You Betrayed Me

Book 3: Cahills

by Lisa Jackson

Genres: Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

"The constant twists will keep the readers hooked. This is a nonstop thrill ride."
-Publishers Weekly

The Cahills of San Francisco are famous for two things: their vast wealth, and the scandals that surround them. Murder, greed, deadly ambition...some people will do anything to get, and keep, the Cahills' kind of money. Not that James Cahill wants any of it. He's tried to make his own way, less interested in a future inheritance than in his construction company--and in enjoying the many women taken in by the easy charms of a handsome, soon-to-be-rich bad boy.

"Jackson juices things up with plenty of sexy suspense and a generous amount of high-octane thrills."
-Booklist

Perhaps there've been too many women. Waking up in a small hospital in Washington State, bandaged and bruised, James barely recognizes the gorgeous blonde who comes to visit. Through the haze of pain and medication, he recalls that she is Sophia, the woman he's been cheating with. Gradually memories return--his girlfriend, Megan, had found out about Sophia. Now Megan is missing, her sister is hounding him--and police and reporters are asking questions. James insists he has no idea what happened. Yet he can't escape a feeling of dread...

"A good mystery that keeps readers guessing until the very end."
-The Parkersburg News & Sentinel

Meanwhile, in a locked room, a woman waits, trapped, petrified, desperate. She thought she knew who to trust. But the betrayal you can't imagine--or can't remember--may be the most terrifying weapon
of all...

Release date: October 27, 2020

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 470

Sample

Alive!

I’m still alive!

I blink. Disbelieving. Stare up at the ceiling that seems to dance and spin above me.

My body trembles on the floor.

Twitching.

Flailing.

Sputtering.

But I wasn’t killed.

At least not yet.

The twin burn marks on my neck are painful. They remind me that I could well be dead, that if the nose of a pistol had been pressed to my skin, rather than the cold metal tips of a stun gun, I’d be lying in a pool of my own blood, dead to the world.

It’s only a matter of time, my mind warns.

I try to focus, blinking as I moan and twitch uncontrollably, feeling the hardwood of the tiny house against the back of my head. The vaulted ceiling seems higher than usual as it stretches over a small living area. It reels as my eyes try to focus, but they still jiggle in their sockets, my vision fragmented.

I stare at the built-in couch with its vibrant throw pillows, then spy the ladder leading to the loft, but everything in my vision pitches and weaves, refuses to stay steady. I try to focus on one item: the door leading outside, my only chance of escape, but it’s closed down and appears to shift and sway.

God help me.

For just a second, I close my eyes, try to stop the shaking, but I fail to gain control of my body again.

Click, click, click.

Footsteps! The floorboards vibrate. Boot heels striking the hardwood remind me I’m not alone.

With effort, I twist my trembling neck and roll my head to one side to see my captor slipping something into the small refrigerator.

“Why?” I try to say, but nothing but a garbled groan slips past my lips. “Why?” I try again, but the person who’s trapped me doesn’t respond, just slams the refrigerator door shut and, with a disparaging glance at my shaking body, steps over me to the single door of the cabin and throws it open.

A blast of wintry air rushes inside, a few flakes of snow following. No, I try to scream. “Nnnnnneeeeeooo.” Again, the sound is a cry of despair, the single word unclear.

But my captor understands.

Pauses for the briefest of seconds.

Then steps through the door and yanks it shut.

Thud!

I try to crawl toward it.

Click!

The lock’s engaged.

Don’t leave me, I silently scream, my mouth opening and shutting like a just-landed bass gasping for air. How can you do this? You, who swore you loved me? How can you leave me?

The betrayal is gut-wrenching, sitting sour in my stomach as I make another attempt to stop my muscles from shaking. Pull yourself together! Do it!

I try to stand, manage to get my feet under me, but the soles of my shoes slide, and my body flops to the floor again. All I can do is scoot, limbs palsied as I push my way to the door.

Over the frantic beating of my heart, I hear boots crunching on icy snow and the inevitable beep of a vehicle’s keyless lock responding to a push of a button on a remote.

Don’t do this!

I reach up, take a swipe at the door handle, and fail to clutch it.

With all the effort I can muster, I try again, this time connecting, my muscles finally responding. Groaning, I haul myself to my feet, and I slump against the door frame.

An engine revs as I reach for the door handle again, grasp it, and find it locked. Unmoving. As it always is. Locked tight.

Damn it.

Tears spring to my eyes as I hurl my body to the ladder and teeter for a second. My muscles quiver, and I grit my teeth, make a false start, and slide a bit. Locking my jaw against my chattering teeth, I grip harder, then slowly, rung by rung, climb until I can just peer over the windowsill of one of the five twelve-inch-square windows strung near the ceiling of the wall with the door.

Through the glass I see outside. The snowy landscape is stark in the small clearing, rimmed by tall firs, branches heavy and laden with ice and snow. In the clearing, I see the car, headlights glowing, cones of light illuminating the lane as it drives away.

My heart sinks.

Don’t let it! The person who did this doesn’t deserve your sadness. Get mad, damn it.

As the trembling in my body eases, I feel a swell of anger slowly rising. My fingers grip the upper rung on the ladder so hard my knuckles show bone white. The sound of the engine fades.

As it has before.

“I’ll get you,” I vow, my words hoarse but at least intelligible as I glare at the retreating vehicle, its taillights blinking red through the trees, reflecting blood-like on the snow. “You’ll never get away with this.”

I’ll make sure of it.

“You prick!” Fighting tears, Megan pounded the steering wheel of her Toyota, then hit the gas. The tires spun, snow and gravel spraying as she backed up, threw the car into gear, then, the beams of her headlights splashing on snowy landscape, tore down the long lane leading away from James Fucking Cahill’s farmhouse. And then, as if he were seated in the passenger seat, she kept ranting. “How could you? How the hell could you?”

She shouldn’t have been surprised.

Once a cheater, always a cheater.

So why had she expected him to be her boyfriend, the man she thought was the love of her life, her soul mate, the goddamned “one,” if you believe that rot? Of course, he’d shown his true colors and had turned out to be a two-timing dick.

She blinked hard, tears beginning to slide down her cheeks as she reached the county road, cut in front of a snowplow clearing the roadway, and sped through the night toward town. Angrily, she dashed the offensive tears away, while fence posts and fields of white passed by in a blur. At the stop sign, she slowed, then cranked the wheel and headed west, circumventing the heart of Riggs Crossing and speeding through the near-empty side streets of this little backwater town that purported itself to be an honest-to-God, year-round Christmas village. But then she knew as well as anyone how appearances could be deceiving, didn’t she?

Out of the corner of her eye, she spied an elderly woman walking a little black Scottie dog in a sweater. Gray curls poking out from a red beret, the woman, in the glow of a streetlamp, shook her head and wagged a finger before making a “slow down” gesture by patting the air.

Megan didn’t care. It was all she could do not to make her own gesture by flipping the woman off. But she didn’t.

No reason.

Other than her heart was broken, her mind mush.

Why, why, why had she been such an idiot as to fall in love with James Cahill? She should have known better. “Crap.” She had known better. In her rearview, she saw the old lady now on her cell phone, probably dialing 9-1-1 and reporting an erratic driver terrorizing the usually serene, almost bucolic streets of this little town tucked into the mountains of Washington State.

Too bad.

But she eased off the accelerator.

Didn’t want or need a ticket.

It wasn’t as if she was blind, for God’s sake. She’d seen how James had been looking at that new girl in the restaurant, the way he’d once looked at her. But what had she expected? Didn’t she know from personal experience how easily James’s head had been turned? And women were always throwing themselves at him, a tall, handsome man with a cowboy attitude and a get-ready-for-the-ride-of-your-life smile that could turn even the most wary heart. They didn’t even have to know that he was rich, or would be, to fall for him.

Hadn’t she?

“You’re an idiot,” she said, not for the first time.

Oh, she couldn’t wait to get to Seattle and her sister! Once in Rebecca’s condo, she’d pour herself into a bottle of vodka and forget the bastard.

“Lying, cheating prick,” she grumbled.

He belonged to her!

Didn’t he get that?

Probably not now.

But he would. She’d see to it.

You know what?

She should just disappear on him.

Make him miss her.

Make him regret ever cheating on her to the depths of his soul!

Yeah, that’s what she’d do.

Sniffing, she brushed the tears from her eyes with a gloved hand, then gripped the wheel so hard her fingers ached as she headed out of town and into the surrounding mountains. Then, as the snowfall increased, she flipped on her wipers.

Rebecca was expecting her.

Her sister. God. It was almost impossible to accept that James had been interested in Rebecca first. And, damn it, Rebecca, the ice queen, had fallen for him too! Well, nearly. As much as Rebecca would allow herself to fall for a man like James—a sexy bad boy with a reputation . . .

That was the trouble with James! He was handsome as hell and enough of a cad—yes, a cad!—that women found him attractive without even realizing he was rich. Or . . . would be, once he inherited the rest of his share of the Cahill fortune. Even without that knowledge, women were continually flinging themselves at him, and he, prick that he was, didn’t exactly discourage them.

Fortunately, in Rebecca’s case, she’d put all that behind her.

Her sister was long over James.

Right?

Didn’t matter, Megan told herself, chin jutting as she squinted through the windshield, snowflakes swirling and dancing in the glow of her headlights.

Rebecca would know what to do.

She always did. Rock-steady, determined Rebecca Travers would help Megan set things right. Despite any latent feelings Rebecca might harbor toward James.

Megan’s conscience twinged a bit. How many times had she relied on her sister? How often had she run crying back to her older sibling, who always helped? Even when . . . ?

She felt a small stab of guilt, which probably should have been sharper. Deeper. She glanced at her reflection in the rearview mirror.

The blue eyes in the reflection were red-rimmed, but not because of remorse. If she had the chance to do it all over again, to right that wrong . . . she bit her lip and pushed the thought out of her mind as her car struggled against the incline. She wasn’t a bad person. Not really. And James . . . Oh, dear God, James . . .

A lump filled her throat as the Corolla nosed upward, snow now covering the pavement and piling along the sides of the road where the plow had come through earlier. She fiddled with the defrost knob, as the windshield was beginning to fog, and cranked the temperature to the highest level.

Nothing.

The fan was broken. Had been for weeks.

“Shit.” She grabbed a used napkin from the coffee shop, which had been wedged into a cup holder. Lump in her throat, she swiped away the film as best she could, then she squinted through the windshield.

What little traffic there had been had thinned, and finally, as the car climbed, engine whining, she found herself alone on this stretch of road winding through the night-dark peaks of the Cascades. She pressed harder on the gas. “Come on. Come on.” Visibility was hampered by the ever-increasing snowfall and, of course, the useless defroster. Once more, she wiped a spot clear above her steering wheel to see that now, in the mountains, the snowstorm was nearly a whiteout.

“Great.”

She thought of James, and her heart crumbled. A wash of memories slipped through her mind, and tears threatened again. She hit the gas at the next sharp turn.

Her wheels shifted.

Spun.

She eased off. “Get a grip,” she told herself as the car straightened out, the beams of her headlights reflecting in a million swirling flakes, the engine lugging down with the steep incline.

Their last fight had been their worst. Never before had anger and nasty words turned physical, but tonight her rage had been mercurial.

More tears.

Blinding her, just as rage had blinded her earlier.

Shaking her head against the memory, she floored the accelerator, snagged the wet, wadded napkin, and took another swipe at the fogged windshield as the road dipped suddenly.

“Crap!”

Her heart froze.

Another corner loomed, this one hairpin sharp.

Automatically, she hit the brakes.

The back tires spun as she turned the steering wheel with her free hand.

The Corolla hit ice and began a slow, steady swirl.

“No . . . no, no, no!” She was high in the mountains, the tops of eighty-foot fir trees level with the road, their icy branches laden with snow, the canyon below invisible. “Oh, God.” She took her foot off both the brake and the gas . . . that was what she was supposed to do. Right? Drive into the spin or some such thing? Her heart pounded in her ears.

In slow motion, she saw the edge of the road, the piles of snow hiding the guard rail, if there was one, and beyond, the darkness.

Fear crystallized her blood.

Don’t panic, Megan! Do NOT panic!

But a scream started to form in her throat.

Suddenly all four wheels found traction, and she had control again.

Oh . . . hallelujah . . .

Heart thudding, nerves jangled, she licked her lips. That was close. So damn close. She let out her breath slowly, concentrated on what she had to do, pushed the fight with James far from her mind and drove ever upward, meeting no cars, which seemed weird even with the blizzard-like conditions here, near the summit. A few more miles and she’d be heading downward.

To Seattle.

To Rebecca.

To sanity.

Over the summit, the car sped up.

She eased on the brakes, hands holding the steering wheel in a death grip. Around one corner. Faster and faster.

Slow it down!

But the car raced forward, gravity pulling her downward, the foggy windshield nearly opaque.

She tapped the brakes a little harder, the back end of the car sliding around a corner, her breath tight in her lungs. She swallowed as she guided the car down the narrowing road, snow piled high on either side.

Just a few miles and—Oh, shit, what’s that? Something in the middle of the road? At the next turn? No!

Her heart a jackhammer, she squinted through a thin patch of clear glass.

On the road ahead something moved.

Something tall and dark against the white.

A deer? Elk? Some other creature?

The steady snow masked its shape as it darted to the side.

Two legs?

“Fuck!”

A man? Woman? Goddamned Sasquatch?

The shadowy image stepped into the middle of the damned road.

A person. Definitely a person.

What the hell?

“Hey!” she yelled, slamming on the brakes. “You idiot!”

The car shuddered.

No!

It began to rotate.

Faster and faster.

She rammed the gearshift into LOW.

But it was too late. The Toyota slipped sideways, spinning out of control. Through the windshield, she caught glimpses of the sheer cliff face on one side of the road and the steep canyon on the other. In the middle of it all, a person. A brainless, idiotic freak. “Shit, shit, shit!” She tried to steer, failed, the Toyota careening wildly to the mountainous side of the road, her bumper shearing ice off the cliff, only to send the little car back across the lanes, rushing toward the ravine, the scenery a snowy blur.

It was all over.

She knew it.

Through the foggy glass, she caught a glimpse of the snowy treetops in the thin beams of the headlights and, beyond the treeline, the vast darkness of the canyon.

This was how she would die, her car hurtling over the edge, crashing through the trees in the yawning darkness, plummeting hundreds of feet to the nearly frozen, snaking river far below.

God, no!

She stood on the brakes.

The crevasse beyond the treetops loomed.

One wheel found pavement.

Caught.

The back end of the Toyota shimmied.

Heart hammering, adrenaline firing her blood, she ignored everything she’d ever heard and cranked hard on the steering wheel, away from the ravine.

The car twisted. The Corolla’s hood pointed directly at the massive wall of stone.

No person on the road between.

What had happened to that shadowy image?

She didn’t have time to think about it. Just tried like hell to right the car, turning the wheel gently, her heart pounding wildly, her mind swirling.

She bit her lip.

The front wheels found traction, and she touched the gas, propelling the car forward, away from the canyon.

And straight at the wall of ice and stone.

She stood on the brakes.

Wheels locked, the car skated faster.

Megan braced herself.

Bam!

The Toyota collided with the mountain.

Her seat belt jerked tight.

Her eyes squeezed shut.

The car’s front bumper crumpled, the hood damaged in a horrific groan of twisting metal and shattered plastic. The windshield cracked.

Something flew forward, launched straight into the mirror, shattering the reflective glass.

She expected the impact from the airbag as it burst out of the steering wheel.

Steeled herself.

Her car jolted to a stop.

No sudden burst of pressure or mass of air shot at her; no balloon trapped her against her seat.

Instead, there was silence.

Sudden and deafening.

And she was alive.

Miraculously unhurt.

Disbelieving, she stared at her gloved fingers, clenched in a death grip over the wheel. She slowly released them as she let out her breath. Her hands were trembling, her entire body quivering.

Get hold of yourself. You’re okay.

Glancing through the cracked window, she tried to calm her wildly racing heartbeat, to focus.

The car. Can you drive it?

Could she get that lucky?

What were the chances?

She twisted the key, heard the starter grind. “Come on. Come on.” If she could just get the car going, she would back up so that it wasn’t crosswise in the road. She could put the car in NEUTRAL, if she had to, and aim downhill, riding the brakes, right? Until she was in civilization. . . or until she could call . . .

Her thoughts were interrupted. Her phone? Where the hell was her phone? She searched the interior quickly, then remembered something flying into the rearview mirror. Was that her cell? Desperately, she patted the seat next to her, wet from her spilled coffee and loaded with books and her backpack, anything she could just toss into the car.

Nothing.

Quickly, she scoured the floor of the passenger area, but it had a trash basket and two pairs of shoes and . . .

Oh, screw it!

It doesn’t matter! Just get the car out of the road so you don’t get T-boned.

She twisted on the ignition. The starter scraped, but nothing happened.

“Oh, come on!”

Another try, and the engine turned over, but . . . a movement caught her attention. Something dark in the shards of glass in the rearview.

From the corner of her eye, she saw something move, a dark and skittering image in the spiderweb of the rearview mirror.

The back of her throat went bone dry.

Oh, God. The person she’d seen moments before.

The cause of the accident.

She glared into the mirror, tried to make out the idiot who had caused this wreck. The damned moron was behind her car, barely visible, but definitely there. And now moving to the center of the road.

As if to block her path again.

Still risking both their lives.

Megan’s temper spiked. What kind of a cretin would—

She threw open the door just as a cautionary Be careful cut through her mind. “Are you out of your mind?” she screamed, craning her neck for a better view. “Get out of the way! What the hell’s wrong with you?”

No movement.

Nothing but bitter cold air.

And the silent whiteout.

No person.

Just the eerie quiet, broken only by the rasp of the Corolla’s engine.

The warning hairs on the back of her neck raised.

Had it all been her imagination?

No, of course not.

She pulled the door shut and was about to back up when she saw the figure again. Right in the middle of the road . . . again. Almost taunting her.

What the hell was this?

It doesn’t matter what it is. It’s weird as hell. Not good. Get out. Get out now!

She swallowed back her rising fear.

What if the person needs a ride? What if they’re stranded?

“Who cares?” she muttered. It wasn’t as if the jerk-wad was waving her down, trying to get help. No, this was something else.

Something very wrong.

Something evil.

She touched her toe to the gas again.

Her damaged car struggled, wheels spinning.

“Don’t do this,” she whispered, her panic rising. She had to get out of here now. Her phone, where the hell was her phone? No time to search for it. “Let’s go,” she said to the car as the engine ground, the wheels spun, and she went nowhere. “Let’s go, let’s—”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement in the side-view mirror.

The person in black was approaching!

Now she trod on the accelerator. “Come on!”

Closer. Through the curtain of snow, a figure dressed in ski gear from head to toe—mask and hat to boots—made his or her way along the side of the whining car.

Megan let up on the gas, then hit it hard. The back end of the car shifted a bit, but the tires found no traction.

The person was right outside the door, and Megan was ready to yell at the cretin, to read the brain-dead idiot the riot act, when she noticed the gun, a black pistol in one gloved hand.

Oh. God.

She began shaking her head, still trying to drive off until the barrel of the gun was level with her head.

Megan’s heart dropped.

Fear curdled through her blood.

Panic jettisoned through her, and she started to turn. To run.

Leave here. Now!

“Get out!” the attacker growled.

Megan froze.

That voice!

Did she know this person? This nutcase?

She couldn’t tell. All she could focus on was the barrel of the gun.

Black.

Deadly.

Aimed straight at her heart.

“I have to leave.” James Cahill gazed hard at the nurse adjusting his IV. Lying in bed, doing nothing, was getting to him. The hospital walls were closing in on him. And the not remembering? That was killing him.

“In due time,” she said pleasantly, offering him a sympathetic smile. Sonja Rictor, RN, according to the name tag that swung from a lanyard at her neck. In her forties, a knowing smile on her face, her curly red hair clipped away from her face, a sprinkling of freckles sprayed across a slightly upturned nose, she was slim and attractive. And, he guessed, blessed with a will of iron behind that empathetic grin.

“The time is now.” It was all he could do not to grab her wrist and give it a shake, to emphasize that he was serious. He’d always been a little claustrophobic, blessed or cursed with a lot of energy. That much he did remember. Being confined in a hospital was definitely not his thing.

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

She gave him an “I’ve heard it all before” look that, he supposed, was meant to shut him up. It didn’t.

“Mr. Cahill—”

“James. It’s James,” he said, not interested in any kind of formality.

“I’ll talk to the doctor, James.”

He felt a sharp prick as she adjusted the needle, but he didn’t wince, didn’t want to appear to be a damned wuss.

“He’ll get you out of here as soon as he thinks you’re ready.” She shook her head. “Trust me, these days we don’t keep patients a second longer than absolutely necessary.” Stepping away from the bed, she asked, “So, how’s your pain?”

“It’s fine.”

“On a register of one to ten, ten being the highest-intensity pain?” She motioned toward the wall, where a chart had been tacked. The chart was a display of cartoon faces, everything from a pleasant, pain-free grin under the number 0 to a contorted, red-faced grimace at 10. “When you say you’re ‘fine,’ is it fine as in here?” She indicated a calm, happy-looking face under the number 2. “Or?” She moved along the row of ever-increasing unhappy faces. “Here?” She tapped a gloved finger at a sweating, frowning image at 8.

Shifting on the bed, he felt a sharp jab in his shoulder. Blast. “I’m okay.”

“Uh-huh.” Disbelief.

“I said, ‘I’m okay.’ ”

“That might be up for debate.” Her eyebrows elevated. “So? Your pain level?”

“Maybe a five. Or . . . a seven. Yeah, a seven.” It actually was much higher, but he couldn’t bear looking as weak as he felt. He always struggled when he wasn’t in control.

“Mmm.” She wasn’t buying it, had probably seen it all before. “No reason to be a hero.”

“That, I’m not,” he assured her. No lie there. It was one of the things he did know about himself, one bit of insight he recalled. And about the only thing. At least as far as recent history went.

“I’ll get you something to make it a little more tolerable,” she promised as she stripped her gloves at the door and tossed them into a wastebasket.

“Wait,” he said as she started to leave. “What day is it?”

“The date? The fourth.” When he didn’t respond, she clarified, “Of December.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, tried to do the math, but had no real starting point. “So I’ve been here . . . what? Two days?”

“It’s Sunday. You were brought in Thursday night.”

“The first.” He’d been here three damned days? And in that time, he remembered only glimpses of people coming in and out of the room, bothering him, not allowing him to sleep, always asking how he was feeling or poking or prodding him; he’d had no awareness of time passing.

Until today. A digital clock mounted over the door told him it was a little after two in the afternoon, the gray sky outside confirming that dusk was still a few hours off.

“I’ll talk to Dr. Monroe,” the nurse said. “He’s on duty this weekend.” She stepped out of the room.

Two and a half days of his life gone. Lost in the black hole of his memory. How had it happened? James had no inkling why he was here, though he was sure he’d been told. In the haze of the last few days, he recalled seeing the doctor, though it was vague, and he couldn’t call up the guy’s name or what the doc had said was wrong with him. If they’d even had that conversation. If so, he couldn’t call it up.

Obviously, he’d screwed up his shoulder. It hurt like hell, no matter what he’d told the nurse. And his chest ached, sharp pain cutting through it when he shifted—bruised or broken ribs, he figured. Then there was that ominous bandage over half his head. And when he rubbed his jaw, it hurt.

He glanced around.

The hospital room was small, with only the bed, a TV mounted on the wall, and a vinyl chair placed near the heat register that was tucked beneath a single window. The view wasn’t that great; it overlooked a parking lot a story or two below. A few cars were scattered throughout the lot, all collecting snow that was continuing to fall, the asphalt covered with a white blanket showing few tire tracks.

Had he been in a car wreck? A bar fight? Fallen? What? He moved on the bed, winced, trying to remember. But it was a no go. Whatever information had been imparted had floated away on a wave of pain and/or medication, which, right now, wasn’t working.

Didn’t really matter.

He needed to get out of here. Get back home. He had a ranch and a hotel on the property, along with a Christmas-tree farm and a tiny-house construction business, all on acres outside of town.

He rubbed his eyes.

Felt as if he were clear-headed since . . . since . . . God, why couldn’t he remember? Pushing a button on the bed frame, he raised his bed high enough that he caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror mounted over the sink. “Jesus,” he whispered, barely recognizing himself in the reflection. His usual tan had faded, and he appeared gaunt beneath at least a three days’ growth of beard shadow. His eyes were sunken deep in their sockets, his brown hair unruly where it was visible, the bandage wrapped over his crown. Down the left side of his face, deep gouges—like claw marks—were visible. As if he’d been on the losing side of a takedown with a cougar.

The old punch line You should see the other guy swept through his mind, but he didn’t so much as crack a smile. Because he knew there was no other guy. In James’s experience, those who usually scratched and clawed were female. That didn’t bode well. Well, hell, none of this did.

“Not good, Cahill,” he said and fell back against the pillows.

He was in a fight with a woman?

He squeezed his eyes shut. Tried to recall.

A memory, hot and dark, started to surface: a woman’s distorted, furious face bloomed, then withered away again.

This was so wrong.

He started to rise again, threw off the scant covers just as the door swept open and a bald man on the north side of forty stepped into the room. His name tag read: GRANT P. MONROE, MD. A trimmed goatee that had started to gray covered his chin, and behind rimless glasses, his gaze met James’s. He introduced himself and added, “We met earlier.”

Did we?

“You may not remember.”

“I don’t.”

“Hmm.” Noncommittal. But his eyes narrowed a fraction.

“In fact, I don’t even remember how I got here.”

“Results of a concussion.” He was using a penlight to stare into James’s eyes. “Should clear up in a few days.”

“Should?”

“Could be longer. Might come all of a sudden, seemingly out of nowhere, but more likely in bits and pieces as something you see or hear creates a connection. As time passes, as your brain heals, hopefully you’ll piece it all together.” He shone his light in the other eye.

“Hopefully?”

“No one can be certain.”

“How comforting.”

The barest hint of a smile at the sarcasm. “Give it time.”

“What choice do I have?” James grumbled.

The doc didn’t react, nor answer, but explained that not only did James have the concussion, but he had suffered three cracked ribs and torn ligaments in his right shoulder, along with some abrasions and contusions.

“You’re lucky,” the doctor concluded.

“Lucky?”

“Could’ve been much worse.”

“How?”

“Well, the blow to your head could have killed you.”

“I was hit?”

“You fell.”

“I fell?” he said, thinking of all the damage.