Page 2 of If She Only Knew (The Cahills 1)

He rolled, raced, ignored the agony of shredding tendons, while zigzagging through the trees. Where the hell was it? His Jeep. Where? Desperately he tried to avoid the path of the jackknifed death trap. He dived headfirst over a fallen log, then scrambled to his feet as berry vines clawed at his clothing. He hoped to hell he could get to the Jeep in time, start the damn thing and put some distance between himself and the wreckage.

The ground shuddered.

His feet flew out from under him, and he landed facedown on the ground.

In a blinding flash, a fireball shot upward from the trees, billowing bright red and orange. Night was suddenly day.

Tortured screams, horrid, agonizing sounds that would haunt him forever, pierced the night as the truck exploded and sparks showered the forest, raining down to singe his hair, ski mask and jacket. Smoke, smelling of diesel and charred rubber, spewed through the forest. For a second he thought he’d die.

God knew he deserved it.

Then he saw it. As if delivered from hell. In the fiery illumination he caught sight of his Jeep, blood-red flames reflected in its tinted windows. Parked just where he’d left it on the abandoned logging road.

Lurching to his feet, he unzipped his pocket, fumbled for his keys. He reached the rig and yanked open the door. He’d made it. Almost. Smoke clogged his throat as he threw himself into the Jeep’s interior. He was shaking, his ankle throbbing as he twisted on the ignition and the engine caught. The forest was bathed in eerie light. He kept the ski mask on as a precaution and slammed the door shut.

Ramming the Jeep into first, he gunned the engine. Tires spun in the muddy tracks. “Come on, come on!” The Jeep lurched forward. Shimmied. Mud flew.

Shit, he needed a cigarette. Bad.

Finally the damned tires caught. He glanced into the rearview mirror and glimpsed the aftermath, fire and smoke billowing upward in the misty night.

She’s dead. You killed her. Sent her black soul straight to hell.

And she fucking deserved it!

He snapped on the radio. Through the speakers, throbbing over the whine of the Jeep’s engine, Jim Morrison’s voice rocked out familiar lyrics.

“Come on baby, light my fire . . .”

Yeah, well, never again. The bitch wasn’t ever going to light anyone’s fire again.

Chapter One

She couldn’t see, couldn’t speak, couldn’t . . . oh, God, she couldn’t move her hand. She tried to open her eyes, but her eyelids wouldn’t budge. They weighed a ton and seemed glued shut over eyes that burned with a blinding, hideous pain.

“Mrs. Cahill?”

Mrs. Cahill? There was a touch, someone’s cool fingers on the back of her hand. “Mrs. Cahill, can you hear me?” The voice, kind and female, sounded as if it was carried from a great distance . . . far away, from a spot on the other side of the pain. Me? I’m Mrs. Cahill? That sounded wrong, but she didn’t know why.

“Your husband’s here to see you.”

My husband? But I don’t have . . . oh, God, what’s happening to me? Am I going crazy?

The fingers were removed and there was a heavy feminine sigh. “I’m sorry, she’s still not responding.”

“She’s been in this hospital nearly six weeks.” A man’s voice. Clipped. Hard. Demanding. “Six weeks for Christ’s sake, and she’s shown no signs of recovery.”

“Of course she has. She’s breathing on her own, I’ve noticed eye movement behind her lids, she’s coughed and attempted to yawn, all goods signs, indications that the brain stem isn’t damaged—”

Oh, God, they were talking about brain damage!

“Then why won’t she wake up?” he demanded.

“I don’t know.”

“Shit.” His voice was lower.

“Give her time,” the woman said softly. “We can’t be certain, of course, but there’s even a chance that she can hear us now.”

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