Page 100 of You Betrayed Me (The Cahills 3)

But first things first, she reminded herself.

The story.

She gave the guy five more minutes, then gave up. Though it was late, after midnight, there were still some people about. Not many, but a few, some teetering out of bars, others climbing into parked vehicles or waiting on street corners in the filmy lamplight.

But no informant ready to spill his or her guts about the Cahills.

Luckily, all was not lost, considering the information she’d dug up through Cissy and the nurse, but what they’d told her was just the tip of the iceberg, she could feel it.

She’d never bee

n particularly patient, so the magic that was supposed to be found in San Francisco was lost on her. It was cold and misting, the wind whipping across the bay, rippling the dark water into frothy whitecaps, the haunting cries of sea lions chasing after her.

And there was still Megan’s mother to interview, one way or another.

Though she’d been thwarted so far, Charity knew the old bag was scheduled for a fitness session with her trainer and a massage at the club after the workout tomorrow—Lenora Travers’s usual midweek routine. Charity planned to be waiting when Lenora stepped out of the door of Club Fit and made her way to her car. Then she would spring. Lenora, surprised, would either make a scene or, Charity was betting, rather than risk an embarrassing spectacle in front of friends she worked out with, would agree to a sit-down. Good. Then maybe she would get somewhere. Maybe Lenora would give up some gem of information about Megan or her sister—the woman James had dumped in favor of Megan—as well as come up with a list of contacts, friends and acquaintances, who would help Charity find out what made the missing woman tick. All under the guise of hoping to locate Megan, of course. Which, really, she would be doing as well, Charity rationalized.

And then there was Cahill House. She hadn’t been able to see the records yet, but after she’d visited the place yesterday afternoon and was turned away, she’d received an anonymous tip from a woman who claimed to have been a nurse there years before. She’d refused to give her name, and her phone number had been blocked, but she’d claimed she’d heard from a friend who still worked at Cahill House that Charity had been there nosing around. Then she’d hinted that the Cahills were more involved than just funding the place, that someone in the family might have used the private home for pregnant women to their secret advantage. The nurse hadn’t given up much else. Just that tantalizing hint.

“Unwanted babies,” Charity had guessed when the woman would say no more.

“I didn’t say that. You didn’t hear it from me.”

“I don’t even know who you are. Or if your story is legit.”

“It is. Trust me.”

“I’d like to, but I need specifics,” Charity had said.

“Just know that you’re on the right track. Keep digging.” And then she’d clicked off, refusing to answer a return phone call or a text.

And what would that “right track” be? Charity wondered, thinking that over, but decided it was worth following. Several hours later, she’d gotten the call from another number, the one that set up this meeting. All of this in less than forty-eight hours. So she’d definitely gotten someone’s attention.

Now, wrapping her arms around her middle as a blast of cold air rolled over the bay and seemed to cut through her quilted Kate Spade jacket—well, it was a knockoff, but no one could tell—she started back to her car.

It occurred to her that she might be handling this the wrong way, that she should have stayed in Riggs Crossing, but she’d been stonewalled there. And then she might not have discovered the link with the sisters. No, she was on the right track. She just had to keep going, keep pushing.

The eerie, guttural barks of sea lions rippled across the water, and the cold air slapped her face. She glanced around, nervous, wondering if her contact was watching her, and not for the first time, she wondered if she’d been lured here for a reason, if this was a trap.

Don’t be silly. You’ve just watched one too many horror movies. Besides, you’re armed. Pepper spray in your pocket, 9-1-1 only one touch on your phone. Don’t let your nerves get to you.

But another low, nearly painful moan from a hidden sea lion caused her skin to prickle. Time to go. Her contact obviously wasn’t going to show.

She picked up her pace, gnawing on the different ideas and motives that nagged at her. Her heels seemed to resonate loudly in the moody mist.

But not just her heels, she realized, her heart nearly stopping.

Hadn’t she heard a second set, almost echoing her own? As if someone were following her? She glanced over her shoulder just as a car rolled slowly behind her, its headlights temporarily blinding her.

Was there a dark figure there, hidden by the intensity of the car’s beams?

Her throat tightened.

A man? Woman?

The driver gunned the engine, and the car, a black sedan, shot past. Charity blinked, but the street behind her was empty. No one visible.

Still, the back of her neck tingled in fear, and adrenaline kicked through her bloodstream. She half-jogged across the street toward the parking garage where she’d left her van. This was crazy. What had she been thinking, agreeing to meet an unknown individual in the middle of the night? Yeah, she had her pepper spray in a front pocket, her phone in her hand, but still . . . She took the stairs, didn’t want to wait for the elevator to the third floor and . . . Oh, sweet Jesus, did she hear the hum of the elevator as the car rose?

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