Mercy picked a casserole from the fridge at random and put it in the oven, hoping her appetite would hold steady. It had been iffy all evening, plummeting every time she remembered the sight of Ephraim’s body.

Poor Farrah. They’d had to stop the SUV several times on the way back to Sacramento so that she could throw up, a combination of the trauma of being kidnapped and held at gunpoint and, of course, witnessing Ephraim’s grisly end.

And me? Mercy turned on the shower and took off her clothing. The police had taken the clothes she’d worn upstate, which was fine. She’d never wear them again. If she ever got them back, maybe she’d burn them in some kind of cleansing ritual.

Ephraim was dead. And I’m not sorry.

She’d nearly killed him herself. And I’m not sorry.

Maybe she should be. But I’m not.

She got under the shower spray, shivering when the warm water hit her skin. She’d been so cold. So damn cold. And tired.

And scared.

“I’m still scared,” she said quietly.

“Me too.” The shower door opened, and then Rafe was staring at her like he’d never seen her before. “Is it too pushy to ask if I can join you?”

“No,” she whispered, then repeated it louder when he didn’t hear her. “No. The water’s nice.”

Rafe’s clothes went into a pile next to hers. “The hot water helps my leg.”

“Then I’ll give you the spray.” She moved out of his way, but he was having none of that.

Leaning against the shower wall, he pulled her into his arms and buried his face against her neck. “I don’t even know how to feel,” he said quietly.

She flattened her palms against the muscles of his back, sweeping up and down, just needing to touch him. That they were wet and naked and that he had the hottest body she’d ever seen was really . . . secondary. “Me either. I’m scared. And sad. And furious.” For a moment they stood there, saying nothing, and then she sighed. “What if Amos doesn’t wake up?”

“He will,” Rafe said stubbornly. “He’ll fight to come back to Abigail. And to you and Gideon.”

“If,” she whispered. “The doctors said ‘if’ he woke up. If he doesn’t, who will take care of Abigail?”

“My mom will,” Rafe said without hesitation.

“Or . . . I could.”

He pulled back enough to see her face, turning them around so that his back blocked the spray from hitting her face. “You could,” he said, pushing the hair out of her eyes. “Do you want to?”

She nodded. She’d been thinking about Abigail the entire time that Molina’s replacement had been scolding them. “I do. I mean, I know what Abigail has heard her whole life. I know what she’ll be facing, relearning . . . And she’s not blood, but she’s still my sister.”

His lips curved. “And you said you didn’t know how to do relationships.”