“Excuse me. Can I have the mouse?” She gave it to him and he scrolled back up through the article, looking for any mention of Eden, but there was none.

“What are you looking for?” Edie asked.

“A mention of our town,” he said. “I thought maybe . . .” He let the thought trail off. They’d escaped, Mercy and Gideon. They’d started new lives. “I need to find them. Either or both.”

“Hold on.” She’d somehow gotten them back to the first screen—the one that listed the other articles. “Mercy comes up in other articles. More recent ones. Most of them are from Saturday.” She clicked one and blew out a breath. “She’s had a rough time, Amos.”

Amos found his mouth hanging open for the second time in as many minutes. Ephraim. You sonofabitch.

The curse, only loosed in his mind, still startled him, but he couldn’t be sorry. There on the screen was a photo of Brother Ephraim, his hand on Mercy’s arm, escorting her. Grimly Amos read the accompanying text. It had been an abduction attempt. Foiled, thank God. Mercy had been hurt, though. A small wound. She’d been rescued by an off-duty Sacramento detective by the name of Raphael Sokolov.

Raphael. He’d been Mercy’s guardian angel. Protecting her. Because Ephraim had hurt her. Again. Rage bubbled up through Amos’s veins.

Beside him, Edie cleared her throat. “You might want to take it down a notch. People are looking at you. You look like you want to do some major violence.”

Amos blinked hard, then realized his fists were clenched and he was panting like a bull ready to charge. Purposefully, he flattened his hands on the table. “My apologies.”

“It’s all right,” Edie said. “If someone tried to take my daughter, I’d feel the same way.”

“How can I find her? I need to find her.”

Because Ephraim had tried to kidnap her from a crowded airport and, according to the phone call that Amos had overheard in Eden, DJ would be looking for her, too.

Panic rose to close off his throat. “I need to find her,” he repeated. I need to warn her.

You could call the police. But . . . He stared at the photo on the computer screen, Pastor’s voice shouting in his mind. Don’t trust the police. Don’t trust the government. Trust only me.

But Pastor had lied about so many things. Desperation warred with indecision. Anonymous letter, he thought. If I can’t find Mercy, I’ll write that letter.

“Can you find her address or phone number?” he asked.

Edie squared her shoulders. “I’m not really good with this stuff, but let me see what else I can find.”

“Thank you.” Amos forced himself to sit back and let Edie work her magic.

Please let me find Mercy. Please don’t let me be too late.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Edie muttered. She gave Amos an unreadable look. “Don’t read this article. It’s Internet trash. Like the National Enquirer back in the eighties. Lots of lies and half-truths. Don’t even bother with it.”