Page 20 of You Betrayed Me (The Cahills 3)

“The doctor said so. But I don’t remember.” And then he thought of something else. “I’m missing my phone. And this one”—he motioned to the old-fashioned phone on the bedside tray—“is useless as I can’t remember anyone’s number.”

“I’ll see if I can find it,” she said, but didn’t sound too sure of herself. She leaned in closer. “I think you should know that the police were at your house. They searched the place and took stuff.”

“What?”

She shrugged. “That’s just what I heard. Bobby said they were hauling stuff out of there.”

“My phone?”

“Maybe. Like computers and stuff.”

“Can they just do that?”

“They’re the cops. They can do what they want.”

“But there are limits.” He

was trying to think. Why would the cops confiscate his belongings? Did they really think he was some kind of criminal? Wasn’t that the kind of thing they did on a drug bust? Or a murder case? His insides turned to water. Was Megan dead? Is that why the doctor wouldn’t say anything?

Footsteps sounded in the hallway outside, and Sophia froze. Eyes wide, she held a finger to her lips and slipped to the side of the room, to the spot where the door would hide her should it be flung open.

It wasn’t.

The footsteps faded as whoever was in the hallway passed.

Sophia let out her breath. “I better go. But I love you,” she said. “Remember that.” Her smile was shy, her cheeks suddenly pink with the admission.

Love?

That seemed wrong. “Wait,” he said.

He needed more information, but she was already peeking through the opening of the cracked door, scouting out the corridor. Turning, she mouthed, “I’ll be back,” then pulled her scarf up over her nose and walked quickly but noiselessly out of the room.

James watched her leave.

He’d been dating Sophia and Megan? Not just dating, but involved. Sexually, she’d implied. And emotionally. Hence the word “love.”

Deep inside, he sensed that whatever had happened to Megan wasn’t good and that somehow, someway he could be blamed. The scratches on his face seemed to pulse, and he caught another glimmer of memory, of nails bearing down on him, ready to tear into him. She—Megan, he presumed—had been furious. Enraged. Ready to rip him apart.

He tried and failed to remember the argument, the fight, but it teased at him, images struggling to surface only to disappear again.

And now Sophia claimed she loved him.

No wonder the cops wanted to have a chat.

Or possibly more than just a chat.

What had he gotten himself into?

Holding on to his ribs, he swung his feet over the side of the bed. Pain shot through his torso, and his head pounded, but he ignored the throbbing ache and, using the bed to steady himself, walked to its foot to stare up at the television, stretching his IV tube to the max. The flat screen appeared to be plugged into the wall socket overhead. Then he made his way back to the bed and tried the remote again. Nothing. He flipped the remote over and opened the back to find that the batteries had been removed.

Not good.

He studied the controls on the bed itself, the buttons that were marked clearly for calling the nurse or raising and lowering the head of the bed, even the foot. No button for the television.

With an effort, he hoisted himself back onto the bed and fought sleep.

Somehow, some way, he had to find a way to remember.

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