“I don’t care if he’s a fucking Einstein,” Gideon gritted out. “If I get my hands on him, he’ll wish he’d picked on someone else’s sister.”

Daisy laid her hand on Gideon’s arm. “Hey,” she said soothingly. “I want to disembowel him with a rusty grapefruit spoon, but maybe we shouldn’t say that out loud with other cops in the room?”

Gideon huffed a laugh, then scrubbed his face with his palms. “Play it, Rafe. Please.”

Rafe did, and within seconds it was obvious that it was the same voice as the 911 call. The recorded Jeff Bunker was talking about the recent serial killer “situation” in Sacramento, saying he wanted to focus on the survivors since other journalists were talking about the killer’s dead victims.

“Hell of a way to focus,” Rafe snarled, stopping the video. “Jesus, I want to fucking kill him.”

“I think we all have received that message,” Irina said, putting teacups on the table. She poured a cup for everyone, then returned to her seat to sip her tea. “But I’d like to hear where he was going with his story. If you boys can’t listen to him without dreaming up ways to commit homicide in ever-increasingly clever ways, then send me the link, Raphael, and I’ll listen on my own.”

Rafe slouched in his chair, chastised as she’d intended him to be. “You’re right, Mom. Sorry.”

“Drink your tea. It’s calming.”

Rafe sniffed at the brew suspiciously. “How calming?”

She swatted at him. “Not that calming. I wish I’d never told you all that I drink my special tea for my arthritis. Now be quiet—if you can—and play the video.”

“Busted,” Sasha whispered loudly, making him snort out a laugh. Which his bratty but very sweet sister had also intended. “Take a breath, Rafe,” she said, sobering. “You’re no good to Mercy going all He-Man and the Masters of the Universe on this kid’s ass.”

Rafe did as both women recommended, taking a breath and sipping his tea before hitting PLAY.

The video turned out to be a vlog of sorts with more than ten thousand views. Rafe figured that most of them had happened since the article was posted the night before. Jeff Bunker wanted to “know the survivors” and to follow their “healing process.”

“Sonofabitch,” Rafe muttered. “He’s not interested in healing. He’s only interested in himself.”

“Shh,” his mother admonished. “Listen, son.”

Rafe and Gideon scowled at each other before turning back to his phone like they could summon Bunker or something. He had to hand it to the kid—he talked a good talk. Anyone who hadn’t actually read the hateful trash he’d written might see him as a stand-up, earnest college kid who wanted to change the world.

Rafe didn’t care what BS the little bastard was spewing. If he got his hands on Bunker, he’d tear him limb from limb.

He was saved from listening to any more when the doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” Rafe all but snarled, shoving away from the table, giving his phone one last look that he wished could kill. At least he was doing better than Gideon, who sat with his fists clenched, desperate rage stiffening his body.