Page 29 of You Betrayed Me (The Cahills 3)

“This isn’t over,” she said.

“You’re right about that.” He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sucked in his breath as the pain in his chest jolted through him.

“This time, James, you’re not going to get away with it.” Then she was gone, her footsteps fading in the hallway, her threat still ringing in his already pounding head.

This time?

Jesus-God, what had he done?

Rictor stepped closer to his bed, but sent a scathing look at the still-open door. From the hallway, the elevator call button dinged. “She should never have gotten in here.”

“It’s all right,” he said, though nothing was right. He doubted it ever would be. But his memory was returning, in frustrating bits and pieces, and he was encouraged. “Where are my clothes?”

“You need to talk to the doctor.”

“Then call him.”

Her lips pursed for a second. “I’ll talk to Dr. Monroe and let him know that you’re insisting on being released, and we’ll get the paperwork in order. But until then, just wait.” Her eyebrows lifted over the tops of her rimless glasses.

“How long?”

“I don’t know.” At least she was being honest. More than he could say about himself. “But I’ll do what I can to speed up the process since you’re so gung ho to leave. Now, please, just lie back. I’ll put in the call, check your vitals again, and see how you’re managing your pain.”

“I’m managing it just fine.”

She pulled a face suggesting she didn’t believe him.

He pushed himself a little more upright. “And if you don’t mind, can you get the TV to work?”

She hesitated.

“I’ll turn it on the second I’m outta here.”

“Doctor Monroe thought it would be best if . . .” Her voice faded.

“We’re past that now, aren’t we?”

She hesitated, then said, “Okay, give me a sec.” She left for about three minutes and came back with two batteries, which she slid into the remote. Once they were installed, she pushed the largest button on the face of the remote. The television blinked to life, the flat screen offering a commercial for a local mattress shop. She handed him the remote.

As he switched channels, searching for the local news, she left again, then returned to unhook his IV.

“I’ve put a call in to Dr. Monroe. It shouldn’t be long now.”

“Good.” He accepted a cup of small pills that, she assured him, would “take the edge off.”

She wasn’t lying.

Within ten minutes, his headache and pain in his shoulder quit throbbing quite so hard, and he finally found a news station. He was starting to feel groggy when a report on the mystery surrounding the missing Megan Travers appeared on a split screen. A news studio with a man and woman anchor team filled half the viewing area. On the other side, a woman reporter in a blue ski jacket, her red hair catching snowflakes, stood in front of a large sign that read CAHILL FARMS.

James’s stomach knotted as she spoke into a microphone: “. . . still in the hospital and under a doctor’s care. Cahill is the owner of several businesses, including this Christmas tree farm and the attached café and inn.”

“Great,” he murmured.

“And what about Megan Travers?” the woman in the studio asked seriously.

“According to police, James Cahill was dating Megan Travers, who is currently missing.” The studio side of the split screen flashed a picture of a woman with light hair, an oval face, and light blue eyes.

Megan.

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