Julia had known from the moment Sophia had mentioned that Charity was at the bar, sniffing around, that the reporter would be trouble. She’d been looking for James that night, had been on the trail of a story, and, of course, had made the Cahill–San Francisco connections while snooping around. Julia and Sophia both knew Gus from working for James. With a little alcohol poured into his friend Bruce, Sophia had learned that Gus would do anything for a buck—Bruce had repeated, “anything”—and he had let it slip that Gus knew a guy who could make fake IDs, great ones, within a matter of days. With that knowledge, Julia had gone to work. And Bruce Porter—bless his little ex-con hide—had been right about Gus. It had been easy enough to work into Gus’s confidence, gain his trust, and get him involved. Gus was nothing if not greedy, and he, like Julia, had thought he’d been dealt a bad hand in life, was always looking for a quick buck. He’d not only helped with Megan’s abduction; he’d willingly followed Charity to San Francisco, where he’d dealt with her.
How had everything gone so wrong?
For the first time since concocting this plan, Julia thought she might have to cut and run. Save her own skin.
What about Sophia?
Was she going to just let her rot in the tiny house? Die from starvation or dehydration or frostbite if she didn’t keep paying that slime ball of a fuel driver who had come and delivered propane, no questions asked, skimming money off the top so that the owners of the fuel company wouldn’t get suspicious? Julia had worked so hard for her plans to succeed, and now they were unraveling.
She should bail.
But the lure of the Cahill and Amhurst millions proved too great for her to give up now. She’d call Gus, offer him more money if she had to. And she’d find a way to deal with Phoebe. Certainly the old snoop might have to have another, more permanent accident. And though it hurt her, if she had to, Julia could kill Sophia as well, get rid of her body as she had Megan’s. There was no way anyone could connect her to Willow Valente’s death. If anyone had seen her, they would think Sophia had been the one who had followed her from James’s house to her own sorry little apartment.
So she could cover her tracks.
If she worked at it.
She’d always been a clever girl, and now she was ready to put her intelligence to the test.
“Sophia?” James’s voice startled her. She dropped the ornament, and it went tumbling, branch to branch until it shattered on the floor.
“Oh! Oh. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“You just surprised me. That’s all.”
“I think we need to talk,” he said, and she started to panic all over again. He’d expect her to know what the fight with Sophia had been about. And she didn’t. She’d have to follow his lead.
“Now?” she asked, stooping down to pick up the broken ornament. The wings had shattered, breaking off into tiny sharp shards of porcelain.
“Leave it for now.” He glanced around the shop. It was nearly quitting time, and the store was empty. “I think we can shut this down. If someone really wants something, one of the waitresses in the café can come over.” He offered her the slightest grin. “I’ll put a good word in with the boss.”
“Okay.” Julia was nervous, but she decided to follow his lead; if she let him talk, just urging him to speak his mind, she might figure out why there had been a rift, why Sophia was “giving him some space.”
“How ’bout in here?”
The café too was almost empty, the OPEN sign no longer lit, all of the tables with their red-and-white cloths cleaned, the salt and pepper shakers arranged around a glass-encased candle and small poinsettia, even the ever-present Christmas music no longer playing. A grandmother and child were finishing up cocoa and cookies at the only occupied table. As she attempted to get him into his jacket, he struggled against her, declaring firmly, “I do it!” But they were soon out the door, the lone waitress swooping in to pick up the tab and clear the table.
The kitchen was closing, the last busboy sweeping up.
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” James said after pulling out a chair for her at a table in one corner.
“Me too,” she said, but had no idea what he was talking about.
“I overreacted,” he said, and he was so damned sober as he sat across from her. Whatever had happened between Sophia and him was serious. Julia was starting to get a very bad feeling about what was coming.
The waitress started toward them, but he held up a hand, and she stopped in her tracks.
“Well, that happens,” Julia said, trying to imagine what he was talking about.
“No, it wasn’t good. It’s just that you surprised me, coming into my room when I wasn’t expecting it and then hitting me with that bombshell.”
What bombshell? “I know,” she said, but she didn’t, and her heart was beginning to beat in dread. What the hell was he talking about?
His eyes found hers. “The truth is . . . ,” he said, and she felt her pulse pound in her temples. “It’s just that I’ve never even thought about being a father before. We never talked about it, and . . . it’s just not been in my wheelhouse.”
Wait! What? He was going to be a father? That’s why he was upset with Sophia? Oh, holy Mother of God! Sophia was pregnant? No! This couldn’t be happening. No, no, no! Julia felt the blood drain from her face. She forced her expression to remain frozen, to stop the shock from registering on her face.
“I’ve been an ass,” he was saying, sadness touching the corners of his eyes. “I should never have said you couldn’t work here, and—” He shoved a hand through his short hair. For a heart-stopping second,
