“I will. I promise.”

GRANITE BAY, CALIFORNIA

SUNDAY, APRIL 16, 7:10 P.M.

“What the hell?” Ephraim muttered from Sean MacGuire’s upstairs window as he watched the scene unfold on the Sokolovs’ front porch. Rafe Sokolov had lifted that kid by the shirt collar—right off the ground—with one hand. Only to shove him away when a small woman stopped him. The kid looked shaken and terrified.

Ephraim felt kinship with the kid. He’d experienced Sokolov’s strength and the back of his head still ached from it. Fucking cane. If I ever get that man alone, I’m going to beat his head in with it.

His attention was diverted when more people tromped out of the house, holding court on the porch. Sokolov was joined by Gideon Reynolds and a woman that Ephraim recognized from his Google searches as Irina Sokolov, the detective’s mother. Then two more women—a tall blonde with a high ponytail who’d been at the airport the night before and a small blonde who clung to Reynolds like a limpet.

Her, Ephraim also recognized. She’d been featured in that CNN special about the serial killer. She was the third survivor, Daisy Dawson. And she was clearly with Gideon.

That was interesting. He tucked the knowledge away for later. If he wanted to make Gideon pay, basic garden-variety torture of his girlfriend would do nicely.

A black man had also come from the house to stand glaring at the kid who’d been mauled by Sokolov, and Ephraim was irritated that he couldn’t ID him. The man had arrived about an hour before in a red rental car and had been let straight into the house, so he’d been expected and welcomed.

Unlike the kid, who was now hiding behind another woman, who looked related to him. The woman was glaring back at Sokolov, her body vibrating with . . . something. Fear, maybe? Or rage? Or both. She had the look of a mother bear.

Like his own mother. Before she’d stopped recognizing him.

He shoved the distraction aside, waiting for Mercy to appear. But she never did and after what seemed like an eternity of talking, the kid wrote something on a sheet of paper and handed it to Sokolov.

Seemed like the crisis had been averted, and Ephraim was a little disappointed. If Sokolov had managed to hurt the kid, he’d be in trouble. Maybe even spend a few hours behind bars—hours during which Mercy would be more vulnerable.

Unfortunately, when the kid left, everything went back to the way it was before. Ephraim focused his binoculars on the license plate of the kid’s car as he and his mommy left, noting it for a further look. Something important had just happened there. He’d figure it out.

He put the binoculars down and sat in the comfy recliner, his gaze still glued to the Sokolov house. He’d figure it all out. Now that he knew DJ’s secrets, Ephraim held the real power.