Page 111 of You Betrayed Me (The Cahills 3)

Beside him, Ralph pressed his nose to the passenger window and whined.

It was time to go. James slugged back the remainder of the coffee that he’d bought at the drive-thru kiosk a block from the clinic. He hadn’t exactly been given a clean bill of health, but Dr. Monroe had told him he could ditch the sling, for the most part, and suggested he might want to get a haircut to even things up; his wound was healing as expected.

James cast a glance at himself in the mirror and decided he looked like crap. A military buzz cut was the only thing that would “even things up.” Well, so be it.

He crushed the paper cup, tossed it on the floor, and hazarded another glance at the hotel.

So close, but so far away.

Light-years.

He should just let it go.

Let her go.

Like he had before.

All for Megan. Jesus, he’d been an ass. He scraped a hand over his head and wondered what the hell had happened to Rebecca’s sister. And he felt bad. Because he hadn’t realized how serious her leaving had been. Even after he’d regained his memory, he’d believed she had just thrown a tantrum, made a scene, hidden out to lick her wounds and make him realize how much he needed her—wanted her.

But he’d been wrong.

And now he was scared, worried about her.

Where could she be?

Dead, Cahill, she could be dead.

Ever since he’d become convinced that her disappearance wasn’t an act, she’d been like a ghost, teasing his subconscious, playing tricks on him, coming to mind at the most unlikely of times.

A sharp rap on the side window brought him back to the here and now. A beefy guy in a trucker’s cap and jeans jacket had his face to the glass. James rolled down his window as the guy pointed a gloved hand at the loading-zone sign.

“Hey, buddy,” he said. “Can’t you read?”

Then James noticed the delivery truck double-parked on the street behind him, another burly guy behind the wheel glaring at him.

“Sorry.”

“Hey, aren’t you—?”

James didn’t wait, just rolled the window up, shoved his Explorer into gear, and slipped into the lane in front of the truck. This was getting worse. The publicity behind Megan’s going missing was intensifying. And then there was his suspicion that the police thought he was lying, that he’d what? Hurt, maimed, or killed Megan, then faked his own injury, even when witnesses had seen her drive away from his house?

No, they think you staged the whole thing, that you had an accomplice who did the dirty deed while you had a ready-made alibi.

His jaw tightened as he stopped at an intersection. A woman pushing a baby stroller stepped into the crosswalk. He waited, squinting into the sun, and reached for his sunglasses in the console. They were missing, and he was thinking maybe the cops had taken them or misplaced them when they’d searched his vehicle before he remembered he’d left them at the office.

He flipped down his visor, picked up his phone, and after a second’s hesitation, punched in a familiar number, then, using his Bluetooth, waited until Rowdy Crocker picked up. Which took a while.

“Yeah? Cahill?” he finally answered as James eased through the intersection.

“Right.”

“I figured you’d be calling. Been catching you on the evening news. Wow, brother, you’ve really got yourself in a mess this time.”

“The reason I decided to ring you up.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Find Megan Travers.”

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