He hesitated for just a heartbeat. “She’s okay.”

His mother’s hesitation was five heartbeats. “That’s good. Give me a minute, I’m taking my coffee into the living room.” He heard the quiet creak of the rocking chair where she loved to sit and read and wished he could go home. Just for a few hours. “Okay. Tell me everything.”

Oh no. He wasn’t telling her anything. “I’ve been busy at work, and you know I can’t talk about that. Tell me how everyone is doing there. Is Gracie still mooning after that boy?” His younger sister was nine years old and currently in love with a boy in her class.

His mother’s chuckle was soothing. “Oh, that’s a story and a half. How long do you have?”

“As much time as you’ll give me.”

This time her hesitation was longer, her voice softer. Warmer. Like a blanket right out of the dryer. “Well, get comfortable, son, and I’ll tell you a story.”

Tom did as he was told, grabbing another beer before settling into the corner of the sofa. Without thinking, he pulled an afghan over himself, flinching when Liza’s scent hit his nose. She’d crocheted the damn thing and liked to cuddle in it when she came over to watch TV. Rafe’s words pinged around in his head and he tightened his jaw.

I’m not ready. Even if she were interested, I’m not ready. He contemplated switching out Liza’s afghan for the throw on the back of the love seat. It was within his reach, the love seat and the sofa arranged in an L. He only had to stretch a little to the left to grab it. But he didn’t.

Instead he pulled Liza’s afghan closer, inhaling her scent. “Okay, Mom. I’m ready.” Again he flinched, this time at the words that had fallen from his mouth. “What’s up with Gracie?”

YUBA CITY, CALIFORNIA

WEDNESDAY, MAY 24, 8:40 P.M.

DJ did a final sweep of the house, looking for anything that might be incriminating in case the ME suspected foul play and the cops came sniffing around.

He’d already swept the basement twice. It smelled like weed, but there wasn’t even a leaf on the floor and Kowalski had already cleared out all of the product that DJ had harvested before he’d been shot. He’d planned to take some of that back to Eden with him and store it in the caves. Their mushroom production had been disrupted with the last two moves in such quick succession, and they’d had no Eden-grown product to sell all winter. DJ had sold most of the pot he’d skimmed from what he owed Kowalski, just to keep revenue coming in.

That money was supposed to have been his. He wasn’t supposed to have shared it with Eden. But Pastor had demanded an accounting of their income and DJ hadn’t wanted him to see that he’d been siphoning money from the community for years. So he’d dipped into his own stash to keep Eden’s coffers full so that Pastor wouldn’t go looking.