Monroe’s face was hard, cut in stone. “The police will tell you—”

“Screw the police! I need to know!” He pushed upright, swung his legs over the edge of the bed as a bolt of pain shot through his chest.

“Mr. Cahill,” Monroe said firmly, “I’d advise you to take it easy.” His manner had gone stiff. “And don’t touch Nurse Rictor or any of us again. The police will tell you what you want to know.”

“Call them,” James ordered.

The doctor nodded. “Already done.”

Dread stirred inside James, and his jaw clenched at the thought of facing the police. He’d never liked cops; he remembered that, and he never would. He’d had more than one run-in with the law, back in his hellion-of-a-teenager days, when he was a hot-headed youth who’d rebelled against his parents, his scandal-cursed, wealthy family, and the whole damned world.

So why all the trouble now?

What had landed him here? He fought to recall, but came up empty. Whatever had happened, it had been bad. Very bad. He forced his thoughts to earlier in the week, what he could remember of it: the snow that was still falling outside the hospital windows, the coming of the busy season with the approaching holidays.

He’d been brought here Thursday, the nurse had said. What had he been doing? The last thing he recalled was that he’d been working on an order for one of the tiny houses . . . right? And there had been some kind of glitch, but he couldn’t remember what. He’d gone from the shed, where the house was being constructed, to the inn . . . like always . . . right? Picked up dinner at the restaurant and . . . and . . . and driven home. He remembered stepping inside, his dog greeting him, and then headlights in the driveway. Then?

Damn if he could recall.

Monroe was speaking again, bringing him back to the here and now.

“—a call in to Detective Rivers.”

“He’s the cop I need to talk to?” James asked.

“Yes.”

So be it. No one here was going to give him any answers. He read it in Monroe’s staunch professionalism. James was being stonewalled. Either the doctor didn’t have any answers or had been instructed to keep his mouth shut. And Sonja Rictor had clammed up. Grabbing her had been a mistake. She was now as tight-lipped as Dr. Monroe, saying only, “I’m sure you’ll sort it all out once you remember.” She injected something into his IV. “This should help take the edge off.”

“I need to get out of here,” he said.

“Not tonight.” Monroe was firm, and James had trouble concentrating, probably from whatever it was that had been slipped into his IV.

“If you don’t let me out of here—”

The doctor cocked his head in unspoken question: Then what? Where do you think you’ll go? What do you think you’ll do?