Page 147 of You Betrayed Me (The Cahills 3)

Rivers asked, “So where did they see the car?”

“That’s the interesting part—on a little mountain road, not more than a lane, where people have second homes. It’s sparse. Hardly anyone lives up there year-round. Just summer homes. Cabins on a creek and in the woods, that sort of thing.” She took a sip from her cup as she settled into her chair, and he stood next to her to view the monitor on her desk.

Rivers’s mind churned. “Does one of the cabins belong to James Cahill?” he asked, focused on her computer screen. An aerial shot, where a small spur of a county road was visible, came into view. Maybe this really was something.

“Nope. Not Cahill.”

“Then who?”

She zeroed in on one plot of land. “I checked the county records for all of the lots in the area, and most meant nothing, but the registered owner of this place,” she tapped the screen with a fingernail where the roof of a cabin was visible through the tree branches, “just happens to be one Harold Sinclaire, aka Mr. ‘Good Guy’ Harry.”

“Harry Sinclaire?” The name rang a bell. “Jennifer Korpi’s boyfriend?” he asked, surprised. Though he hadn’t discounted her as a suspect, Rivers hadn’t really thought the nervous schoolteacher James Cahill had once dated was involved in Megan’s disappearance. She hadn’t seemed the type, despite what he’d felt while holding her tension ball: the sadness, the anger, maybe even a hint of jealousy. Nonetheless, this was something, and that familiar tingle in his blood that came with the thought that they finally had something to go on, a lead, singed through his veins.

“Yep. Jennifer’s current main squeeze, as my grandma used to say. One and the same.” Mendoza seemed pleased with herself. “How do you think Sister Rosemarie would like them apples?”

He allowed himself a laugh.

Mendoza said, “I think we should go and check the place out.”

He was already reaching for his keys, and within minutes, they were driving west out of the city. With Mendoza navigating the GPS, Rivers kept to the main road, then, near the summit, turned onto a county road that was packed with ice and snow. They met few other vehicles as the road twisted upward through dense old growth laden with snow, fir trees and pines that spired high into the sky.

“Here!” Mendoza said as they rounded a sharp curve and she spied a narrow one-lane bridge that spanned a frozen creek. The lane was unplowed, with only a few visible ruts. They decided to walk in and trudged through knee-deep snow in places to the third house in, a rustic, two-storied cabin with a steeply pitched roof, the walls built of rough-wood siding that had grayed over the years. The doors were locked, but a few of the windows didn’t have the shades drawn. They peered inside, their breath fogging the panes, the interior dark.

“No one’s in here,” Mendoza said, frowning. “The place looks almost abandoned.”

He agreed. “Probably only used in the summer.” They walked along a snow-covered path to the detached garage, which was little more than a shed. Its door too was locked tight, but there was a window in the side door, and the shade was broken, falling at an angle that left a long, uneven sliver of the pane unobscured. Using his flashlight and ignoring the blinding reflection from the beam reflecting on the glass, Rivers peered inside. The beam swept over a stack of wood and a few garden tools to land squarely on the hood of a small black sedan.

“Son of a bitch,” he whispered as he stared at what he firmly believed to be Megan Travers’s 2010 Toyota.

CHAPTER 38

The Isolated Cabin

December 15

It’s now or never!

I hear the vehicle approach, engine whining as the car climbs the hill, tires crunching through ice and snow.

With difficulty, I swallow back my fear. My nerves are jangled, my emotions strung raw. I have to do this. And I have to do it now!

This is my one shot. If I fail now, I’ll never have another chance. If I fail, I could be signing my death warrant.

You can do this, you can.

But my confidence wavers. Even though I’ve got the plastic bits in one pocket and the metal hook rack in the other, I feel my determination start to crumble as I envision the scene, sense the imminent attack.

But. Oh. God.

My stomach clenches.

I’ve played and replayed the scenario in my mind for hours on end. While struggling to get to sleep in the loft, I’ve imagined it often:

A sharp rap on the door.

A familiar voice.

The jangle of keys.

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