He needed to regroup and take care of some other business.

He’d already set the expectation with Pastor that he wouldn’t be back for a week. He could afford to wait and watch. Mercy Callahan would have to lower her guard sooner or later, and next time he had her in his sights, she wouldn’t have bodyguards.

Because the next time he had her in his sights, he’d take the bodyguards out first. He’d gotten a good look at the man’s face. Unfortunately, he’d only gotten a quick look at the female bodyguard, but he thought he’d recognize her if he ever saw her again.

MIDTOWN SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

WEDNESDAY, MAY 24, 11:30 A.M.

Shit, shit, shit. Liza’s texts had Tom’s heart pounding. Thanks to her sharp eye, a disaster had been narrowly avoided.

A sniper on a rooftop. Aiming at Mercy Callahan.

And Liza. Because he knew his friend. She’d protect Mercy and Abigail, even if it meant putting her own life on the line.

He wasn’t sure who his heart was pounding harder for, Liza, Mercy, or Abigail.

Dammit, Liza, don’t get yourself shot before I can tell you I’m proud of you. Because Molina’s casual observation still weighed heavily on his mind. Don’t get yourself shot, period.

He checked the time and wanted to groan aloud. He and Ricki Croft were in Midtown, at the house Amos Terrill was helping to renovate. They were at least forty-five minutes from the eye doctor where Liza had taken Mercy and Abigail. The sniper was likely long gone already, but they could at least look at the scene.

That DJ Belmont had returned was Tom’s first assumption. The man was a skilled sniper. He was not to be underestimated.

Tom silently swore, wondering how to tell Amos that his child had been at the scene of a thwarted shooting. The man was going to freak out, and he’d be perfectly right to do so.

He looked up from his phone to see Croft showing Amos the photo array they’d made, including the picture Cameron Cook had provided of his missing, pregnant girlfriend.

“Yes,” Amos Terrill was saying with a brisk nod. His voice was raspy and hoarse, a lingering effect of the gunshot wound to his throat the month before. He leaned forward to tap the photo of Hayley. “That’s her in the bottom row, middle picture. Sister Magdalena.”

“You’re certain?” Croft asked him.

Amos pushed the laminated sheet of photos over the blueprints that covered the makeshift table to Croft, who’d led the interview. “One hundred percent, Agent Croft. It’s only been a month since I saw her. She was clearly unhappy to be in Eden. I worried for her. She wasn’t fitting in very well.”

Croft frowned at the photo. “Her name is Hayley Gibbs.”

Amos shrugged. “Not in Eden. Most in the community have biblical names. My parents named me Amos, so I was good to go when I got there. A few get to keep their old names, but that’s generally up to Pastor.”