Page 166 of You Betrayed Me (The Cahills 3)

But as he climbed from the back of the cruiser and stretched his back, he eyed the throng of lookie-loos on the other side of the yellow tape, but no one caught his eye; no one seemed the least bit suspicious or out of place.

Yet he sensed that he was getting closer, that soon the killer would show his hand. Sending the pictures was a sign and a stupid one.

He was going to nail the bastard and soon; he could feel it as surely as the cold breath of the night that made him turn up his collar.

What had Andie Jeffries said?

If anything happens to me, it’s James. His fault.

Rivers was just tossing that around in his mind when—speak of the devil—James Cahill’s Jeep roared into the lot. He was at the wheel, but he wasn’t alone.

Rebecca Travers was right at his side.

How damned convenient.

* * *

“She lives here?” Rebecca asked as James parked his SUV in the lot of a two-storied building.

“I guess so.” James wasn’t certain, but he’d gotten the address from his employee records at the hotel when he’d dropped off the phone and left Ralph with the staff.

Judging by the activity in the parking area—an array of police cars, vans, and an ambulance—this had to be the right spot.

A small crowd of onlookers was being held at bay by a couple of deputies, and Bobby Knowlton stood outside his truck while smoking a cigarette, the blue-and-red flashing lights of a couple of police vehicles playing weirdly on the snowy pavement and reflecting in the large windows where baked goods had once been displayed.

As James climbed out of his Explorer, he noticed the cops, Rivers and Mendoza, walking away from a cruiser and heading in his direction. His jaw tensed, and his stomach clenched into a tight knot.

“James Cahill,” Rivers called out, as they approached. “We need to talk.”

Great. “Okay.” From the corner of his eye, he saw Rebecca round the front of his SUV so that she stood next to him. “Just let me ask one question. I got a call from Bobby.” James hitched his chin toward the foreman. “He said that Willow Valente committed suicide. Is that right?”

“She’s deceased,” Rivers said, “but we haven’t figured out the cause of death yet.” Mendoza glanced from James to Rebecca and back again.

“Was she in an accident?”

“We can’t say at this time,” Rivers said. “But we’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“You mean ‘more’ questions. I’ve already given a statement.” James’s voice had an unwanted edge to it, and he gazed up to the second floor of the big building as more passers-by pulled over, engines of cars, trucks, and vans rumbling through the night.

“Not about this,” Rivers said.

“This? Listen, I don’t know anything about Willow! My foreman called me, and I drove over here. That’s it. End of story.”

Unmoved, Rivers said, “It’s just a few questions. We can do it here. Or at the station.”

“I told you—”

Rebecca’s gloved hand grabbed hold of his forearm, steadying him.

“Okay, okay. I don’t care. We can do it here.” James didn’t bother to hide his irritation.

“Maybe the station would be better,” Rebecca suggested as she cast her gaze over the onlookers being held back by a hastily made barricade of yellow crime-scene tape and sawhorses.

“Fine,” he finally agreed. “The station.”

CHAPTER 44

Sophia was furious.

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