With a yawn, she opened her eyes. “Already?”

“You’re the one who wanted to go to Santa Rosa today.”

The boxes with the lockets belonging to her and to her mother were on the coffee table, next to his wallet and keys. He knew what the lockets contained. He hoped he didn’t have to look at the photo of Mercy with Ephraim Burton, but he knew he probably would because they planned to show it to Ephraim’s mother, in the hopes that they would spark some kind of memory.

“True.” Stretching her arms over her head, she sat up with the headboard at her back, looking sleep-tousled and gorgeous. “You made me coffee. How long have you been awake?”

“About forty-five minutes.” He’d already done his PT exercises, showered, and checked his messages. “I hope the coffee’s okay. I added enough sugar to make your teeth hurt.”

“Just the way I like it. Thank you.”

He dropped a kiss on her smiling mouth. “You’re welcome.” He sat on the edge of the bed, content to watch her as she reached for her phone and began scrolling through her messages. She hadn’t slept much the night before. Neither of them had. But they’d both slept soundly after that make-out session.

Rafe wanted to repeat the experience. The make-out session, not the sleep. He couldn’t imagine any man preferring sleep to making out with Mercy Callahan. Kissing her lips, fondling her breasts. Watching her face as she came apart.

He shuddered, wondering if they had time for another go. Just to feel her hands on him again. He wouldn’t even have to come.

But then thoughts of pleasure slid from his mind when she went still, her jaw going slack. Her eyes had focused on her phone, her shoulders gone rigid.

If it’s that damn video, I’ll . . . He’d what? Finish what he started Sunday afternoon when he’d been tempted to knock Jeff Bunker’s head off his neck? Mercy had been right. It really wasn’t the kid’s fault. It was the fault of the editor of that slimy rag Bunker had worked for.

“What is it?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

She looked up, seeming startled to see him there, even though she’d just spoken to him not even two minutes before. “It’s an e-mail from Daisy. With a message from Jeff Bunker.”

So the kid had upset her. “He has no right to contact you just to help his conscience.”

She shook her head. “It’s not like that. Well, not entirely, anyway. He’s written a retraction.”

“Of what?”

“Of everything he wrote about me.”

“So he’s sorry,” Rafe snarled quietly. “So fucking what? That doesn’t help you.”

“But that’s the point. He does want to help me—me and all the other women who’ve been victimized, then ignored or worse.”

Rafe forced himself to calm down, for Mercy’s sake. “How does he want to help?”

“He’s giving up his blog and his YouTube channel to survivors of sexual assault. Women and men. The first article going viral pumped up his subscription numbers, so he has an audience for the moment. Survivors can tell their stories on their own terms. And he’ll read them if they don’t want to be on camera themselves. All identities kept confidential.”