Not so much tonight.

She put in earbuds, turned up her Garth Brooks playlist, and opened the spiral notebook to a fresh page. She was no artist, but she had a few ideas about the tattoo she’d like. Sergio did good work, and having left the studio where he’d already built a clientele, he probably needed the money. If he turned her away after learning who she was and what she wanted to know about the Eden tattoo, she’d find another tattooist.

It was time to lay her friends to rest, once and for all.

MCARTHUR, CALIFORNIA

THURSDAY, MAY 25, 1:35 A.M.

DJ scowled at his sat phone, knowing he’d put off calling Kowalski as long as he could. The man would be meeting with customers and suppliers soon. Most of their work was done in the wee hours when most people were asleep.

He hated having to call Kowalski. Hated having to owe the man anything.

Hated having Kowalski know where Pastor was, because he would if they used the doctor he recommended. He did not want Kowalski meeting Pastor and asking him questions, especially now, when the old man wasn’t firing on all cylinders.

Gritting his teeth, he dialed Kowalski’s number, swallowing a snarl when the man answered, his tone smug. “Changed your mind about the doctor, huh?”

“Yes. My father was hurt worse than I’d been led to believe.”

“That’s too bad,” Kowalski said, his words dripping with mock concern. “The doctor’s name is Ralph Arnold. I’ll text you his number. Wait a few minutes before calling. I’ll have to let him know to expect you. He doesn’t take calls from just anyone. He runs a very private hospital.”

“Thank you.” He swallowed the snarl that was crawling out of his throat. “I appreciate this.”

“Oh, don’t worry. You’ll be able to return the favor at some point in the future.”

That’s what I’m afraid of. “Of course. But . . . what do you mean by ‘private’ hospital?”

“He’s a legit doctor, if that’s what you’re asking. His patients have one thing in common—the need for privacy. Most of his patients are celebrities looking to avoid the media. Others are . . . like us. People who don’t want their DNA falling into the wrong hands. He operated on my knee a few years ago and it’s as good as new now.”

DJ’s phone buzzed with the incoming texted contact information. “I got the doctor’s number, thank you. I’ll wait to call him. I need to go. Road’s dicey here.”

Ending the call, he set the phone aside, gripping the wheel with both hands to navigate a hairpin turn. He hated driving this big truck on these curves. He didn’t know how drivers of semitrucks did it without careening over the cliff to instant death, but they did, so he could, too.

The pickup in which Waylon had taught him to drive had been a standard Ford F-150. This box truck that he’d stolen from the itinerant farmhand was considerably bigger.