FOLSOM, CALIFORNIA

TUESDAY, APRIL 18, 6:20 P.M.

Ephraim collapsed onto the bed in his camper. He’d made it out of Granite Bay, but it had been close, the cops setting up roadblocks seconds after he’d passed by. He’d been able to see them in his rearview mirror as he’d turned onto the main drag out of town.

It had been too damn close. And for nothing.

As soon as the cops made the link between the shooting, the stolen Jeep, and the honeymoon murders from Broken Tooth Campground, Mercy would go underground, of that he was certain. Rafe Sokolov and that bastard Gideon would close ranks and he’d never get her alone.

Well, I can go under, too. He’d been in hiding for thirty years. He’d go back to Eden. Wait her out. The worst that would happen would be that DJ would find himself the unfortunate victim of an “accident,” and Ephraim would bury him. Pastor would mourn the boy he’d called his own son, of course, but as long as Ephraim played it smart, Pastor couldn’t blame him.

The old man still might not make Ephraim the heir. He’d skipped over Ephraim several times in the last thirty years. Pastor had only tolerated Ephraim’s presence in Eden from the very first day he’d shown up, and the feeling had been mutual. Ephraim had been young, brash, and stupid—and injured. Shot during the bank robbery that had sent him and his brother, Aubrey, on the run in the first place. Aubrey wouldn’t leave him to die and dragged him to Eden because it was the only place Aubrey knew they’d be safe.

Ephraim hadn’t quite appreciated the gravity of their situation or how much Pastor needed their constant adulation. Ephraim had been a seventeen-year-old punk, plain and simple. And Pastor had only allowed him to stay because Aubrey had demanded it. There had been something between Aubrey and Pastor, some history, some debt that Pastor felt compelled to repay.

Ephraim had never asked. He really hadn’t wanted to know back then. He really wanted to know now, but Aubrey was long dead. Ephraim might never know, because Pastor still didn’t like him.

And if Pastor held on to DJ’s memory, still refusing to share those damn bank access codes? Then I’ll come back for Mercy when the coast is clear and she’s gone back to her normal life. Bringing her back to Eden—dead was fine, but alive was preferable—would force Pastor to admit that DJ had betrayed them all, and that Ephraim was the injured party.

If Mercy had returned to New Orleans by then, that was okay. Ephraim could find her there. He knew where her family lived. He knew where her best friend lived. He knew where she worked. Once Mercy’s guard was down, retrieval would be child’s play.

That settled, he closed his eyes to grab some shut-eye. He felt safe enough in the camper, tucked away in the woods. He’d ditched the custodian’s truck, stealing another Jeep.