He must’ve caught sight of the detectives because he cast a glance their way, then held up a finger to the guy he was talking with and said, “Jake, give me a few minutes, okay?”

“You got it.” Jake tossed off his hood and replaced it with a hard hat while Cahill hopped down from the trailer, only to grimace as he landed. His expression wasn’t exactly welcoming. “I thought we were going to meet later.”

“We were anxious to hear what you had to say,” Rivers said. “You mentioned you remembered the night that Megan Travers disappeared?”

James shot a glance over his shoulder, as if checking to see who might overhear the conversation, which seemed improbable as the shriek of a wet saw chewing through tile screamed through the building. “Let’s go into the office, where we can hear ourselves think.” He hitched his thumb toward a staircase that climbed to a landing tucked halfway to the ceiling and ended at a large glassed-in room that had a bird’s-eye view of the activity below.

“Fine.”

Cahill, looking like death warmed over, led the way, only leaning on the railing a little as they scaled the steps.

“This’ll be better, or at least quieter,” Cahill said as he shut the door behind them and waved them into visitors’ chairs. He took a seat at a massive desk. The back wall was lined with cubbies filled with samples of fabric, tile, hardwood, and quartz. And a drafting table sat in one corner, a design partially finished, while a computer screen displayed a 3-D image of the interior of a small house on another desk.

“You said you remembered,” Mendoza prodded. She’d slipped out of her jacket and placed her phone on the desk, hitting the record button. “This okay?”

“Sure.” Cahill slid into his chair, his arm in its sling resting over his chest. “It all came back this morning.”

“Everything?” Rivers asked.

“Some details are kind of blurry, but yeah, it feels right.”

“Why don’t you just tell us what you recall,” Mendoza suggested. “About the last time you saw Megan Travers.”