Trying to calm himself, Rafe opened the door to find Erin. And a kid.

The kid. Jeffrey Fucking Bunker.

FOURTEEN

GRANITE BAY, CALIFORNIA

SUNDAY, APRIL 16, 6:50 P.M.

Jeffrey Bunker, that sonofabitch. Rafe’s vision hazed with red and he’d fisted Bunker’s shirt before he could stop himself, lifting the kid to his toes. “You little fucking shit,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “You dare show your face here? Are you insane?” He gave Bunker a shake.

Then reality began to seep into the fog of his fury. Bunker was gasping for air and an older woman behind him was shouting for him to take his hands off her son.

But it was Erin’s calm voice that finally got through. “Put him down, Rafe. Now.”

He released Bunker, pushing him away with another snarl. “What. The. Fuck, Erin?”

Erin exhaled heavily. “Fucking hell, Rafe. What’s gotten into you?”

“It’s him,” Rafe spat. “Bunker. The guy who ruined Mercy’s life for a fucking story.”

Bunker was panting, running trembling hands through his hair. His face was ghost white. “I’m sorry. I just came to say I was sorry.”

Erin handed Rafe an envelope. “It’s for Mercy.”

“I expected better from you of all people, Erin,” he spat. “You saw what this did to her. I don’t want to hear his sorries and I don’t want Mercy to have to see his fucking face.” Rafe snatched the envelope and tossed it back at Bunker. “Get out or I’ll tell her brother that you’re here. He might not be as controlled as I am.”

“He didn’t do it!” the older woman shouted. “Dammit, could you just listen for a minute?”

“Didn’t do what? Didn’t interview a sex offender and publish his video? Didn’t violate Mercy again? Next he’ll be claiming he didn’t kill Quill Romero.” Rafe took a step back, ready to slam the door in all their faces until he realized that this guy would be wanted by NOPD as well. “André! You need to see this.” He was furious at Bunker, but Erin . . . My God. She’d betrayed him.

And then he met his partner’s dark eyes. And her mostly patient expression. Which morphed to sympathetic as they stared each other down.

“He’s just come from Molina’s office,” Erin said quietly. “He came clean and his story matches up. The Feds are piecing the rest of it together as we speak.”

Rafe’s gaze flicked to the red-faced, angry woman standing behind Bunker, hands protectively clutching his shoulders. Then he looked—really looked—at Bunker, who was crying, his body a trembling, shaking mess.

“I’m so sorry,” Bunker whispered. “I didn’t do this. Not the video part anyway. The rest of it . . . I did the article. Most of it. But I didn’t kill Miss Romero!”

“You just made the anonymous call to NOPD,” Rafe said flatly. “From Sacramento.”

Heavy footsteps fell behind him, and then André Holmes was shoving past him, going for Bunker, just as Rafe had. But Erin stepped in front of him, staring up defiantly.