“Thank you,” Farrah murmured, meeting his eyes. She was a tall woman, taller even than Mercy, who was about five feet eight.

“For what?” he asked, genuinely puzzled.

Her brows lifted. “For saving Mercy’s life, both tonight and six weeks ago. She’s like a sister to me and we all love her. The thought that she might have been killed . . .” She swallowed hard. “I can’t even consider it.”

Rafe shuddered at both memories, but Mercy’s lack of affect was what disturbed him most. He dropped his voice to a barely audible whisper. “She walked away with him, Farrah. It was like she wasn’t even there.”

She nodded, moving to the stove, her gaze troubled. “I know.” Picking up the spoon Rafe’s father had been using, she took over the stirring. “Sit, Rafe. Elevate that leg. I’ll get you an ice pack and I have some ibuprofen in my purse.”

“There’s an ice pack in the freezer,” he said, grunting his discomfort as he obeyed her orders. “I’ll take a couple ibuprofen, thanks. Can you get me a glass of water? Glasses are in the cupboard next to the fridge. Have you seen her like that before?”

“You mean all zombielike?” She gave him the ice pack, painkillers, and a glass of water, then took the chair beside him, her attention split between him and the simmering pot. “Once. But it wasn’t as bad as it was today.” She hesitated, then firmed her lips, as if not wanting to share more.

Rafe understood. “I want you to keep her secrets,” he said quietly. “She’s lost control of so many of them. We know what happened to her in that cult, whether she wanted us to or not. Same with her abduction back in February. She wasn’t allowed any privacy during either of those situations. If she’s shared things with you in confidence, I don’t want to intrude. I won’t intrude.”

Farrah’s smile was quick and bright. “I think I like you, Detective.”

He had to smile back. There was no other alternative in the presence of such unfettered optimism. “Likewise, Doctor.” He downed a few painkillers, hoping they worked. When the pain was this bad, they weren’t as effective. “So how did you two meet?”

“She was my roommate at Tulane,” Farrah said fondly. “I got back to my room after an orientation and there was this pasty white girl sitting on the other bed with this lost look on her face. She was overwhelmed that day—too much activity, too much noise, too many people. My sister gets like that sometimes, overstimulated, y’know. So I sat down next to her and put my arm around her shoulders and said, ‘Hi, I’m Farrah and I’m a hugger. I come from a family of huggers and you’re stuck with me for the next few months. Live with it, girl.’”

Rafe chuckled. “And how did that go over?”

“About like you’d think. She got all stiff and proper with ‘I’m Mercy and I’m not a hugger.’ She moved about a foot away, with that look on her face—the one that says she’s not amused. But then I gave her a cookie and she kind of melted.” Farrah returned to the stove to stir the stew. “She was just . . . hurting and touch-shy. But Mercy has a good heart.”