Mercy’s lips tipped up. “I wouldn’t go that far.” She patted Farrah’s hand, then passed her the box of tissues they’d been sharing for the last hour. “But I know how scared he must have been. And to have been on the plane with him? For hours? I don’t think my heart would have survived that.”

“He did get the video taken down,” Farrah muttered grudgingly.

Mercy shrugged. “He’s a kid, Ro. Not perfect. Hell, it took me all these years to decide to take Ephraim down.” Lifting her chin, she caught Rafe’s gaze. “So maybe we can talk about that now.”

Farrah’s nod was firm. Defiant. “Yeah. Let’s take that motherfucker down.”

There was a small gasp from behind them and they turned to find Zoya, the youngest Sokolov, staring at them. But it was admiration in her eyes, not shock. “Can I help?”

Irina frowned from where she was kneading yet another loaf of bread. Baking was Irina’s tell, Mercy had discovered. The place looked like a restaurant, food covering every available flat surface. “What are you doing here, Zoya?” Irina demanded.

Zoya pouted. “I’m hungry. I’ve been banished to my room all afternoon. And I’m bored,” she added in a whine.

“Does not matter.” Irina pointed a dough-covered finger to the door. “You are re-banished. Go.”

Zoya sidled up to her mother and kissed her on the cheek. “I could at least help with the bread. Besides, I’ve heard just about everything that’s been said in this house today, including what the boy on the porch said.” She unrepentantly met her mother’s glare. “I have windows, Mom. I opened one and listened. At least I didn’t let down my hair and beg to be rescued.”

Irina snorted a small laugh before shaking her head. “You are no Rapunzel.”

“And he is no Flynn Rider,” Zoya shot back, then grinned, her dimples appearing. “But he is kind of cute. You know, for a kid.”

Mercy rolled her eyes. “He’s only a year younger than you.”

Zoya left her mother’s side and pulled a chair to the corner of the table, plunking herself down between Mercy and Farrah. “A year is like five at my age, Mercy. You know that girls mature faster than boys.”

Mercy bit back a smile. “I have heard this, yes.” Then she became serious. “But we’re about to talk about things you shouldn’t hear. Not because you’re not old enough,” she said before Zoya could object. “But because . . .” She glanced at Rafe. “I may have to talk about things that make all of us uncomfortable. I’d prefer you not have to carry my memories. And that’s the real reason.”

Zoya’s expression softened and she looked so much like Rafe in that moment that Mercy couldn’t look away. The real Rafe was this vulnerable. The real Rafe wasn’t a frat-boy surfer. The real Rafe felt more deeply than he wanted to admit, and Mercy wished he didn’t think he needed to hide that part of himself. Although I’m a fine one to talk about hiding parts of myself.