Gun clutched in one hand, he hunkered down as the door slid up, put the SUV in reverse, then started down the driveway, expecting a bullet to pierce one of the windows at any moment. DJ was a damn good shot. Better than me.

But there were no bullets. No gunfire.

There was, however, a dark sedan parked down the street that followed him as he left Burkett’s neighborhood. A glance in the rearview revealed a head of white-blond hair reflecting the glow of the streetlights. Not blond like Mercy’s detective, Rafe Sokolov. That would have been bad enough.

It was DJ. He was sure of it.

Fuck you, Pastor.

Stay calm. DJ might have been a better shot, but Ephraim was a much better driver. He kept an eye on the rearview mirror, watching the dark sedan match him, move for move.

Fucker. Ephraim pulled onto the interstate going north, weaving between cars, then allowing the sedan to get a little too close before crossing three lanes of traffic and pulling off the exit in a cacophony of horns. Not prepared for the move, DJ missed the exit and kept driving.

Ephraim exhaled in relief, then started for Sacramento, using a state road instead of the interstate. It would take him longer to get there, but DJ wouldn’t know where he’d gone and that was good enough for now.

TWENTY-SEVEN

SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

TUESDAY, APRIL 18, 10:05 P.M.

Mercy closed the apartment door and began unbuttoning her coat as she looked at the box at her feet. “It was nice of your mother to make more food, but I’m not sure it’ll fit in the fridge. It’s still full from the last time. I might have to put some of it in the freezer.”

She’d shooed him straight to the sofa as soon as they’d entered the apartment, and Rafe hadn’t complained. He felt like he’d been through two dozen of Cash’s PT sessions. At least.

“I think the freezer is also full. Mom’s always cooked when she’s stressed out. If we came home from school and the kitchen was filled with food, we knew Mom was upset about something. For all her ‘You vill do this, you vill do that,’ she really hates confrontations. She’s a softie, but I won’t ever admit that I said that.”

He lowered himself to the sofa, ignoring the pain in his leg because Mercy was hanging her coat in the closet like she’d done it a thousand times.

He wished she would. He wished he could tell her that he wanted her to stay. But it wasn’t time for that. Not yet. They had another seven and a half weeks until she went back to New Orleans.

A fact that startled a laugh out of him.

“What’s so funny?” Mercy asked, on her way to the kitchen, Irina’s box in her arms.

“Come sit with me and I’ll tell you.”

Two minutes later, she did, sitting so close that their hips touched. So close that he could put his arm around her shoulders and pull her against his chest. So he did, feeling like he could finally breathe again when she melted into him.