You Betrayed Me (The Cahills #3) - Lisa Jackson Page 0,175
remembered her coming out of the shower, her hair pinned away from her face, freckles visible on her shoulder; yet another time, now that he thought about it, in a similar situation, when her hair had been swept up in a messy bun that same shoulder was flawless—no makeup. He knew. He’d kissed her bare skin. And then there were her toes. One had been broken and wouldn’t fit easily into a boot, and yet another time when she was wearing those same knee-highs, he’d watched her dress and the foot had slipped easily inside.
His stomach roiled.
He hadn’t been sleeping with one woman who was possibly related to him, but two. And one—God, he hoped only one—now claimed to be pregnant!
Saliva collected in his mouth, and he rolled down the window and spat.
Were Sophia and Julia somehow involved in the murders that had gone down? Did they have something to do with Megan going missing? Every muscle in his back and neck was tight, his fingers surrounding the steering wheel in a death grip.
“Look, I’m going to do some more checking, find out where Julia Harper is, and I’ll get back to you.” He disconnected before James could tell him that he already knew where Julia was.
Right here.
In Riggs Crossing.
Sophia had mentioned that James had caught a glimpse of her sister a couple of times when she’d dropped Sophia off at work. Always at a distance. Even so, he thought now that something was off. She was a heavy-set girl with dark hair and glasses.
No twin. At least not an identical twin. Or . . . a woman in a disguise.
His jaw clenched.
Crocker was right: He’d been played.
James tossed his phone onto the passenger seat. This was wrong. So very wrong. His thoughts spinning madly, his stomach turning over and over, the saliva forming in his mouth, a warning that had him fighting the bile that rose in his throat. He dug in the console and found the receiver for the GPS tracking device he’d bought in Seattle, then hidden on the underside of Sophia’s car when she’d been working.
As soon as the screen came to life, the indicator light starting to blink, he hit the gas.
* * *
Gus Jardine must’ve had a come-to-Jesus epiphany on the way to Valley General, because as the EMTs were lowering him from the back of the ambulance, he demanded to see Rivers, who, with Mendoza, had followed the ambulance as it had raced, lights flashing, siren shrieking, to the hospital.
From his gurney under the portico of the ER, Jardine, pale and wan, stared up at the cop. “I want a deal,” he choked out. “If I make it through this, I want a deal.”
“For what?” Rivers asked. Mendoza was at his side, possibly recording the conversation, her phone in her hand.
One of the nurses who had run from the open doors of the hospital intervened. “We have to get him inside. STAT.” Thin, no-nonsense, in charge, and shivering in the cold, she motioned for the EMTs to roll Jardine inside. “Get him into ER2.”
“No!” Jardine croaked out. “A deal, Rivers! Immunity. No charges.” He cleared his throat. “And . . . and I’ll tell you where she is.”
“Who?”
The nurse interjected, “Hey, I’m sorry, but we really have to roll!”
“The missing girl. Megan Travers,” Gus said, his face pale as death in the flashing lights of the ambulance.
“This will have to wait.” The nurse was getting angry.
“I mean it, Rivers.” Gus looked like he might pass out at any second. His voice was the barest of whispers.
“Done.” Rivers didn’t have time to waste. “Where?”
“We’re going inside. Now!” the nurse insisted, and Rivers leaned forward just as Gus said, “Land owned by Cahill. Area called Regret Mountain. Spur off of Johnson Road.”
“But where—?”
Jardine’s eyes closed.
“Let’s go!” the nurse commanded and bustled into the hospital, leading the EMTs as they rolled Gus through the sliding-glass doors.
“Got it,” Mendoza said, scrolling through information on the phone as they walked back to the Jeep. “James Cahill owns a whole tract of land. Up in the hills.”
“Let’s go.”
Rivers didn’t dare hope they’d find Megan Travers. Gus Jardine could have been bullshitting him. But maybe not. When he’d held onto Jardine’s lighter for a few seconds, he’d had an image of Jardine driving Megan’s car, then another one with Megan bound and gagged in the back seat.
And his accomplice?
A blond woman who scared him just a little, whom he thought might double-cross him, a woman he called, “Julia.”