Page 185 of You Betrayed Me (The Cahills 3)

She tried to keep her mind on business.

With a smile pinned to her face, she was about to close the little Christmas shop attached to the café, but she was dealing with one last customer, a pudgy woman stuffed into a bright red jacket at least two sizes too small, a Santa hat partially covering her short brown curls. Her chapped lips were pursed as if she’d sucked on a lemon, and she was showing Julia an ornament she’d plucked from the display tree and complaining that it wasn’t available in off-white or ivory. Apparently snow-white “just couldn’t possibly” go on her tree.

“I’m sorry; it’s all we have left,” Julia said, trying to keep her voice light, but she was irritated. For Pete’s sake, it was two days before Christmas, and the woman was decorating her tree now? Just so she could get the fifty percent off the sales price?

“Isn’t there anything you can do?” Pudgy pouted.

“I’m sorry.” Julia wasn’t. “Maybe you can find something else?”

“I’ve looked! Everything’s picked over.”

Well, duh. Again, two days before Christmas!

“Don’t you have some in the back? I swear I saw a bone-colored one just last week. Maybe there are others.”

“Everything we have is out,” Julia assured the old bag.

“Well, this just won’t do.” Pudgy scowled and puffed herself up even more, straining the zipper running down the front of her jacket. “I guess I’ll just have to look somewhere else.”

Good luck with that!

“I’m sorry.” But there wasn’t the least trace of sincerity in Julia’s tone; in fact, she was being sarcastic

And Pudgy knew it. She slapped the delicate ornament into Julia’s hand.

“And Merry Christmas to you too!” But Julia didn’t utter the overused phrase.

Pudgy adjusted her Santa’s hat and walked out in a huff, the door with its little tinkling bell over the threshold slamming behind her.

Good riddance, Julia thought, and wondered how long she would have this job—such as it was. Sophia had indicated that, during their fight, James had suggested Sophia find employment somewhere else but had acquiesced as it was the busy season. However, the holidays would soon be over. She hadn’t dared approach James, as Sophia had also told her that James needed a little time to sort things out.

Whatever their fight had been about, it had been a doozy, nearly ruining everything they’d worked for. Sophia had only confided that it had been about Rebecca, which was a pisser.

So Julia would be patient. She hadn’t come this far, spent all the years plotting and hatching her plan, only to rush things and blow it at the end. If James needed a little breathing room, she’d go along with that. For now, he seemed to be thawing a little, waving to her if they met in the bar. She’d give him some breathing room, even though she hated it.

She’d seen him, of course, usually from a distance, and she had caught his eye, smiling and waving. He’d returned the favor, though his smile hadn’t touched his eyes.

It was all she could do to get through the days.

Everything was falling apart. That damned Phoebe Matrix hadn’t died, had come out of her coma. No telling what she would tell the cops, and beyond that, there was Gus, out of the hospital and supposedly recovering, but he was a powder keg, ready to go off. She’d bought his silence by promising him a hundred grand, but she was willing to up it, and besides, he was the one who had killed Charity, so it was to his advantage to keep his mouth shut!

Julia had known from the moment Sophia had mentioned that Charity was at the bar, sniffing around, that the reporter would be trouble. She’d been looking for James that night, had been on the trail of a story, and, of course, had made the Cahill–San Francisco connections while snooping around. Julia and Sophia both knew Gus from working for James. With a little alcohol poured into his friend Bruce, Sophia had learned that Gus would do anything for a buck—Bruce had repeated, “anything”—and he had let it slip that Gus knew a guy who could make fake IDs, great ones, within a matter of days. With that knowledge, Julia had gone to work. And Bruce Porter—bless his little ex-con hide—had been right about Gus. It had been easy enough to work into Gus’s confidence, gain his trust, and get him involved. Gus was nothing if not greedy, and he, like Julia, had thought he’d been dealt a bad hand in life, was always looking for a quick buck. He’d not only helped with Megan’s abduction; he’d willingly followed Charity to San Francisco, where he’d dealt with her.

How had everything gone so wrong?

For the first time since concocting this plan, Julia thought she might have to cut and run. Save her own skin.

What about Sophia?

Was she going to just let her rot in the tiny house? Die from starvation or dehydration or frostbite if she didn’t keep paying that slime ball of a fuel driver who had come and delivered propane, no questions asked, skimming money off the top so that the owners of the fuel company wouldn’t get suspicious? Julia had worked so hard for her plans to succeed, and now they were unraveling.

She should bail.

But the lure of the Cahill and Amhurst millions proved too great for her to give up now. She’d call Gus, offer him more money if she had to. And she’d find a way to deal with Phoebe. Certainly the old snoop might have to have another, more permanent accident. And though it hurt her, if she had to, Julia could kill Sophia as well, get rid of her body as she had Megan’s. There was no way anyone could connect her to Willow Valente’s death. If anyone had seen her, they would think Sophia had been the one who had followed her from James’s house to her own sorry little apartment.

So she could cover her tracks.

If she worked at it.

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