Page 113 of You Betrayed Me (The Cahills 3)

No, Rebecca wasn’t elusive. He’d had his chance with her. He’d blown it.

As he walked through the open door, a wall of heat and a cacophony of sounds hit him full in the face. Somewhere beneath the buzz of saws, the rapid-fire tattoo of nail guns, and the hiss of a compressor, he heard the strains of “Roxanne” by The Police.

The crews were in full swing, men and women in hard hats and safety glasses, moving from one site to the other as they worked on three houses in varying stages of construction. The sleek, ultra-modern abode, made primarily from a shipping container, was nearly finished. The second, the ski cabin, was on its platform awaiting tile, and the third, a cottage with a “coastal vibe” requested by the client, was only in the framing stage.

Bobby was in deep conversation with two workers. One was a burly man holding a rolled-up set of plans in his gloved hands, and he stood next to a petite woman wearing jeans, a plaid shirt, and a tool belt. They were locked in a deep discussion, bordering on an argument, that James wanted no part of. But he caught Bobby’s eye, and the foreman tilted his chin in greeting as James headed up the stairs

to the office. By the time he’d reached the landing, his dog had whipped past him to wait at the door.

“No luck?” James asked the shepherd and took the time to scratch Ralph behind his ears. “Believe me, I know the feeling.”

He unlocked the office and glanced down at the houses under construction, as he had a thousand times. He wondered if things were finally getting back to normal.

Yeah, right. Who’re you kidding, Cahill? Until Megan turns up, there is no normal.

In his mind’s eye, her face, clear as day, came into view, and he remembered her playful smile that could turn a little cruel at times and the freckles that spattered her nose when her makeup had worn thin . . .

That caused him to stop for a moment, and he thought, just for a bit, that it was important. But as close to the surface as the idea was, it quickly submerged again. The muscles in his neck tensed. Though most of his memories were distinct, like Megan advancing upon him during their last fight, some were still unclear, murky recollections hanging in the shadows that had yet to come to the fore. He sensed they were important, yet nothing he could put his finger on, which was the problem. And he was sick to death of trying to figure it out, almost as sick as he was of the reporters constantly calling or accosting him on the street.

The mystery surrounding Megan’s disappearance had gone from a local story to statewide and even some national interest, and that “Find Megan” campaign all over social media had gotten all of the conspiracy theorists chatting, commenting, tweeting, or whatever; many of them seemed to think he was not only a person of interest, but the mastermind behind his girlfriend’s disappearance. They’d dug into his life, learned about the family fortune and all of the scandals involving the Cahills of San Francisco, so they’d quickly cast him into the same pit as the murderous psychos in his family. He felt as if the press had already tried and convicted him, and that damned Charity Spritz was the worst of the lot.

And then there was Sophia.

He had to end it with her.

Whether he liked it or not, his life was quickly becoming part of a media circus that translated into his own personal nightmare.

But he had to keep moving forward . . . though it would be best to wait until he heard back from Rowdy.

He tossed his keys onto the desk and noted his sunglasses weren’t where he’d thought he’d left them. A quick scan of the desktop didn’t help, but he couldn’t worry about anything so trivial.

He sat at his desk and went through all the old messages that had piled up on his cell phone while it had been with the police. He cringed at the thought of the cops digging through his personal stuff. Nothing was too private for their prying eyes.

Jaw set, he deleted calls from reporters and friends and separated out the business calls before tackling the e-mails just as a scream ripped up the stairs.

“Yeeeeowww! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Son of a bitch! Son of a fucking bitch!”

What?

James shot to his feet.

Rounded the desk.

Stared out the window with a view of the shop.

Men and women abandoned their stations. Several hopped from the trailer with the ski cottage to rush toward the back of the shop. James focused on the back wall. On the wet saw.

Shit!

A man, doubled over, was at the center of the commotion.

Gus Jardine.

His face ashen and twisted in agony, he was holding his right hand with the other. Blood flowed through his fingers, torn flesh, and exposed bone.

“Jesus.” James flew down the stairs, where the saws, hammers, and nail guns had stopped their din. Now it was just sharp conversation and Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer.”

A woman shouted, “Someone call nine-one-one!”

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