All of that information had come in handy when he’d knocked on the door of Mercy’s next-door neighbor, introducing himself as Mercy’s brother, John, and asking if the woman had seen her. The neighbor had invited him right in, telling him that she wasn’t home because she was spending the night with her best friend and returning to Sacramento the following day. Her neighbor had been so happy to meet Mercy’s “brother” that she’d given him freshly baked cookies and told him everything he needed to know about Mercy Callahan. Everything except that she’d have some big blond surfer boy detective meeting her at the airport. Bastard.

So yeah. Something had gone horribly wrong.

“Well?” Regina asked coyly. “How did I do?”

She’d gotten everything perfect. He drew a breath. “What do you want?”

“What I always want, Ephraim. Or should I call you Harry Franklin? Both names are on the BOLO.”

He ground his teeth. Fucking hell. Goddamn motherfucking hell. “I don’t know that name.”

“Well, maybe not. It has been thirty years since you disappeared after robbing a bank and killing three people. I’m assuming Ephraim is your alias, although it’s a truly horrid name.”

She was right about his name. It was horrible. “Ephraim” had been Pastor’s choice, not his own. Just as “Eustace Carmelo” had been. And the names weren’t just Pastor’s choice. They were Pastor’s punishment, a constant reminder that Pastor held him in contempt.

But Regina wasn’t right about the robbery. He hadn’t been involved, not that anyone would believe it. He’d been an innocent bystander that day. And the only other people who knew the true story were now dead. “How much?”

“The Feds never recovered the money you stole. I imagine you’ve got it squirreled away somewhere. I’ll take that.”

He kept his outer expression tense, but relaxed inside, knowing exactly what he needed to do. “I don’t have it. My brother gave it to Pastor for safekeeping.”

“Then you’ll get it from this Pastor guy.”

Fat chance. But all he said was, “I’ll need some time. Plus, you should know that all that cash is marked.”

“That’s okay. I can change it.”

He’d known she had money-laundering networks—she had to, because running a house of prostitution wasn’t legal in Santa Rosa, California. At least not in the past hundred years.

“Then I’ll get it. In exchange, what assurances do I get that you won’t turn me in?” Not that he was going to give her the chance, of course.

“You don’t, dear. You’ll have to trust me.”

Like there was any way in hell that he’d ever trust her again. “I guess I have to, don’t I?”

She smiled. “I guess you do. I’m so glad we had this chat, Ephraim.” She rose, put the chair back where she’d found it, and turned to leave. She didn’t see Ephraim come up behind her. She didn’t make a sound, because he’d covered her mouth with his hand before snapping her neck like a dry twig.