“No, Beth. Megan Travers and her vehicle were missing. And still are. A witness, the driver of a snowplow in the vicinity Thursday night, saw a black car drive away from the scene after nearly running into the plow, and it’s thought the driver was most likely Megan Travers, who was supposed to be heading to her sister’s home in Seattle. She never arrived. Police are asking anyone who’s seen or heard from Megan Travers to call them at the number on the screen.” As she spoke, a telephone number scrolled across the bottom of the screen. “She was driving a black twenty-ten Toyota Corolla.” The reporter rattled off the Washington license plate number of the car before she signed off, and the double image changed into a studio shot; the anchors smiled and went to commercial.

Switching off the television, he glanced at the clock, decided to give the doc one hour.

Then, come hell, high water, or hospital red tape, he was out of here.

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 8

Rivers stared at the computer monitor in his office. On the screen was the driver’s-license photo of Megan Travers—not a great picture, more like a mug shot of a serious woman in her twenties with layered brown hair and deep-set blue eyes. High cheekbones and freckles. He knew her stats by heart: height, weight, birth date. She’d grown up in Yakima and gone to college at Evergreen State College in Olympia before dropping out for an unknown reason. She’d done office work in a car dealership and several medical offices, had never been married, and less than a year earlier, had moved to Riggs Crossing, where she’d taken a job with a local clinic. Somewhere along the way, she’d met James Cahill, more than likely before moving from the city to a town of less than three thousand. She’d rented a one-bedroom unit at the Abernathy Apartments on Cedar Street.

“Our boy’s awake,” Mendoza said as she appeared at the doorway of their shared office.

“Cahill?” Rivers glanced up from his computer.

“One and the same. I just phoned the hospital.”

Rivers was irritated. “The doctor was supposed to call me.”

“Probably still will.”

He was already rolling back his chair, away from the clutter of his desk, and reaching for his jacket. “I thought you went home.”

“I did. Even took in a kickboxing class, picked up takeout, showered, and called the hospital. According to the nurse on duty, James Cahill woke up about twenty minutes ago and had a visitor. Megan Travers’s sister, Rebecca Travers.”

Rivers’s brows lifted.

“It wasn’t a social call. According to the nurse, Rebecca Travers was aggressive and argumentative and wouldn’t leave when asked to. Had to nearly be thrown out of the hospital.”

“Have you spoken to her?” He was on his feet, stuffing an arm down one sleeve of his jacket.