It wasn’t ESP.
It wasn’t his cop’s “gut” feeling.
It was more of an intuitive re-creation, something innate in him. He’d only told one person, his ex-wife, Astrid, when they’d been married. And she, true to her nature, had laughed in his face.
“Oh, God, Brett, so now you’re, like, a psychic?” she’d said, her eyes dancing as she sat across from him at the kitchen table. “Or is it psychotic? Give me a break.” She’d taken a swallow of wine and then shaken her head. “I wouldn’t be telling too many people about that, not at the department. They could think you’ve gone ’round the bend, you know.”
That was the one piece of advice she’d given him that he’d taken. He knew his method of using his innate senses sounded a little nuts, so from the time of that one slip of the tongue with his then-wife, he’d kept his thoughts on the matter to himself.
Mendoza was already climbing out of the Cherokee as Rivers cut the engine. Pocketing his keys, he stepped outside into ankle-deep snow, an icy gust of wind slapping him in the face.
She flipped up the hood of her jacket and headed for the house. “Knowlton’s supposed to meet us here, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Even though he already gave his statement.”
“Maybe he remembered something else since he gave it.”
“Fat chance.” She seemed irritated.
“Hey, I know you think this is a waste of time, but it’s something I have to do,” he said as they walked to the house.
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
He stepped up the slick steps to the front door, where crime-scene tape that had been stretched across the frame now flapped in the wind. Over the noise of gusts rattling the branches of the surrounding trees, he heard the rumble of an approaching engine.
“Here we go,” Mendoza said, nodding to the lane.
He spied a battered old pickup, wipers scraping against the falling snow, visible through the trees.
Bobby Knowlton.
Foreman and friend of James Cahill.
The person who’d made the emergency call to 9-1-1.
Right on time.
CHAPTER 5
“James? Can you hear me? James?”
The voice sounded far away. Soft. Female.
James opened an eye and blinked. For a second, he was disoriented, then remembered he was still lying in a hospital bed in a private room, snow still falling beyond the window. A woman—a gorgeous woman—was standing at his bedside and looking down at him through worried blue eyes.
He was light-headed and realized it must be the meds that made it seem this was almost an out-of-body experience.
“It’s me,” she whispered, sliding a worried glance to the door. “Sophia.”
Not a nurse.
Wispy blond bangs poked out from beneath a hood that was trimmed in some kind of fur or maybe faux fur—he couldn’t tell. A thick scarf was twisted around her neck. Her nose was short and straight, her cheeks flushed as if she’d just come in from the cold, and she was dressed in a long black coat.
He blinked again and focused. Sophia?
Her gaze searched his. Hopeful. “Remember?”
He didn’t.
“Thank God, you’re okay,” she said, and the corners of her lips teased upward. She had a great smile. Full lips shiny from a pink gloss opened slightly to show a glimpse of straight white teeth.
“Yeah,” he said, trying to place her.
Not the woman who had pierced his memory. Not the woman with the dark hair and suspicious eyes that had resurrected in his dulled mind.
“You do know me?”
“Sure,” he lied. But she was familiar. How?
She was too sharp for him. “Right.” She rolled those incredible eyes. “I’m Sophia,” she repeated, a little more loudly, as if that would help him remember. When he didn’t respond, little lines appeared between her eyebrows. “Sophia Russo.”
He turned the name over in his mind. Came up with nothing.
She was waiting for his reaction, trying to read his expression.
The name was ringing faint bells, but still he couldn’t place her. “Yeah.”
She let out a disgusted sigh and again rolled her eyes. “So, it’s true. You really don’t remember, do you?”
“Not everything.”
“But me. You remember me.” She was insistent. Almost pleading. Then she cleared her throat. “I mean you should. After everything.”
What the hell was “everything”? He knew better than to ask.
“Sort of.” He blinked. He was having trouble concentrating. Sleep seemed determined to pull him back under.
“You are such a liar!” But she didn’t seem mad. Not really. Her gaze moved to his lips, and for the briefest of seconds, he thought she might lean over and kiss him. She didn’t. Instead, she sighed, and he caught the hint of a fragrance, a perfume that was slightly familiar. “I’m your girlfriend.”
That didn’t sound right. He looked at her. Gorgeous and maybe . . . but nothing. And didn’t the nurse say something about Megan being his girlfriend? He was groggy, but he was sure he had that right.
She read his mind. “Wow. I just hope this . . . amnesia? I hope it’s temporary.”
“You and me both.”
She sent a hasty, almost secretive glance around the room. “Listen, I’m not supposed to be here. Nobody knows I came, and no one can find out.”
“Why?” He tried to push himself into a sitting position but was only able to lever himself onto the elbow of his good arm.
“You’re not supposed to have visitors.” She glanced at the door, which was slightly ajar, almost but not quite closed. “I had to sneak in, wait until there was a change in the nursing shift and some kind of emergency down the hall.” Her gaze swept the room. “As it is, I’m sure I’m on camera, but I tried to disguise myself.”
“Why can’t I have visitors?”
“Not sure. Either doctor’s orders, or it comes from the police.”
The cops. Again. His insides clenched. Despite the pain, he pushed himself into a sitting position.
“I just wanted to see that you were all right.” She turned,
