Finlay Donovan is Killing It

Praise

Selected as a “Best Mystery Books of All Time” by Forbes 

“Read in a single night, applauding along the way. For anyone who’s ever wished to turn her life around, Finlay Donovan is the master. From failing everything, to succeeding brilliantly, she proves you only need to get mistaken once for a contract killer, to solve all your problems.”
—Lisa Gardner, #1 New York Times bestselling author of When You See Me

“Funny and smart, twisty and surprising. Finlay Donovan is a character to root for — I can’t wait for the next book!”
—Megan Miranda, New York Times bestselling author of The Girl from Widow Hills and The Last House Guest

“Clever, perfectly plotted, and laugh out loud funny, Finlay Donovan is Killing It is one of those books that will make you smile long after you’ve turned the last page. This series is pitch-perfect and will be devoured by fans of Janet Evanovich. Elle Cosimano hits it way, way, way out of the park!”
—Wendy Walker, International Bestselling Author of All Is Not Forgotten and The Night Before

“Edgar-nominated author Elle Cosimano’s adult debut has everything I love—a plucky protagonist, perfect plot twists and Panera! Finlay Donovan is not only killing it—she just may be my new favorite character. You won’t be disappointed.”
—Kellye Garrett, award-winning author of Hollywood Homicide

“Fresh, fast-paced, and darkly fun with a deeply flawed but compulsively likeable heroine, Finlay Donovan Is Killing It is a madcap thriller that will keep you flipping pages long past your bedtime!”
—Katherine St John, author of The Lion’s Den

“A clever, razor-sharp thrill ride from beginning to end! I’d follow Finlay Donovan anywhere.”
—Rachel Lynn Solomon, bestselling author of The Ex Talk

“Cosimano cuts dexterously between Finn’s adventures as a hit woman, her deeply iffy romance . . . , and the domestic crises that keep on piling up as if nothing had ever happened to disturb them. Suspenseful, funny, and even a tad mysterious. More, please.”
—Kirkus Reviews

“Reminiscent of Janet Evanovich’s Stephanie Plum character, but with a fresh feeling. The ending packs a wallop and leaves us at a truly surprising cliffhanger . . . already anticipating book #2 in what I hope will be a long-running mystery series.”
―Mystery & Suspense Magazine

“Cosimano never takes her foot off the gas… We loved this book’s perfect combination of over-the-top excitement and laugh-out-loud humor… Finlay Donovan Is Killing It is a screwball comedy for the modern age and a fun murder mystery rolled into one.”
—Apple Books

“This amusing series launch from YA author Cosimano (Seasons of the Storm), her adult debut, has a pleasingly absurd premise . . . enjoy this romp from a skilled comic writer.”
―Publishers Weekly

“A fun adult debut… readers will enjoy this breezy romp.”
—Library Journal

“This book is so. much. fun!”
—Crime Reads

“An entertaining, hilarious distraction. Perfect for all the Stephanie Plum fans out there.”
—LibraryReads

“Cosimano makes her adult debut with this off-the-wall series starter, which is part comedy of errors, part genuine thriller. Deftly balancing genre conventions with sly, tongue-in-cheek comments on motherhood and femininity, Cosimano crafts a deliciously twisted tale that will earn her a slew of adult fans.”
—ALA Booklist

“[Cosimano’s] main character is so endearing it’s easy to surrender…”
―New York Times Book Review

“A twisty delight.”
—PEOPLE Magazine

“Elle Cosimano’s novel is delightful . . .”
—Paste Magazine

“. . . the book is as much comic novel as crime novel, a touch more Janet Evanovich than Agatha Christie. Elle Cosimano has a deft feel for the risible twist . . .”
—Toronto Star

“A witty book that is chock-full of surprises.”
—The Scotland Herald

“The funniest crime series debut since Stephanie Plum strapped on her bounty-hunting gear, and you’ll love every minute of it.”
—BookTrib

“The winners here are the readers, who will find themselves in a pleasant and humorous comic caper…. Finlay Donovan Is Killing It is an easy, enjoyable and witty novel.”
—Bookreporter

“This story is terrific… [The] plot thickens and thickens in [this] clever, comical thriller.”
—The Florida Times-Union

“Part screwball comedy, part morality tale… Cosimano infuses her novel with large swaths of humor while adding realistic terror… It’s a solid, thoughtful and funny yet poignant mystery that never once becomes a one-note story.”
—South Florida Sun-Sentinel

“Smart-alecky and shrewd, tense and twisty… a seriocomic thriller with a winning blend of blood-chilling elements… and uproariously funny moments…”
—The Free Lance Star

“A fresh, witty, laugh-out-loud and feel good tale that will keep you entertained cover to cover. Finlay Donovan is Killing It was a refreshing take on the mystery/suspense genres and a really fun read that I think anyone will enjoy.”
―The Reading Beauty Blog

“If you love thrillers, but wish the genre would lighten up a little then you absolutely must read Finlay Donovan Is Killing It.”
—PopSugar

“A witty, fast-paced mystery.”
—The Nerd Daily

“This is a fun crime novel…”
—Book Riot

“Fast-paced, fresh, full of humor, and original.”
—Jill Orr in St. Louis Magazine

“This novel is full of twists and surprises and will keep you reading until the very end.”
—Bookstr

“Dishes out giggles, laughs, and outright guffaws in exactly the right amounts to help us escape the news of the day.”
—The Big Thrill

“This book is pure fun; a great palate cleanser if you’re stuck in a rut.”
—The Mary Sue

“The Must Read of 2021! . . . I can see why this book is getting so many rave reviews . . . it’s killing me that I have to wait so long for the next installment in this new series.”
—Fresh Fiction

“Elle Cosimano’s Finlay Donovan Is Killing It is one of the most fun books I have ever read.”
—Santa Barbara Independent

“Elle Cosimano came up with one of the freshest, most fun, and interesting premises for a mystery this reviewer has ever seen. Her writing is terrific, the characters well-rounded and completely credible, and the story will grab readers and not let go until the end of this romp.”
—Manhattan Book Review

“If I were a gambling woman, I’d put all my money on this one as this summer’s top read.”
—WhatsupMoms

“[Cosimano’s] story authentically depicts the messiness, hilarity and heartfelt moments of motherhood.”
—CityScene Magazine

“The tone of Finlay Donovan is Killing It lies somewhere between hilarious and heartfelt, or conversely satire and seriousness. Elle Cosimano draws the reader in with some unabashedly uproarious set-pieces before pulling back the layers to reveal a deeper emotional core. Regardless of the nuance, Cosimano’s prose is always elegant and addictive.”
—BOLO Books

Acclaim

The New York Times: “Four Crime Novels, Brimming With Venom and Dread”

Goodreads “36 Most Anticipated Thrillers of 2021”

PEOPLE Magazine’s “PEOPLE Picks: The Best New Books”

Parade Magazine’s “Best 2021 Releases to Read This Winter”

Country Living Magazine’s “26 Murder Mystery Books You Won’t Be Able To Put Down”

New York Public Library’s “Best Books of 2021”

Hudson Booksellers “Best Books of 2021”

Bookbub’s “Best Mysteries and Thrillers of 2021”

Inside Soap’s “The Hot List”(February 2021)

Amazon Editor’s Pick: “Best Mystery, Thriller & Suspense (February 2021)”

Amazon Editor’s Pick: “Best Books of the Year So Far” (Mystery/Thrillers, 2021)

Indigo’s “Top 10 Best Mysteries of 2021”

Kobo’s “Best in Mystery & Suspense” (February 2021)

B&N “Nook Recommends” Pick (February 2021)

Bookmarks “Best of 2021 Picks”

PureWow’s “18 Best Beach Reads of Summer 2021”

PopSugar’s “Best Books of 2021”

AudioFile Magazine’s “Mystery & Suspense Audiobooks That Will Make You Laugh”

Bustle’s “Most Anticipated Debuts of 2021” and “Most Anticipated Books of February 2021”

Bustle’s “20 New Beach Reads You Won’t Be Able To Put Down”

Betches “27 Books to Read in 2021”

Bookbub “14 of the Best Books of March 2021”

Bookbub’s “Best Mysteries and Thrillers of 2021”

Book Riot “It Was Self-Defense But Help Me Hide The Body Crime Novels”

Business Insider’s “Best Books of the Year According to the Goodreads Choice Awards” (2021)

Brit + Co “15 Highly Anticipated Novels We Can’t Wait to Read in 2021”

Bookstr “7 Must-Read Thrillers of 2021”

Crime Reads “Most Anticipated Crime Books of 2021”

Crime Reads “Best Crime Novels of 2021”

Suspense Magazine’s “Best of 2021”

Murder and Mayhem “New Mystery and Thriller Books We Can’t Wait to Read”

Frolic “Must-Read Thrillers and Mysteries of 2021”

Mystery Tribune: “20 Best Crime, Mystery, and Thriller Books of February 2021”

The Bibliophile “Best Mystery Books of 2021”

NetGalley/We Are Bookish “February’s Most-Anticipated Books”

LibraryReads “February 2021: Top 10 Books Published This Month That Library Staff Across The Country Love”

The Mary Sue’s “15 Best Modern Murder Mystery Books”

St. Louis Magazine’s “10 Must-Read Books of 2021”

Chicago Review of Books “2021’s Best Mysteries and Thrillers”

The Girlfriend Book Club of AARP’s “Best Books of 2021”

Christamore House Guild 2021 Indy Book & Author Selection

2022 Lefty Award Nominee for Best Humorous Mystery

Discussion Guide

Grab your blonde wig, scarf, dark glasses, Panera pastry, and a group of fellow readers…and start killing it!  Whether you’re gathering in person or on Zoom, we’d love to see photos of your Hit-Mom Book Club meeting. Please share photos on social media using #FinlayDonovanIsKillingIt and #HitMomBookClub, and don’t forget to tag us!

1. Finlay Donovan Is Killing It takes a slightly different tone than many crime and thriller novels. How does Finlay’s character contribute to this tone? Did you appreciate this twist on the genre?
2. Were you surprised that Finlay is so intrigued by the note that she actually decides to scope out Harris Mickler? Why or why not?
3. The lines between fiction and life are slightly blurred in this novel: Finlay is a character, but she is also a writer herself, and later in the story she uses the crimes she’s been involved in as inspiration for her new book. What does this book-within-a-book setup add to Finlay Donovan Is Killing It?
4. As early as chapter 5, the Russian mafia is mentioned. When did you put the pieces together that Finlay’s accidental hit/well-planned murder by others was connected to organized crime? How does their involvement affect the story?
5. Vero and Finlay’s relationship is central to the story—how does it change throughout the novel?
6. How does Finlay’s relationship to her motherhood (and especially single-motherhood) play out throughout the novel?
7. Finlay catches the attention of two very different potential romantic partners: Detective Nick Anthony and bartender/law student Julian Baker. In what ways are these men different or similar to each other? What unique heroic traits, character flaws, or potential challenges does each man present? Do you agree with the romantic decisions Finlay made through the course of the book?
8. In chapter 32, Julian recites a quote inspired by the principles of Hanlon’s razor: “Let us not attribute to malice and cruelty what may be referred to less criminal motives.” He tells Finlay that he “makes it a point never to assume the worst about people.” How does this idea reflect what we know of his character? How does Finlay’s response reveal more about hers?
9. Consider the theme of women supporting women. What examples of this did you see in the story? Did any of these instances surprise you? Why?
10. During several scenes, Finlay wears a wig-scarf and sunglasses to hide her identity, or while she’s masquerading as her ex’s fiancée, Theresa. She wears the same wig-scarf and glasses in her author photo, which appears in the books she’s written. What do you think the wig-scarf represents to Finn, and how does her attitude toward it change throughout the book?
11. Finlay’s view of her career is often self-deprecating, reflecting the various attitudes of her agent, her family, the market, and her ex toward her work. How do these attitudes change after Finn is awarded a lucrative book deal? How did Finlay’s attitude change toward herself? What role do you think money plays in how society values women’s contributions at home and in the workplace?
12. Finlay toes the line between right and wrong throughout the book, yet she somehow manages to stay on the right side of it. Though she’s tempted by the money—and curious about the potential victims—she never actually commits any of the murders herself. How would your feelings about Finlay have changed if she had killed Harris Mickler or Andrei Borovkov? Does her identity as a woman and a mother influence your answer?
13. Were you surprised by the note Finlay received from Patricia Mickler at the end of the book? Do you have any predictions about who the guilty party might be?

Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

It’s a widely known fact that most moms are ready to kill someone by eight thirty A.M. on any given morning. On the particular morning of Tuesday, October eighth, I was ready by seven forty-five. If you’ve never had to wrestle a two-year-old slathered in maple syrup into a diaper while your four-year-old decides to give herself a haircut in time for preschool, all while trying to track down the whereabouts of your missing nanny as you sop up coffee grounds from an overflowing pot because in your sleep-deprived fog you forgot to put in the filter, let me spell it out for you.

I was ready to kill someone. I didn’t really care who.

I was late.

My agent was already on a train from Grand Central to Union Station, where I was supposed to meet her for a brunch reservation at a restaurant I couldn’t afford so we could discuss exactly how overdue I was on my deadline for a book I had started three times and probably would never finish because … Jesus, look around me. Reasons.

My two-story colonial in South Riding was just close enough to the city to make ten o’clock sound reasonable when I’d scheduled it. It was also just far enough outside the city to convince otherwise sane people to buy life-size inflatable dolls so they could slither into the HOV lane without getting a ticket, or without being subjected to a drive-by shooting by any of the rest of us who had not yet sold our souls to buy inflatable dolls of our own.

Don’t get me wrong. I’d liked South Riding, before the divorce. Back before I’d known my husband was sleeping with our real estate agent, who also sat on the board of the homeowners association. Somehow, I’m guessing that’s not what the saleslady had in mind when she’d described our suburban mecca as having a “small-town” feel. The brochure had featured photos of happy families hugging each other on quaint front porches. It had used words like idyllic and peaceful to describe the neighborhood, because in the glossy pages of a real estate magazine, no one can see through the windows to the exhausted stabby mommy, or the naked sticky toddler, or the hair and blood and coffee on the floor.

“Mommy, fix it!” Delia stood in the kitchen rubbing her fingers over the patchy wet stubble where she’d scratched herself with the scissors. A thin bead of blood trailed over her forehead and I smeared it up with an old burp rag before it could drip in her eye.

“I can’t fix it, sweetie. We’ll take you to the hairdresser after school.” I pressed the cloth to the bald spot until the bleeding stopped. Then, with my cell phone tucked between my shoulder and my ear, I crawled under the table and scraped together the fallen strands of her hair, counting unanswered rings.

“I can’t go to school like this. Everyone will laugh at me!” Delia cried big snotty tears as Zachary rubbed toaster waffles in his hair and gawked at her from his high chair. “Daddy would know how to fix it.”

My head smacked the underside of the table, and my two-year-old erupted in a fit of wails. I got stiffly to my feet, brandishing a fistful of my daughter’s wispy locks. The rest of the trimmed bits were stuck in the syrup on the knee of my pants. Biting back a swear my two-year-old was certain to repeat for weeks in the grocery cart if I voiced it aloud, I tossed the hairy poultry shears into the sink.

Sometime around the forty-seventh ring, the call went to voice mail.

“Hi, Veronica? It’s Finlay. I hope everything’s okay,” I said sweetly, in case she’d been crushed to death in a car accident or burned alive in a house fire overnight. You never want to be the asshole that leaves a message promising to kill someone for being late, only to find out they’ve already been murdered. “I was expecting you at seven thirty so I could get to my meeting downtown. I guess you forgot?” My cheerful lilt at the end of the sentence suggested this was okay. That we were okay. But this was not okay. I was not okay. “If you get this message, give me a call back. Please,” I added before hanging up. Because my children were watching, and we always use our pleases and, “Thank you.” I disconnected, dialed my ex, and jammed the phone back under my ear as I washed all hope for salvaging the day from my hands.

“Is Vero coming?” Delia asked, picking at her handiwork and frowning at her sticky red fingers.

“I don’t know.” Vero would probably pull Delia into her lap and style the whole mess into some trendy comb-over. Or conceal it under an intricate French braid. I was pretty sure any similar attempt on my part would only make matters worse.

“Can you call Aunt Amy?”

“You don’t have an Aunt Amy.”

“Yes, I do. She was Theresa’s sister in college. She can fix my hair. She studied cometology.”

“You mean cosmetology. And no, just because she was Theresa’s sorority sister does not make her your Aunt Amy.”

“Are you calling Daddy?”

“Yes.”

“He knows how to fix things.”

I pasted on a strained smile. Steven knew how to break things, too. Like dreams and wedding vows. But I didn’t say that. Instead, I gritted my teeth, because child psychologists say it’s not healthy to bash your ex in front of your children. And common sense says you shouldn’t do it while you’re waiting for him to pick up his cell phone so you can ask him to babysit them.

“He uses duck glue,” Delia insisted, following me around the kitchen as I scraped the breakfast scraps into the trash and dumped the plates in the sink along with my sanity.

“You mean duct tape. We can’t fix your hair with duct tape, sweetie.”

“Daddy could.”

“Hold on, Delia.” I shushed her when my ex finally picked up. “Steven?” He sounded hassled before he even said good morning. On second thought, I don’t think good morning was actually what he said. “I need a favor. Vero didn’t show up this morning, and I’m already late for a meeting with Sylvia downtown. I need to drop Zach with you for a few hours.” My son flashed me a syrupy grin from his high chair as I used the damp rag to mop the sticky spot from my slacks. They were the only decent pants I owned. I work in my pajamas. “Also, he might need a bath.”

“Yeah,” Steven said slowly. “About Vero…”

I stopped patting and dropped the burp rag in the open diaper bag at my feet. I knew that tone. It was the same one he’d used when he broke the news that he and Theresa had gotten engaged. It was also the same tone he’d used last month when he told me his landscaping business had taken off because of Theresa’s real estate contacts and he was flush with cash, and oh, by the way, he’d talked to a lawyer about filing for joint custody. “I was meaning to call you yesterday, but Theresa and I had tickets to the game and the day just got away from me.”

“No.” I gripped the counter. No, no, no.

“You work from home, Finn. You don’t need a full-time sitter for Zach—”

“Don’t do this, Steven.” I pinched the blooming headache between my eyes while Delia tugged on my pant leg and whined about duct tape.

“So I let her go,” he said.

Bastard.

“I can’t afford to keep bailing you out—”

“Bailing me out? I’m the mother of your children! It’s called child support.”

“You’re late on your van payment—”

“Only until I get my advance for the book.”

“Finn.” Every time he said my name it sounded like an expletive.

“Steven.”

“It might be time to consider getting a real job.”

“Like hydro-seeding the neighborhood?” Yeah, I went there. “This is my real job, Steven.”

“Writing trashy books is not a real job.”

“They’re romantic suspense novels! And I’ve already been paid half up front. I’m under contract! I can’t just walk away from a contract. I’ll have to give it back.” Then, because I was feeling particularly stabby, I added, “Unless you want to bail me out of that, too?”

He grumbled to himself as I knelt to sop up the puddle of grounds on the floor. I could picture him at their spotless kitchen table in her immaculate designer town house over a mug of French-pressed coffee, pulling out what was left of his hair.

“Three months.” His patience sounded as thin as the hair on the crown of his head, but I kept that to myself because I needed a babysitter more than the satisfaction of whittling away at his fragile male ego. “You’re three months late on the mortgage, Finn.”

“You mean the rent. The rent I pay you. Cut me a break, Steven.”

“And the HOA is going to put a lien on the house if you don’t pay the special assessment bill they sent you in June.”

“And how would you know that?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer. He was banging our real estate agent, and his best friend was our loan officer. That’s how he knew.

“I think the kids should come live with me and Theresa. Permanently.”

I nearly dropped the phone. Abandoning the wad of paper towels, I stormed from the kitchen and lowered my voice to a harsh whisper. “Absolutely not! There is no way I’m sending my kids to live with that woman.”

“You’re hardly earning enough in royalties to pay for groceries.”

“Maybe I’d have time to finish a book if you hadn’t just laid off my babysitter!”

“You’re thirty-two years old, Finn—”

“I am not.” I was thirty-one. Steven was just bitter because I was three years younger than he was.

“You can’t spend your whole life shut up in that house, making up stories. We have real-life bills and real-life problems you need to deal with.”

“Jerk,” I muttered through a thin breath. Because the truth hurt. And Steven was the biggest, most painful truth of them all.

“Look,” he said, “I’m trying not to be a jerk about this. I asked Guy to hold off until the end of the year, to give you time to find something.” Guy. His frat-brother-turned-divorce-lawyer. The same Guy who’d done too many keg stands and puked in the back seat of my car back in college was now the attorney who golfed with the judge on Saturdays and had cost me my weekends with my kids. On top of it, Guy had conned the judge into taking half of my advance for my last book and giving it to Theresa, as recompense for the damage I’d done to her car.

Okay, fine.

I concede that getting drunk and stuffing a wad of Delia’s Play-Doh in the exhaust pipe of Theresa’s BMW may not have been the best way to handle the news when he’d told me they were getting engaged, but letting her walk away with half my advance and my husband felt like salt in the wound.

From the empty dining room, I watched Delia twirl what was left of her hair around a sticky red finger. Zach whined, fidgeting in his high chair. If I couldn’t earn a paycheck in the next three months, Guy would find a way to take my kids and give them to Theresa, too.

“I’m late. I can’t discuss this with you right now. Can I bring Zach to you or not?” I will not cry. I will not—

“Yeah,” he said wearily. Steven didn’t know the meaning of weary. He had coffee and got eight uninterrupted hours of sleep every night. “Finn, I’m sorr—”

I disconnected. It wasn’t as satisfying as a knee to his groin, and yes, it was probably childish and clichéd, but a small part of me felt better after hanging up on him. The very small part (if there was any) that wasn’t covered in syrup and late for my meeting.

Whatever. I was still not okay. Nothing was okay.

I felt another tug on my slacks. Delia looked up at me, tears brewing in her eyes, her hair sticking up in blood-matted spikes.

I blew out a heavy sigh. “Duct tape. I know.”

Musty autumn air rushed in when I opened the service door to the garage. I flicked on the light, but the cavernous space was still dim and depressing, empty except for the oil stain left behind by Steven’s F-150 on the concrete and my dust-coated Dodge Caravan. Someone had drawn a phallus in the grime on the back window, and Delia hadn’t let me clean it because she’d said it looked like a flower, and it all felt like a metaphor for my life right now. A workbench lined the back wall of the garage, topped by a giant pegboard for tools. Only there weren’t any tools. Just my ten-dollar big-box-store generic pink planting trowel—one of a handful of things Steven hadn’t taken when he’d cleaned out the garage. Everything else belonged to his landscaping business, he’d said. I dug around in the scraps left behind on the workbench—loose screws, a broken hammer, a near-empty bottle of upholstery cleaner—and found a roll of silver duct tape. It was as sticky and hairy as my children and I carried it inside.

Delia’s teary doe eyes were gone. She looked at the roll of tape with all the assurance of a girl who had yet to be let down by the most important man in her life.

“Are you sure about this?” I asked, holding a fistful of her tawny strands.

She nodded. I grabbed a knit hat off the coatrack in the foyer and turned back to the kitchen. Zach was watching us, a piece of waffle stuck to his head, pushing and pulling his sticky fingers together and apart with a wide-eyed expression that bordered on mystical. I’m pretty sure he was taking a dump.

Great. Steven could change him.

My scissors were buried under a pile of dirty breakfast dishes, so I drew a knife from the block on the counter instead. The tape peeled away from the roll with a loud shriek, and I held the strands of clipped hair against the side of Delia’s head while wrapping the tape around her like a hideous silver crown until the hair was (mostly) secured in place. The knife was dull, barely sharp enough to hack the tape from the roll.

Jesus.

I forced a smile as I pulled the knit cap over her head, just low enough to conceal the evidence. Delia grinned up at me, her tiny fingers raking the mop of Frankenstein-like strands from her eyes.

“Happy?” I asked, trying not to cringe and draw attention to the chunk of hair that had fallen loose and was now resting on her shoulder.

She nodded.

I stuffed the knife and tape in my shoulder bag along with my cell phone and plucked Zach from his high chair, holding him high enough to get a whiff of his droopy drawers. Satisfied, I slung him on my hip and slammed the door behind us.

I was okay, I told myself as I slapped the remote door opener on the wall of the garage. The motor lit up, a horrible grinding noise drowning out the children’s chatter as it hauled the door open, flooding the garage with autumn-gray sunlight. I loaded us all into the minivan, setting Zach’s sagging drawers gingerly in his car seat. It wasn’t as satisfying as a kick to my ex’s groin, but today, a sticky two-year-old in a shitty diaper felt like the best I could do.

Copyright © 2022 by Elle Cosimano

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