“This time, James, you’re not going to get away with it.” Then she was gone, her footsteps fading in the hallway, her threat still ringing in his already pounding head.
This time?
Jesus-God, what had he done?
Rictor stepped closer to his bed, but sent a scathing look at the still-open door. From the hallway, the elevator call button dinged. “She should never have gotten in here.”
“It’s all right,” he said, though nothing was right. He doubted it ever would be. But his memory was returning, in frustrating bits and pieces, and he was encouraged. “Where are my clothes?”
“You need to talk to the doctor.”
“Then call him.”
Her lips pursed for a second. “I’ll talk to Dr. Monroe and let him know that you’re insisting on being released, and we’ll get the paperwork in order. But until then, just wait.” Her eyebrows lifted over the tops of her rimless glasses.
“How long?”
“I don’t know.” At least she was being honest. More than he could say about himself. “But I’ll do what I can to speed up the process since you’re so gung ho to leave. Now, please, just lie back. I’ll put in the call, check your vitals again, and see how you’re managing your pain.”
“I’m managing it just fine.”
She pulled a face suggesting she didn’t believe him.
He pushed himself a little more upright. “And if you don’t mind, can you get the TV to work?”
She hesitated.
“I’ll turn it on the second I’m outta here.”
“Doctor Monroe thought it would be best if . . .” Her voice faded.
“We’re past that now, aren’t we?”
She hesitated, then said, “Okay, give me a sec.” She left for about three minutes and came back with two batteries, which she slid into the remote. Once they were installed, she pushed the largest button on the face of the remote. The television blinked to life, the flat screen offering a commercial for a local mattress shop. She handed him the remote.
As he switched channels, searching for the local news, she left again, then returned to unhook his IV.
“I’ve put a call in to Dr. Monroe. It shouldn’t be long now.”
“Good.” He accepted a cup of small pills that, she assured him, would “take the edge off.”
She wasn’t lying.
Within ten minutes, his headache and pain in his shoulder quit throbbing quite so hard, and he finally found a news station. He was starting to feel groggy when a report on the mystery surrounding the missing Megan Travers appeared on a split screen. A news studio with a man and woman anchor team filled half the viewing area. On the other side, a woman reporter in a blue ski jacket, her red hair catching snowflakes, stood in front of a large sign that read CAHILL FARMS.
James’s stomach knotted as she spoke into a microphone: “. . . still in the hospital and under a doctor’s care. Cahill is the owner of several businesses, including this Christmas tree farm and the attached café and inn.”
“Great,” he murmured.
“And what about Megan Travers?” the woman in the studio asked seriously.
“According to police, James Cahill was dating Megan Travers, who is currently missing.” The studio side of the split screen flashed a picture of a woman with light hair, an oval face, and light blue eyes.
Megan.
The woman who had snarled, “You’ll never see me again,” as she’d brandished a poker at him.
But now there were other mental pictures as well. In his mind’s eye, he glimpsed her laughing and sipping wine on a verandah overlooking Puget Sound, and then another image of her tossing a snowball at him as he turned . . . and many, many more, all coming to life suddenly. His throat tightened as he thought of waking up next to her and kissing her and . . .
He closed his eyes for a second and tried like hell to remember that night. Before the rage. What had happened? He remembered eating takeout, letting Ralph have a little bit of cornbread, and leaving the remains in the sink. The dog had barked, and he’d looked out the window to see headlights cutting through the falling snow.
And then?
And then . . .
Had the doorbell rung? Had she let herself in with her key?
“. . . worked as a receptionist at the McEwen Clinic in Riggs Crossing and hasn’t been seen since she left the office last Thursday,” the TV reporter was saying, breaking into his thoughts. “Allegedly, there had been a fight at Cahill’s house, located just north of here. James Cahill was found by someone who worked for him. That individual called nine-one-one. Once help arrived, Cahill was transported to the hospital, where he is currently recovering from wounds he appears to have received during an altercation.”
“But Megan Travers wasn’t there?” the female studio anchor asked.
“No, Beth. Megan Travers and her vehicle were missing. And still are. A witness, the driver of a snowplow in the vicinity Thursday night, saw a black car drive away from the scene after nearly running into the plow, and it’s thought the driver was most likely Megan Travers, who was supposed to be heading to her sister’s home in Seattle. She never arrived. Police are asking anyone who’s seen or heard from Megan Travers to call them at the number on the screen.” As she spoke, a telephone number scrolled across the bottom of the screen. “She was driving a black twenty-ten Toyota Corolla.” The reporter rattled off the Washington license plate number of the car before she signed off, and the double image changed into a studio shot; the anchors smiled and went to commercial.
Switching off the television, he glanced at the clock, decided to give the doc one hour.
Then, come hell, high water, or hospital red tape, he was out of here.
CHAPTER 8
Rivers stared at the computer monitor in his office. On the screen was the driver’s-license photo of Megan Travers—not a great picture, more like a mug shot of a serious woman in her twenties with layered
