Page 137 of You Betrayed Me (The Cahills 3)

Her eyes widened at the taste of peanuts—peanut butter.

What??!!

It couldn’t be.

Frantic, her throat closing, she stumbled into the kitchen, found her purse, and opened it. The EpiPen. Where was it? Fingers scrabbling inside, she gave up and emptied the bag on the counter. Coins rolled and fell to the floor, tissues and lipstick and her glasses and wallet tumbled onto the Formica. No EpiPen!

It was always there. It had to be! But no. And her phone . . . where the hell was her phone?

Oh. Dear. God.

Her lungs were so tight she could barely breathe, couldn’t think.

Gasping for breath, she opened the cupboard where she kept her medications, but her spare EpiPen also was missing.

Panic tore through her, and she slipped on her way to the front of the unit. She threw open the door to the parking lot and tried to scream, but her throat was too constricted . . . Stumbling, she was vaguely aware of Larry streaking across the parking lot as she fell against the door of Dabrowski’s unit. She managed to hit the doorbell and hear it peal inside as she slid to the ground, her head landing with a thud on the cold, cracked concrete.

* * *

“Sophia, what’re you doing here?” James demanded.

She couldn’t believe it. He was actually denying her!

He stood steadfastly planted in the door frame of his house, blocking her entrance. And he wasn’t happy. Even though his face was in shadow, his silhouette backlit by the interior lights, she sensed his annoyance.

“I wanted to see you,” she said, shivering on the porch despite her coat, gloves, and boots. It was freezing, the slap of the wind racing around the corner of the porch sharp against her cheeks.

“I thought I told you not to come.”

“I know. But I had to,” she said, offering him a smile as snow fell from the inky sky. She tried to hide her own irritation because he was lying. Lying to her, acting as if he didn’t care, as if it were over as he filled the doorway, looking sexy as hell, his battered jeans hanging low on his hips, his long-sleeved shirt half unbuttoned. But of course she saw his eyes. Even shadowed, they were cold, as cold as this winter night. And just as unyielding.

“I just can’t do this anymore,” he said. “We can’t do this anymore.”

“Can’t do what?” She knew what he was talking about, of course, but she wasn’t going to make this easy for him; she was going to make him say the words, actually spit them out.

“You know,” he said, his gaze finding hers.

“I don’t,” she said stubbornly.

“We can’t see each other anymore, Sophia.”

“Are you kidding me?” After everything she’d given up to be with him? He was really, seriously ending it? “Why?” she asked, inching up her chin. “After all I’ve done for you. I even spent all day cleaning, Willow and I, but it was my idea to make this house perfect for you. We’ve shared so much, you and I. I can’t believe . . . why, James?”

“We both know it’s just not right. Megan’s still missing—”

“That—she—her being gone—has nothing to do with us,” Sophia argued, starting to feel the first bit of desperation.

“The police seem to think I might have had something to do with it.”

“Did you?”

He stared at her as if she’d gone mad. “Of course not.”

“Then what’s to worry about?” she asked, trying to tamp down the anger that was starting to pulse through her. “We’ll get through it,” she said calmly, though her hands fisted and rage that he would even consider breaking up with her pulsed through her brain. But she couldn’t let it get the better of her. She reached forward to touch his arm. “Couples have their ups and downs.”

She let her hand fall away under his stony glare and barely noticed as a lock of hair escaped the braided plait beneath her cap. “We can get through this, James. Trust me.”

Did he falter a bit? Was she getting to him? God, she hoped so. After all, she’d staked her entire future on James Cahill. He was the one. The only one.

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