“I didn’t do anything other than get into a fight with her and end up on the losing end,” James said, irritated. Rowdy was, and always would be, an ass. But a smart, highly skilled ass who had spent time with military intelligence, a decision that helped him get out of trouble when he’d been a teenage computer hacker. Now he was a sometimes PI, sometimes surfer, sometimes completely off the radar.

“I’m not cheap,” Rowdy reminded him as James sped past snow-covered fields that glittered under the December sun.

“I don’t care.”

“Good, cuz you really do get what you pay for.”

“Just help me out on this.”

“Okay, I’m on the clock. I’ll dig up what I can, call you, and tell you if I need any more info.”

“Good.”

Rowdy asked a series of questions about Megan, and James filled him in as best he could.

“What about anyone else? Info on . . . another girlfriend, maybe?”

James hesitated, then admitted that yes, he had been seeing Sophia, and that there had been other women, including Gus’s sister, Jennifer, and, well . . . Rebecca.

He was rewarded with a long whistle. “Have you ever thought of slowing down with the women?” Rowdy asked.

“A time or two,” James said dryly.

“Just a thought.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“Good,” Rowdy said. “Just one last thing.”

“Shoot.”

A pause.

“You are innocent, right?”

The muscles in the back of James’s neck tensed, and he imagined Rowdy’s cynical smile partially hidden by three days’ growth of beard shadow. “Again, yes.”

“Okay.”

“Just do what you can.”

“You got it.” And then the connection was cut off, and he was left to brood and squint while following a service truck for the local propane distributor. Once he reached the shop, he parked between a van for Riggs Crossing Electric and Bobby’s old pickup. A headache was forming behind his eyes, but he ignored it as he cut the engine and stepped outside.

Ralph sprang from the interior to chase a squirrel up a spruce tree, only to whine at the base as the squirrel chattered at him from an upper limb.

“Leave it,” James commanded, knowing the squirrel was ever elusive.

Just like Rebecca.

No, Rebecca wasn’t elusive. He’d had his chance with her. He’d blown it.

As he walked through the open door, a wall of heat and a cacophony of sounds hit him full in the face. Somewhere beneath the buzz of saws, the rapid-fire tattoo of nail guns, and the hiss of a compressor, he heard the strains of “Roxanne” by The Police.