Page 177 of You Betrayed Me (The Cahills 3)

You’ll never have him, and you won’t be able to talk even though I know you’re suspicious. You saw us exchanging the car, even though I was in the wig and the fat suit. You w

atched, and you suspect there is more than one Sophia, so, Willow, you little freak, “a-fucking-dieu.”

Again the recoil, and this time, he caught sight of a gloved hand wrapping Willow’s fingers around the gun as blood oozed from the little hole at her temple. Then the single thought that there was still someone standing in the killer’s way, someone who had to be dealt with.

The sister . . .

* * *

“You’re backing out?” Julia said, shocked, her eyes narrowing on her twin. She’d just gotten home from their yoga class, and Sophia had dropped the bomb that she wanted out of the plan.

No way. No effing way was Julia about to let that happen. Not after having worked on this intricate scheme for years, an idea she’d started sculpting the minute she’d found out that she was related to the Amhursts and, as such, the Cahills—a fortune whose size she couldn’t even imagine. And she could imagine a pretty damned big one. “Is that what you said?” And before Sophia could answer, Julia added, “You can’t back out now. You’re in too deep—we’re in too deep.” Julia felt anger and fear. What the hell did Sophia think she was doing? Taking control? Making decisions? No way. Sophia didn’t have the brains to take charge. All she would do would be to mess things up! No, no, no! Tamping down a rising sense of panic, Julia tried her best to stay calm, to reason with her sister.

“What exactly does that mean, ‘in too deep’?” Sophia asked, and Julia didn’t like the glint in her eye or the way she hoisted her chin upward, almost as if she were superior to her twin.

Yeah, right. Sophia could only hope.

“Tell me you didn’t have anything to do with those people dying,” Sophia demanded.

“People?”

“Like, you know, that reporter in San Francisco?”

Oh, God, she was blowing this, ruining everything they’d worked for! Julia put on her most innocent face and dropped her bag and yoga mat by the door—the bag and mat Sophia had picked out when they’d worked out how they could pretend to be one person, to ensure that James would notice them, to provide alibis for each other. “You can’t be serious, Sophia. I was right here. You know that.” They’d been together; Sophia couldn’t argue the fact.

But there were others . . . Julia began to worry. What if Sophia started putting two and two together and figured out that Julia really was a part of Charity Spritz’s murder and Willow Valente’s murder and Phoebe Matrix’s near murder? That one still bothered her, but she had to keep her cool, not let on. Not yet. Sophia was already about to blow it. This was no time for her sister to go rogue.

“Then what about Willow?” Sophia charged. “You never liked her.”

“You never liked her,” Julia reminded her twin. “You thought she might be a problem.”

Sophia rolled her eyes—big and blue, so like Julia’s. “James would never go for someone like her,” Sophia said. “She was just too weird.” Sophia walked into the kitchen. Julia followed and saw there was half of a beef taco, cheese congealing on a plate near a takeout bag. No wonder the place smelled gross. Following her sister, Julia wadded the thin paper around the remaining taco shell and meat—geez, Sophia could be such a slob sometimes—and tossed it into the trash while Sophia ran the tap and filled a glass of water.

“Well, if you’re asking. I didn’t kill her, okay?” She leaned a hip against the counter. “Do I look like a murderer?”

“Do I?” Sophia turned her head to peer over her shoulder. “What you look like is me.”

“Funny, I thought you looked like me.”

“Not so funny, not really.” She drank half the glass of water down.

“But it’s perfect.”

“Is it?”

“Oh, come on, Sophia. Do you think I really killed Willow? I can’t believe it!” Julia said. “Geez, get a clue.”

“She was shot with James’s gun. You were in his house. You could have stolen it.”

“You were in his house too. You could have stolen it.”

“You weren’t here the night Willow was killed,” Sophia accused.

Julia shook her head and opened the refrigerator, pulled out a can of Diet Coke. “Yes, I was.”

“Not all of the night. I heard you go out.”

That was the problem with this damned apartment. Too small. And though Julia slept in the loft, while Sophia had the bedroom, it was tricky coming and going without being seen or heard. When Sophia was at work—no problem, Julia would don her disguise and do whatever she wanted, as long as she had the car. That, of course, was an issue in this Podunk town with zero cabs and no Uber or Lyft drivers who wouldn’t recognize you.

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