“Who’s in your knitting circle, Gracia?” Jordan asked.
She paused, then blew out a breath. “I didn’t even know it, but my friend Katie cleans houses for Troy Silverman, his rentals, and I guess she thought it would be good for her if she got on his good side. So she told him everything I said.”
Jordan hardly listened as she kept talking, trying to minimize her mistake. He felt guilty about all the deputies he’d mentally accused of disloyalty. He was angry at Gracia, too, an anger mitigated by her simple human need to be the center of attention at her knitting group. He knew that if she had perceived her loose talk as being actually dangerous to him, she wouldn’t have done it.
“Gracia, I’m going to have to write you up for this,” he said, interrupting her. “Don’t violate any other rules for a year, and I’ll take it out of your file. But if you talk to anybody at all about any of our investigations going forward, there will be serious consequences. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” she sniffled.
“Good. You’re a valued member of our staff and I want to keep it that way.”
“Sheriff?”
“What is it?”
“There’s one more thing you should know. My friend—my ex-friend—told me something about Mr. Silverman you may want to know. She said he’s going to LA to find Cara Campbell himself.”
SIXTY-SEVEN
CARA
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“I think I should go with you,” Stephanie said, parking her bright red convertible on the shoulder of Deep Canyon Drive. “It looks less suspicious if there are two of us. Plus, I have a perfect family for the house.”
“Steffi!”
“Well, I do.” Pouting, she accepted defeat by pulling on a black-and-silver Fendi cap and slumping in her cognac brown leather seat.
Cara climbed out and headed toward her house wishing she was wearing the broken-in Golden Goose sneakers instead of new Stuart Weitzman booties. She didn’t have all that far towalk, but she’d directed Stephanie to pull over just past Denbigh Drive, out of the sight lines of her longtime neighbors.
She was watching their houses so intently, she didn’t see the Golden Key SUV parked just inside the entrance to her cul-de sac until it was too late.
The private security guard spotted her immediately. Nodding, he rolled down his window.
There was no turning around.
Cara smiled and waved, trying to remind herself that, with her new mahogany extensions and Stephanie-esque wardrobe, she looked nothing like Cara Campbell of internet infamy. Channeling Stephanie, she marched right up to the car, feigning the glib ease of a seasoned realtor.
“Celia Campanozza with Canyon-to-Coast Properties,” she said, her voice pitched an octave higher than normal. “I was showing a house around the corner to some clients and thought I’d pop over. Do you happen to know if the Campbell home has been listed yet? I mean, now that she’s convicted and all.”
“Couldn’t tell ya,” said the moon-faced officer, who didn’t look older than twenty-five. “I’m just here to keep the lookie-loos away.”
“I can only imagine.”
Cara steadied herself by putting a hand on the car. As she did, she saw a white Ford F350 parked in front of the house. Her house.
What would Stephanie do?
“It looks like someone’s doing work inside. I’ll just knock on the door and say hello.”
The guard looked dubious. “I’m not sure that’s?—”
“Can’t win if you don’t play, right?” she said, patting the guard’s forearm and marching away before he could make his disapproval more explicit.
She walked past the Cohens, the Seguras, and the Olsens, then climbed the steps toward her custom tempered glass front door.
