Ever since he’d become convinced that her disappearance wasn’t an act, she’d been like a ghost, teasing his subconscious, playing tricks on him, coming to mind at the most unlikely of times.

A sharp rap on the side window brought him back to the here and now. A beefy guy in a trucker’s cap and jeans jacket had his face to the glass. James rolled down his window as the guy pointed a gloved hand at the loading-zone sign.

“Hey, buddy,” he said. “Can’t you read?”

Then James noticed the delivery truck double-parked on the street behind him, another burly guy behind the wheel glaring at him.

“Sorry.”

“Hey, aren’t you—?”

James didn’t wait, just rolled the window up, shoved his Explorer into gear, and slipped into the lane in front of the truck. This was getting worse. The publicity behind Megan’s going missing was intensifying. And then there was his suspicion that the police thought he was lying, that he’d what? Hurt, maimed, or killed Megan, then faked his own injury, even when witnesses had seen her drive away from his house?

No, they think you staged the whole thing, that you had an accomplice who did the dirty deed while you had a ready-made alibi.

His jaw tightened as he stopped at an intersection. A woman pushing a baby stroller stepped into the crosswalk. He waited, squinting into the sun, and reached for his sunglasses in the console. They were missing, and he was thinking maybe the cops had taken them or misplaced them when they’d searched his vehicle before he remembered he’d left them at the office.

He flipped down his visor, picked up his phone, and after a second’s hesitation, punched in a familiar number, then, using his Bluetooth, waited until Rowdy Crocker picked up. Which took a while.

“Yeah? Cahill?” he finally answered as James eased through the intersection.

“Right.”

“I figured you’d be calling. Been catching you on the evening news. Wow, brother, you’ve really got yourself in a mess this time.”

“The reason I decided to ring you up.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Find Megan Travers.”

There was a laugh on the other end. “Because the police can’t?”

“Right.” He turned onto the highway leading south, out of town, and hit the gas. “They seem to think I had something to do with it.”

There was a pause. “I assume you didn’t.”

“Jesus, Rowdy, would I be calling you if I had?”

“Rumor has it your memory of that night isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”