“But not for me,” DJ whispered into the quiet of the car. Waylon hadn’t acknowledged his accusation. He’d merely jumped from the truck bed, leaving the body destroyed and unrecognizable to wade into the river and wash away the blood and gore.

That had been the moment that DJ had known that Waylon had to die. Now, all these years later, he replayed Waylon’s final moments in his mind, so glad that he’d killed the bastard.

Seventeen years had passed since Gideon’s escape, and DJ was just as angry now as he’d been then. Seeing Gideon’s face . . . He’d snapped. Before he’d even been aware of it, he’d pointed his gun straight at Gideon’s chest. And fired.

But the bastard had not died.

Not today, he told himself. He hadn’t died today. But he will.

DJ’s pulse was slowing, his mind gradually clearing again.

He will die, but Mercy needs to be first. Mercy was the greater threat. Gideon was Waylon’s shame and Waylon had paid. Mercy was DJ’s shame.

He’d claimed to have killed her and buried her body. He’d thought he had killed her. He’d lied to Pastor just as Waylon had lied. But DJ had had a better reason. He’d been chased away by a fucking bystander before he could finish the job.

Waylon had known that Gideon still breathed when he’d dumped him. Waylon had wanted Gideon to escape.

I am not like my father. Not in any way. Except for the fact that he had lied and now couldn’t let Pastor find out that Mercy was alive. Pastor would brand him a liar and would never tell him the access codes that the old fucker had memorized.

So he was back to the same plan he’d had before. Mercy needed to die.

Except now Gideon and Daisy Dawson would be on alert, because his brain was stupid and had reacted to seeing Gideon’s face. He hadn’t seen him clearly a month ago, that day in Dunsmuir. He’d been focused on killing Ephraim and Mercy. And then Daisy had shot him.

“Except you just made your job a thousand times harder,” he muttered to himself. “Fuck.”

Now the cops would be looking for a Lexus. He needed another car, but for now he’d change the license plates and keep his gun close. He wouldn’t risk stealing another car right now. Nobody would report the Lexus missing until Mrs. Smythe returned home. He didn’t know the same about any vehicle he could steal today.

He got out of the Lexus on legs that felt like Jell-O. Holding on to the car for support, he opened the trunk, found two matching license plates, and switched them with the set of fakes he’d made that morning.

Then he headed back for the Smythe house, exhausted and in pain. His head hurt, his arm hurt. His body ached.

He needed a safe place to hide, a place where neither the cops nor Kowalski could find him.

Kowalski. He wanted to groan. Now he was fighting a war on two fronts. He didn’t expect to turn the cops to his way of thinking. But Kowalski he might be able to manage.