Page 75 of You Betrayed Me (The Cahills 3)

As the traffic inched toward the main intersection of town, she fiddled with the dial for the radio, hearing snatches of rap, country, hard rock, political talk, and sports before settling on a station that played Christmas carols 24/7. But the notes of “Frosty the Snowman” got on her nerves, and she snapped the damned thing off. Agitated, she reached for her Juul and remembered she’d left it at her apartment. “Shit.” She’d given up smoking after college and switched to vaping; now she was trying to wean herself off nicotine altogether as vaping was getting a seriously bad rap. Still, right now she could sure use a hit.

Again the white Caddy lagged, and once more Charity gave a quick, pointed beep of her Hyundai’s horn. “Come on, lady! Wake up!” Charity was beginning to understand road rage at a very intimate level. Didn’t the old woman see how much space was between her and the truck in front of the Caddy? Of course not. So Charity said, “Screw it,” and hit the gas, shooting past the older car and tucking her minivan into the spot in front of the white behemoth, narrowly missing a small SUV speeding in the opposite direction.

For her efforts, she was rewarded with a glare and the finger as the driver, a girl in her teens, whipped by.

Charity resisted the urge to return the favor and gritted her teeth, cranking on the wheel around the next corner and maneuvering her van through a side street. Once she was moving again, she thought about her story on James Cahill and the research she’d already done, searching as best she could for information and backstory on Riggs Crossing’s most eligible bachelor. But she had to face the stark fact that there was only so much a girl could do on the Internet.

It wasn’t enough.

She didn’t feel she had a strong enough hook for the series of articles she intended to write, or for the book that was beginning to form in her brain.

Taking another corner, she sped around the parking lot of a convenience store, then down another side street that ran parallel to the main drag.

Sometimes, damn it, a writer needed something more, something tactile to deal with. It was more than just facts and figures; it was a feeling, an emotional connection to the story that she could convey to readers.

She’d tried dealing directly with James himself, and she’d struck out.

For now.

But, she figured, as she adjusted the defroster, if she could just get some background on him or on his family, she would have something to work with, maybe even something to use against him. She wasn’t really going to blackmail him or anything, but she needed a bit of leverage to get him to open up, and the place to start was with his family. For some reason, he was estranged from them. Why in the hell would a person intentionally break off with one of the wealthiest families in San Francisco? Well, maybe wealthiest was a bit of an exaggeration, but still, if not billions, the Cahill family was rumored to be worth hundreds of millions. And the whole clan was scandal-ridden. Perfect fodder for her article, her series, and especially her book.

Not exactly chump change.

She veered quickly down a back alley, the minivan sliding around a dumpster, then took a side street and cut across a parking lot before turning a final corner and searching for a parking spot in a lot next to the building housing the Clarion, which these days was relegated to the drafty upper floor. The owner of the building had leased the street level to a used-furniture and supposed antiques dealer. Most of the parking slots were marked for Auntie’s Antiques, but Charity ign

ored the signs and took a spot not far from the exterior sign posted near the staircase that read RIGGS CROSSING CLARION, LOCAL, REGIONAL AND NATIONAL NEWS.

A sad day, she thought, when the press was pushed aside for overpriced, worthless junk. Oh, excuse me—”antiques.” She locked the van, then marched up the stairs and through the heavy door to the office.

Inside, the cavernous second story smelled musty and as old as it truly was, the warehouse space divided by padded cubicle walls that owner/editor Earl Ray Dansen had found in a business liquidation sale. Most of the cubicles were empty as there were only a couple of staff writers who actually worked at the office. The others, “contributing reporters” such as herself, worked primarily from home. The place always seemed wretchedly ancient and, she knew, was the home to nests of mice and probably rats; she’d seen the evidence herself, and Earl was always talking about getting traps or a cat to solve the problem.

“If feral cats are good enough for Disneyland, then they’re good enough for me,” he’d said on more than one occasion, though no feline mouser had yet shown up.

Today, though, Charity wasn’t going to think about cats, rats, or mice as she walked past the empty cubicles.

Along the north-facing wall, beneath a row of high windows, was a long built-in table separated into workstations. This area had been assigned to the online edition of the Clarion. Currently, the online department was run by Earl’s son, Gerry, a stoner who was forever high; he was clever when it came to high tech, but was way too touchy-feely for Charity.

He was already at his station, she noted, and she skirted his desk as best she could as, always smelling of weed, he’d laid a hand on her shoulder one too many times. With his man bun pulling back his still-thick hair, three days’ worth of stubble around his chin, and eyes that seemed to stare straight into hers, he was far too intense for her taste. And when he’d suggested they meet for coffee or drinks, she’d felt her skin crawl.

It wasn’t just that he wasn’t her type.

There was something about him that genuinely creeped her out.

She managed to get past him without him seeing her come in. Seated at a raised chair at his work area, his head swaying to some inaudible beat from his earbuds, his fingers flying over his keyboard, his back was to her.

Thank God.

Next to Gerry, in her own cubicle, Jeanette Flannery was sipping from a Diet Coke and giggling as she talked into a headset that was buried in her spiky blond hair. She was in her usual uniform of jeans split at the knees, black long-sleeved T-shirt, and tunic-length sweater. Today the sweater was an olive color. Jeanette wasn’t a reporter, but a proofreader and techie who helped Gerry and kept her ear to the ground for local gossip.

Charity slipped past her as well and headed to the far corner of the massive room, where the ceilings were so high Charity believed barn owls could roost there.

Earl wasn’t in his office, the one glass-walled area, filled by a massive credenza and an expansive L-shaped secretary’s desk straight out of the sixties. The desk was a mess of papers, coffee cups, pencils and tablets, two oversized computer screens, and Earl’s iPhone. Gathering dust on the credenza behind him sat an ancient Royal manual typewriter, handed down to him by his grandfather.

As far as Charity knew, no one had pressed one of its keys in decades.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Earl as he walked along the short hallway that connected to the back exit and restrooms. Tucking in his shirt, he looked up and saw her waiting.

“Something up?” he asked.

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