GRANITE BAY, CALIFORNIA

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

“Mercy, wake up.” Rafe jostled her shoulder. “Time to wake up.”

Mercy didn’t want to wake up. She was warm and Rafe’s arms were around her. But she immediately knew that they weren’t in his bed. They were still in the FBI van and she was on his lap and . . . oh God. She’d had another meltdown, hadn’t she? “My head hurts.”

Rafe kissed her forehead. “I’d be surprised if it didn’t. I bet my mom can fix you right up, though. So get up. We can’t sit in the van, even in the garage. It’s too dangerous.”

Mercy slid from his lap, trying to blink away the haze left over from what had been an epic crying jag. Farrah and the others must have already gone inside, because it was just the two of them in the van.

Rafe climbed out, unable to hide a grimace of pain. “It wasn’t you,” he said when she opened her mouth to apologize. “I would have held you for twice as long. It’s not the sitting. It’s the getting up.” He extended his hand. “Come on. We need to get inside.”

Mercy hurried, getting a glimpse of the street in front of the Sokolovs’ house as the garage door was rolling down. “Who’s here?” There were two more SUVs parked on the street in front of the Sokolovs’ house, both of them black.

“They’re bodyguards,” Farrah said from the doorway into the laundry room. She looked exhausted and held Rory’s cat carrier in her arms.

Rafe urged her forward. “We can explain inside.”

Mercy stopped once they were in the laundry room and Rafe had closed the door into the garage. “What happened? What’s Ephraim done now?”

Rafe sighed. “Shot a cop. While he was parked a block away from Zoya’s school.”

Mercy had to grab onto the washing machine to keep from crumpling to the floor. “He was going after Zoya? Why?”

“Probably trying to lure me out,” Rafe said bitterly. “What an asshole. I’m glad she listened when I asked her to stay home today.” He pointed an index finger at Mercy. “And don’t you think this is your fault, either.”

Mercy shook her head. Of course she thought it was her fault. It is my fault.

“Come have some tea, Mercy,” Farrah said.

Irina appeared, putting her arm around Farrah’s shoulders, her smile brittle. “I have the kettle heating. Sit down and let me feed you. Zoya is fine. She’s in the office with Meg.”

Meg, another of Irina’s daughters, was a deputy sheriff and had probably raced over here as soon as she’d heard that Zoya had been a target.

Poor Irina. The normally centered woman was wound as tight as a drum. And who could blame her? Not me. Of course, Irina might blame me, and she’d be right to do so.

How many more of Irina’s family would be hurt because of Mercy’s presence in their lives?