Say Goodbye (Sacramento Series, The Book 3)

DJ exited the interstate and wound his way toward the zoo. He could lose himself in traffic there. Once he felt sure that no one was following him, he pulled into an alley, released his iron grip on the steering wheel, and sagged against the seat.

Oh my God, how could I have been so stupid? He wanted to scream. But he didn’t, drawing deep, even breaths instead, trying to calm himself.

He’d been frustrated when he’d noted that Daisy’s orange Beetle wasn’t in the parking lot, but she’d been live on the air, so he knew she was inside. He’d been annoyed when she hadn’t emerged from the building, but he’d still been okay. He’d been logical. Thought driven. His emotions had been in check.

When the damn receptionist had told him to leave a message for “Poppy,” and that she’d call him back at her earliest convenience, he’d only been mildly irritated.

He’d still been clearheaded when he’d come up with the idea to send her flowers, hoping she’d come to the door to receive them, but another woman did. Probably the bitch receptionist who’d told him to leave a message.

Still, the flowers would have been useful. He could have spotted her leaving the station from across the street. Also, the flower arrangement was so large that her vision would be impaired. She wouldn’t see him when he shot her.

What he hadn’t expected was to see Gideon Reynolds carrying the flowers from the station, as cocky and arrogant as he’d always been, even when he was a kid. And then Gideon Reynolds had thrown the flowers into the dumpster, vase and all.

He hadn’t expected his mind to flash back to the image of thirteen-year-old Gideon, covered in blood after shoving Edward McPhearson so hard that his head hit his own anvil. So hard that McPhearson had died.

And he hadn’t expected that image of Gideon’s face to morph into Waylon’s at the moment that DJ had smothered him to death with a pillow.

He definitely hadn’t expected the swell of rage that exploded inside him or the suppressed pop of the gunshot that followed. It was as if he’d been taken over, his actions not his own.

Gideon had staggered back against the dumpster, clutching at his chest, and DJ had felt that rage become a visceral jubilation.

He’d done it. He’d killed Gideon Reynolds. The fucker had finally paid.

But then the man had stood, chest heaving. Because he was still breathing.

Breathing. Gideon didn’t deserve to breathe. He needed to die. He’d needed to die seventeen years ago when he’d killed Edward McPhearson.

Just like DJ’s father had died for helping Gideon escape.

DJ remembered the look in Waylon’s eyes as he’d breathed his last.

The fear.

The guilt.

The acceptance.

Because Waylon had known that he deserved to die.

A sound cut through the storm in his mind, a wail, an animal howl. For a moment DJ wondered what it was that could make that sound. Until he realized.

It’s me. Shocked, DJ covered his mouth, his whole body shaking. His face was wet.

Shit. He was crying. Sobbing.

He hadn’t cried since the day he’d turned thirteen years old. Not since Edward McPhearson had welcomed him into the smithy as his newest apprentice. He’d been so proud of himself. Until Edward had . . .

DJ closed his eyes, hand still pressed tight to his mouth, muffling the cries that continued to spill from his throat.

It had hurt. God, how it had hurt.

And when he’d told Pastor, the bastard had smiled.

He’d smiled. And told DJ that he’d been honored by the love of a Founding Elder.

Love. There was no such thing as love.

DJ knew this, because he’d gone to his father, still bleeding. Still in shock, but believing that his father could fix this. That he’d help. That he’d make this right.

Waylon’s fists had clenched as DJ had haltingly told his father what Edward had done, every one of his father’s considerable muscles hardening as his body seemed prepared to rip someone up. But then Waylon had exhaled.

And told DJ that it was something to be accepted. That there wasn’t anything he could do. That Edward would tire of him and there would soon be another.

DJ had left his father’s house that night, never to return until four years later when he’d killed him. He’d gone back to Pastor’s house, because he’d had no other place to go.

And the next day he’d gone back to Edward. To work. Because he was Edward’s apprentice, and that was what apprentices did. They worked.

But work wasn’t all they did.

Waylon had been wrong. Edward hadn’t tired of him. Not until Gideon had turned thirteen, four long years later.

It was finally going to be over. There would be a new apprentice. DJ would be a blacksmith.

Edward would take Gideon to his bed. He’d said so. He’d said DJ was now “too old.” He’d even said that DJ could participate, if he wished.

DJ hadn’t wished that. But he had been happy that someone else was going to have to take it from Edward.

But that didn’t happen. Gideon had happened. Gideon hadn’t been raped, because he’d fought back.

Gideon had killed Edward. And he’d gotten away with it.

Because of DJ’s own piece-of-trash father. The howl clawing from his throat had subsided, leaving whimpers in its place.

He hadn’t understood when he’d witnessed Waylon in the bed of his truck, a steel claw gripped in his fist, hastily ripping at the face of a dark-haired kid. Only slivers of tattooed skin on his chest remained, tendons and bone mostly visible. The kid’s eyes were gone.

Now, seventeen years later, DJ understood why his father had been doing that—because Gideon’s were green and Waylon hadn’t found a boy with eyes to match. Now, seventeen years later, DJ realized that his father must have tattooed the nameless boy’s chest to make it look like Gideon. His father had been the first tattoo artist in Eden. He’d done DJ’s tattoo, after all.

Now, seventeen years later, he knew it had all been a farce, because Gideon was not dead. He’d escaped.

But then, DJ had been so shocked that all reason had fled from his mind. It had been the first time he’d seen the claw, which he’d later learned was responsible for all the mutilations of Edenites who’d been “devoured by wolves” because they’d “strayed too far from the compound.” In reality they’d questioned, dissented, or tried to escape.

He’d been out searching for Gideon, who’d gone missing after running from his punishment for murdering Edward McPhearson. Everyone had been searching—everyone except his father, who’d disappeared some time during the night with his truck. Pastor had told them that Waylon was searching the forest road.

DJ had believed him—until he’d come upon his father’s truck in the forest near the river. Gideon’s mother had been curled up in a corner of the truck’s bed, sobbing. His father had looked up, wild-eyed and equally shocked to see DJ as DJ had been to see him.

And in that moment of unguarded shock, guilt had flashed across Waylon’s face, crystal clear in the dim glow of dawn.

What are you doing? Where have you been?

Driving around the forest. Go home, DJ. Go back to Pastor.

But DJ had been suspicious, so he’d checked the odometer. Waylon had gone more than two hundred miles since his last trip from Eden. DJ knew because he’d been tasked with keeping Waylon’s truck running. He knew every nut and bolt of the old vehicle.

No way you drove two hundred miles around the forest. You went into the city. Why?

Waylon had swallowed then, a grotesque sight all covered in blood and gore. Go home.

No. Tell me. And then a terrible thought had occurred to him. You were helping him?

His father’s guilty expression was the only answer DJ had needed. Why? he’d demanded. Why did you help him?

Waylon had stared at him miserably. Because I couldn’t help you, he’d said.

With McPhearson. DJ had known exactly why Gideon had been fighting the blacksmith.

Why wouldn’t you help me? It had been an agonized cry. Much like he was doing right now.

They know things. I’ve done things. Waylon had been babbling. All but confessing.

And then it had all clicked. His big, bad enforcer father had been afraid of what Edward McPhearson would say about him. He was afraid of what the bastard would reveal. Waylon’s fear of Edward had been stronger than any love he’d ever felt for his son.

You gave me to him, DJ remembered saying the words, dry-eyed and steel-spined.

I had no choice.

You had a fucking choice. You always had a choice. You just didn’t choose me.

Listen to me. I wanted to help you, but I couldn’t.

So you helped him? DJ had spat the words, pointing to the body that he now knew had not been Gideon’s after all. Why did you take him to the city?

Waylon’s gaze had flicked to the body. He died by the time we got there. They beat him bad.

Like that made the betrayal better, somehow. Easier to accept.

DJ had stepped forward, fists clenched. And if he hadn’t died? What would you have done?

His father’s silence was his answer, once again.

You would have let him go. You would have set him free.

That had been the brutal truth. His father had risked Pastor’s wrath for Gideon Reynolds. Because of some misplaced sense of guilt, of responsibility that he hadn’t felt for his own flesh and blood.

“But not for me,” DJ whispered into the quiet of the car. Waylon hadn’t acknowledged his accusation. He’d merely jumped from the truck bed, leaving the body destroyed and unrecognizable to wade into the river and wash away the blood and gore.

That had been the moment that DJ had known that Waylon had to die. Now, all these years later, he replayed Waylon’s final moments in his mind, so glad that he’d killed the bastard.

Seventeen years had passed since Gideon’s escape, and DJ was just as angry now as he’d been then. Seeing Gideon’s face . . . He’d snapped. Before he’d even been aware of it, he’d pointed his gun straight at Gideon’s chest. And fired.

But the bastard had not died.

Not today, he told himself. He hadn’t died today. But he will.

DJ’s pulse was slowing, his mind gradually clearing again.

He will die, but Mercy needs to be first. Mercy was the greater threat. Gideon was Waylon’s shame and Waylon had paid. Mercy was DJ’s shame.

He’d claimed to have killed her and buried her body. He’d thought he had killed her. He’d lied to Pastor just as Waylon had lied. But DJ had had a better reason. He’d been chased away by a fucking bystander before he could finish the job.

Waylon had known that Gideon still breathed when he’d dumped him. Waylon had wanted Gideon to escape.

I am not like my father. Not in any way. Except for the fact that he had lied and now couldn’t let Pastor find out that Mercy was alive. Pastor would brand him a liar and would never tell him the access codes that the old fucker had memorized.

So he was back to the same plan he’d had before. Mercy needed to die.

Except now Gideon and Daisy Dawson would be on alert, because his brain was stupid and had reacted to seeing Gideon’s face. He hadn’t seen him clearly a month ago, that day in Dunsmuir. He’d been focused on killing Ephraim and Mercy. And then Daisy had shot him.

“Except you just made your job a thousand times harder,” he muttered to himself. “Fuck.”

Now the cops would be looking for a Lexus. He needed another car, but for now he’d change the license plates and keep his gun close. He wouldn’t risk stealing another car right now. Nobody would report the Lexus missing until Mrs. Smythe returned home. He didn’t know the same about any vehicle he could steal today.

He got out of the Lexus on legs that felt like Jell-O. Holding on to the car for support, he opened the trunk, found two matching license plates, and switched them with the set of fakes he’d made that morning.

Then he headed back for the Smythe house, exhausted and in pain. His head hurt, his arm hurt. His body ached.

He needed a safe place to hide, a place where neither the cops nor Kowalski could find him.

Kowalski. He wanted to groan. Now he was fighting a war on two fronts. He didn’t expect to turn the cops to his way of thinking. But Kowalski he might be able to manage.

He considered his father again. Waylon had been afraid of what would happen if Pastor and McPhearson spilled all they knew.

Kowalski had a family. He could be vulnerable if DJ spilled all that he knew. If he couldn’t be persuaded to help DJ, he might be convinced to call off his thugs.

It would be good not to have to look over his shoulder. So that was the plan. Get Kowalski to back off while he looked for another place to live.

He thought about staying with Pastor and Coleen in the rehab center. But Pastor kept whining for him to leave Sacramento and return to Eden, so the rehab center wasn’t a good idea.

He’d have to keep looking for a place, because Mrs. Smythe would be home soon. He’d kill her if he had to—the chest freezer could hold one more—but he ran the risk that her daughter would call to confirm that she’d made it home all right.

So his priorities were building a file on Kowalski, locating a new house, and finding Mercy. He still felt shitty and stupid, but a little more in control now that he had a plan. That would have to be enough.

SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

FRIDAY, MAY 26, 12:30 P.M.

Portia Sinclair folded her hands atop Liza’s résumé. “So do you have any questions for me?”

The interview at Sunnyside Oaks had gone well and Liza was cautiously optimistic.

“Yes, ma’am.” She hadn’t mentioned that she was only applying for a short-term gig. She hoped that she’d be able to get whatever Tom needed long before she started school. “What will my responsibilities be and for how many patients will I be providing care? On average, of course. I’m aware that your needs will vary from day to day.”

“You’ll be assigned one or two patients during the day, five at night. Sometimes you’ll go as high as three during the day and seven at night, but that is our ratio cap. Will that be a problem?”

Liza blinked. “No, ma’am. My ratios were one to five during the day and one to ten at night. So, no, this won’t be a problem at all.”

“Well, you were working in the veterans’ home,” Sinclair said, not bothering to mask her disdain. “This is a private facility and we have higher standards.”

Well, bully for you, Liza thought, but kept her smile firmly in place. “That’s wonderful. What is the range of patient conditions?”

“Anything from a short-term surgical recovery to long-term rehabilitation after a stroke. Patients vary in age from pediatric to geriatric. We really cover the spectrum.”

Including killers. Because Pastor was here somewhere. “I can handle that.”

“I’m sure that you can. You’ll have to sign an NDA. Many of our patients are public figures and won’t look as polished as they do in their outside life. You will not take photographs. You will not carry your phone with you while you are on shift. We provide a locker for your things.”

Which would probably be searched. “Those are standard policies. Not a problem.”

“Good.” She tilted her head. “How did you learn about us?”

“I found you online. I was looking for a position as a nursing assistant and applied for about a dozen positions. You’re the first to call me in for an interview. As I said on the phone this morning, I was surprised you called me so quickly.”

“You don’t know any former patients or other employees of our facility?”

“No, ma’am. I’m relatively new to Sacramento. I don’t know many people yet. It’s been a little difficult to reintegrate with civilians after my discharge.”

“I can imagine. You have no family here in Sacramento?”

“No, ma’am. My family is gone.”

Sinclair’s expression softened in sympathy. “What happened?”

Like you haven’t looked me up six ways to Tuesday. “My mother died of cancer. My sister was murdered.”

“How horrible.”

“It was. I was only a few months from high school graduation. I somehow made it through, and then, after that, I joined up.”

“You have a stellar military record. How did you get the job at the veterans’ home? It appears you started just a few weeks after your discharge?”

Liza told her what she’d told Irina—the truth. “My nursing school advisor helped me. She’d been in the army and took me under her wing.”

“So you’ll be starting school soon?”

“July, ma’am.”

“Would you be staying on here as well?”

“Yes, ma’am,” she lied. “I’m not wealthy. I need to eat.”

“But surely you have funds. Your husband’s death benefits. Didn’t you receive those?”

Liza flinched, not expecting that question. It was also none of this woman’s business. But she answered, because on this point she could be honest. “I did. I put enough away for tuition and lab fees, textbooks, that kind of thing. I put most of Fritz’s money in a trust for his family. He’d have wanted his parents to have a retirement cushion.”

“How kind of you,” Sinclair said, and she sounded so sincere that Liza wondered if the woman knew that they harbored a criminal like Pastor. But of course she knew. Molina and Raeburn had prepped Liza on the nature of the facility’s clientele. Mostly celebrities, but a fair share of drug kingpins and mafia bosses.

Liza shrugged uncomfortably. “It seemed like the right thing to do.”

“I’m sorry to have to ask you about your husband. I hope I didn’t offend.”

“Of course not.”

“I assumed that it had been a long time since his death. I was surprised to see it upset you.”

Aren’t you the bitch? “How long is long enough?” Liza asked, thinking about Tom and Tory and their unborn child. “I saw Fritz die, so perhaps my feelings are a bit more raw.”

Sinclair nodded. “I suppose they would be. How do you feel about children?”

Liza frowned. “I don’t think you’re allowed to ask if I have children or plans to have any.”

Sinclair chuckled. “No, I meant in a general sense. Can you deal with a pediatric patient?”

“Oh. Then, yes, I can deal quite easily.”

“Even if the child is terminal?”

Liza froze for a few seconds, then exhaled as it hit her that her patient would be a real person—a real sick person—and not an FBI plant. “It wouldn’t be easy, but I could still deal.”

“Good. If we decide to hire you, when can you start?”

“As soon as you need me to.”

Sinclair stood, extending her hand. “Thank you for coming in. We plan to hire someone quickly, so I’ll be able to let you know fairly soon one way or the other.”

Liza shook her hand. “I’ll be looking forward to your call.”

Sinclair took her to the lobby, passing through a different series of hallways on the way out than they’d used on the way in.

Liza tried not to be obvious about looking into the patient rooms, but Sinclair noticed. “Apologies,” Liza said. “I’m not trying to be nosy. I’d like a feel for the layout and the kind of equipment you’re using here.”

“We have all the equipment you’ll find in any other facility,” Sinclair said proudly. “And if a patient needs what we don’t have, we get it.”

“Wow,” Liza murmured.

“Indeed. Well, here is the lobby, Miss Barkley. I hope you have a delightful afternoon.”

“Thank you.”

Liza walked to the visitors’ lot, where she’d parked Karl’s SUV, noting the cameras pointed in her direction. There were a number of them. There was also a tall iron fence with a gate behind it, which, according to Sinclair, was parking for employees and the families of their patients.

The atmosphere was every bit as oppressive and severe as the army base outside Kabul.

She pulled out of the parking lot, noticing a dark sedan pull into traffic behind her. It followed her all the way back to her apartment, not seeming to care that she noticed it.

It could be DJ, she thought. That would be bad.

Or it could be Sunnyside Oaks’s security staff, checking to see that she lived where she said she did.

Or it could even be the FBI. She hadn’t seen Tom in the sedan, but she wouldn’t put it past him to have followed her.

Regardless, she was glad for the relative anonymity of the apartment and Karl’s SUV. As soon as she was back in her apartment, she flopped onto the sofa and heaved out a relieved breath.

“So far, so good,” she muttered.

She checked her texts, expecting one from Tom, but seeing one from Mercy. Or, rather, from Abigail, who had used Mercy’s phone. It was an invitation to a sleepover tonight at Mercy’s. There would be nail painting, hair braiding, and makeovers. And ice cream.

The sleepover had been Mercy’s idea. Her friend had called her the night before when she’d been crying and eating rocky road. Mercy had floated the idea then.

Except that last night, she hadn’t been a part of a potential undercover operation. But if she backed out of this party, not only would she disappoint Mercy and Abigail but she’d raise a lot of questions that she didn’t want to answer. This had just gotten complicated.

Except . . . this apartment was for Karl’s clients. Many who wanted anonymity. It was why the ownership of the unit and the registration on the SUV were—hopefully—untraceable.

She opened a text window to Karl. All is well. Am at apt. Do you have disguises here?

Okaaaay. Why? was Karl’s immediate reply.

Going to Mercy’s tonight. Don’t want to lead anyone there if someone is watching. Paranoid maybe but want to be safe.

Are you claustrophobic?

Liza frowned at the question. No. Why?

Her phone rang a moment later with a call from Karl. “I hate texting,” he said. “We sometimes have to transport celebrities who do our commercials. There’s a large box in one of the bedrooms. Big enough to sit in. It’s a nice box, and has its own chair. You get in, the driver takes you out on a dolly, and once you’re loaded in his delivery truck and he’s on the road, you can get out. Sound like something you can do?”

“Yes, I can handle a box. I should leave by five p.m. if that works. Thank you.”

“Five p.m. will work, and you’re welcome. Be careful,” he said and ended the call.

With a satisfied smile, Liza switched back to her conversation with Abigail. I’ll bring nail polish and scrunchies. See you soon, Shrimpkin.

She had a life. She had friends. She had a family in Chicago who cared about her. She had a new family in Sacramento who cared about her, too.

And if she didn’t have Tom Hunter? She’d cope. She always did.

EDEN, CALIFORNIA

FRIDAY, MAY 26, 2:00 P.M.

Graham crouched next to Hayley’s pallet, a plate in his hands. “How’re you?”

“Ready to pop,” Hayley grumbled, curled up on her side, grateful that at this time of day the other wives were elsewhere doing chores. She needed to talk to Graham about their mother. She’d been worried sick about him since he’d splashed their mother’s shoes with piss. “Like a huge pus-filled zit.”

Graham snorted. “I’m gonna rename Jellybean. From here on out, she’s Zit.”

Hayley shoved herself to a sitting position, patting her stomach. “I won’t let him call you Zit.” She eyed the plate, then sighed. “Jerky again, huh?”

“Sorry.” He dipped his head closer. “There’s a little bit of chicken hidden underneath.”

She frowned. “Hidden?”

“Nobody knows what’s going on right now,” he whispered. “Pastor’s gone to the hospital and DJ and the healer went with him. Nobody knows when they’re coming back. Or even if they’re coming back. DJ never did bring back the supplies he went for, and he took the only set of wheels. Nobody’s sure how to get more food. And even the jerky won’t last forever. That chicken was the last of the animals they were able to bring from the old site.”

Most of the animals—cows, goats, sheep, and pigs as well as chickens—had been slaughtered prior to their move to the caves. The meat had been cured and stored, but without DJ getting supplies from the nearest town, the food had been quickly consumed.

“So we might starve,” Hayley said, trying not to panic.

“People are scared. Which isn’t completely bad. Scared people rise up. You know, down with tyranny and the man and all that. If they get scared enough, they might all try to get out of this place. Eat the chicken first. I wasn’t supposed to have it and don’t want to get caught.”

She popped it in her mouth obediently. When she’d swallowed she asked, “Did you steal it?”

“Duh. From Joshua. He’s eating chicken. Because he’s in charge.”

“Doesn’t surprise me,” Hayley muttered. “One of the other wives said he’d be the next leader, now that Ephraim is dead. Did Mom hurt you after you ruined her shoes?”

That their mother had gotten human waste on her shoes had been whispered all over the compound. It seemed to entertain Eden’s women. This is what happens without TV.

“No. Joshua told me to dump the piss pot, so I didn’t hear what came after that. But Mom has been super quiet ever since. Isaac hasn’t been speaking to her, so I think she’s in trouble.”

Isaac was the man to whom their mother had been married on day one of this hell. He didn’t seem to be a violent man, but he was an Eden fanatic. One of the earliest members to join way back in the early nineties, he was the community tattooist and enjoyed a captive audience. Every male over thirteen in the compound wore his ink on their skin. All the younger ones, anyway. Apparently there used to be another tattooist, who’d died in his sleep. He’d tattooed all the older men.

Graham will be tattooed—or worse—if I can’t get us out of here. “I’m glad she didn’t hurt you.”

Graham touched Hayley’s cheek gently. “She hurt you. There’s a bruise here.” His young face hardened, suddenly looking too adult. “I think that’s why she’s in trouble. But not because she hit you.” His gaze dropped to her stomach, and Hayley understood.

“Because of Jellybean.”

He nodded. “Sister Rebecca wants the baby alive and unharmed.”

Hayley closed her eyes, once again feeling the panic swell in her throat. “How do I stop her?”

“By getting out of here with me.”

Her eyes flew open, something in his tone grabbing her attention. “What did you find?”

“The computer and the satellite dish.” He grinned. “They were in the clinic, in a box labeled Birthing Supplies. Tamar asked Joshua if I could fetch the box so that she could get ready to deliver your baby.”

Hayley’s eyes widened. “Did Tamar know it was in there?”

“Nah. She was as surprised as I was.”

“Can you set them up? Especially the satellite dish? That doesn’t sound simple.”

“I’m going to try. I need a power source. I know they had one and it has to have been quiet. Some generators are silent. Or they had solar panels. I’m still searching for that. Tamar has been a huge help. She’s provided distractions all day so that I could hide the stuff I found.”

“Where did you put it?”

“Near where I dump the pee.” He smirked. “One good thing came from the shoe incident. Everyone’s giving me a super wide berth because I’m ‘clumsy.’ Nobody gets close enough to see what I’m carrying. But back to Tamar. Do you think we can trust her?”

“I hope so. She’s going to deliver this baby unless Sister Coleen gets back really soon.”

Graham’s nod was grim. “When Coleen comes back, she’ll take over. I know you’re scared, but I think you have more of a shot keeping the baby with Tamar on the job than Coleen.”

“I don’t think so, Cookie,” she said sadly. “Tamar couldn’t keep Rebecca from taking her baby. She’s not going to be able to keep her from taking mine.”

Graham’s mouth fell open in shock. “What?” he squeaked, rather loudly.

“Shhh.” Worried, Hayley glanced around him, looking to see if someone was coming. “I thought you knew,” she breathed softly. “I guess I forgot to tell you.”

Graham looked down numbly before looking back up at Hayley. “Did she tell you this?”

“No. I figured it out. Her eyes are the same exact color as Rebecca’s third child. The other wives told me that Rebecca’s other children were born to mothers who didn’t survive the births. Nobody said what happened to the mother of the third child. I wondered why. Now I know.”

“So Tamar has a really good reason to help us.”

“Yeah.”

Graham’s brow furrowed. She could almost see the gears turning. “That means,” he said, “that when we go we’ll be transporting two kids. Not only one. And that’s assuming that Tamar’s baby doesn’t throw a tantrum because we’re taking him away from Rebecca. We’ll have to keep him quiet somehow. I’m considering the logistics of getting out of here. There’s nothing but rocks and mountains and trees as far as I can see, and I’ve explored way up the mountain. If we’re going to make it to civilization with two kids and you—who’ll just have had a baby—we need to have the right gear. You ever rock climb?”

“No. I’m sorry,” she added weakly.

“Don’t be sorry. I’m just thinking. You know how I do that.” Graham patted her stomach. “No worries, little Zit. Your uncle Graham is on the job.” He rose fluidly. “Gotta go. More pots to empty.” With a final wink, he was gone.

Hayley let the smile drop from her face, closing her eyes as the fear swamped her. “It’ll be okay, Jellybean, like Uncle Graham said.” But she wondered who she was trying to convince.