“Kind of. I know where you are right now. The uncertainty is the hardest part. Where will you go from here, what can you still do? You want to be useful and . . . involved. You wanna be a cop. Am I close?”

Rafe nodded. “Pretty much.” Tom wasn’t just close, he was right on the money.

“I saw the therapist I recommended while he was in Boston, but he’s moved to San Francisco, started a practice there. I bet he’d drive to Sacramento to talk to you if you bribe him with that cake I saw on the table.”

Rafe found he could still smile. “Thank you. You got a business card for him?”

“I can shoot you his contact info.” Tom waved his phone. “AirDrop okay?”

“Yes, please. And thank you,” he repeated, because Tom hadn’t needed to do this, hadn’t needed to be so honest. Or helpful.

He put his phone away after accepting the contact exchange and drew a breath. “Do you still need my statement?”

“Yes, if you would.” Tom produced a tablet and perched it on his knee, his fingers poised to type. “Ready when you are.”

Rafe told him everything that had happened in the airport the night before, down to seeing Burton’s revolver on the security footage.

“Got it,” Tom said when Rafe wound down. “Tell me, did you notice anything else about Burton? Anything that surprised you?”

“Well, first off, he was there,” Rafe said sourly, and Tom chuckled.

“Besides that.”

Rafe considered it, went through every moment of the altercation. “He had an eye. I assume it was glass, because Mercy said he didn’t have a prosthetic when she was—” He cut himself off, unable to say the word “married.” It had been rape, pure and simple. “When she knew him. He must have had some kind of surgery . . .”

Tom smiled encouragingly. “Go on.”

“Well, if he had surgery, someone has to have done it, and probably outside Eden. I don’t think they had an actual doctor there, just ‘healers.’” His heart started racing, in sync with his mind. “Maybe we can find out who did it.”

“Maybe, maybe not. That’s kind of a needle in a haystack.”

Rafe looked at his foot, tapping a rhythm that matched his quickened pulse. “He grew up in Santa Rosa, and you know about the brothel madam, right?”

“You’re suggesting that his surgeon might also be located in the same area?”

“Yes. His mother’s nursing home is there, too. What if we started there? Asked if there were any surgeons who worked with Mrs. Franklin?”

“We could try. It’s unlikely they’ll tell us. HIPAA regs and all.”

Rafe blew out a frustrated sigh. “Dammit.” But Tom was right. “It was just an idea.”

“It was a good idea,” Tom said thoughtfully. “But we might have to try unconventional methods to get that information.”

He had Rafe’s attention. “Like?”

“Like finding someone on the inside. Or someone who can get on the inside.”