Neither Sophia nor Julia had been given a fair shake in life!
So Sophia had put her reservations aside and gone along with the plan:
Get close to James Cahill. Real close. Be always around, so that he can’t imagine life without Sophia. Eventually marry him. Get what was due to both of the twins! The goal was to walk down the aisle before he inherited his millions.
She’d found it an exciting challenge to try and catch his eye and flirt with him, to steal him away from that awful Megan. That part hadn’t been hard. The difficult part had been to try and avoid falling in love with him.
And she’d failed.
Worse yet, his wandering eye had moved on.
To Rebecca Travers, of all people! A woman he’d already tossed aside!
Neither she nor Julia had seen that coming.
But now . . . now . . .
Sophia glanced down at the stick in her hand, to the tiny results window, and sure enough, just as she’d expected, it indicated that yes, indeed, she was pregnant.
With James Cahill’s child.
Her heart soared, and a slow, satisfied smile spread across her lips. All her doubts about having a baby fled, and tears starred her eyelashes, tears of a newfound joy.
Take that, Rebecca Travers!
Game over!
CHAPTER 41
Rivers wasn’t sure what he expected from Earl Ray Dansen, but it certainly wasn’t two digital pictures, one each of two dead women. The first was of Charity Spritz, her face battered and bruised, similar to the photographs Detective Tanaka had sent to him. The second picture, according to Earl, was Willow Valente, lying on a bed, a bullet hole visible in her temple.
“Jesus,” Mendoza whispered.
“Where did you get these?” Rivers demanded, stunned, his jaw tight as they stood in what had once been the reception area of the newspaper’s offices. One of the fluorescent lights overhead was buzzing, hinting that it was about to go out, and the entire suite of offices beyond seemed empty.
“Came from Charity Spritz’s phone.” Earl scrolled down and showed Rivers and Mendoza the text message: ANOTHER VICTIM.
“What the hell?” Rivers said under his breath. The killer was obviously taunting them—or, at least, taunting Earl.
“I’m going to have to take the phone. Evidence,” Rivers said, his mind racing. Pictures of two dead women, obviously from the killer. Somehow the murderer had killed Charity Spritz in the Bay Area, then come to Riggs Crossing to take Willow Valente’s life. Or possibly the other way around; he didn’t have a timeline on Valente yet. His insides turned cold.
“Yeah, I figured you’d want this.” Earl frowned, but he handed over his cell. “But just so you know, I’m running with the story. Both homicides. They’re the Clarion’s. Exclusive.”
“Whoa. Wait. Not until we investigate. Check and find out if this really is Willow Valente. This could be staged,” Mendoza said. “We just don’t know yet. She may be still alive.”
“She’s not,” Earl said with confidence. “Look at that picture.”
Mendoza reminded him, “If she is deceased, you can’t run her name until we notify next of kin.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know the drill. But the minute you do, we’re going to put it out in the digital edition, and then as the lead for the next printing.”
Rivers couldn’t do anything about that. “Is Willow Valente a friend of Charity Spritz?”
Earl lifted a shoulder, puffed out his lips, thinking. “Not that I know of. Never heard her speak of her.”
“Had she talked to her recently?” Rivers asked.
“Hey.” Earl Ray scowled. “Didn’t I just say, ‘I don’t know’?” Then he swiped at the air dismissively, as if he were swatting at a bothersome fly. “I guess it’s not all that odd. I don’t keep track of my employees’ personal lives. Unless Charity had been working on a story on Valente, I have no reason to connect them.”
“So she hadn’t?” Rivers pressed.
“That’s what I’m saying, not that I know of.”
“What do you know about Valente?” Rivers figured Earl Ray had already started doing some research.
“Not much. We did do some checking, for the story. All I know is she’s twenty-three, grew up around here, has an older sister who lives outside of Olympia. Can’t think of her name right off the top of my head . . . no, wait!” He snapped his fingers. “It’s um . . . Fern. Another woodsy name. Last name of Smithe, with an ‘e’.”
“You talked to her?” Mendoza asked as she typed in the information on her phone.
“No.”
Rivers asked, “What else?”
“She—Valente—holds down, well, held down two jobs. Basically maid service at the Cahill Inn and then janitorial work at the McEwen Clinic.”
Where Megan Travers had been employed.
“Does she have any friends?” Mendoza asked.
“Haven’t gotten that far. Don’t know.”
“Okay.” Rivers needed to get moving and took a step toward the door. Mendoza was ahead of him, already calling for deputies to check out Valente’s place.
“Hey, man, I want my phone back ASAP!” Earl jabbed a long finger at Rivers. “Tomorrow.”
“ASAP,” Rivers assured him.
As they clambered down the staircase from the newspaper offices, Mendoza said, “She lives out on Taylor’s Creek Road, an old building just on the other side of the train tracks. I’ve got the map on my phone.” They sidestepped an old Volkswagen van emblazoned with AUNTIE’S ANTIQUES. “Deputies should be there by the time we arrive. Wait—Deputy Brown is calling.”
“Let’s go.”
Rivers drove east toward the outskirts of Riggs Crossing, past the center of town, where people were still on the streets and bright Christmas decorations were visible on
