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.”
“But I only have a few questions.”
“I’m sorry.” He really wasn’t.
“But I’d like to write your side of the story.”
“My side?” That sounded bad. “There are no sides.”
“Of course,” she said with a smile, though she was craning her neck to peer around him and view the interior of the house, his house. “What I meant was, I’d like to publish the truth.”
“Talk to the police.”
“Again, I’d like to hear what you have to say.” She seemed so earnest, her eyes beseeching his. “I went to the hospital but was turned away.”
“Look, Ms. Spritz. I just got home, and tonight isn’t a good time.”
“Tomorrow then?” She seized on the idea.
“No.”
“The citizens of Riggs Crossing have questions.”
“Don’t we all?”
He started to close the door.
“You’re Riggs Crossing’s golden boy. The man who comes from San Francisco and makes good in this small town.”
“I’m not from San Francisco.”
“But your family is,” she reminded. She dug in the pocket of her coat, retrieved a card, and thrust it at him.
Bobby snatched it from her gloved fingers.
“Tomorrow,” she said as he shut the door.
“That was rude.” Bobby stared down at the business card.
James closed his eyes for a second and thought he heard a floorboard squeak overhead. “What was that?”
“I think you may have unwanted guests upstairs. Ralph went nuts at the attic door. Must be a nest of critters up there.”
James frowned, but found he didn’t care as he looked through the window and watched Charity Spritz’s silver van drive back through the gate and along the lane leading to the main road. Good. “You get my things?” he asked Bobby.
“Right here.” Bobby held up the plastic sack from the hospital. It was obviously fuller than it had been when they’d arrived.
“Let’s go.” He was tired and just wanted to lie down.
“Okay, but I think it’d be in your best interest to talk to that reporter,” Bobby advised as they walked back through the destroyed dining room and kitchen. “If Megan doesn’t show up, it’s only gonna get worse. Wouldn’t hurt to have a friend in the press.”
“I’ll think about it,” he promised and watched as Ralph lagged back, whining at the base of the stairs.
“Fool dog,” Bobby muttered. “He’s been acting strange ever since that night—ever since you’ve been gone.”
James gave a sharp whistle, and Ralph bounded into the kitchen. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
CHAPTER 12
Rebecca expelled a long, pent-up breath.
Phew.
She literally almost wiped her brow.
The house was dead quiet and had been for ten minutes. She was alone. No sound of the dog whining or paws clicking, no conversation from downstairs, no longer any strip of light under the door. Just the rumble of air through the heat ducts and the pounding of her own heart.
She’d heard them leave and now peered through a slit in the blinds as the headlights of a van lit up the lane and disappeared around the corner. She waited at the window until the red glow of taillights vanished through the veil of falling snow.
Carefully, mentally crossing her fingers, she inched to the door, then hesitated, her hand on the knob.
What if they’d left the dog?
She thought she’d heard the shepherd commanded to “Come,” but wasn’t certain what that had meant. Had he taken the dog with him, locked him in a kennel?
But what choice did she have? She couldn’t stay here all night. And who knew when James might come back? Slowly and silently, she pushed open the door and stared into the shadowed landing. A bathroom to the right and across the hallway? The bedroom with its window that opened to the wraparound porch roof that connected to the back extension? With an eye to the dark hole that was the staircase, she darted across the landing and into the spare room.
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