“Who is she to you?” Edie asked, so softly he almost couldn’t hear the question over the pounding of his heart.

“My daughter,” he whispered, hearing her gasp. He turned to her, wiping at his eyes with his sleeve. “She was taken from me. When she was almost thirteen. They told me she was dead.”

“Oh, Amos.” Edie’s eyes filled with tears. “I’m so sorry.”

He gave Abigail another quick look. She was engrossed in her book. Thank the good Lord for that. He wasn’t sure he could answer any questions she asked right now.

“But she got away from the serial killer,” he said quietly. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. She wasn’t interviewed for the program, but the woman who was on the show talked about how Mercy was rescued by her brother.”

Her brother? Amos had to grip the side of the table for support. “Brother?” he managed to ask.

Edie was watching him warily. “Yes.” Turning the screen so that she could see it, she typed Mercy Callahan brother into another screen. Browser. Whatever.

When the picture came up, Amos covered his mouth with his hand to keep the sob in. Gideon. “Oh,” he breathed. “My son, my boy. Gideon.”

“They told you he was dead, too?”

He looked at Edie and nodded. “They showed us a body. They said it was him. But look—he’s alive.”

“And an FBI agent,” Edie added. “With a girlfriend, according to this article. Just one in a gossip blog, but here’s a photo.” She clicked again and a photo popped up, in full color.

It was him. Gideon. With a small blond woman who smiled up at him like he’d hung the moon.

“Daisy Dawson,” he murmured, reading the caption below the photo. Then he frowned. “Her name was in the other article. From the program. Is that gone? Can I see that again?”

“Not gone. Nothing’s ever really gone on the Internet, or so my grandchildren tell me.” Edie did something on the screen and the first article returned. “You’re right. The woman with Gideon was one of the three who escaped. She lives in Sacramento.”

But Amos was now leaning closer to the screen, squinting at the grainy photo above Daisy Dawson’s.

“Let me zoom in,” Edie said, and a second later, the photo was enlarged.

It was very grainy, but it still made Amos’s racing heart stumble and stutter. “Miriam,” he whispered.

“You know her, too?” Edie sounded like she didn’t believe him, but Amos couldn’t care.

The name next to her photo said “Eileen,” but the woman was Miriam. Miriam Comstock. “We buried her, too. I . . . helped her escape. They said she died.”

“She did,” Edie said gently. “She was murdered by the serial killer.”

Amos shook his head. “No, they said she was caught outside the community’s walls. That she’d died. We buried her,” he repeated.

“O . . . kay,” Edie said with a note of trepidation.

And next to her photo was the souvenir her killer had taken. Her locket. On the front was the extremely familiar symbol of Eden—two children kneeling in prayer beneath an olive tree, all under the wings of an archangel wielding a sword. A second photo showed the back of the locket. Miriam.