You Betrayed Me (The Cahills #3) - Lisa Jackson Page 0,35
the guy said, and the dog started scratching wildly. “What’s in the damned attic?”
Oh. Dear. God.
Don’t open the door!
“I’m not sure I want to know,” the guy said. “Come on, Ralph. We don’t have time to chase squirrels or rats or whatever. Not now. You can get ’em later. With James. Let’s go!”
And then, miracle of miracles, the dog, still barking, left, his toenails clicking on the old hardwood as he scrabbled away.
Rebecca let out her breath and felt her body sag. She had to get out of here. Before anyone came back. She considered her options. She’d entered through the dog door and could retrace her steps and use the dog’s exit or even go out the doors if the dead bolts hadn’t been engaged, and no one would be the wiser. Before she’d been trapped, she’d considered the option of climbing out an upper-story window. The bedroom across the hall from James’s had a window that opened to the roof of the long porch that stretched to the back of the property. Her footprints would show in the snow, but if she was lucky, no one would notice, and the snow would keep piling up.
Definitely her last resort.
Sneaking around wasn’t her forte. She’d always preferred the direct approach, and so, like it or not, she’d have to face James again and somehow jog his memory.
But he couldn’t find her hiding in his attic like a snoop or a crazy person.
No, she needed an even playing field to earn his trust.
But first, she had to sneak out of this place before the dog came roaring up the stairs again. Swallowing back her fear, she pushed open the door and looked through the slit. The bedroom was dark, aside from a slice of light at the door from the outer hallway, and it seemed empty.
No sign of man or dog.
No sound of voices drifting up the staircase.
Still . . .
Heart knocking, holding her breath, she let herself out of the closet and quietly closed the attic door behind her. Carefully, avoiding the clothes, books, magazines, and personal items on the floor, she picked her way toward the door.
The dog gave a sharp bark again, and she stumbled, nearly tripping. Instead, she fell against the bed and bit her tongue, catching herself so that she wouldn’t crash into the floor or let out a cry.
Another sharp bark, and she nearly bolted toward the attic again.
Then she heard the doorbell.
* * *
Through the living room window, James saw the headlights of a vehicle as it approached, rounding the final curve of the lane.
Now what?
Behind him, Bobby and Ralph were hurrying down the stairs.
A van pulled up outside, parking near Bobby’s pickup, and a woman in a long gray coat and red hat stepped out and started trudging across the lawn. She was wearing knee-high boots and didn’t seem to care about stepping through the deep snow to the front porch.
By the time she rang the bell, Ralph had given a warning bark, and James was already at the door.
James opened the door, and the woman under the porch light smiled up at him.
“Hi!” she said. “I’m Charity Spritz with the Clarion, and I’d like to ask you some questions about what happened here and about Megan Travers.”
“No.”
“Do you know what happened to her?”
“I said, ‘No,’ ” he repeated and didn’t bother hiding his irritation. Ralph was going bananas again, and he said sharply, “No! Ralph. Sit!”
The shepherd did, ears cocked, eyes focused on James.
Bobby asked, “What’s this?”
“I’m Charity Spritz,” she said quickly. “With the Clarion.”
“I’ve seen you on TV,” Bobby said with a sharp nod of his head.
“Yes. Right. Once in a while I do a spot for KPTD. I just want to ask Mr. Cahill and . . . and you too, some questions. You are?”
Beside him, Bobby straightened to all of his five feet, nine inches. “Robert Knowlton. I’m the ranch manager.”
“So you were the person who found Mr. Cahill, last Thursday night? Here,” she said, motioning toward the interior of the house.
“That’s right,” Bobby said with a quick grin.
“Enough!” James cut in. He’d had it with people and their interest in his life. He didn’t want to talk to the police, or Megan’s sister, or Sophia, and especially anyone from the press. His head ached, his shoulder was throbbing, and he hadn’t showered or cleaned up in what seemed like forever. “Please, just leave.”