And then she was gone, leaving Amos to stare at the computer screen, willing the “twerpy little jerk” to reply.

SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

TUESDAY, APRIL 18, 10:10 A.M.

Mercy bit back a sigh as she got into the black FBI van dominating Rafe’s driveway. There were no windows in the back and no markings identifying them as being with law enforcement. The trip to Santa Rosa was already a production, with the van and two additional FBI vehicles that would be part of their entourage. “I don’t know why I thought we could just drive up the highway.”

“Hey, don’t complain. I feel like I’m a super-secret spy on a super-secret mission,” Farrah said as she climbed in to sit beside Mercy. “Let me have my James Bond moment, okay?”

Mercy chuckled. “Some super-secret spies we are. Everyone is armed except for us.”

“I have some pepper spray,” Farrah said seriously. “I threw it in my luggage before we left New Orleans. My mama gave it to me.”

Mercy felt the same flare of affection every time she thought of Farrah’s mother. “How is Mama Romero?”

“Sad. Angry. My father is having a harder time,” Farrah admitted. “Quill was his aunt. I talked to him last night. He was crying, but told me that I needed to be here. Actually forbade me to come back until you don’t need me anymore.”

Mercy felt abruptly guilty. “I—”

Farrah lifted a brow. “Don’t say what you were going to say. This is not your fault.”

Mercy knew that, but . . . “He killed two more people last night. Stole their camper.” She swallowed hard, still having trouble not feeling guilty. “They were on their honeymoon, Ro.”

Farrah drew in a shocked breath. “Goddammit, Mercy. Somebody needs to stop him.”

And that somebody is going to be me, Mercy thought grimly.

“And that somebody is not going to be you,” Farrah declared, giving her a shrewd look. “I swear to God, if you risk yourself again . . .”

Mercy wanted to sigh, but held it in. “I promised Rafe I wouldn’t. Okay?”

“Okay,” Farrah muttered. Her scowl brightened when the door opened again. “Liza, you’re riding with us?”

Liza Barkley was Tom Hunter’s plus-one. She moved with the same confidence that all the cops had, except hers had come from a tour in Afghanistan versus walking a beat on the street.

“If it’s okay,” Liza replied. “I can climb to the very back. I’ve got some reading to do on the way.” She squeezed by them, dropping her backpack on the rear bench seat. “I brought snacks,” she added brightly.

Farrah laughed. “So did I. What did you bring?”

“Bars,” Liza replied promptly, then shook her head. “Brownies, I mean.”

Tom stuck his head in the driver’s door. “She’s from Minnesota. They say ‘bars’ up there. It’s weird. But her bar-brownies are delicious.”

Liza laughed. “Too little, too late. I’ll just be sharing my bars with the ladies.”