“That would be very helpful,” Mercy said. “Thank you.”

“Yes, thank you,” Rafe added. “When can I expect that e-mail?”

“I just sent it,” Shipley said. “I’m late for my next meeting. Signing off.”

And the screen went dark.

Rafe and Mercy sat quietly for a moment, and then Rafe kissed the knuckles of Mercy’s hand, still twined with his. “We have a name. Pastor’s real name.”

Mercy smiled. “Yes, we do. Let’s see if we have a face. Can you check your e-mail?”

Rafe logged into his e-mail. “She sent the photo separately. Nice of her not to bury it in that other megafile.” He clicked it open and Mercy stiffened.

There, filling Rafe’s laptop screen, were Pastor, Edward McPhearson, and Waylon. “Benton Travis, Aubrey Franklin, and Waylon Belmont,” she murmured. “Their paths crossed in prison.”

“Just like you figured out last night.” Rafe tipped her face up and kissed her hard. “This is huge, Mercy.”

She nodded numbly. “They were criminals the whole time. Criminals masquerading as spiritual leaders.”

Rafe’s face softened in sympathy. “I’m sorry, honey. I got carried away. This is . . .”

“Personal,” she murmured. “Very personal.” She gave herself a little shake. “Are you going to pass this on to Tom Hunter?”

“Of course.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and flinched. “Shit. I had my ringer turned off so I wouldn’t wake you up earlier. I’ve got twenty missed calls.” He paled. “Oh shit. They’re from my mom and Damien’s wife.”

Dread grabbed Mercy’s gut. She found her own phone on the coffee table, the volume turned down as well. Her stomach turned upside down, bile rising to burn her throat. “I’ve got six missed calls. All from Farrah’s mother.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

DUNSMUIR, CALIFORNIA

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 19, 11:45 A.M.

Ephraim woke up still too damn tired for words. The nap he’d taken hadn’t been nearly enough, but at least his eye felt a little less like it’d been scrubbed with fiberglass. The spot he’d chosen to stop was peaceful and pretty perfect, actually. Especially since he could rest for a while. It would take Mercy at least four hours to get here.

But she would come, because he had leverage now. He glanced to the camper behind him with a triumphant grin. He had triple leverage now—one New Orleans best friend, one New Orleans police captain, and one Sokolov cop. The Sokolov cop might not still be alive, but Mercy didn’t need to know that.

Damien Sokolov had taken a hard hit to the head when Ephraim had forced his car off the road and into a tree—ironically enough, not far from where Ephraim had killed June Lindstrom after she’d smuggled him out of the airport on Saturday night.

Ephraim’s luck had finally changed. Once he’d lost DJ on the interstate, the rat hadn’t found him again, and he’d arrived back in Rafe Sokolov’s neighborhood with perfect timing. The house behind Sokolov’s didn’t have a view of the Victorian, but he had been able to see the flash of headlights through the gap separating the houses.