Page 109 of You Betrayed Me (The Cahills 3)

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the thought, she sketched the sign of the cross over her ample breasts and made her way to the living room, where Larry, who had proved far more loyal than any of her husbands, was in position on the back of the couch. His little nose was pressed to the glass, and he was growling, his fuzzy white fur practically standing on end.

Probably at the blonde in the upstairs studio. Sophia Russo. She was always coming and going, never staying put. Or that friend—or was it a relative, maybe a sister or cousin?—the woman about the same age as Sophia who sometimes stayed over, a dark-haired woman who was heavier, with dark eyes and glasses. She was really pushing the “temporary guest” rule. Phoebe had seen her a number of times and had actually run into her once when she’d been hauling out the trash from a unit that had just been vacated. She hadn’t caught her name and was pretty certain she wasn’t actually living with Sophia; that would definitely be in violation of the lease. Nor was James Cahill living in the building, but he’d been at the apartment a few times and spent the night. Phoebe had caught him leaving in the predawn hours at least twice before his girlfriend, that Megan Travers, had gone missing. Then again, he had his own place, and Phoebe wondered why they didn’t just stay out there at the Christmas tree farm? It would be more private. Well, unless the girlfriend showed up when he was with Sophia.

It was all very odd. And interesting. Scandalously so.

Maybe Sophia and James had worked together to get rid of Megan? Could that be possible? Or was it reaching a bit, maybe from watching too many episodes of Dateline about missing or murdered women? Her last husband, Charles the Casanova, had thought as much and had even gone so far as to delete the shows she’d recorded. “Why get yourself all worked up over these old crimes?” he’d say in that all-knowing way of his. He’d always tried to tell her what to do. Well, they were long divorced. Good riddance to bad rubbish!

Now Phoebe gazed hard at Sophia’s unit, where the living room window blinds were perpetually drawn. That was strange, too, she thought. And all the comings and goings . . . But that was the way of young girls, wasn’t it? Hadn’t she been forever on the go in her twenties? There had been a day when Phoebe was head of the Tri-City Twirlers in high school, a beauty who could toss a whirling baton twenty feet into the air and catch it in a swooping spin without once scuffing the white boots that were part of the twirling team’s uniform. She’d been forever on the go with this friend and that boyfriend. “A whirlwind of a social butterfly,” that’s what her mother had called her. Who would have thought Phoebe O’Malley would be single and content to knit for hours and actually look forward to outsmarting those idiot contestants on Jeopardy?

“The folly of youth,” she said, scratching Larry behind his big ears and peering into the snow-covered lot again. “Oh, for the love of St. Peter!” The asphalt was covered with a blanket of white, and that no-account renter in unit 4, Phil Dabrowski, who got a hundred dollars off his rent every month for keeping the parking lot clear of leaves, gravel, ice, snow, and whatever trash floated in, hadn’t been out salting and shoveling the parking area.

And here came Sophia again, wheeling into the lot in her little gray car and sliding to a stop in front of her unit. She hadn’t been gone but half an hour, and now she was back again. What was she up to?

Larry stiffened and gave a quick round of sharp barks as the girl—well, woman, really—unlocked the door of her unit and slammed the door shut behind her. Even though Sophia worked at Cahill’s Christmas tree farm and the hotel attached to it, she didn’t seem to have regular hours. But that was the way of it these days, lots of people actually worked from home, on their laptop computers, eating Cheetos and watching The Bachelorette or some other television show while they were “working.” The world had changed.

She sat down in her favorite Queen Anne chair with her knitting, one eye on the window, and nearly called Dabrowski when she spied him, hunting cap with ear flaps buckled tight over his round head, a heavy camo-patterned jacket seeming to add another twenty pounds to his already rotund girth, crossing the parking lot. In one gloved hand, he held a bag of salt, and he started shaking it onto the icy lot just as the door to Sophia Russo’s apartment opened again and she appeared. She’d changed quickly, out of jeans and a long gray jacket to a short skirt, tights, boots, and a tunic-like sweater. A long coat was slung over one arm, a large bag swinging from the other.

On the couch, Larry bristled and growled, his nose making little spots of fog on the window.

“It’s all right,” Phoebe told him and reached for her knitting basket, where she kept a ziplock bag of his favorite treats.

But Larry was having none of the liver-flavored morsels this morning. Stiff-bodied, he glared out the window as Sophia slid into her car and backed up quickly, missing Dabrowski by less than a foot.

In a hurry.

As ever.

Finally, the dog took the little snack from between her fingers and settled down on the back of the couch again, still watching, but more relaxed. Phoebe allowed herself a little snack as well from the candy dish she kept on the shelf too high for Larry to reach and popped five M&Ms into her mouth.

As the chocolate began to melt on her tongue, Phoebe recounted her stitches, then began knitting again, yet another baby blanket she was donating to the church, which would distribute it, along with her other finished projects—booties, hats, and sweaters—to the needy. Her hands flew, the needles clicked, the fuzzy pink blanket grew, and still she wondered just what it was about Sophia Russo that bothered her so.

Maybe she would have to do some more checking on the pretty blonde herself. After all, she could easily let herself into the apartment and poke around a bit. Honestly, it wouldn’t be the first time and probably not the last. And she had the handy excuse of checking for frozen pipes if she was found out.

Phoebe considered it part of her job to make certain everything was on the up-and-up at the Cascadia Apartments.

No funny business. Not on Phoebe’s watch.

And something about that Russo girl just wasn’t right.

Phoebe felt it in her bones.

And Larry, bless his little heart, did too.

CHAPTER 30

As he sat behind the wheel of his idling SUV, James Cahill stared across the street at the Main Street Hotel, hoping to catch a glimpse of Rebecca. Like a love-sotted fool.

“Moron,” he muttered as he noted her car was still in the hotel’s lot and contemplated how he could see her again.

It was ridiculous.

Until this moment in time, he’d always known what he wanted.

And he’d gone after it. Usually with single-minded intent. From the time he’d been upright, he hadn’t so much as walked but run to get what he was after—and usually, at least according to his parents, straight into trouble, as proven by the number of times he’d broken the law as a teenager. Worse yet, he’d crushed his mother and father by dropping out of college and working construction. Despite their disappointment, he’d been adept with a hammer and saw, could read architectural plans and schematics easily, and was quick to come up with innovative ideas and solutions to problems. He’d scraped and saved, borrowed and used the money he’d already inherited, a small portion of what he would someday come into, to buy forty acres of land here in the foothills of the Cascades and start his own construction company. Within a few years, he was where he was today. Self-made and proud of it.

But now everything he’d struggled for wasn’t enough.

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