It seemed to Detective Rhys MacFarlane that he had awakened with a terrible hangover, knowing he was supposed to be somewhere doing something about some kind of investigation. He must be late, for the sun was well up, and shining in his eyes. He shut them again. His bed was far from comfortable. And there were women’s voices. What was going on?
“I think he’s coming around,” one of the voices said. “Oh, good.”
He knew that voice. Of course. Jill. But what was she doing in—He tried to sit up, but stars appeared again, whirling. He tensed and lay still until the stars subsided, but the pain and nausea remained.
“Easy.” That was a different voice. “Lie still. Don’t try to get up yet.”
Then the unfamiliar voice again. “Go ahead and open your eyes.” He did, and the sun’s glare was subdued by
