“Yeah.” Erin pointed at Rafe as she passed. “And I need to call in too, to let them know I’m not coming in. You’d better not leave before we get back or there will be hell to pay.”

He made a face at her back, which made Mercy chuckle. “I can’t leave, can I?” he said sarcastically. “You’ve parked me in.”

“Good job, Last Night Me,” Erin hissed. “We will talk about this, Rafe. Hand to God.”

Rafe watched them go up the stairs and had to fight not to pout like the five-year-old Mercy had mentioned. “Dammit. I would have asked her to go with us since I haven’t heard back from Gideon, but she’s being obnoxious.”

“She cares about you,” Mercy said quietly. “If Farrah were awake, she’d be doing the same thing. I sent her an e-mail telling her where we’re going so she doesn’t worry when she wakes up.”

Rafe sighed. “You’re right. I know she cares. At least she’s not riding with us. Now I’ll have that ten hours in the car with you today.” One side of his mouth quirked up. “Except I feel like I’m with a stranger.” He waggled his brows. “Mysterious.”

She laughed at him. “Shut up.” She came down the final few stairs, leaning up on her toes to peck his lips. “It’ll be fine. We can all shop and then do lunch. I bet Erin’ll be nicer if you buy her lunch.”

“Maybe,” he grumbled. “Let’s wait in the car. Who knows how long they’ll be?”

She waited until they were both in the Subaru before turning to him with a grin. “So . . . Erin was here all night? With Sasha? That’s really sweet.”

She looked so happy that his grumpy mood evaporated. “‘Sweet’ isn’t normally the word I would use when describing Erin, but, yeah, I have to agree.”

She reached across the console to squeeze his hand. “See? It’s going to be fine.”

SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

MONDAY, APRIL 17, 8:00 A.M.

Ephraim bolted upright, swearing when the pain in his hand woke him up. He’d fallen asleep in Sean MacGuire’s Cadillac and had just smacked his hand into the steering wheel while reaching for his phone, which was making a god-awful sound. It wasn’t the melodic chimes he’d set to wake him up, but a jarring clanging that sounded like someone was banging pots together. He peered at his phone and then he really was awake, his adrenaline pumping.

“Fucking hell.” It was the tracker app. Erin Rhee’s Range Rover was on the move. Struggling to sit up, he turned on the ignition and put the car in gear, rolling a few feet before he figured out which direction he needed to go.

Making a beeline for Sokolov’s Victorian, he slowed in time to see a red Subaru pulling out of the garage and backing out of the driveway. He shuddered out a relieved breath. Good. He wasn’t too late.