Say Goodbye (Sacramento Series, The Book 3)
Say Goodbye: Chapter 11

Who was Fritz?”

Liza went still, Tom’s softly spoken words glaringly loud in the quiet of the night. You wanted him to know. You wanted to talk about Fritz. To acknowledge him as being important.

“My husband.”

Tom’s shocked gasp seemed to echo off the walls. “Your . . . what?” He reared back, their gazes colliding. “You were married?”

Liza used her sleeve to wipe her face. Dammit, her eyes hurt. Resting her head against his broad chest had felt so good while it had lasted. That comfort was gone, and although he still held her, there was confused accusation in his eyes.

“For a little while, yes,” she murmured.

“How long?”

“A month.”

“And then?”

She inhaled deeply, then let it out. Stalling, because saying the words aloud hurt. Knowing that she should move off his lap, but unable to make her body obey the command. “He died.”

“Oh.” The word was uttered on a huff of breath, then she felt him straightening his back and bracing his shoulders. But he still held her. Not tightly, but he hadn’t let her go. “In combat?”

“Yes.”

“Is that . . .” He hesitated. “Is that what you were dreaming about? You screamed.”

“Yes.” She closed her eyes. “I see it when I’m asleep. See them all.”

“I’m sorry.” He stroked her hair, pushing it off her face. “So sorry.”

She nodded, new tears welling against her closed eyelids. “I miss him. Fritz.” It was true. She hadn’t loved him like he’d loved her, but she had loved him. For a long time, Fritz had been a dear friend. Kind of like Tom sees me now. Maybe this was karma, coming to exact its due.

I deserve it. I’m sorry, Fritz. More tears welled in her throat and she harshly cleared it, carefully disengaging herself from the only place she’d ever wanted to be. Tom Hunter’s arms.

She slid from the bed, going to stand at the window. She’d barely peeked through the blinds at the darkened street below when Tom pulled her back, his hands gentle but insistent.

“Not in front of the window,” he murmured. “It’s too dangerous.”

She stared at him, not understanding. Until her mind clicked. The rooftop gunman who’d been aiming for Mercy the morning before. “Right. Sorry.”

He led her back to the bed and urged her to sit, then retrieved the small stool from under her makeup vanity. Completely dwarfing it, he sat next to the bed.

But then he took both of her hands in his and all she could focus on were his eyes, blue as a summer sky. “Tell me about the dream,” he murmured.

“I . . .” She had to look away, because he was being her friend. Just her friend. I’m the one wishing this were more than it really is. “I don’t talk about it.”

“Don’t?” His tone was careful and he didn’t release her hands. “Or don’t want to?”

She laughed and it sounded bitter. “Both.”

“You haven’t talked to anyone about these nightmares? This isn’t the first one you’ve had.”

She knew this. She didn’t scream every time. Usually she woke in a cold sweat, sobbing. But tonight’s nightmare had been especially vivid. Probably because she’d been remembering each of the souls they’d lost that day. “It isn’t something I discuss with just anyone.”

He lightly gripped her chin. “I’m not just anyone. I’m your friend.”

The word was like an ax to the chest. “I know,” she managed. “And I appreciate it.”

His sigh was barely audible. “Please talk to me, Liza. Tell me about them. There are seven names on those angel wings. Tell me about them. Please. It might help.” His smile was a little lopsided and a lot sad. “Can it hurt?”

God, yes. It could hurt. It did hurt.

But she owed it to Fritz. The others deserved to be remembered as well. Behind her, the bed dipped and a moment later, a big doggy head rested on her shoulder as Pebbles pressed her muzzle to Liza’s cheek.

Tugging one of her hands free from Tom’s grip, she wrapped her arm around the big dog’s neck. This kind of unadulterated love was addictive.

“They were a unit, and Ted and I were their field medics. Ted had played college football and had a girl back home in Texas. Lenny was a violinist from upstate New York. He’d play for us between missions. Judy had a two-year-old back home in Indiana. She loved that boy more than the world. Odell was a career soldier with a smile that lit up any room. Neil was going to be an elementary school teacher. He cheated at Scrabble, but I still played with him because he was so damn funny. Christie ran track in high school. She wanted to go to the Olympics.”

“She never made it,” Tom murmured.

“No.”

“And Fritz?”

“He was the heart of us. Never forgot a birthday, always had a smile or a joke to lift our spirits when we were homesick. He was a good man. Such a good man.”

Tom’s jaw clenched, ever so slightly. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d choose a bad man.” He pointed to the sketch she’d made of the tattoo she planned to get. “What happened to them?”

Liza tilted her head, gesturing to the laptop screen, gone dark again. “That was taken the morning before the attack. We’d gone to a village to distribute supplies and meds. One of the villagers saw the cross on my uniform and begged me to help his wife. She was in labor and there was no doctor available.” She leaned into Pebbles, remembering the village, devastated and battle-torn. “They’d been bombed and there was very little left. Which was why we were there with supplies.”

He squeezed the hand he still held. “Did you deliver the baby?”

“Yes. It was a little boy. A healthy little boy with such a pair of lungs.” She sighed. “We were leaving the house and our spirits were a little high. Even the gruffest of the guys melted at the cry of a newborn baby. Plus, the villagers were so grateful. They’d congregated in the street to take the supplies we were giving out. Some sang and celebrated the new baby. They’d lost so many people and they had a tiny spark of something good. That kind of happiness is kind of contagious and we were distracted. Just a little, but it was enough. I looked up and saw a flash of light on the rooftop across the street.”

“A sniper,” he murmured. “Like yesterday morning.”

“Yes, but this wasn’t just one. There were three men on the roof, and they fired. A lot.”

“But you weren’t hit,” he said, a hint of desperation in his voice.

“Yes, I was, but it was only a graze. A few of us had seen them at the same time and screamed ‘gun,’ and then everything went sideways. There was chaos and so much gunfire.” She had to stop for a moment, her anxiety starting to spike. “And screaming.” So much screaming. “The village residents were running for cover, falling in the streets. Not getting up.”

“But your unit fired back?”

“Those of us who were still alive.” She looked down, concentrated on the big hand still holding hers. “Fritz wasn’t one of them. He’d thrown himself over me. To protect me. By the time I pushed him off me, he was already dead.”

Tom hesitated. “I thought married couples weren’t allowed to serve together?”

“They’re not. We’d gotten married a few weeks before that—we’d gotten two weeks of R&R stateside, and Fritz proposed. Took me home to meet his family. They wanted to be a part of the ceremony, so . . . I said yes.”

“They were good people? Fritz’s family?”

“Yes. Very good people.” Too good for a woman who’d only married their son because she couldn’t have the man she wanted. “I liked them very much.”

“Have you seen them? Since Fritz was killed, I mean.”

“Yes, as soon as I landed in the U.S. after my discharge. They live in Jersey City and I flew into Newark, so it was close by.” They’d held on to her as they’d all cried, and she’d cried with them. “And then I got on a plane to Chicago to see you all.”

“Last Christmas,” he murmured.

“Yes.” She’d arrived as the Hunters and the Buchanans—the family who’d taken her in after her sister’s murder—were sitting down to Christmas dinner. It was then that she’d learned Tom’s Tory was dead.

“You didn’t say anything,” he said. “Why didn’t you tell us about Fritz then?”

She turned her face into Pebbles’s soft muzzle, shaking her head.

“What?” he demanded, his tone going sharp. “Why didn’t you?”

The thinly veiled anger in his tone snapped the lid off her own temper. “Because someone would have asked to see his picture,” she spat. “And then they would have known the truth.”

“What truth?”

Yanking her hand free of his, she unlocked her cell phone and found Fritz’s official army photo. Dressed in a pressed uniform, his body ramrod straight, he’d been so handsome. So stern. But that hadn’t been him. Fritz had laughed and loved and was generous to a fault.

She shoved her phone at Tom, who sucked in a harsh breath.

“Oh.”

She laughed bitterly. “Yeah. Oh.”

Because Fritz Pohlmann and Tom Hunter could have been brothers. Same body type, same size, same chiseled jaw, same blond hair. Fritz’s eyes had been brown, though. At least when she’d looked into his eyes, she’d seen Fritz. Not Tom.

“He looks like . . .” He trailed off, staring at the screen.

She took her phone from his hand and turned it off. “You. He looks like you.”

Tom lifted his gaze to hers, searching for what, she wasn’t sure. “Why did you marry him?”

She swallowed hard, shame forming like a boulder in her chest. “I shouldn’t have. But . . .” She sighed. “You’d met Tory. You’d popped the question and she’d said yes.”

He flinched. “When did you get married?”

“February first would have been our first anniversary. He was dead by March first.” She’d gone to New Jersey on the anniversary of his death, to grieve with his family. It had nearly torn her apart. Meeting Mercy and the Sokolovs a month later had pulled her out of a dark place.

“Tory died on March fifth,” he whispered. “I told you that she was pregnant around the end of January. Is that why you married him?”

“No.” And that was true. “I’d already let you go by then. It was a wake-up call, though. You were living your life. I wanted to live mine. Fritz wanted me.” Which couldn’t have sounded more pathetic if she’d tried.

His expression went carefully blank. “I’m sorry, Liza. I didn’t know how you felt.”

He was sorry. That hurt more than anything. “Didn’t matter. You didn’t feel the same way.”

“No,” he said simply. “I didn’t.”

She recoiled, his words a physical blow. She’d thought it couldn’t hurt worse, but she’d been very wrong. “I know.”

His very audible swallow was followed by a less than graceful escape. He lurched to his feet, backing from her room. When he cleared the door, he bolted and ran down the stairs.

She heard the kitchen door close and the house was silent once more.

She stared at the place where he had been for a minute, shocked by his sudden departure, shocked by the bluntness of his words.

He’d run. From me. He’d been disgusted and he’d run. Her vision blurred, and she wasn’t sure she’d ever been so weary. I can’t keep doing this. Something had to change.

She cleared the laptop and notebook from her bed and straightened the blankets as best she could with a one-hundred-twenty-pound Great Dane sprawled over them. “I can’t stay here,” she told Pebbles, who got up, turned in a circle, and flopped down beside her, big doggy head on the other pillow. “I’ll replace a new place to live and come back to see you when I can.”

But she knew deep down that wasn’t going to happen. She needed to cut Tom Hunter out of her life completely and move on. Again.

ROCKLIN, CALIFORNIA

THURSDAY, MAY 25, 5:30 A.M.

Tom stared at the image that filled his computer screen. Friedrich Pohlmann, known as Fritz to his family and friends. It was his official army photo.

It was also his obituary.

Fritz Pohlmann was the beloved son of Marian and Kristofer Pohlmann and was survived by two brothers and two sisters. And by his wife, Liza.

Liza had been married. To a man who looked like me.

Tom didn’t know what to think. How to feel. It was . . . shocking. Numbing. But below that was a current of hurt. Maybe even betrayal.

She hadn’t told him about Fritz.

He wondered if she’d told Fritz about him.

He studied Fritz’s face, stoic and unsmiling in his uniform. It wasn’t like they could have been twins. But the resemblance was obvious at a glance. Same jaw, same hair. Same build.

Different eyes. Fritz’s were brown and, in the more personal family photos attached to the online obit, appeared joyful. His smile was broad.

Especially in the photo taken the day he and Liza had married. The man looked too damn happy as he stared adoringly at his wife.

Wife.

It was too much, and Tom had to click away from their wedding photo. He wasn’t even sure why. Because she’d been married at all? Because she’d married someone else?

No, that wasn’t it. Tom was sure of that. Mostly sure.

It was, he decided, because she’d never told anyone. Or had she? Had she told Dana and Ethan Buchanan? She hadn’t at Christmas. She’d said so. But later?

Tom had a hard time believing that she had, because he hadn’t heard it through the family grapevine. Dana Buchanan was his mother’s best friend. If Dana knew, his mother knew.

If his mother knew, she would have sounded different when they’d spoken on the phone the evening before. At one time, back when they were hiding from his biological father, his mother had been the master of controlling her emotions. All these years later, not so much. Thirteen years of living with Max Hunter had given her the freedom to be herself without fear.

But Dana was cagey. She’d run a women’s shelter for years, protecting her clients’ secrets. Now she operated a halfway house for victims of sexual assault. She kept their secrets.

Maybe she’d kept Liza’s, too. Suddenly knowing if Liza had told her Chicago family was more important than anything else.

He glanced at the clock. It was seven thirty in Chicago. Dana would be awake. His fingers were typing out a text before he realized his own intention, but this wasn’t anyone else’s business. Only Liza’s. Not even mine. I don’t have the right.

Because he’d hurt her.

You didn’t feel the same way.

No. I didn’t.

I know.

He hadn’t been able to stop the words at that moment. Because he hadn’t felt that way, and letting her believe otherwise was cruel.

Except . . . that wasn’t entirely true. He had felt that way once. He’d almost told her on her eighteenth birthday, but she’d shocked him with the news that she was joining the army. He’d stopped himself that night, too stunned, too hurt to bare his soul.

Tom stared at his screen, at the photo of the man who’d been there when she’d needed someone. “I’m sorry you died,” he whispered to Fritz. “But I’m not sorry you saved her life. Thank you for that.”

Then he closed both the browser tab and the compartment in his heart. He had work to do.

He’d gotten into Sunnyside Oaks’s network and it was so easy, it was scary. He bet their system administrator believed he’d constructed a hackproof network. That admin would be wrong. A nurse working the night shift had clicked on a link he’d embedded in an e-mail to the staff in general with a bogus offer of free samples from a nonexistent pharmaceutical company.

He’d sent his message to two dozen different accounts, all with names he’d simply guessed at based on work he’d done with other medical facilities. One had worked.

Tom was violating the most basic of privacy laws at the moment, sifting through the facility’s patient database, looking for anyone who might be tied to Eden. So far, he’d found evidence of medical procedures done on movie stars and mob bosses, but nothing that resembled any of the Eden bigwigs. The facility hadn’t had a new arrival in more than five days.

Tom put an alert on the database so that he’d know when they added any new patients and closed that tab as well. He needed to get a few hours’ sleep or he’d be of no use to Croft in the morning. He stood, starting to call for Pebbles, but remembered he’d left her next door.

She’d be fine with Liza for a few more hours. He wasn’t going to bother Liza again tonight.

Because you are the biggest coward ever.

It was true. He didn’t want to face her again. His emotions were too raw and too unclear.

What was clear, though, was his need to see her safe. He’d go over in the morning before he went to work. He’d make her promise to stay home. To stay safe.

SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

THURSDAY, MAY 25, 7:00 A.M.

“He’s awake. DJ, he’s awake. Come—”

DJ jolted to consciousness, his hands halfway to Coleen’s throat before he realized where he was. “God.” He shook himself, trying to dispel the sudden surge of adrenaline that was too much to handle on so little sleep. He felt like he had nodded off just minutes ago.

Fuck. He searched frantically for his phone, replaceing it on the chair beside him. It must have slipped from his hand. The screen was dark, so no one had seen what he’d been looking at.

After Kowalski’s revelation that Ephraim had murdered his old doctor, DJ had spent most of the hours of Pastor’s surgery reading articles about Ephraim Burton’s recent tangle with the law. He’d learned that Ephraim had killed a buttload of people, dropping clues along with every corpse. He’d also noticed that Eden hadn’t been mentioned once in any of the articles.

That was good. But also bad. It was good that Eden wasn’t on anyone’s radar, so if Pastor muttered it in his sleep, the rehab staff wouldn’t know what it meant. However, the Feds knew about Eden. Gideon, Mercy, and Amos had to have told them. That they were holding the knowledge from the press didn’t bode well at all. The only reference to Eden that he’d seen had been a picture of one of the lockets. The locket had come up in another case, having belonged to a victim of a serial killer who’d killed one of Ephraim’s former wives.

The wife that Ephraim had claimed died while trying to escape. The wife whose “body” he’d brought back, too decomposed to identify. In other words, he’d lied. Like they all did.

DJ would have loved for Pastor to hear about Ephraim’s lies, to keep him angry about Ephraim and not angry at DJ, but that same news story had featured photos of Mercy Callahan. It would be like shooting himself in the face.

He looked up to see that Coleen had jumped back at least three feet, her palm pressed to her chest, which rose and fell rapidly. “You scared me to death.”

“Don’t sneak up on me,” he warned.

“I was trying to wake you up.”

“Do not sneak up on me,” he repeated slowly. “For any reason.” He’d learned to defend himself the hard way. “The last guy who did that didn’t survive.” He’d been a drug dealer who’d snuck up on DJ, trying to attack while he’d been asleep.

Coleen looked shaken. “He’s awake and asking for you.”

DJ slowly got to his feet, rolling his head until his neck cracked. “On my way.” To His Majesty, he added silently, still furious over Pastor’s little code word stunt the night before. Get my hopes up and then laugh at me? Fucker’s going down.

He’d known for years that Pastor had memorized the access codes. It was the old man’s way of ensuring he never typed a password into the computer. Normally, he went off by himself to call his banker, only using the computer to research stock trades. His banker handled that, too.

There had to be a way to get access to that account.

DJ entered the recovery room, where Pastor was lying on a bed, hooked up to several machines. A cannula provided oxygen into his nose. He was breathing on his own, though. His skin was pale, but not nearly as bad as it had been.

“You look better.”

“I feel like shit,” Pastor muttered. “Did you talk to the doctor?”

“No. He might have spoken to Coleen. Why?” Was there more wrong? Was Pastor dying of something else? One can only hope, he thought dryly.

“I’m not dying,” Pastor snapped.

DJ wondered if his expression was that transparent. “I’m glad.”

“I wonder if you are.” Pastor gestured at him. “Come closer. I don’t want to yell.”

As if you could. The old man’s breaths were too labored to do much more than whisper.

“I’m going to be in the rehab facility for six weeks.”

DJ blinked, shocked. “What?”

No. No fucking way. A week he could have handled. He could have kept Pastor off the TV and online news for a week. Six weeks? Hell no.

“That’s what the doctor said. Six weeks. I have a broken arm and a few broken ribs. My knee is toast and I have a concussion. My femur is broken in two places. I’m going to have to learn to walk again. So six weeks.”

DJ opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Wow” was all he could muster.

“I want you back in Eden. Get the people to a better location. The caves are killing them.”

“What about Coleen?”

“She’s going to stay with me, at least until I’m comfortable with this rehabilitation center the doctor was going on about. I want you to make sure the members stay calm. You stay put once you’ve moved them.”

“All right,” DJ said quietly. He had no intention of going back to Eden until he’d eliminated Mercy Callahan. He also had no intention of telling this to Pastor.

“I want you to bring Joshua in,” Pastor added, then coughed.

DJ held a cup of water so that the old man could sip from a straw. “In where?” he asked, being deliberately obtuse.

Pastor glared at him out of watery eyes. “Idiot,” he wheezed. “You know what I mean.”

“And if he objects on moral grounds?” It was unlikely, but one never knew. Joshua was a pompous prick who’d taken well to keeping multiple wives who satisfied his every whim. He’d probably have no issue with any of the truth.

“Tell him there’s money in it for him. That’ll level his moral ground. I want you to make a video of him swearing his loyalty and his silence with that phone of yours. Then bring it to me and prove that you’ve done as I ask.”

Motherfucker. DJ made himself smile. “That’s fine. What about the additional payment? That security guy last night said you’d have to make another payment for the rehab center once the surgery was completed.”

Pastor’s eyes fluttered shut. His breathing was deeper now. More regular. They must have given him a painkiller. “Already . . . took care of it.”

“What?” DJ clamped his lips together after nearly shouting the word. He hadn’t meant for it to come out so loud. “When?”

Pastor smiled with the same smugness that he’d exhibited last night. “Coleen dialed my banker and gave me the phone. All done,” he said in a drunken singsong.

DJ gritted his teeth. “How much?”

“Quarter mil.”

DJ tried for control when he realized his fists were clenched and fantasies of beating Pastor to a pulp were going through his mind. “That’s a lot of money.”

“Not your money,” Pastor murmured. “Not your concern.”

Not my money? “It is mine. Half of it, at least.”

“Not until I’m dead. Which is why I’m not giving you the access code.”

DJ scowled. “You don’t trust me?”

“I don’t trust anyone. Don’t forget that I raised you, boy. I know what you’d do if you had those codes. I wouldn’t be . . .” He began slurring the words toward the end and trailed off.

“He’ll sleep for a while,” a voice said from behind him.

DJ whirled around to see a nurse watching him. “You shouldn’t have eavesdropped.”

She shrugged. “I hear a lot. I say nothing. I stay employed and alive. As I said, your father will sleep for a while now. We’ll move him to the rehabilitation center in an hour or so. He’ll sleep through the transport. That way we can keep him comfortable.”

Like DJ cared about Pastor’s comfort. Fucking bastard. “I see. What are visiting hours at the rehab center?”

“That depends on the patient. Some patients’ families are more comfortable visiting under the cover of darkness. Others don’t care. You can speak with the charge nurse once he’s settled in.” She stepped aside, gesturing for him to leave. “You can pick up the keys to your vehicle at the back door. Your mother is waiting for you there.”

“She’s not my mother,” DJ bit out.

The nurse shrugged again. “Either way, she’s waiting for you. I’d advise getting something to eat. By the time you’re finished, your father will be transported.”

There didn’t seem to be much more to say. Pastor was sleeping. DJ wasn’t certain that the old man had intended to disclose his reasons for not sharing the access codes. It didn’t really matter now. The cat was out of the bag. So DJ went to the back door, where Coleen waited.

The muscle man from the night before had been replaced by a different muscle man, clad in a similar suit, carrying a similar rifle. And holding his keys.

Without a word, DJ took the keys and stalked out, Coleen following behind him. Once he’d made sure that the rifle he’d left in the back of the truck had not been stolen or tampered with, he got behind the wheel and glared at her. “What was the access code?”

She stared at him. “What?”

“The access code,” he said from behind clenched teeth. “The words that Pastor told his banker. Who you called for him.”

“I don’t know. He told me to leave the room.”

For the love of . . . “And you obeyed?”

Her eyes widened. “Yes.”

Right. Because they’d trained the women to do so. “Fine. I’m going to a drive-through for breakfast and then I’ll drop you off at the rehab facility. He’s ordered me back to Eden.”

“I know.”

“So he told you that, but not the codes?”

“Yes.”

DJ rolled his eyes and stared the engine.

“Brother Joshua knows something isn’t right,” Coleen offered. “I caught him trying to get into the clinic a month ago, on the night you came back wounded.”

So that was interesting. “What was he trying to replace in the clinic? Drugs?”

“Maybe. Maybe he knows about the computer.” She hesitated. “I think Amos knew. I think he saw it. It was a few days before he took Abigail and ran.”

DJ whipped his head around to stare at her. “Why didn’t you mention it?”

“I . . .” She exhaled. “I don’t know. I don’t think I really suspected it until he was gone. And then everything went crazy. You got shot, we moved to the caves . . . And by then it didn’t matter anymore. Amos was gone.”

“Who else knows about the computer?”

“Nobody. At least nobody I know of. I figured if you were going back to Eden, you needed to know that Joshua might not be as surprised as you expect.”

“Thank you, Sister Coleen,” DJ said, and meant it. He didn’t sincerely thank people often, but Coleen was watching his back.

She folded her hands in her lap. “Can we go to Carl’s Jr.? I’ve missed their food.”

DJ chuckled. “That’s what you’ve missed?”

“Mmm. Yes.”

She’d scratched his back, he could return the favor. “Sure. I’ll replace one and take you there.”

And then he’d replace Mercy Callahan.

ROCKLIN, CALIFORNIA

THURSDAY, MAY 25, 8:30 A.M.

Tom blinked, trying to figure out where the pinging was coming from. When it registered, he sat bolt upright in bed, grabbing his phone. Something was happening with the Eden account. Racing from his bedroom to his office, he checked the account and gasped.

Two hundred fifty thousand dollars this time. Payable to Sunnyside Oaks Convalescence and Rehabilitation Center.

Bingo. He dialed Raeburn, wincing at the time. He was officially late to work already.

“Hunter,” Raeburn answered, forgoing any greeting. “Why are you late?”

Because I was up all night worrying about my best friend who appears to be in love with me, you asshole. “I was able to get into the rehab center and was running scans on their patient database most of the night.” Also true. “I’ll be in ASAP. In the meantime, you should know that there was another wire transfer from the Eden account. This time to the rehab center itself.”

“How much?” Raeburn sounded less annoyed, at least.

“Two fifty.”

Raeburn whistled quietly. “A hefty chunk of change. You get ID on the Eden leader who’ll be there?”

“No, not yet.” He opened a window into the database and saw nothing new. “They haven’t checked him in yet, whoever it is. I’ve added an alert, so I’ll know when they update.”

“Sounds good. You’ll be here soon, yes?”

Tom swallowed his sigh. “Of course.”

He ended the call and leaned back in his chair, trying to organize the things he needed to do that day. Get dressed. Make sure Liza stays the fuck at home. Go to work. Warn Rafe to keep Mercy close. Not that the final item was really necessary, because Rafe wasn’t about to let Mercy out of his sight after yesterday.

Oh, and he needed to tell Molina the latest as well. Somewhere in there he needed to get some food, because his stomach was growling loudly.

Showered and shaved, he felt more human. And then he tripped over Pebbles, who lay across the bathroom doorway, waiting for him to emerge.

“What are you doing here?” he asked her, scratching her ears. She leaned into him and he sighed because he’d have short dog hairs all over his clean suit. At least he had a sticky roller in his desk drawer at work. Courtesy of Liza.

The thought made him frown. If Pebbles was here, Liza had to have brought her over. He hoped she hadn’t gone on her morning run. Surely she wouldn’t be so foolish.

He ran down the stairs and almost went out his kitchen door. Then realized that maybe Liza wouldn’t want him just walking in anymore. Not after last night.

Feeling more awkward than he had in forever, he went out his front door, crossed the small yard they shared, and knocked on hers. And knocked again. Alarm had his heart racing and he pounded on her door with one hand while he dug in his trouser pocket for his keys with the other.

“She’s gone already.”

Tom looked to his left where their neighbor, a retired teacher, stood on his stoop, puffing on his pipe while his Yorkie busily sniffed the grass. “Good morning, Mr. Tolliver. What do you mean she’s gone already?”

Mr. Tolliver shrugged. “She left. I was letting Sweetie-Pie out for her morning pee and saw Liza driving out of the garage. Her car was filled with boxes.”

Tom’s mouth opened. “Boxes?”

“Yes, young man. Boxes. Like, you know,” he added sarcastically, “cardboard things that you put stuff in? Boxes.”

Tom couldn’t replace a suitable reply so he merely said, “Thank you, sir.” His hands were shaking when he found his keys and he had to try twice before getting the key into the lock.

“She was crying.”

Tom froze at the old man’s words. Fuck. He forced himself to look left again, replaceing Tolliver’s face creased in concern. “Excuse me?”

“I said that she was crying. And I think she had been for a while. Her face was swollen and red. She just carried boxes to her car and cried, not even stopping to wipe her eyes.”

Oh my God. Fear gripped his heart. “Thank you, sir. I’ll make sure she’s okay.”

“See that you do,” he said gruffly. “She’s a nice girl, that one. Brings me fresh-baked brownies once a week without fail. And she likes Sweetie-Pie.”

Which alone made Liza a saint. The man’s dog was an evil ankle biter. “Thank you,” he said once more and entered Liza’s house.

At first glance, it looked normal. Alarm system armed, all the furniture in the same place. But then he noticed all the things missing. The afghan that her mother had made was gone. The photos of her mother and sister that had lined the mantel. All gone.

Numbly he walked into the kitchen and opened a cupboard. Her dishes were still there, but all the cookware that had been her mother’s was gone.

Slowly he climbed the stairs, knowing what he’d replace. It still hurt to see.

Her bed was made with military precision, and not a single speck of dust was on the furniture she’d bought when they’d moved in. But the closet and drawers were empty, all the clothing gone. Her suitcases were gone. As was her gun safe.

Her bathroom was so clean that it sparkled, but every shelf was empty of toiletries. No shampoo that smelled like crisp apples. No makeup.

She had left a roll of toilet paper in the cabinet and a hand towel on the rack.

He swallowed hard.

She’s gone. She left me.

No, she left, period. Not you. There was no you to leave.

“Bullshit,” he hissed aloud. They were still friends. He still deserved a damn goodbye. But then he heard her voice, tentative and small.

You didn’t feel the same way.

No. I didn’t.

“Goddammit.” He pulled out his personal phone and dialed her number. It rang several times before going to voice mail. Swearing viciously, he called again. This time she answered.

“Hello, Tom.” The words were heavy and sad and he swallowed again.

I’m sorry. Come back. I’ll try.

But none of those words would come out. Instead he snarled. “Where the fuck are you?”

He could hear her indrawn breath. “At Irina’s.”

I’m sorry. Come back. Please come back.

But once again, his mouth betrayed him. “You were supposed to stay home,” he snapped. “What part of being in a sniper’s sights did you not understand?”

This time the breath she drew was even and measured. “I’m fine. I am not your worry.”

Anymore hung between them.

“I left a note on the fridge along with a check for next month’s rent,” she went on. “I’ll set up autopay through my bank for the future.”

“I don’t care about the fucking rent!” he shouted.

“I do.”

He opened his mouth to say . . . what, he had no idea, but just then his work phone pinged with an alert.

Dammit. Sunnyside Oaks’s patient database had just been updated. “I need to call you back.”

“No, you really don’t. It’s okay. Just replace Eden so that Mercy will be safe.”

And then she hung up, leaving him staring at his personal phone while his work phone continued to ping.

Fucking hell. Backing out of her bedroom, he slowly trudged down the stairs, wondering what to do. Wishing . . . but for what he didn’t know.

He locked her door and, after checking to be sure his neighbor was gone, marched into his own house and up the stairs and sat down at his computer. Pulling up the window into Sunnyside’s database, he saw that a new patient had been registered: Timothy Alcalde, age seventy-two, Caucasian male.

Not DJ Belmont, then. It had to be Pastor.

On autopilot, Tom took a screenshot of the file and carefully backed out, making sure he left no trace that he’d broken in. Then he sent the file to his own secure e-mail. He could upload it to the Bureau’s servers when he got into the office.

He considered calling Raeburn, but had no energy for the conversation. So he texted instead. New patient, 72yo man, Timothy Alcalde. Right age for Pastor. He’d been forty-two when he’d fled to Eden thirty years ago.

And “Alcalde” meant “mayor” in Spanish. On another day, Tom might have appreciated the joke. The Eden assholes had already demonstrated that they put thought into names. He supposed “Timothy Pastora” would have been too obvious, even for them.

Excellent, was Raeburn’s reply. We’ll apprehend ASAP.

Um, no. That would be the wrong move. Fearing that Raeburn would go off half-cocked, Tom called his boss. “We can’t just bust in and arrest him,” Tom said when Raeburn answered.

“Why not?” Raeburn snapped. “I can have a warrant in ten minutes.”

“Because we still don’t know where Eden is. Do you want to bet those people’s safety on Pastor rolling over and telling us? They’ve already demonstrated how ruthless they can be and we don’t have any physical evidence on Pastor himself, only DJ. Without leverage, he’s not going to simply give in.”

Raeburn huffed, a frustrated sound. “No. I don’t suppose he would.”

Encouraged, Tom went on. “And we have to make sure we get Belmont at the same time, or he’ll go under so far that we’ll never replace him. He’ll keep coming after Mercy and Gideon.”

“True,” Raeburn admitted, disgruntled. “I doubt they’ll discuss the compound’s location specifically, but even a mention of Eden might be the leverage we need. I want eyes and ears inside that facility. Come in and we’ll discuss our options.”

Tom slipped his phone into his pocket. He should be energized and thrilled that they knew exactly where Pastor was, but he wasn’t. He was too numb. At least Liza is okay. Safe, anyway.

He didn’t think either of them was okay. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be okay again.