Farrah looked sick. “He was in New Orleans watching her? For almost a week?”

“I think so,” Gideon said reluctantly. “Molina’s got calls in to the New Orleans field office as well as the police department and sheriff’s office. We’re trying to trace his steps.”

Mercy was frantically trying to do the same, counting on her fingers and mouthing, Work, grocery store, gym . . . Then she went completely still. “Gideon, I visited John this week. If Ephraim was watching me all week, he knows where they live. John’s got kids. Three under ten years old. What if Ephraim can’t get to me and goes after them? He does that. He’ll use the people you love to hurt you.”

“Text me his phone number and address,” Gideon said. “We can warn them to take precautions.”

“Contact my fiancé, Captain André Holmes,” Farrah instructed. “He knows Mercy, plus he knows all the players in that awful article. He can help. I’ll text you his contact info, and I’ll let him know you’ll be calling.”

“Thank you,” Gideon said gratefully. “Molina and I appreciate it.”

“I never heard from Molina after I called her at the airport,” Rafe said. “Does she need my statement?”

“Officially, yes. She ran with what you told her already, though. She told me to tell you that she can send someone by tomorrow to get a formal statement. So if a Fed-in-Black shows up, let them in,” he added, trying for a lightness that fell a little flat.

Irina spoke up. “If they come by at two, they can have some of my bird’s milk cake.”

“If there’s any left,” Gideon bantered. “I might not leave any for anyone else.”

“Then I make two,” Irina declared. “Now we are finished. Mercy and Farrah are falling asleep in their chairs. They are still on central time, after all.”

And it was after midnight, Pacific time. Rafe was more exhausted than he’d been in a long time.

Rafe used his cane to push himself to his feet and held out a hand to Mercy, his heart thumping harder when she took it, squeezing hard, holding on like he was a lifeline. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

SUNDAY, APRIL 16, 12:50 A.M.

Jeff Bunker groaned, pulling the pillow over his head to block out the incessant pounding on his bedroom door. “Go away!” he shouted.

Or he’d meant to shout. It came out as a whimper instead. He felt too awful to care.

“Shut up,” he mumbled, praying this whole thing was simply a nightmare, his penance for drinking way too much scotch.

“Are you telling me to shut up, Jeffy?”

God, this nightmare was getting worse. It sounded like his mother was standing over him, yelling at him.

“Yes. Please,” he moaned.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” A bottle clinked hard, glass hitting his metal trash can. “Jeffrey Alan Bunker, are you drunk? Where did you get this alcohol? You’re only sixteen. Dammit. Wait. Was this the scotch I got for Christmas from my boss? You stole from me?”