Page 144 of You Betrayed Me (The Cahills 3)

“. . . and to anyone who has information that leads to locating Megan, we are offering a five-thousand-dollar reward. My family just wants Megan back. Thank you.”

Rivers thought her speech had seemed heartfelt, despite her lack of tears, but Mendoza wasn’t convinced.

“That woman has ice water in her veins,” she said. “I don’t trust her.”

Rivers was on the fence about Rebecca Travers, not convinced she was innocent, not completely trusting her, but then he was suspicious of most people. He watched as she concluded her plea, then took a step back as the PIO took over. Roxy O’Grady asked anyone who had information to call the department and offered up the Sheriff’s Department’s phone number.

Thankfully, neither Rivers nor Mendoza was asked to speak or update the public on the case. O’Grady, all five feet, two inches of her, handled the questions the press called out to her, and she was up to the challenge. Fiftysomething, petite O’Grady was as fit as most women half her age. With short, near-white hair and a few premature wrinkles, she was attractive and absolutely no-nonsense, firing back answers quickly until the briefing took a sudden turn and a reporter, a lanky man with curly brown hair sticking out of a green cap, looked up from his cell phone and called out, “Is your department investigating the murder of Charity Spritz?”

“Here we go,” Mendoza said under her breath. “The news is out.” Until now, there had been no reports of Charity Spritz’s homicide in Riggs Crossing. But that was changing.

There was a murmur through the small crowd collected at the base of the steps as other members of the press consulted each other or their mobile devices. Rebecca Travers visibly started, and she turned her questioning eyes toward Rivers.

O’Grady said, “We’ve just recently heard about the suspected homicide of Ms. Spritz.”

Rebecca blanched, took an involuntary step back.

The newsman in the green cap pressed on. “It’s being reported that she was killed in San Francisco. Can you confirm that?”

“We’re still getting details from the San Francisco Police Department as the investigation is ongoing.”

“She was rumored to be working on a story about Megan Travers,” another reporter, a woman in a yellow coat, said. “Is Charity Spritz’s homicide connected to Megan Travers’s disappearance?”

“As I said, the investigation is ongoing.”

More questions were thrown out: Why was Spritz in San Francisco? Who

was a suspect in her death? How did she die? Was there any person of interest? Would the Sheriff ’s Department here work with the force in California?

All the while, Rebecca seemed to shrink back from the barrage of questions, outstretched microphones, and clicks of photographs. O’Grady handled it all, responding over and over again that the investigation was ongoing, there was nothing to report, and when there was, the public would be informed. She thanked them all and stepped away from the podium, a signal that the conference was over. As the reporters dispersed, Rebecca, her dark eyes grave, her jaw set, headed toward Rivers and Mendoza.

“This is true? Charity Spritz is dead? Murdered?” she demanded, obviously stunned.

Rivers nodded.

“But . . . but . . . She was just at my mother’s house the other night. Mom called and complained, said she was being harassed by her! She—Mom—she had the security guard come and escort Charity out of the gated community. She was really upset.”

That was news. From the corner of his eye, he noted that Mendoza was already taking notes on her phone, and the green-capped reporter was drawing near.

“Let’s go inside,” Rivers suggested, shepherding them up the remaining steps and holding open the door.

As they walked inside, the warmth of the building enfolding them, Mendoza said, “We need to talk to your mother.”

“You need to talk to me!” Rebecca charged and stopped in the main lobby, where glass windows separated them from officers who were working at the front desk. “You knew about it, and you didn’t tell me,” she charged, her shock having given way to anger.

Rivers said, “There’s nothing to tell.”

“Like hell! You can’t expect me to believe it’s just coincidence that the reporter who has been calling me day and night and showed up at my mom’s house because she was investigating Megan’s disappearance is dead. Murdered.Is that what you want me to think?”

“I don’t believe in coincidence.”

“Neither do I. Charity was all over Megan’s disappearance. Now she’s dead? Murdered? There has to be a link.”

“We’re working on it, but haven’t discovered a connection yet,” Rivers said.

“Well, find out.” Her eyes sparked, and she sent Mendoza a scathing glance. “Can’t you do something?”

“We’re working—”

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