Page 47 of You Betrayed Me (The Cahills 3)

“I’m not really sure. Something. Anything. To help me find Megan.”

“In my house?”

“Yes!” she said, her own anger rising. “That’s where she told me she was coming from.” Rebecca pointed a finger at the house. “She said she’d had a horrible fight with you and that she had to get away. That she was afraid of you.”

“Afraid of me?”

“Why do you keep repeating everything? Yes. She was out of her mind—hysterical—and so I thought maybe coming here would help me get some idea of what happened. It’s not as if you’re filling in all the blanks.”

“I would if I could, but—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know! You can’t effin’ remember.”

His lips flattened as a gust of wind rattled through the branches of a nearby tree. “Come on, let’s go inside, it’s freezing.” Despite the anger radiating through him, he appeared a little unsteady as he walked up the steps to the front porch.

“I should go.”

“Not yet.” He was angry. “Where’s your car?”

“At the inn.” She glanced toward the empty parking area. “Where’s yours?”

He snorted. “With the police for now. They, like you, seem to think I did something to your sister.”

“Did you?”

“Of course not.”

“You remember,” she charged and took a step toward him.

“I wish.”

“Then how do you know?”

“I just know, okay,” he threw back at her. “I’m not violent.” But the pulse throbbing near his temple, at the hairline not covered by his bandage, said otherwise. “I would never hurt . . . anyone.”

“And this you know. This, you remember.”

The dog growled.

She didn’t break his angry gaze.

“I wouldn’t hurt her.”

He seemed convinced, but she knew how easily he could lie. She said, “You left in a van with that other

man and then came back because you knew I was inside.”

“Ralph knew someone was.” He looked at her. “I don’t have rats in my attic.”

“And then you stood out in the freezing weather after just getting out of the hospital?”

“That’s right.” Now he pushed open the door and stepped into the vestibule, the dog with him. Just inside the door, he snapped on a light. “Take a look around. A good one. Instead of skulking with a flashlight or whatever. This is how I found my place, trashed by the police.”

“And whatever happened before,” she said, walking to the living room and staring at the stain on the raised hearth. “Is that blood . . . all yours?”

“Don’t know.”

“Another memory lapse?”

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