Farrah sighed, a put-upon sound that she’d drama’d up for Mercy’s benefit. “No, you don’t. It’s hard to find clothes for curves. I wish I were stick-slender.”

But Mercy saw the twinkle in Farrah’s eye and knew the truth. “No you don’t. You like the way Captain Holmes stares at your curves.”

Farrah grinned. “That I do, and I make no apologies. My man is fine.”

“Yes, he definitely is.” Even though Captain Holmes could be intimidating in cop mode, he was kind and funny and he’d always treated Farrah like she was the sweetest of treasures. That made the man more than fine in Mercy’s book, even if he did make her feel small whenever he was in the room. “But not my type,” she added when Farrah gave her an amused look. “He’s very . . . big, isn’t he?”

Farrah threw back her head and laughed. “He most certainly is, in all the right places. One in particular.”

Mercy’s cheeks heated. She hadn’t meant that, but Farrah had a bawdy streak. “Was he okay with you just dropping everything to come with me?” she asked, changing the subject.

Farrah sobered, nodding. “He was perfectly okay with it. You said you needed me and that was good enough for him. That we’re staying in a house owned by a cop made him feel better about it, though.” She shrugged. “He worries.”

A house owned by a cop. Mercy winced, thinking about the cop in question. Homicide detective Raphael Sokolov, Gideon’s best friend. The brother of his heart in the way that Farrah was the sister of hers.

Rafe probably hated her, too. If he didn’t, he should. Or would, given enough time. She selfishly hoped that he wouldn’t, though. Her memories of Rafe as she’d sat at his bedside for two weeks—his golden hair, his slow smile, and his unfettered happiness despite his pain—were the only bright spots in the nights she’d spent tossing and turning and fearing to sleep in the six weeks since returning to New Orleans. “The cop is on disability leave.” Because he’d taken a bullet. For me. “Did you tell your captain that?”

Farrah made a face. “Well, no. But a cop’s a cop, Mercy. Just because the man is recuperating from injuries doesn’t mean squat. He’s still a cop deep down. Instincts don’t go on sabbatical, you know.” She narrowed her eyes abruptly. “He knows we’re coming, doesn’t he?”

Mercy opened her mouth, then closed it again.

Farrah’s frown deepened. “Mercy? He knows we’re coming, doesn’t he?”

“No, but his sister does. I called her to ask if we could stay with her for a little while.”

“Okay.” Farrah’s frown receded, but her wariness remained. “The sister is Sasha, right?”

“Right. Rafe’s house has three apartments. Rafe was staying on the bottom floor because he couldn’t do the stairs, at least when I was last there.” Before I ran away like the coward I am. “The bullet tore the muscles in his thigh.” Mercy shuddered at the memory of the pain he’d suffered, but she couldn’t dwell on that now or she’d never make it to baggage claim. Breathe in and out. Nice and easy. She swallowed hard and pushed on. “The bottom-floor apartment actually belongs to Daisy.”