Finlay Donovan Knocks 'Em Dead(Finlay Donovan #2)(4)

Georgia appeared in the foyer, an open beer already in hand. Our mother rolled her eyes skyward, giving it up to god. “What?” Georgia asked, the picture of innocence. “It’s five o’clock.”

“Maybe at the Vatican,” Ma muttered. She brightened when Vero dragged the two Rollaboards over the threshold. “Vero, sweetheart, it’s good to see you. So glad you could join us.” Zach giggled as they exchanged an awkward hug around him.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

“Leave the bags,” my mother said, gesturing loosely to the base of the stairs as she closed the door.

“Hey, Vero. Happy Thanksgiv—oomph!” Georgia’s breath rushed out in a grunt as Delia plowed into her, wrapping my sister’s legs in a bone-crushing hug.

“Aunt Georgia, will you come to my school next week? It’s Work Day.”

“Work Day?”

“Career Day,” I clarified, setting the pie on the hall table and stripping off my coat.

Delia jumped on her toes. “I told my friends you’re a policeman and they want to see your gun.”

Georgia ruffled Delia’s hair, shaking loose a barrette. “I’ll talk to your mom about it. Go find your pop. I think he’s hoarding the cookies.” Delia took off for the living room, where the sounds of a football game were blasting from the television. Georgia raised her beer to us in salute. Before the mouth of the bottle reached her lips, our mother thrust Zach against my sister’s chest. Georgia’s cop reflexes kicked in and she caught Zach with her free arm as he slid down her sweater.

“You can change Zach in the guest room,” Mom said, dropping the diaper bag at Georgia’s feet.

Georgia’s eyes went wide.

Vero backed away, hands raised. “Don’t look at me. It’s my day off.” She retreated to the living room, pressing a kiss to my father’s cheek and plopping down beside him on the couch.

Georgia sniffed, her pursed lips making Zach giggle. “Take him, Finn. I’m not qualified to handle this one.” She held him out to me. I was certain she’d be more comfortable dismantling a bomb.

I plucked her beer from her other hand instead, sliding the straps of the diaper bag over it until the bag dangled from her arm like a jacket on a coatrack. “Think of it as a tactical bag,” I said with a reassuring pat.

Georgia eyed the diaper bag, my name a soft plea on her lips as I took a long swig of her beer and turned for the kitchen, following the buttery-sweet smell of candied sweet potatoes and stuffing. Sinking into a chair at the kitchen table, I closed my eyes and sipped, grateful for a few moments of peace.

Something heavy thunked down on the table in front of me. I opened one eye. The bowl of green beans was piled high, a tangle of pods and stems. “Work on these while I baste,” my mother said, drawing on her kitchen mitts. I set down my beer with a sigh as she hauled a steaming turkey from the oven.

“How’s your book coming?”

“Great,” I lied.

My mother looked at me askance as her baster sucked juices from the bottom of the pan. “Have they paid you yet?”

“Only half. I get the rest when I finish.” If I finished.

“Put that half in savings. Just in case.”

“In case of what?”

“In case you need it for an attorney.” She grunted as she hefted the turkey back into the oven. I knew better than to offer to help her. Mom liked to handle some things herself. Holiday dinners—cooking and feeding her family—was a job we would only pry from her cold dead fingers. The sole reason she was letting me prep the beans was because that was a job I couldn’t screw up. “Is Steven’s lawyer still pestering you?”

I snapped the head off a pod. “It’s fine, Ma. I can handle it.”

“I thought Steven had agreed to weekly visitation.”

“He wants the kids every Friday afternoon through Monday morning now that he has a house.”

My mother made a disgusted noise, dropping a cutting board on the table and slamming down a knife. Joint custody wasn’t as bad as the full custody he’d been fighting for when he and Theresa had been ready to tie the knot. But it was still three nights away from home in another county, instead of a few blocks down the street. “He’s a monster,” she said, chopping parsley with a vengeance.

“He’s not a monster. He’s just angry.” Angry, because his relationship with Theresa hadn’t worked out. Because his business was struggling after five bodies had been exhumed from his farm. Because I was finally making enough money to support myself and the kids without him.

“Because of this young man you’re seeing?”

And maybe that.

The fact that I was seeing someone had been a nagging thorn in Steven’s side. He liked to pluck it out and turn it on me, calling Guy every week with some new plan to slowly whittle away at my custody.

My mother raised an eyebrow. “Georgia says this man you’re seeing works part time. That he’s still in school.”

“Graduate school.”

“He’s too young for you. You should be dating someone closer to your own age. Someone stable who can provide for you and the children.”

“I can provide for me and the children.”

“If you had a husband, Steven wouldn’t be threatening to take the kids. He wouldn’t have a leg to stand on.”