Motherfucker. “I see,” DJ said levelly. Because he did. The old man was ever cagey. “You said a series of trusts. Are there more?”

“Yes. One goes to my wives. One to my banker.”

“Your banker gets a trust?”

“He’s served me well.” Pastor coughed, moaning at the resulting pain. “The point is, I better show up at a hospital. If I don’t, you’d better hope it was an accident and we all died, otherwise your face will be on an FBI wanted poster.”

Too late, asshole. The FBI already had his prints. If there was camera surveillance in the office building he’d used Wednesday morning, his face was now known to the Feds as well.

Then a detail popped up, distracting him. “Wait. How does your banker know all of this?”

“I told Coleen to call him. Gave her a onetime code.”

“Where are the other codes?”

A crooked smile. “In my head. Better hope I wake up from surgery, or they die with me.”

And then the money would be divided and put into trust. He had killed Ephraim in part to keep from having to share that money with anyone. Unless he could find another way, he’d still be sharing it. Despite being bruised and bloody and frail from his fall, Pastor looked smug.

It took every ounce of DJ’s self-control not to ball his hands into fists and beat the fucker into a bloody pulp. Instead DJ breathed until he could be sure his voice was steady. “Is that why you want Coleen to come with us? To make sure I don’t do anything—”

“Evil?” Pastor interrupted with a laugh that sounded more like a geriatric bark. “I don’t need to give you any reason, but if you must have one, then yes, that is why. When do we leave?”

DJ gritted his teeth. “As soon as you’re ready. I’ll ask some of the men to carry you down to the truck. I need to make arrangements for a hospital.”

Pastor closed his eyes. “Good boy.”

Not a damn boy. Not anymore. He had been once, before Pastor had given him to Edward McPhearson. DJ had been his apprentice. Edward had been a brutal master. Once Edward was dead, McPhearson no longer owned him. But Pastor still did. Not sexually, but DJ was owned.

And he still owns me.

Because Pastor knew that the lure of fifty million dollars was too strong for anyone to ignore.

DJ turned to go. “I’ll be waiting at the truck.”

ROCKLIN, CALIFORNIA

THURSDAY, MAY 25, 1:15 A.M.

Finding Sergio Iglesias didn’t take as long as Liza had thought it would, at least compared to the hours Daisy had spent identifying him to begin with. A week after the Feds visited his old studio, fifteen of Iglesias’s photos had appeared on Instagram under the account of Sal Ibarra, the new name allowing Iglesias to continue using his initials as his signature.