You Betrayed Me (The Cahills #3) - Lisa Jackson Page 0,111
of the townspeople.
He wondered if the best way to combat the negative publicity and speculation was to hit it head on. Speak to one of the reporters who had been dogging him, tell his side of it.
He sipped his second scotch. Decided he’d wait until Rowdy had gotten back to him—Rowdy, whom James was counting on to prove his innocence.
Or not. Remember: You’re not completely clear on what happened that night.
Drumming his fingers on the table, he attempted to dismiss the nagging notion that he might somehow be at fault—if not directly, at least indirectly. “Oh, hell.” Scraping his chair back, he walked to the kitchen, where he finished his drink and set his glass into the gleaming sink.
He had nothing to hide. He’d phone a reporter and tell his side of the story—consequences be damned. Sliding his phone from the back pocket of his jeans, he quickly scrolled through his missed calls. The last member of the press who’d left a message was Charity Spritz, the reporter he’d nearly thrown off his front porch. She was local. She would do.
It was after ten, but she’d practically been salivating to hear his side of the story. “Today’s your lucky day,” he said, hitting the CALL BACK button on his phone.
His call went straight to voice mail.
Rather than leave a message, he clicked off. Thought about it. He could try again in the morning. If he didn’t have a change of heart. Maybe by then Megan would have returned. Maybe by then Rebecca too would call him back.
And maybe by then pigs really would fly.
His cell rang in his hand. He checked the number. Not Charity Spritz, as he’d expected. The caller was Sophia.
His jaw tightened involuntarily. He didn’t want to talk to her. Wasn’t certain he ever wanted to see her again. It was time to end this. Long past time, really.
He clicked on, but before he could say a word, Sophia said, “You’re home, right? I’m coming over.”
“Yeah, I am, but I don’t think that’s—”
“I’m on my way.”
“No, Sophia, don’t come.”
But it was too late. She’d already disconnected.
CHAPTER 34
“I just think it might help,” Rebecca Travers was saying from the other end of the connection.
Rivers, holding the phone between his ear and shoulder while clutching a bag of groceries, unlocked his door and stepped into his condo.
Rebecca had phoned to tell him she wanted to make an appeal for Megan’s safe return via a televised press conference. And, she’d said, her family was willing to set up a reward for information leading to Megan’s safe return. Since the investigation had stalled, Rivers had agreed, knowing full well the headache that would ensue when all of the fake tips started coming in, each one having to be checked out. It was remarkable how often a few hundred dollars could loosen someone’s tongue, and Rebecca was offering five thousand. That amount might spur someone to come forward. Rivers, however, wasn’t betting on it. “Okay, I’ll set it up with the PIO,” he said. “She’ll get in touch with you.”
“Thanks.”
He clicked off as he dropped the paper sack onto the counter near the refrigerator, beer bottles clinking as the bag nearly toppled. “Steady,” he ordered the bag and retrieved one bottle before stuffing the remainder of the six-pack and a jug of orange juice into the refrigerator. After shrugging out of his jacket, he cracked open one of the beers and retrieved a wrapped deli sandwich from the bag. As he added extra mustard to the ham-on-rye, he called Roxy O’Grady’s number and left a message that included Rebecca Travers’s request and cell number.
Only then did he take a bite, washing it down with a long swallow from his bottle of Heineken. As he consumed the sandwich, he thought about the missing woman and wondered how she’d disappeared without a trace.
“You’ll figure it out,” he said without a lot of optimism as he eyed the small personal items he’d “borrowed,” all laid out on the counter separating the kitchen from the living area of his condo:
James Cahill’s work gloves and sunglasses.
The necklace from Megan Travers’s apartment.
A tube of lipstick from Sophia Russo’s coat pocket.
Jennifer Korpi’s tension ball.
Rebecca Travers’s pen.
Yeah, of course, it was a little crazy—well, maybe a lot crazy, but he felt compelled to touch the personal items from a case, to feel a physical connection to those involved, be they suspects, victims, or perpetrators.