Tom nodded, aware that she was kindly telling him to stop chasing after Eden’s past. “Sure.”

She gave him an understanding smile. “It’s okay, Tom. We’ll likely chase down a ton of leads before we find the right one. It’s the nature of the business.”

Tom managed to smile back. “Thanks. I’ll dig into the dark web when we get back. If DJ is selling drugs for the Chicos, there should be some record somewhere.”

“That’s good thinking. And I’m going to reread your Eden file while we wait for the truck.”

Leaving Tom to check his phone for any messages from Liza. There were none. He sent her a text, asking if she was okay, but got no answer.

I need to fix this. But if she shut him out, he wasn’t sure how.

SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

THURSDAY, MAY 25, 5:15 P.M.

DJ’s eye twitched as he was beeped into the rehab center through the back door. He was still shaking an hour later.

Kowalski had lured him into a trap. The package that DJ was supposed to pick up had been a trap. His last-minute decision to take Smythe’s Lexus might have saved his life. His gut hadn’t liked the setup—the warehouse in Stockton had been too quiet. He’d been right.

He’d pulled into the loading area of the next warehouse and looked through his scope. And there had been Kowalski, waiting with two of his biggest thugs. His finger had itched on the trigger, but he hadn’t fired a shot. If DJ had fired, he would have been made, and likely wouldn’t have been able to escape.

So now he was sneaking into Sunnyside Oaks through the employees’ entrance, wearing a cheap goddamn wig that he’d been forced to buy at a party store, because his drug-dealing boss wanted to kill him because his fucking face was all over the fucking Internet.

A nurse met him at the door, a surgical mask in her hand. “You’re wanted by cops in several jurisdictions and by the FBI. I think covering your face may be in your best interest, since that wig won’t fool anyone, and not everyone here is paid to look the other way.”

DJ rolled his eyes, but he took off the wig and put on the mask. Dammit. “How is my father doing?” he asked as she led him down a hallway where the stainless-steel wall tiles gleamed so brightly he was tempted to put on his sunglasses.

“He’s awake and talking.”

Alarm skittered down DJ’s spine as he imagined all the things Pastor might say if he was high on painkillers. All the truths he might speak that both DJ and Pastor would prefer he keep quiet.

“What’s he saying?” he asked casually, but the nurse wasn’t fooled.

“Nothing like that, sir. You’re not alone in your worry, though. We keep all recovering patients who are still on painkillers in their own rooms with specialized personnel who are trained and vetted. They won’t share anything they hear.”