This room had no product, just DJ’s electronics. He packed up his laptop and the hard drives he’d collected over the years. He knew the Feds could find stuff, even on wiped hard drives. So he’d never thrown anything away.

He’d learned his way around computers on the old machines. His father had never been interested in the Internet. Had never understood what it could do.

DJ had immediately seen the benefits—some for Eden, but mostly for himself. Once Waylon was dead and DJ was in charge of supply runs, he’d met Kowalski, who’d taught him how to use software, how to manipulate photographs, how to use the surface web to sell Eden’s quilts and sundries, and, importantly, how to use the dark web to sell the drugs they grew.

Once all of his old laptops were boxed up, he turned to the printers. There was no way he was leaving them. Cops could get copies of things a printer had produced by checking the device’s memory. If DJ was suspected in Mrs. Ellis’s death by virtue of being her “weird and antisocial” neighbor, the cops could come sniffing.

If the cops got evidence from his electronics, Kowalski would drop him like a hot potato. DJ didn’t hold it against the man. He’d do the very same thing. Business was business, after all.

DJ loaded everything into his truck and took a last look at his house before driving away. He didn’t think he’d be coming back. Even if Mrs. Ellis’s death was assumed to be from natural causes, Kowalski had wired his house with cameras. He had no intention of allowing the dealer to monitor his every move.

He got enough of that from Pastor.

NINE

ROCKLIN, CALIFORNIA

WEDNESDAY, MAY 24, 9:10 P.M.

From her front window, Liza watched Rafe sheltering Mercy with his body until she was safely in his Subaru. Something needed to give before Mercy broke. Liza had seen soldiers break under the stress, and Mercy wasn’t too far from that point.

They needed a distraction, something that would take Mercy’s mind off the fact that DJ was out there without allowing her to lower her guard. Putting the leftovers that Irina had sent into the oven, Liza sat at the counter and dialed a known compatriot.

“Liza!” Daisy Dawson sounded chipper as always.

“Hi, Daisy. I hope I’m not calling too late. I know you get up early for work.” Daisy was the cohost of a morning radio show, and her bedtime was surely approaching.

“It’s fine.” She laughed softly, a deep husky sound for which she was famous. “Even if you’d woken me up it would be fine. You saved Mercy’s life today. Gideon and I are grateful.”

Daisy was Gideon Reynolds’s girlfriend and had inadvertently started the official investigation into Eden when she’d grabbed a locket from the neck of a killer who’d been trying to drag her away. Through the investigation, she and Gideon had connected.