Maybe he was.
Angrily, he pushed a pillow off the chair near his closet, then yanked off his boots. His shoulder twinged a bit, but he ignored it and headed back downstairs. In the dining room, he opened one of the bottles of scotch and poured himself a stiff drink.
Ralph had already settled into his bed as James grabbed the remote and clicked on the television. Sipping slowly, he started channel surfing, searching for a sports update. Instead, he caught a glimpse of Megan’s face. He paused, his gut tightening, the whole world crashing back on him as he stared at the smiling image: blue eyes twinkling, her lips parted, sparkles of sunlight in her light brown hair.
He’d seen that very photo in her apartment.
“. . . if anyone has seen Megan Travers or has information about her whereabouts, please contact the Riggs County Sheriff ’s Department,” a woman’s voice said as a number for the department was posted on the screen beneath Megan’s photo.
James’s heart twisted a little as he looked at the woman who had turned his head; he had once thought he could fall in love with her. In the picture, her hair was straighter than he remembered, her freckles hidden by makeup, her eyes as pale as ever.
Where the hell was she? What had happened after she’d left this very room? She’d turned his head because he thought she was more lighthearted and fun-loving than Rebecca, a woman with a glint in her eye that hinted at darker pleasures. And he, damn it, had been moved. Stupidly. Whereas Rebecca had been rock-steady, Megan had been constantly shifting, a puzzle he’d found intriguing. But he’d soon found out how free-spirited and ever-changing could easily devolve into mercurial and nasty.
Absently, he touched the scars nestled in his beard. Constant reminders of Megan’s temper. As Megan’s picture was dropped from the screen and the reporter, a narrow-faced woman in her twenties, started talking about the weather, James tuned out. He stared at the blackened fireplace, the hearth, where still a hint of bloodstain was visible in the mortar, a discoloration that Sophia hadn’t been able to bleach away.
He’d originally thought Megan’s disappearance had been a stunt, a way to get back at him. He could hear her voice now, as if she were in the room.
See what it’s like if I left. Not so great, huh? And how about if I were dead? How would you feel then?
Dead.
The word he hadn’t wanted to face seemed to hang in the air.
It had been so long since she’d disappeared, though, he had to face it.
He finished the rest of his scotch in one swallow, clicked off the TV, and refused to dwell on Megan’s fate. No one knew what had happened to her. With another drink at his side, he spent a few hours on the computer the cops had deigned to return to him and tried to bury himself in his work.
He had designs for future tiny homes to look over and even a proposal from a contractor who wanted him to partner on larger buildings in the area—or at least the contractor had showed interest before Megan had gone missing and James had become persona non grata. His notoriety was spreading. He’d noticed it in the hospital when he’d been in the emergency room, and later when he’d picked up a pizza. He’d called the order in, but when he’d walked up to the counter, he’d caught the sideways glances of patrons at the smattering of tables in the pizza parlor, people who had recognized him and quickly turned away, afraid to catch his eye. Where once he’d been the darling of Riggs Crossing, a major employer in the area, a man who was known to donate to any number of charitable causes, he was now considered toxic or, at the very least, dangerous.
This was a small town. He needed good relationships and the trust of the townspeople.
He wondered if the best way to combat the negative publicity and speculation was to hit it head on. Speak to one of the reporters who had been dogging him, tell his side of it.
He sipped his second scotch. Decided he’d wait until Rowdy had gotten back to him—Rowdy, whom James was counting on to prove his innocence.
Or not. Remember: You’re not completely clear on what happened that night.
Drumming his fingers on the table, he attempted to dismiss the nagging notion that he might somehow be at fault—if not directly, at least indirectly. “Oh, hell.” Scraping his chair back, he walked to the kitchen, where he finished his drink and set his glass into the gleaming sink.
He had nothing to hide. He’d phone a reporter and tell his side of the story—consequences be damned. Sliding his phone from the back pocket of his jeans, he quickly scrolled through his missed calls. The last member of the press who’d left a message was Charity Spritz, the reporter he’d nearly thrown off his front porch. She was local. She would do.
It was after ten, but she’d practically been salivating to hear his side of the story. “Today’s your lucky day,” he said, hitting the CALL BACK button on his phone.
His call went straight to voice mail.
Rather than leave a message, he clicked off. Thought about it. He could try again in the morning. If he didn’t have a change of heart. Maybe by then Megan would have returned. Maybe by then Rebecca too would call him back.
And maybe by then pigs really would fly.
His cell rang in his hand. He checked the number. Not Charity Spritz, as he’d expected. The caller was Sophia.
His jaw tightened involuntarily. He didn’t want to talk to her. Wasn’t certain he ever wanted to see her again. It was time to end this. Long past time, really.
He clicked on, but before he could say a word, Sophia
