The crews were in full swing, men and women in hard hats and safety glasses, moving from one site to the other as they worked on three houses in varying stages of construction. The sleek, ultra-modern abode, made primarily from a shipping container, was nearly finished. The second, the ski cabin, was on its platform awaiting tile, and the third, a cottage with a “coastal vibe” requested by the client, was only in the framing stage.

Bobby was in deep conversation with two workers. One was a burly man holding a rolled-up set of plans in his gloved hands, and he stood next to a petite woman wearing jeans, a plaid shirt, and a tool belt. They were locked in a deep discussion, bordering on an argument, that James wanted no part of. But he caught Bobby’s eye, and the foreman tilted his chin in greeting as James headed up the stairs to the office. By the time he’d reached the landing, his dog had whipped past him to wait at the door.

“No luck?” James asked the shepherd and took the time to scratch Ralph behind his ears. “Believe me, I know the feeling.”

He unlocked the office and glanced down at the houses under construction, as he had a thousand times. He wondered if things were finally getting back to normal.

Yeah, right. Who’re you kidding, Cahill? Until Megan turns up, there is no normal.

In his mind’s eye, her face, clear as day, came into view, and he remembered her playful smile that could turn a little cruel at times and the freckles that spattered her nose when her makeup had worn thin . . .

That caused him to stop for a moment, and he thought, just for a bit, that it was important. But as close to the surface as the idea was, it quickly submerged again. The muscles in his neck tensed. Though most of his memories were distinct, like Megan advancing upon him during their last fight, some were still unclear, murky recollections hanging in the shadows that had yet to come to the fore. He sensed they were important, yet nothing he could put his finger on, which was the problem. And he was sick to death of trying to figure it out, almost as sick as he was of the reporters constantly calling or accosting him on the street.