Mercy and Sokolov emerged from the back seat of the Suburban, but the asshole detective ushered her into the garage before Ephraim could get a good look at her. His attention returned to Gideon, who was helping Daisy back into his SUV, and Ephraim realized he’d shoved his hand in his pocket and was gripping Regina’s golden gun.

Not here. Not now. There were too many people—too many damn cops—and Ephraim wasn’t sure he’d get cleanly away. When Reynolds and Dawson drove away, Ephraim had to force himself not to follow. Yes, he wanted Gideon, but he needed Mercy. Either dead or alive.

Yes, Waylon had lied about killing Gideon, but Waylon was dead. His influence on the community and his claim to the millions under Pastor’s control were no more. DJ was still alive and the biggest threat. And DJ had lied about Mercy’s death.

Mercy is key, he told himself. Once he got her, he could come back for Gideon.

And revenge would be so damn sweet. Gideon would be sorry that he hadn’t died that night all those years ago. Ephraim would hear the bastard scream as he carved out his eyes. The first eye would be payment for Ephraim’s own eye. The second would be the down payment for killing Edward. Then he’d take his time carving up the rest of him, making him look like the raw meat that Waylon had brought back to Eden, claiming it was Gideon’s body.

Ephraim laughed bitterly. Waylon had fooled them all. Except for Rhoda, of course. Gideon’s mother had to have known that the remains Waylon had returned hadn’t been her son, even though she’d positively identified his body.

She should have been mine to kill, he thought, fists clenched. DJ would pay for that too, the prick.

The garage door came down, cutting off Ephraim’s view. For the moment, no one was outside. The blue Range Rover and the hot pink Mini Cooper were unattended.

He ran a hand over his face and patted his head, making sure his beard and wig were in place. It wasn’t going to fool them if he got up in their faces, but from a distance, in the dark? It would do.

Grabbing two of the GPS trackers, he drove slowly next to the empty vehicles, opening his door just enough to squeeze his hand through. He glanced up at the house. Lights were going on in the upstairs apartments, but no one was looking out the windows.

Slowing to a crawl, he paused long enough to slip the first tracker into the Range Rover’s left rear hubcap. He did the same to the Mini Cooper, then pulled his door closed and kept going until he reached the end of the block, where he pulled over.

He opened the tracking app on his smartphone and grunted in satisfaction. There they were, two blinking dots right next to each other.

He’d be able to follow those cars at least. Unfortunately, they didn’t belong to Rafe Sokolov or Mercy. He rounded the block, stopping on the street behind Sokolov’s.