“At last?” Mendoza was still looking at the DNA results on the computer monitor.

“At last—Earl Ray Dansen,” he said and answered. Dansen and he had been playing phone tag for most of the day. “Rivers,” he said into the phone.

“It’s Earl Ray, down at the Clarion. Glad I finally caught you.”

“Me too. You know about Charity Spritz.”

“Jesus, yeah, I know. Can’t believe it.” He sounded stunned. “Horrible.”

“Can you tell me what she was working on?”

“The Cahill story. But, uh . . . look, I think it would be better if we talk face-to-face. I’ve got something I need to show you.”

Rivers checked his watch. After seven. “How about now?”

“I’m stuck here with tomorrow’s edition. I was hoping you could come to the office.”

“That works. We’re on our way.”

* * *

Heart pounding, Sophia waited for the results of the pregnancy test. Her hand was shaking, her stomach in knots as she stood in the bathroom of her apartment.

What if she was pregnant?

What if she wasn’t?

She didn’t know what to wish for.

Heart beating like a jackhammer, she was totally alone, waiting for her sister to return.

Julia had been acting strange lately, had been jumpy, and Sophia really couldn’t blame her. Everything was weird. Sophia had seen on the news that that reporter woman, the one she didn’t like, Charity Spritz, had been murdered in San Francisco.

The thought of it gave Sophia a really bad feeling when she’d seen it on television.

And that wasn’t all of it.

First off, Gus had been involved in a freaky accident with a saw at the shop. He’d torn up his hand so badly that he might never have full use of it again. But then, Gus was an idiot. He might have done it on purpose and blamed James, looking for a lawsuit and a huge settlement.

Then Phoebe Matrix—that old busybody of an apartment owner/ manager—had suffered some kind of allergic reaction or diabetic seizure or something and had been rushed to the hospital. Sophia had seen the EMTs arrive and had talked to her neighbor, the older guy who was always cleaning up around here, in unit 5, Phil Something-or-Other. He’d said the old bat had made it to his door, and he’d called 9-1-1. According to him, Phoebe might not make it, was in a diabetic coma. He was pretty upset about it as he’d ended up with Phoebe’s miserable little dog.

Sophia couldn’t help but feel bad for the older woman, even if she was a pain in the ass.

But she couldn’t be distracted.

Bad shit happened.

Occupational accidents and comas occurred all the time.

But a murder? Of someone she knew? That was different.