You Betrayed Me (The Cahills #3) - Lisa Jackson Page 0,99
at least thirty pounds, and added cat’s-eye glasses. “Have a seat.”
“He’s right about the fact that I don’t know a lot about him,” James admitted.
“How are you related?”
“I’m his boss. The accident happened in my shop.”
“Well, then, you can tell me whatever information you know. He’ll fill in the blanks.” She glanced up and added, “He seems pretty verbal.”
James nodded. “As I said, he works for me. At Cahill Industries. In the tiny house division.”
And that’s when it clicked. She finally looked up from her computer monitor enough to connect the dots. Her eyebrows quirked up over the rims of her glasses as she took in his lopsided haircut, the head stitches, and the claw marks still visible beneath his beard.
He wasn’t surprised. Everyone in town knew he was the last person to have seen Megan Travers in Riggs Crossing before she went missing, and he assumed all of the employees at Valley General had known he’d been a patient there recently as well.
“Okay, Mr. Cahill,” she said a little more coolly, her smile tighter. “Let’s start with his name.”
CHAPTER 31
The old nun who introduced herself as Sister Rosemarie was as much a sentry as a principal, Rivers thought when she introduced herself at St. Ignatius Elementary School in Marysville. Her expression was as severe as the coming storm. In a long navy skirt, matching cardigan over a white blouse, and sensible boots, she studied their IDs and badges with suspicious, icy eyes, then peered at each of them over the tops of half-glasses perched on a hawkish nose and held in place by a beaded chain that looped around her neck.
“Ms. Korpi is expecting you?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“All right then. I’ll take you to her room. This way.” The end of a rosary dangled from one of the pockets in her voluminous skirt as she led them briskly past a statue of the saint for whom the school was named and then headed up a short staircase and down a corridor, where their footsteps echoed on the worn floor.
She paused by the open door to room 8. “In here,” she said and led them inside a cluttered room filled with tiny desks, science projects, and artwork. “Ms. Korpi?”
A woman of about thirty was standing between a cluttered desk and the whiteboard stretching across the front wall. Bible verses were scripted on all the walls, jingle bells were hanging in strips from the ceiling and artwork was everywhere. In gray slacks and a pink sweater, she was holding a cell phone to one ear and looked up quickly as they entered, holding up a finger. “Oh, geez,” she said into the phone. “What is it with him? . . . But he’s okay? . . . When will he get there?” She glanced up at the clock as Rivers surveyed the room. Windows ran along one side, each decorated with a cut-out angel and fake snow. A terrarium was positioned on the back wall near a sink, and a small Christmas tree decorated with paper ornaments listed near a row of hooks near the door.
Jennifer was ending her call. “Sure. I’ve got a few things to take care of and then, yeah, I’ll be there . . . okay. Sure . . . I’ll call . . . Thanks, Tabby, I’ll talk to you later.” Then she disconnected and stuffed the phone into the pocket of her slacks. “I’m sorry.”
Sister Rosemarie said, “Everything okay?”
“I think so. Or maybe not. No one knows.” She was obviously upset. “My sister . . . That was Tabitha on the phone, and she was calling about our brother, Gus. According to Tabby, he was in an accident at work. A bad one, got his hand caught in a saw.” She visibly cringed at the words. “I guess his hand is pretty messed up, possible nerve damage, and he could lose a finger or two. The local hospital is sending him to a specialist in Seattle. A hand guy.” She glanced at the clock mounted over the door again. “I said I’d go over and be with him.”
“I’ll put him in my prayers,” the nun said, her fingertips flicking to the beads of the rosary draped from her pocket, then, as if remembering her mission, said, “This is Detective Rivers and Detective Mendoza. They said you were expecting them.”
“Yes.” Korpi glanced at the clock over the door. “I am.”