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.
Julia probably should have rented a house, as there were too many prying eyes in this building. Though it didn’t have cameras, there was always the nosy landlady to deal with. Or there had been. Julia had managed to take care of Phoebe. Julia was a master at opening locks, and finding the EpiPens hadn’t been hard; the old lady was always talking about herself.
Too bad she hadn’t died.
Yet.
But Julia would take care of her. The switched-out candy had been brilliant, or so she’d thought. And come on, why was the old lady eating candy at all—what with her constant complaints about diabetes? Julia concentrated. Maybe she should put the peanut powder in the old woman’s Metamucil . . . or come up with some other kind of accident. Slipping on the ice would be good. Maybe if Julia let that stupid little Larry dog out, and he ran into the street, and Phoebe, running after him, slipped and fell on the ice and hit her head . . . at night. That would be best. She’d have to work on that, but Phoebe, the old snoop, had to go!
Julia cracked open the soda. “I bought groceries after the shift I worked.”
“I know what time you got off,” Sophia reminded her. “It was my shift.”
“So I got groceries and had a couple of drinks, down at the Brass Bullet.” She went back to the living room and carefully peered through the blinds to spy on Dabrowski shoveling snow, Larry—that stupid little yappy dog he’d inherited from Phoebe Matrix—sniffing the bushes lining the parking lot.
“Ask Bruce, if you don’t believe me,” she said, snapping the blinds shut, then returning to the kitchen. “He was there—at the Bullet.”
Sophia looked as if she were about to say something, but didn’t.
“So what? Now I can’t even have a drink?” Julia demanded and, to make a point, took a swallow from her can.
“You just need to be careful. And I think this is wrong. I mean, what we’re doing. The whole scam. It’s just not right.”
“When did you come up with a change of heart? Is this because you and James had a fight?” Sophia had confided that she was giving James a little space, that they’d had a disagreement, so Julia assumed all of her doubts arose from the fight—whatever it had been about. Sophia had been a little closemouthed about it. Now she touched her twin on the shoulder. “You knew this could get messy. So don’t think you can back out now. You’re in this, Sophia. It’s too late now to grow a conscience.”
Sophia appeared absolutely miserable, almost near tears, her throat catching. She shrugged off Julia’s hand. “Is it—is it really worth it?”
Hell, yeah, it is. What was wrong with her? They had a deal. A pact. Made between two women of the same blood! And stupid Sophia intended to blow it? After all the years of planning to get back at the Cahills for turning their backs on them, now . . . now Sophia was going to throw in the towel?
“We’re talking millions,” Julia reminded her, trying to remain calm. “Tens of millions, maybe hundreds of millions. Who knows? But more money than we would ever see in our lifetimes.” Julia softened her voice a little, tried to be placating. “Listen. We’re just getting back what’s rightfully ours. Remember? We were cut out when that whack job of a mother gave us up for adoption.