Finlay Donovan Knocks 'Em Dead(Finlay Donovan #2)(9)
Too bad it took him so long to figure that out. “What do you want, Steven?”
“I want them on Sunday,” he pleaded. “Just for a few hours. My firs aren’t big enough to cut this year, but I found a farm that has some real beauties, and I thought the kids could pick out a Christmas tree. You know, one for each house.”
I rubbed my eyes, running out of excuses to keep them away from him. “Delia’s got school the next morning.”
A spark of hope lit his face. “I’ll have them home in time for bed. I promise.”
“Fine.” I hunched into my sweatshirt, too exhausted to argue. “I’ll feed them early. You can pick them up at five.”
I turned back to my house—the house he suddenly wanted to dress with the perfect tree. The same house he’d walked away from because he’d thought the sod was greener someplace else. He was still standing in the driveway, hands in his pockets, the fog of his breath heavy in the air as he watched me shut the door.
CHAPTER 4
The library parking lot was nearly empty when the doors opened on Saturday morning, the rest of the world still probably sleeping off their turkey-induced comas and waiting for the buttons on either side of their pants to become reacquainted. Even my yoga pants had felt a little too snug when I’d slid them on that morning. Instead, I opted for the comfy pair of sweats I’d worn, telling myself it wasn’t because they still smelled faintly like Julian’s Jeep.
Tugging one of Vero’s baseball caps low to cover my face, I circumnavigated the circulation desk, hoping the lone woman behind it couldn’t smell the steaming go-cup of coffee hidden under my coat or sense the Thanksgiving leftover sandwich tucked inside my laptop bag with her super-librarian powers as I took the longest route to the farthest set of cubicles offering computers for public use. Checking to make sure no one was lurking in the stacks, I settled in front of a monitor at the back of the room.
I unpacked my sandwich and coffee and fished my phone from my computer bag. My heart skipped at a new notification on the screen. I swiped it open, but the text wasn’t from Julian. It was only my mother, reminding me to pick up the kids early tomorrow, in time for her to make it to afternoon mass.
Curious, I tapped open my Instagram account and searched for Julian’s profile. We didn’t follow each other, but his account wasn’t set to “private.” I told myself that it wasn’t snooping as the mouse hovered over his name. My pulse quickened as I clicked on his profile pic. I don’t know what I had expected or hoped to find, but my shoulders sagged as the same photos I’d seen before filled the screen.
I set my phone facedown on the desk, turning my attention to the library computer. I was here to work, I reminded myself. To find FedUp and write a pitch for Sylvia. Not to spy on Julian while he was enjoying his break from school.
Pushing Julian from my mind, I typed the address of the forum into the search engine and logged in, using the anonymous profile Vero and I had created when we’d first been made aware of the post. The forum was huge, with nearly thirty thousand registered users generating thousands of new posts each day. I scrolled past the familiar women-centered chat rooms: Women’s Networking, Women’s Health, Divorce and Bereavement Support Groups … Then through the #momlife groups: Working Moms, Breastfeeding Moms, Homeschooling Moms, Potty Training Moms … I paused over that last one, making a mental note to return to that room later, before continuing to scroll. Vero and I had found the more suspicious subgroups toward the bottom of the page, buried under playdate chats and book club meetups. Like the Thrifty Women who dealt coupon codes like drugs, the Momma Bears who shared methods for spying on their secretive teens and cheating husbands, and the Crafty Chicks whose “housecleaning tips” occasionally veered into uncomfortable territory, with more than a few posts reading like a metaphor for dealing with a problem spouse.
The post containing Steven’s name had appeared in a chat group called Bitch Sessions. I scrolled quickly past the newer threads, clicking on the subject line that read: Bad Business. This thread had started like so many of the others—with women complaining about the troublesome men in their lives—before taking an ominous turn.
Momma2Three: I feel it is my civic duty to warn all my fellow mommas not to use Vin at that new salon in Fair Oaks. I caught him texting my daughter. She’s 17!!!
SexyMomToTwins: No!!! I hope you reported him! While we’re on the subject of men behaving badly, remember that massage appointment I scheduled for my sciatica at that PT office in Centreville? One of the therapists tried to feel me up. Total perv. They really need to get rid of him.
Snickerdoodle: UGH! I’m sorry you had to go through that. Men are pigs! Case in point, a friend of mine rented an Airbnb in Rehoboth last week, and she found a freaking hidden camera in the bathroom. Not even kidding. I looked him up and the guy owns dozens of vacation rentals. I’ll post a link.
HarryStyles#1Fan: Gross. So glad we have this chat so we can all look out for each other.
FedUp: I know exactly what you mean. A real piece of work owns the Rolling Green Sod and Tree Farm on Green Road in Warrenton. Steven Donovan is a liar and a cheat.
PTAPrez: Wait … Isn’t that the farm that was on the news in October? The one where they found all those bodies?
FedUp: Yes, and I can think of 100 Good reasons the world would be better off without him.