The mystery surrounding Megan’s disappearance had gone from a local story to statewide and even some national interest, and that “Find Megan” campaign all over social media had gotten all of the conspiracy theorists chatting, commenting, tweeting, or whatever; many of them seemed to think he was not only a person of interest, but the mastermind behind his girlfriend’s disappearance. They’d dug into his life, learned about the family fortune and all of the scandals involving the Cahills of San Francisco, so they’d quickly cast him into the same pit as the murderous psychos in his family. He felt as if the press had already tried and convicted him, and that damned Charity Spritz was the worst of the lot.

And then there was Sophia.

He had to end it with her.

Whether he liked it or not, his life was quickly becoming part of a media circus that translated into his own personal nightmare.

But he had to keep moving forward . . . though it would be best to wait until he heard back from Rowdy.

He tossed his keys onto the desk and noted his sunglasses weren’t where he’d thought he’d left them. A quick scan of the desktop didn’t help, but he couldn’t worry about anything so trivial.

He sat at his desk and went through all the old messages that had piled up on his cell phone while it had been with the police. He cringed at the thought of the cops digging through his personal stuff. Nothing was too private for their prying eyes.

Jaw set, he deleted calls from reporters and friends and separated out the business calls before tackling the e-mails just as a scream ripped up the stairs.

“Yeeeeowww! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Son of a bitch! Son of a fucking bitch!”

What?

James shot to his feet.

Rounded the desk.

Stared out the window with a view of the shop.

Men and women abandoned their stations. Several hopped from the trailer with the ski cottage to rush toward the back of the shop. James focused on the back wall. On the wet saw.

Shit!

A man, doubled over, was at the center of the commotion.

Gus Jardine.

His face ashen and twisted in agony, he was holding his right hand with the other. Blood flowed through his fingers, torn flesh, and exposed bone.

“Jesus.” James flew down the stairs, where the saws, hammers, and nail guns had stopped their din. Now it was just sharp conversation and Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer.”

A woman shouted, “Someone call nine-one-one!”

“On it!” Bobby Knowlton already had a phone pressed to his ear.

“Oh, holy shit, look at all that blood,” another man yelled. “Gus! You okay?”

James pushed through the crowd that had gathered around the injured man. “What happened?”