“Yes. Yes, please.” He pressed the heel of his hand to his pounding heart. “Thank you.”

“I can’t promise it’ll go anywhere, but she’s a great resource if you really want to do some good. Gotta go. See you soon,” she said and ended the call.

Had that really happened? He hadn’t been dreaming, had he? He pinched his arm, hard. “Ow.” Yeah, he was awake. Then he checked his call log and, yes, the call had happened.

“Jeffy?” his mother called through his door. “Are you okay? I heard you talking.”

He jumped from the bed and flung open his door, full of energy, but the good kind. “Did I wake you up?”

She wore her housecoat and a worried frown. “No. I haven’t been able to sleep. What’s going on here?”

His excitement plummeted. God, she looked exhausted. “Why couldn’t you sleep?”

“Just worried about that man still out there.” She held out her phone. “I found out what the Sokolovs’ family emergency was. There was a shooting up near the Oregon-Nevada border. Detective Rhee was hospitalized. Sasha Sokolov was also hurt, as were Agent Reynolds and Captain Holmes, the police officer from New Orleans. It doesn’t say that the shooter was the same guy that you saw there, but who else would it be?”

Jeff stepped backward, dropping onto his bed. “Wow. That’s awful. Poor Mrs. Sokolov. She didn’t mention it in her e-mail and Daisy didn’t mention it when she called just now.”

His mother frowned, confused. “Daisy called?”

“Yes.” He relayed the call. “She says Agent Reynolds can keep us safe.”

His mother sighed. “I don’t want to leave the house, but I suppose if that man really wanted to find you, he could. We’re safer with Agent Reynolds. You want to meet with this coordinator?”

Jeff met her tired eyes. “I do. She may say that my idea is dumb, but then again, she might not. I need to do this, Mom.”

She nodded once. “Then you will. We have two and a half hours. That’s enough time for a good breakfast and for you to iron your white shirt.”

He opened his mouth to protest because it was radio, for heaven’s sake, but she raised her eyebrows. “Okay, Mom. One ironed shirt, coming up.”

“Pancakes and sausage, coming up.” She clapped her hands. “Get moving. Your shirt won’t iron itself.”

SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

TUESDAY, APRIL 18, 6:15 A.M.

Mercy watched the sky outside the studio apartment window grow rosy. It was morning, finally. Which was a relief and . . . not. She’d lain awake for hours, feeling safe and . . . not.

Today she’d see Ephraim’s mother. If things went well, they might find out where he was hiding. The worst that could happen was that she wouldn’t help at all. But one thing was for certain. Mercy would come face-to-face with the woman who’d raised the man who’d tortured her for an entire year. The man she’d locked eyes with the day before. The man who was hunting her.