelope from her purse and pushed it across the table. Her eyes were ringed in purple shadows, as if she hadn’t slept. I imagined she wanted this whole ordeal over with as much as I did. Still, I hesitated to reach for the envelope.
“You can count it. It’s all there,” she insisted, pushing it toward me another inch.
“I believe you.” The envelope was fat, stuffed so thick the flap hardly closed. I whisked it off the table into my lap and reached into my purse for Harris’s wallet, keys, and phone. Patricia took the key ring, her trembling fingers fumbling over it as she separated one tiny key from the others.
“I’ll wait until tonight to report him missing,” she said, palming the key. “That should give you time to wrap up any loose ends.” She pushed the rest of the ring back across the table, along with Harris’s wallet and phone. She swallowed hard, unable to look at them, as if she wanted to be rid of every part of him, too.
“You want me to get rid of them?” I asked.
“Isn’t that what I’m paying you for?”
The nerve of the woman. If Delia had opened a mouth like that I would have sent her to her room for being sassy and confiscated her toys. Patricia withered, clearly mistaking my mom face for something else … some callous expression worn by contract killers and hit men. Maybe they’re similar. I wouldn’t know. Her nervous smile made her lips quiver as if she might start crying.
I bit my tongue as I slid her husband’s personal effects back into my purse along with the money.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she said, clearing her throat. “A friend of mine … more of an acquaintance, really. We have Pilates together at the club on Tuesdays and Saturdays,” she admitted with a guilt-ridden wince, as if stretching was the crime. “She’s having some … issues … with her husband. I told her I might know someone who could help.” The folded slip of paper she pushed across the table left me with an ominous sense of déjà vu. My mouth fell open, my tongue fumbling over all the arguments scrambling to get out. Until I read the numbers beside the dollar sign.
All seventy-five thousand of them.
I stared at the name—Andrei Borovkov. The address was some fancy high-rise condominium in McLean. I folded the note and slid it back across the table.
“Look,” I started, “you’ve got the wrong idea about all of this. I don’t…”
The rest of my argument fell away. Patricia’s seat was empty.
I pivoted in the booth, searching for her by the trash bins. By the hall to the restrooms. By the dessert counter. But she was already gone. Through the window, I saw her duck into a car. The brown Subaru wagon tore out of the lot like it was on fire, the bumper stickers obscuring the back window as she darted between oncoming cars.
I stared at the slip of paper. The name on it felt familiar for reasons I couldn’t begin to guess. Or maybe it was just this moment, this all-too-familiar feeling of dread that I’d crossed a line I couldn’t come back from just by holding it. I tucked the note in my purse with the money and the contents of Harris Mickler’s pockets, wondering what the hell to do next.