He made sure that the camera was reset and unpacked the bag of items he’d gotten at the convenience store on the way back from Sunnyside. He shook a few more ibuprofen from the bottle and swallowed them with water he’d found in Smythe’s fridge.

The cigarettes went on the nightstand along with Smythe’s lighter. He’d smoked all that he’d found in Smythe’s pockets and had treated himself to more. He’d always smoked sparingly so that Pastor didn’t smell it on him when he returned to Eden. But tonight he’d smoked a whole pack and a half.

The box of hair color he put in the bathroom along with the reading glasses he’d bought to wear on the end of his nose. Tomorrow morning, his blond hair would become . . . He squinted at the box.

“Deep Dark Brown,” he muttered.

He rubbed his palm along his jaw. He couldn’t grow a decent beard no matter how hard he tried, but he could trim and dye the scruff. It didn’t have to be pretty. He just had to make himself look like someone else.

ROCKLIN, CALIFORNIA

FRIDAY, MAY 26, 12:45 A.M.

Tom gave his e-mail to Raeburn one last look, triple-checking the virus-embedded text he’d prepared for the résumés the Bureau would be submitting to Sunnyside Oaks. Including Liza’s, which made him want to scream. But the file was complete, so he hit send.

Then sagged into his chair as the full import of what she’d done hit him once again. She hadn’t argued with him. Hadn’t screamed or yelled back at him. She’d stayed calm.

And had promptly gone over his head, scaring him shitless. She is competent, he kept telling himself. More than competent. She’s amazing.

She really was. Even though he’d hurt her, even though he’d yelled, she’d been gentle. She’d faced him squarely.

She’d even held his face tenderly. Her hands were always a little rough because she washed them so often. He wished he could free her from that, from having to work at all. Except that Molina was right. Liza did have a nearly limitless need to help others. She would never be happy unless she had something useful to do.

But this . . . He thought of Penny Gaynor’s body, the way the bullet had torn her skull apart. He thought of the pendant around her neck, covered in blood and brain matter.

Too close to the pendant he’d given to Liza when she’d accompanied Mercy into that nursing home. He swallowed hard, his gorge rising at the thought of DJ Belmont laying a hand on her. Hurting her. Then he did as Molina had advised, picturing her in combat fatigues, taking up a rifle and protecting her unit.

And then becoming like Florence Nightingale on speed. That he could easily visualize.

She’d survived a war zone. He had to believe she could survive this, because he couldn’t fathom his life without her in it. Except now she wasn’t in it. Not anymore.