And there was that information she’d received from Cissy Cahill, related to James and nearly fifteen years his senior. Boy, had that woman had stories to tell!

Enough for one book, and maybe two.

So, really, all was not lost. Even if this jerk-wad had set her up only to bail.

Charity just had to do a little more digging on Marla Cahill’s daughter—the other daughter, the real whack job of a totally messed-up family. So perfect for a true crime book, or even a screenplay . . .

So, screw everyone who thought she couldn’t make it to the big time.

As she stared out at the dark water of the bay and the thin stream of traffic crossing the San Francisco–Oakland Bay Bridge, Charity imagined her future, how she would show everyone, including those imbeciles she worked with at the Clarion, what she was made of. Blustering Earl Ray and his creep of a son would see.

Wrap that around your man bun, Gerry.

She imagined a book contract or a movie deal. Wouldn’t that be great? Wouldn’t that old has-been Seamus O’Day be surprised? They all would. Everyone at that two-bit rag!

But first things first, she reminded herself.

The story.

She gave the guy five more minutes, then gave up. Though it was late, after midnight, there were still some people about. Not many, but a few, some teetering out of bars, others climbing into parked vehicles or waiting on street corners in the filmy lamplight.

But no informant ready to spill his or her guts about the Cahills.

Luckily, all was not lost, considering the information she’d dug up through Cissy and the nurse, but what they’d told her was just the tip of the iceberg, she could feel it.

She’d never been particularly patient, so the magic that was supposed to be found in San Francisco was lost on her. It was cold and misting, the wind whipping across the bay, rippling the dark water into frothy whitecaps, the haunting cries of sea lions chasing after her.

And there was still Megan’s mother to interview, one way or another.