At least the Cadillac fit this neighborhood better than the rusted piece of junk he’d left parked near Folsom Lake. He’d have stood out like a sore thumb if he still drove that piece of shit.

The garage door on the Victorian lifted, revealing a red Subaru in one of the two bays and a tan Tahoe in the other. Gideon parked the gray Suburban in the driveway behind the Subaru, and the rental car stopped directly beside it. Erin Rhee’s blue Range Rover parked on the street, partially obscuring Ephraim’s view. He could no longer see into the garage, but he could still see part of the driveway, and he could see the Asian woman jumping down from the Range Rover and rushing into the garage, her gun drawn.

The driver’s door of the rental opened and the unidentified black man got out. He went around to open the passenger door, extending his hand to help pull a woman to her feet. Dammit. That was the woman who’d come with Mercy from New Orleans. Dr. Farrah Romero.

Mercy’s old-lady neighbor had talked a lot about Farrah during Ephraim’s visit. Dr. Romero was her great-niece, and Mercy’s very best friend, the two of them inseparable since college. Ephraim grabbed the binoculars from the seat beside him and focused on the man, committing his face to memory. He’d check him out, because he had a bad feeling about the guy’s sudden appearance, and an even worse feeling that he recognized him from somewhere.

He replayed his conversation with the old lady before he’d killed her. She’d talked about every member of her huge family, and several times he’d had to steer her back toward Farrah and Mercy or he’d have been there all night long. Farrah wasn’t a medical doctor, he remembered that. She worked in a lab at the university, which made the old woman both proud and a little sad, because it meant that Farrah and her fiancé were putting off starting their family and she couldn’t wait to see what pretty babies they’d make together.

Fucking hell. Now he remembered where he’d seen the guy—in a photograph on the old lady’s coffee table. He was Farrah’s fiancé. Quickly he opened Farrah Romero’s Facebook page on his phone and scrolled through her photos. He never got used to seeing how very free people were with their information online. After living off the grid for thirty years, the thought of anyone having information on Ephraim made his skin itch.

There he is. It was a photo of Farrah and her fiancé. André Holmes, NOPD.

Fucking hell. Another damn cop?

But his focus on the now-identified newcomer fractured, his breath catching in his throat when Gideon Reynolds emerged from the gray Suburban. A petite blonde at his side rushed around the SUV to wrap her arm around Gideon’s waist. Daisy Dawson, he remembered. She hugged Farrah and the New Orleans cop, then Gideon hugged Farrah and shook hands with André Holmes.