“James?” a frail voice called from the living room. “What are you doing home?”

He had no idea who James was, but this was a bad idea if the guy would be returning soon. Ephraim wanted to sleep and not worry about anyone else coming in.

He continued walking toward the living room, wincing when more floorboards creaked.

“James?” the old woman called again, a thread of fear in her voice. “Is that you?”

He wondered what would happen if he said yes, then froze when the lights abruptly came on. The old woman stood at the end of the hall, one hand on the light switch.

The other cradling a rifle like a baby. And not just any rifle. It was an AR-15 with an extended magazine. Ephraim blinked in surprise. The rifle she held wasn’t legal in California configured as it was, so the old woman wasn’t afraid of breaking the law. He had to admit to being reluctantly impressed.

She stiffened. “Who are you?”

“Who is James?”

“My grandson,” she said, lifting the rifle to her shoulder with a speed and grace that surprised him.

Granny may have been badass, but she wasn’t as fast as Ephraim. He shot her in the chest, both the gun and the suppressor doing their jobs. All he heard was a slight pop and she dropped like a rock.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured as he crouched next to her body. He really was. It was a shame that such a feisty old lady should meet her end so anticlimactically. He moved the rifle from her arms and took her pulse. She was still alive, dammit. With regret, he shot her again, then put her body in the chair, making it look like she was still watching TV.

The he locked all the doors, placing chairs under each of the doorknobs. If James the grandson came home early, he’d have to break a window and Ephraim would hear that.

Climbing the stairs, he found a nice bedroom decorated with paisley and lace. A second bedroom looked like a tornado had struck, dirty clothes on the floor and posters of basketball players on the walls. Must be James’s room, he thought. He found a laptop on an old desk and, figuring it couldn’t hurt to try, tapped the keyboard with one finger.

To his utter shock, the laptop turned on—with no password protector.

Granny must trust James a lot. Or James must not think Granny is very smart.

A quick search of his e-mail revealed that James, a fourteen-year-old, was camping with his Boy Scout troop this weekend. Ephraim grimaced, the very sappiness of the situation leaving a bad taste in his mouth. Boy Scouts? Really? He didn’t know kids still did that shit. Maybe out in the country they did.

At least he’d get some uninterrupted sleep. James wasn’t due home until tomorrow afternoon.

By then Ephraim would be gone, on his way to wherever Mercy was.

SEVEN

GRANITE BAY, CALIFORNIA