The mystery surrounding Megan’s disappearance had gone from a local story to statewide and even some national interest, and that “Find Megan” campaign all over social media had gotten all of the conspiracy theorists chatting, commenting, tweeting, or whatever; many of them seemed to think he was not only a person of interest, but the mastermind behind his girlfriend’s disappearance. They’d dug into his life, learned about the family fortune and all of the scandals involving the Cahills of San Francisco, so they’d quickly cast him into the same pit as the murderous psychos in his family. He felt as if the press had already tried and convicted him, and that damned Charity Spritz was the worst of the lot.
And then there was Sophia.
He had to end it with her.
Whether he liked it or not, his life was quickly becoming part of a media circus that translated into his own personal nightmare.
But he had to keep moving forward . . . though it would be best to wait until he heard back from Rowdy.
He tossed his keys onto the desk and noted his sunglasses weren’t where he’d thought he’d left them. A quick scan of the desktop didn’t help, but he couldn’t worry about anything so trivial.
He sat at his desk and went through all the old messages that had piled up on his cell phone while it had been with the police. He cringed at the thought of the cops digging through his personal stuff. Nothing was too private for their prying eyes.
Jaw set, he deleted calls from reporters and friends and separated out the business calls before tackling the e-mails just as a scream ripped up the stairs.
“Yeeeeowww! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Son of a bitch! Son of a fucking bitch!”
What?
James shot to his feet.
Rounded the desk.
Stared out the window with a view of the shop.
Men and women abandoned their stations. Several hopped from the trailer with the ski cottage to rush toward the back of the shop. James focused on the back wall. On the wet saw.
Shit!
A man, doubled over, was at the center of the commotion.
Gus Jardine.
His face ashen and twisted in agony, he was holding his right hand with the other. Blood flowed through his fingers, torn flesh, and exposed bone.
“Jesus.” James flew down the stairs, where the saws, hammers, and nail guns had stopped their din. Now it was just sharp conversation and Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer.”
A woman shouted, “Someone call nine-one-one!”
“On it!” Bobby Knowlton already had a phone pressed to his ear.
“Oh, holy shit, look at all that blood,” another man yelled. “Gus! You okay?”
James pushed through the crowd that had gathered around the injured man. “What happened?”
“For Christ’s sake, Cahill. Are you fuckin’ blind? What the fuck does it look like? I cut my fuckin’ hand,” Jardine said, panicked, black hair falling over his eyes. “Jesus.”
Somehow Betsy Idalgo, an electrician who’d been working on one of the houses, came up with a clean towel. “Let’s clean it up. See what we’ve got? Let me see.”
“Fuck off! I need an ambulance!” Gus was screaming, snapping the towel from her and wrapping it over his arm, but not letting her look at the wound.
“Hey, man, I was an EMT,” she said, her face earnest and firm. “I can help.”
James said to Gus, “Let her help.”
“Fuck off, Cahill. This is all your fault!”
Tires screeched through the open barn doors.
James looked up and spied an older-model Chevy Tahoe sliding to a stop. The driver, Leon Palleja, leaned across the passenger seat and threw open the door. “Get him in here!” he yelled. “I’ll drive.”
James said, “Bobby’s calling nine-one-one.”
“Shit, that’ll take forever.” Gus, cradling his bleeding arm, barreled through the crowd.
James was on his heels. “I’m coming with,” he said to Leon.
“I told you to fuck off!” Gus growled. “Oh, shit, this hurts like a mother!” and he nearly fell into the front seat of the SUV.
“He’s bleeding. Bad,” Leon said, working with James to strap Gus in.
Gus was sweating. Breathing hard. A wild look in his eyes. “Let’s fuckin’ go!”
James slammed the passenger door. Got into the back.
Bobby Knowlton ran out of the building. “Ambulance is on its way.”
“Call ’em off. Let ’em know we don’t need them,” James said. “Then you, Bobby, meet us at the hospital. I’ll need a ride back. We’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“Fifteen.” Leon hit the gas as James yanked his door shut. “Hang on!” Leon shoved his truck into drive, cut a tight circle, and sped along the lane, wheels spinning gravel, the vehicle bouncing over potholes, Jardine moaning and cursing in the passenger seat. By the time James had buckled up, Leon had turned onto the county road and was speeding north toward town. Snow-covered fields flew by, fence posts a blur.
“This is your fault,” Gus accused, twisting his head around to peer at James with narrowed, pained eyes.
“So you said.”
“Your safety standards are for shit!”
“I comply with—”
“You don’t comply with crap!” Jardine spat at James, then turned to Palleja. “Jesus, Leon, can we get there already? I’m dying over here.” He sent the driver a hard stare even though Leon was ignoring the speed limit, his Chevy Tahoe skating over the road, sliding around corners, passing slower-moving vehicles where he could.
“You fucked me up, Cahill,” Jardine repeated. “And I’m going to sue your ass.”
Leon whispered something in Spanish under his breath that sounded like imbécil desagradecido, which, loosely translated, meant “ungrateful moron,” James thought, though either Gus hadn’t heard Leon or didn’t understand the phrase because he just moaned and leaned against the window, the white towel wrapped over his hand now red.
Jardine was in too much pain to be making any sense, too scared.
Let him rant and rave.
Once they’d crossed the bridge, the town came into view, and Leon took a side street, turned two corners, and cut through an alley to avoid the clog of traffic in the middle of town.
The hospital loomed into view.
Gus moaned as
