“Jeffy?” his mother asked from the open doorway of his room. “I was calling you to come to dinner, but I guess you didn’t hear me. Are you okay?”

“Not yet.” He tossed her a lopsided smile. “But I can look at myself in the mirror, so that’s a start, right?”

She gave him a decisive nod. “Right. I’m proud of you. Your father would have been too, God rest his soul.”

His shoulders sagged, like a weight rolled away. Not all of the weight, not by a long shot, but enough that he thought he could eat his mother’s supper without it sitting on an anxious stomach. “Thanks, Mom.”

SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

MONDAY, APRIL 17, 11:30 P.M.

Rafe stopped his pacing to glare at Mercy. “Mercy, are you even listening to me?”

She startled, because clearly she hadn’t been. She was sitting on the sofa in Daisy’s old place, her cat on her lap and a cup of tea in one hand. Her other cat had claimed the back of the sofa, lying behind her head, curled around her neck like a purring mink stole while she absently scratched its head. She’d been staring at Rafe’s bulletin board, her gaze unfocused.

She blinked at him now, then smiled serenely. “No.”

He wanted to rant at her, he really did, but he found himself laughing instead. He sat beside her, turning so that he faced her. “At least you’re honest about it.”

She sipped her tea and gave the cat in her lap a long stroke. André had brought the two cats and all their supplies downstairs to the studio apartment when they’d returned from Reno. Mercy had immediately cuddled up with Rory, and the cat’s loud purrs indicated that he was on board with helping her manage her anxiety. It was working, because she seemed to be sitting in her own little bubble of calm.

“You already knew the answer, Rafe. I’m not sure why you even asked the question.” She raised a brow. “I tuned you out an hour ago.”

He drew a breath, praying for patience. “Dammit, Mercy. If you don’t listen to me rant, how do I know you won’t do it again?”

“I know, I know. I shouldn’t have made myself a target. What was I thinking? Do I have no instinct for self-preservation? How would Gideon have survived if I’d been shot?” She smiled dryly. “I heard you the first three hundred times, all the way from Reno. After that it seemed like . . . overkill.”

He snorted again. “Stop making me laugh. I want to be mad at you.”

She stopped petting the cat to pat Rafe’s knee. “You go right ahead and be mad all you want.”

“Now you’re patronizing me.”

She smiled. “Yep.” Then she sighed. “I’m sorry I scared you.”

“But not sorry that you popped up like some sacrificial Whac-A-Mole?”

He’d caught her midsip and she coughed, setting the cup aside while she got her breath. “Sacrificial Whac-A-Mole?” she sputtered.