He’d been dating Sophia and Megan? Not just dating, but involved. Sexually, she’d implied. And emotionally. Hence the word “love.”

Deep inside, he sensed that whatever had happened to Megan wasn’t good and that somehow, someway he could be blamed. The scratches on his face seemed to pulse, and he caught another glimmer of memory, of nails bearing down on him, ready to tear into him. She—Megan, he presumed—had been furious. Enraged. Ready to rip him apart.

He tried and failed to remember the argument, the fight, but it teased at him, images struggling to surface only to disappear again.

And now Sophia claimed she loved him.

No wonder the cops wanted to have a chat.

Or possibly more than just a chat.

What had he gotten himself into?

Holding on to his ribs, he swung his feet over the side of the bed. Pain shot through his torso, and his head pounded, but he ignored the throbbing ache and, using the bed to steady himself, walked to its foot to stare up at the television, stretching his IV tube to the max. The flat screen appeared to be plugged into the wall socket overhead. Then he made his way back to the bed and tried the remote again. Nothing. He flipped the remote over and opened the back to find that the batteries had been removed.

Not good.

He studied the controls on the bed itself, the buttons that were marked clearly for calling the nurse or raising and lowering the head of the bed, even the foot. No button for the television.

With an effort, he hoisted himself back onto the bed and fought sleep.

Somehow, some way, he had to find a way to remember.

Maybe you don’t want to, a nagging voice in his head suggested. Maybe you won’t like what you’ll find.

Tough.

Anything was better than this, he thought, starting to drift off again.

Not knowing was killing him.

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 6

Bobby Knowlton climbed out of his truck—an aging, beat-up Chevy—then tossed the butt of a cigarette into the snow, its red ember fizzling as he half-jogged to the house. “God, it’s cold,” he said with a mock shiver as he approached Rivers and Mendoza.

Knowlton was pushing sixty, wiry, his features sharp as a razor’s edge. His leathery skin was permanently tanned from working outside, and he hadn’t bothered to shave for a day or two, silvery stubble covering his chin.

“You’re the detectives, right?” He was wearing a jean jacket, battered Levis, and a baseball cap pulled tight over his head.

“Brett Rivers, Riggs County Sheriff ’s Department.” Rivers offered up his ID, but Knowlton waved it away, stuck out his hand, and shook Rivers’s palm. “My partner, Wynonna Mendoza.”