Say Goodbye (Sacramento Series, The Book 3)

DJ refilled his glass with the whiskey he’d found in Nelson Smythe’s very well-stocked bar. He normally wasn’t a big drinker, but this afternoon had left him shaken.

He’d blown it. Nearly gotten himself caught.

He’d shot Gideon Reynolds, which should have had him celebrating—if the bastard had actually died. But the bastard hadn’t died and now DJ’s face was all over the Internet, the photo updated to the one that cops had pulled from the surveillance cameras at the radio station, reflecting his darker hair and his goatee.

He ran a hand over his newly bald scalp and freshly shaven face. He still had the wig he’d borrowed from Nurse Innes at Sunnyside, but that wouldn’t be enough. Not if he ever intended to walk on a public street ever again.

Motherfucking Gideon. DJ drained the tumbler in his hand and hurled it, the glass hitting the dresser mirror. The mirror shattered along with the glass.

Just as well. He’d never been much for mirrors, but today, after the memories had obliterated the wall he’d built around them in his mind . . . he couldn’t stand the sight of his own face.

He could have run from Pastor and Eden at any time after he’d turned seventeen. But he hadn’t because he’d had something to prove.

To whom? He didn’t have a clue. Hours later and he still didn’t have a clue.

He could have held a knife to Pastor’s throat at any time and demanded the old man give him the access codes to that damn bank account, but he hadn’t. He should have, but he hadn’t.

And objectively, he knew why. He’d been brainwashed. Groomed. He knew about victims of childhood abuse. Objectively, he knew he was one.

Never felt like it, though. He’d always felt powerful, like he was putting something over on Pastor and Eden. But he hadn’t been. Not really.

In the end he was still tied to Pastor, even though he hated every cell in the old man’s body.

In the end he was still tied to Eden, which was nothing but a prison. None of the fools who worshipped Pastor knew it, and if they did know they didn’t admit it, and if they admitted it and fought to get free, they mostly hadn’t survived it. But DJ had known the truth and had believed he’d made the choice to stay. For the money.

Which he’d never demanded. He gave the now half-full whiskey bottle a bleary glance. It had been unopened when he’d started.

He grabbed the bottle and took a healthy swig. Because who was really the fool?

Once he’d taken over his father’s job delivering the drugs Eden produced, DJ had met Kowalski. He’d felt powerful dealing with Kowalski. Valued, even. The man had seen his potential and had taught him all of his tricks.

Bullshit. He’d used DJ just like he’d used everyone else. He’d told DJ that he’d have a house of his own. Now he realized that Kowalski had just wanted someone else’s name on the deeds. On the leases. The bastard didn’t want anything to be traced back to him.

We’re just his stooges. He’d fallen into Kowalski’s hands just like he’d fallen into Pastor’s.

Because I’m the fool.

“Not anymore,” he muttered, and if it sounded a little slurred, that was okay. Life owed him a little numbness, because everything had gone to shit.

He’d missed killing Mercy. He’d missed killing Gideon. He still didn’t have Pastor’s money. Kowalski had tried to eliminate him. And he was front and center on the FBI’s radar.

He sat in a stolen house, drinking stolen whiskey. He didn’t mind the stealing. But he’d had his own house. He’d had his own whiskey.

“Not anymore,” he muttered again. The Feds had taken everything.

The worst part of it was, DJ was on his own. He hadn’t realized how much he’d depended on Kowalski’s organization until he’d been cut off.

Weapons, customers, safe houses. Hired muscle. Fellow operatives. Gone. He was alone.

“So get them back.” He set the bottle aside and focused on his laptop. The document he’d been working on was nearly full. He’d noted the jobs that he’d pulled for Kowalski, the jobs that others had pulled, and the customers and suppliers he could recall.

The jobs, the names of customers and suppliers, those filled the page. But DJ realized he didn’t know a single other member of the Chicos who had any power whatsoever.

Only Kowalski.

He laughed bitterly at his lists. Isolating a person from others? Making them dependent on a single source of financial and personal support?

Classic tactics of abusers.

He’d jumped from Pastor’s frying pan into Kowalski’s fire.

“Not anymore,” he said again, so forcefully that he finally believed it himself.

He’d find a way to make Kowalski do what he wanted for a change. He’d get the weapons. He’d get those damn bank codes.

Then he’d blow everything up and shoot everyone down. It was time to take charge of his own damn life.

SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

FRIDAY, MAY 26, 6:00 P.M.

“I’m glad you’re all here.” Raeburn sat at the conference room table, which was more crowded than it had been Wednesday morning.

Since DJ Belmont’s attempt on Gideon’s life that afternoon, the “Eden Team” had become significantly bigger. Molina sat at the table, although she’d told them that she was there to provide insight on Belmont’s sniper skills, rather than taking a leadership role. Tom wasn’t the only disappointed person at the table. It seemed that Molina, while not universally liked, was universally respected.

Raeburn was improving, though.

There were logistics experts and a few experts in the local gangs, including Agent Rodriguez, who’d been providing protection for Mercy until now. Mercy, therefore, had new protection, as did Gideon.

Liza finally had protection as well, which was the one good thing to come of her involvement with Sunnyside Oaks. But her detail would be staying outside Sunnyside’s gates. Tom had been racking his brain trying to figure out a way to get someone inside with her. He’d considered hiring a bodyguard on his own.

Liza might not like the idea, but he couldn’t concentrate if he was worrying about her safety. It was hard enough to concentrate with her voice in his damn head.

I need more than that.

“Agent Croft?” Raeburn asked, yanking Tom’s attention back to the briefing. “Update?”

“SacPD ballistics analyzed the bullet that was lodged in Agent Reynolds’s vest,” Croft said, having been put in charge of communications between the FBI and SacPD.

Tom had spent most of the afternoon searching for any sign of Kowalski or Belmont, running facial recognition checks at airports and toll stations. So far, there’d been no sign of them.

“The bullet matches the two taken from Penny Gaynor’s body,” Croft went on. “It also matches a bullet taken from a drive-by shooting a year ago. The victim was a drug dealer who, according to witnesses at the time, was infringing on the Chicos’ territory.”

“That’s a connection,” Raeburn said. “Has Belmont been back to Sunnyside Oaks?”

“Not today,” one of the agents answered. “We’ve had eyes on the place from outside the gates since last night. A Lexus like the one Belmont was driving when he shot Agent Reynolds was seen leaving the facility late last night, though. The driver had long dark hair and was not identified as Belmont. Unfortunately, we didn’t know about the Lexus then.”

“So he wore a wig last night,” Raeburn said. “And had colored his hair by this morning. Agent Hunter, have you found any leads?”

“No sir, but it doesn’t appear that Belmont’s left the area. Kowalski either.”

“Good.” Raeburn’s face had lines that hadn’t been there that morning. “I talked to Agent Reynolds personally this afternoon. He was all right, but still in a bit of shock.”

“Getting shot does that to a person,” one of the other agents muttered. He was one of the SWAT members who’d survived Belmont’s assault on the team the month before in Dunsmuir.

Raeburn gave the man a rueful glance. “True. Agent Reynolds seemed surprised that he’d been shot, though. He’d assumed that Belmont was trying to get to Mercy.”

“I was surprised, too,” Tom offered. “I figured he’d use Gideon to get to Mercy and kill them both at the same time.”

“Reynolds said the same,” Raeburn confirmed. “He also said that in the second he glimpsed Belmont’s face, he thought Belmont was also shocked.”

“Like Belmont hadn’t planned to shoot him?” Molina asked.

Raeburn nodded. “And I’m not sure what to make of it. I’m happy to entertain suggestions.”

Tom thought he might have an idea. He shared a long glance with Molina, who gave him a slight nod, seemingly thinking along the same lines.

Raeburn caught the look they’d shared. “Speak,” he suggested with a slight edge to his tone.

Tom sighed. “It’s not anything definite. But when Agent Reynolds was remembering Belmont from his own childhood, he said they were friends—until Belmont turned thirteen and was apprenticed to Edward McPhearson.”

“The pedophile who tried to rape Gideon, but failed,” Croft explained. “Gideon got away.”

“Right,” Tom said, noting a few shocked stares. Apparently, some of the team hadn’t read the full brief he’d prepared weeks ago. “When Agent Reynolds fought back, McPhearson fell and hit his head on an anvil and died. The ensuing beating that Reynolds received was what prompted his mother to smuggle him out of Eden seventeen years ago.”

“Gideon escaped,” Raeburn said quietly. “He escaped, but Belmont did not. That might have made Belmont very angry indeed.”

“But why didn’t Belmont shoot Reynolds when he saw him in Dunsmuir a month ago?” one of the other agents asked.

Tom wanted to snarl, Read the damn brief! “Belmont was in the process of shooting Mercy Callahan when Amos Terrill threw himself over Mercy to protect her. Belmont’s bullet hit Amos instead. Then Agent Reynolds’s girlfriend shot Belmont. He was on the run after that. Who knows who else he would have shot that day had he not been stopped?”

“Everyone, I would assume,” Molina said dryly.

Agent Collins, the SWAT survivor, grimaced. “Daisy Dawson took him out,” he said with no small amount of self-disgust. “He almost took out a whole team and a civilian shot him.”

“A civilian who is every bit as good a sharpshooter as I’ve ever met,” Molina said. “But Belmont is as good as she is. Which is how he got the drop on us.”

“It was fast,” Collins remembered. “We were searching for Ephraim Burton and then all of a sudden, we were dropping like flies. He didn’t need time to set up his next shot.”

“Agent Reynolds said Belmont’s left arm was in a sling,” Raeburn noted. “He might not be as fast now.”

Molina looked concerned. “But he’s still accurate, because Agent Reynolds was standing across the street from him when he fired.”

“A hundred feet away,” Raeburn confirmed. “At least.”

“We have to assume he’s still as good a shot as he was before,” Molina said. “He hit Agent Reynolds in his heart. If Gideon hadn’t been wearing the vest, he wouldn’t be here anymore.”

Tom felt a shiver prickle his skin. “But Belmont’s not as fast as he was before. Especially with a rifle. He used a tripod on the roof of that office building on Wednesday morning. If he uses the rifle, he’s going to need that tripod as a crutch. That limits his range, his speed, and his choice of places from where he can shoot. Not a huge amount, but some.”

“Some might be enough when it comes down to it,” Raeburn said. “Belmont will return to Sunnyside Oaks sooner or later, because Pastor is still there. Correct?”

“I assume he’ll return to Sunnyside Oaks, sir,” Tom answered. “But Belmont has been hard to predict. Pastor is still there, though. There have been no changes to the patient roster.”

“So worst case,” Raeburn went on, “we wait him out while providing protection to Agent Reynolds and Mercy Callahan. How close are you to getting a virus into Sunnyside’s network?”

“I have access to the HR manager’s computer.” Tom had had that as soon as Portia Sinclair had clicked on the résumés they’d uploaded. “We have ears on their phone calls now that we have the wiretap warrant. I got e-mail addresses for the network administrator and the accountant from HR’s computer and sent them messages with embedded viruses. I’m hesitant to send any additional e-mails. They could compare notes and realize that someone’s trying to break in. Now I have to wait until one of them clicks on the link. It’s called a man-in-the-middle attack. I’ll gain access to their server, but they’ll believe that their network has shut itself off, so they’ll call a network specialist to get them back up and running.”

“Traceable to us?” one of the other agents asked.

Tom wanted to scoff. “No,” was all he said.

“Good,” Raeburn said. “We know that Sunnyside Oaks is hiring a nursing assistant. We’ve had several of our candidates apply. If one is hired, we’ll use the IT network specialist role to provide backup inside. If none of our applicants are hired, the IT person will be our insider.”

“What will the IT person do, exactly?” one of the agents asked.

“Damage the network physically, for one,” Raeburn said. “And they can provide cover to our nursing assistant, helping to get her out if they’re discovered.”

“The IT person can also install cameras on the inside,” Tom added. “I might be able to get control of some of the cameras connected through the facility’s Wi-Fi, but hardwired cameras that we control would give us even broader visual access.”

“We’re covered either way,” Croft said.

“That’s the plan. You have your orders,” Raeburn said, rising. “You’re all on call.”

They disbanded with Croft telling Tom to go home and take a break. Tom agreed, even though he had no intention of doing so.

Molina, however, had other ideas. “Walk with me, Tom,” she said. She made her way from the room, not even checking to be sure he was following.

“Can I do something for you, ma’am?”

She stopped and stared up at him, her shorter stature having no impact on her considerable ability to intimidate. “I’d tell you that I’ll only say this once, but that’s not true. I will say it over and over again as long as you are under my command.”

Tom frowned, trying to figure out what he’d done now. “Ma’am?”

“Listen to me and listen well. If you’re serious about a career in law enforcement, you need to understand that it is a marathon, not a sprint. You burn yourself out and . . . then you’re done. Washed up. So go home. Eat food. Watch some sports thing on TV.”

His lips twitched. “Some sports thing?”

One dark brow lifted. “ ‘Thing.’ It’s a word, Hunter. A useful word. Look it up.” Then she smiled at him. “You have the potential to be an amazing asset to the Bureau. It’s my job to teach you how to do that. And I’m ordering you to go home.”

“And if I work from home?”

“Then you do. I figure you will. But you’ll be able to take breaks there. I understand you have a dog. Miss Barkley showed me photos. Pebbles, yes? Doesn’t she need to be walked?”

“Liza always—” He cut himself off with a groan. Pebbles. Liza always walked her when he needed to work late. He’d probably be coming home to a mountain of Great Dane excrement.

Molina frowned. “Is Miss Barkley all right?”

“Yes.” I hope. “She just . . . doesn’t rent from me any longer.”

Molina seemed to digest this, then shook her head. “Not my circus,” she murmured.

Not my monkeys went unsaid.

“You might as well say what’s on your mind,” Tom said bitterly. “Everyone else has.”

“Then I don’t need to. Home, Hunter. Rest. Then be ready when we need you.”

So Tom gathered his things and started for home. Luckily, the field office wasn’t far from the duplex. It was one of the reasons Liza had chosen it. It was far from the veterans’ home, though, and even farther from the nursing school. She’d said she hadn’t minded.

She’d set up his life for his convenience and comfort at the expense of her own. He could see that now. He needed to talk to her. He needed to. He needed to make this right. But . . .

I need more than that.

She needed him to back away. But . . .

He’d been about to speed-dial her when his personal cell began to ring through his SUV’s speakers. It was Rafe Sokolov. “Rafe, is there anything wrong?”

“No, nothing’s wrong. Nothing new, anyway. I was hoping you could come to my house. I borrowed some tables for Mercy’s party and I’ve been hiding them in the garage. Amos and I could use some help loading them into his truck. Neither of us is operating at full capacity.”

“Of course. I need to stop by my house and walk Pebbles first, though.”

“Bring her with you,” Rafe said warmly. “Abigail will be so happy to see her. Then, after we move the tables, you can have dinner with us. We’re ordering pizzas.”

That sounded more than nice. Not spending the evening alone sounded like heaven.

“I’ll be over as soon as I can.”

SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

FRIDAY, MAY 26, 7:05 P.M.

“I ordered the pizzas,” Rafe announced as he came through the door to the studio apartment he and Mercy shared. “Double anchovies for everybody, right?”

Liza looked up from where she sat on the floor painting Abigail’s nails to catch him wink.

“What’s anchovies?” Abigail asked.

“Salty little fish,” Liza said.

“Ew!” Abigail cried, scrunching up her face. “That’s gross, Rafe.”

“He’s teasing,” Mercy told her softly. Then she looked uncertain. “Aren’t you, Rafe?”

“He totally is,” Sasha Sokolov said, her hands soaking in a bowl of warm, sudsy water. Rafe’s sister lived upstairs but was hanging with them on the lower floor for girls’ night.

“I totally am,” Rafe assured Abigail, tugging on her braid. “I got liver flavor instead.”

Abigail rolled her eyes. “You’re teasing again.”

“He is,” Daisy said firmly. She was painting Mercy’s nails, taking special care because Mercy was going to be guest of honor at her birthday party. Everyone thought it was still a surprise, not knowing that Mercy had figured it out. “We’re eating pepperoni and sausage and all the good things. And you don’t even have to finish your supper to have ice cream.”

Liza perked up. “What kind of ice cream?”

“All the flavors,” Erin Rhee said from the sofa where she sat next to Gideon, who was watching them with silent, semihorrified fascination, as though if he asked them what they were doing, they’d somehow drag him into their little salon.

Gideon hadn’t originally been invited, but his brush with one of DJ’s bullets that afternoon had left him shaken and wanting company. Daisy was equally shaken, although she was wearing a brave face. Gideon’s presence crowded them a bit in the small studio, but no one faulted the two for not wanting the other out of their sight, and Rafe couldn’t manage the stairs. So they crowded in close on the ground floor, Liza finding comfort in their company.

“All the important flavors, anyway,” Erin amended. Sasha’s girlfriend had been shot by Ephraim a month ago along with so many others, and although she’d returned to desk duty in SacPD’s homicide department, she was still in pain from her injuries. She couldn’t sit on the floor with the rest of them but didn’t want to miss the party. “Look in the freezer, if you want.”

With a squeal of delight, Abigail ran to the freezer. “It’s like an ice cream store!”

“There’s even rocky road,” Erin said. “For Liza.”

“Because we are here for you, girl,” Sasha said, because apparently everyone knew that Liza and Tom had argued. “No boys allowed in our clubhouse. Except for Rafe. He can stay.”

Rafe mock-sneered at his sister. “Gee, thanks, considering it’s my apartment.”

“What about me?” Gideon asked.

“You can stay, too,” Daisy said. “You can even be the next client in Daisy’s nail salon.”

“That’s not necessary,” Gideon assured her. “I’m just here for the pizza.”

And the support from this tight-knit group of friends. No one had mentioned the shooting, but it was on everyone’s mind.

Liza had heard about it from Karl’s driver after she’d climbed from the box he’d used to smuggle her into his truck. The family was shaken, he’d shared. So was Liza, but it seemed they were getting very skilled at pretending that everything was all right.

Liza looked up from shaking the bottle of topcoat for Abigail’s nails when she noticed that the room had grown quiet. And that Rafe was looking uncomfortable. “You okay, Rafe?”

Rafe made an awkward face as he scratched the back of his neck. “Liza, can I talk to you for a moment?” He pointed at the front door. “Out in the hall?”

Liza gave him a wary look. “Now?”

“Yeah.”

Mercy’s brows crunched together. “Rafe? What have you done?”

“Nothing.” He winced. “Well, nothing bad. Too bad anyway. Nothing I can’t fix.”

Liza stood, dread settling on her shoulders. This would be about Tom, then. “Let’s get it over with.” She followed Rafe out and waited until he’d settled himself against the foyer wall, leaning on his cane. “Go ahead.”

“I need some help with some heavy lifting for Mercy’s party on Sunday. You know about the party, right?”

“Yes,” Liza said, relieved. This wasn’t about Tom, then. “What do you need lifted?”

Rafe opened his mouth, then closed it. Then sighed. “I don’t need you to lift anything. I called Tom. He’s coming over to help me load some tables into Amos’s truck.”

Liza closed her eyes. “Of course he is.”

“Your car’s not outside, so Tom won’t know you’re here. I didn’t want you blindsided.”

“Thank you. I can duck upstairs while he’s here.” But then Rafe winced again. “What?”

“I might have invited him to eat pizza with us.”

Liza’s temper popped. “Dammit, Rafe.”

“I’m sorry! It sounded like a good idea at the time. He doesn’t know you’re here. I promise.”

“When will he get here?” A knock at the front door was her answer. “Fucking hell, Rafe.”

Rafe sighed. “I am sorry. I shouldn’t have done it. But I do need help with the tables. I didn’t make that up. You can go upstairs if you need to and I’ll take him out for pizza.”

A dog barked and Liza’s resolve crumbled. “He brought Pebbles. Just . . . open the door.”

Rafe did and Tom stepped in, his expression going slack in surprise. So at least Rafe hadn’t lied about not telling him that she was here. Pebbles took advantage of Tom’s distraction to tug her leash from Tom’s hand and lunge at Liza.

“Whoa,” Liza soothed, gently shoving Pebbles’s massive paws from her chest. She crouched when the dog dropped to all fours, wrapping her arms around Pebbles’s neck and burying her face in the dog’s fur. “Missed you,” she whispered, laughing when Pebbles licked her face.

“I’ll . . .” Rafe hesitated. “Those tables are in the garage, Tom.”

But Tom wasn’t listening, his gaze frozen on Liza’s face. “Can I talk to you?”

“Me?” Rafe asked.

Liza sighed. “No, he’s not talking to you. He’s talking to me. Like you didn’t know.”

Rafe looked uncomfortable. “You should go back with the girls, Liza. Tom, let’s get busy.”

Tom took a step forward, his gaze still locked with Liza’s. “Please.”

Liza opened the garage door. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”

Tom crossed the space in two long strides. He closed the door in Rafe’s face before descending the single step into the garage, where Liza had retreated to the far wall, leaning against the hood of Sasha’s hot pink car.

“I didn’t see your car outside,” Tom said.

“I got a ride.”

“Oh.” Tom’s throat worked as he swallowed. He approached warily, his eyes on hers.

She took a few steps back, stopping when she hit the wall. “Is there an issue with Sunny—” She cut herself off, not knowing who could overhear. “With my job application? I already told Raeburn about my interview. Have you heard anything?”

“No, this isn’t about that place. Liza, are you afraid of me?”

Liza frowned. “No. Why would you ask me that?”

“Because you’re standing as far away from me as you can. I can’t . . . I couldn’t handle it if you were afraid of me.”

Liza hated seeing the apprehension on his handsome face. “I’m not afraid of you, Tom. It’s just best if I keep my distance.”

“Why?” he asked, the single syllable sounding tortured.

“Because I . . .” She stared at her feet, then looked up to see he’d come closer. Close enough to touch her now. Close enough for her to catch the scent of his aftershave. “Because it hurts, okay? Being close to you, smelling you, feeling how warm you are? It hurts, because I want more. I know that makes me stupid, but—”

He pressed his fingers to her lips. “Stop it. You are never stupid.” He dropped his arm to his side and she missed his touch immediately. “I’m stupid, but not you.”

“Why did you think I could be afraid of you?”

“Because I yelled.” His blue eyes were filled with turmoil. “I lost my temper and I yelled.”

“You’ve done that before. You’ll—” She stopped herself before she could say that he’d do it again. Because she wouldn’t be giving him that opportunity. Because she’d walked away.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I should never yell at you. My father yelled. I don’t mean to.”

“Oh.” Liza’s eyes stung. She knew all about Tom’s father. Knew how the man had beaten Tom’s mother until she’d nearly died. Knew that he’d tortured Tom as a child, burning his skin with cigarettes because Tom had tried to protect his mother when his father had been kicking her.

She knew how conflicted Tom was because he’d been happy when his father was killed in prison. She knew it made him worry that there was a monster inside him, too.

She knew all of this because he’d told her. He’d trusted her with his deepest secrets.

I should have thought of this. “Oh, Tom. You are not your father. You could never be like him. Erase that from your mind, because it never entered mine. I am afraid, but never of you.”

“Then of who?” he asked, his whisper rough and hoarse.

“I’m afraid of myself. Of who I am when I’m near you.” She squared her shoulders. “I’m afraid because you could convince me to come back, to live on the other side of your duplex, where we’d just be friends forever. And that would hurt too much. I’d rather you yelled at me.”

He flinched. “Are we ever going to be friends again?”

God. He was breaking her heart. Because this wasn’t an act. This wasn’t manipulation. This was Liza, taking something away from him that he’d treasured.

He had treasured their friendship. Of that, she’d never had a single doubt.

“Yes, but not right now. I don’t know how to be your friend right now,” she confessed. “But I’m sure I’ll figure it out.”

He took another step forward, then another, until the tips of their shoes were millimeters apart. He searched her face before cupping her cheek in his palm.

Warm and strong. Just like he’d always been.

“How long?” he asked.

Knowing she was cracking, she pressed her cheek into his hand. “How long will it take me to figure it out?”

“No. How long have you felt this way?”

She wanted to scream No! She wanted to tell him that he couldn’t have that piece of her. But then his thumb swept across her cheek. It was a tender touch. The touch of a lover.

But he wasn’t and he never would be.

Still, the words came tumbling out. “Since I was seventeen years old.”

He gasped. “You were too young. I was too old.”

“You were twenty, Tom. Not too old. Not that it matters. I’m not seventeen anymore and you’re not twenty, but you still don’t have the same feelings that I do. That’s why I moved out. You’ll never feel the way I do and I can’t live my life wishing that you did. Eventually you’ll meet someone new and you’ll bring her home and . . .” A sob choked her, but Liza forced it back down. “You’ll have a good life,” she finished in a whisper. “Which I really want for you.”

She hadn’t moved her face and he hadn’t moved his hand.

He was staring down at her, his emotions too turbulent for her to read. But then, one emotion rose above the others and the sight stopped her heart. Longing.

She leaned closer and for a brief, shining moment, hope surged. Again.

And then he took a step back. Again. “All right,” he said quietly. “I won’t bother you anymore. Just let me know when you’ve figured out how we can be friends, okay?”

He left the garage, and a few seconds later, she heard Pebbles’s yip and whine, Tom’s deep rumble of chastisement, and then, finally, she heard Rafe’s front door open and close.

She let out the breath she’d been holding and sagged against Sasha’s car. For a few minutes she stood there, breathing. Collecting the pieces of her heart that had shattered. One by one, she rebuilt herself until she could stand firmly on her own two feet.

She had practice doing this. She’d done it before. When her mother had died. When her sister was killed. When she’d held Fritz’s body, his life already having seeped away.

She’d rebuilt her life before. She’d do it again. And because she had a little girl waiting for her in Mercy’s apartment, she forced her feet to move.

She opened the door to find Rafe waiting in the foyer, looking devastated.

He started to speak. “I’m—”

She held up her hand, stopping him with a smile. “It’s all right, Rafe. Tom and I are friends.” It was a lie, but Rafe seemed to believe it. “It’s not the drama you think it is. He yelled at me the other night because he was upset that I hadn’t told him about Fritz until now. He needed to be sure that he hadn’t hurt my feelings.”

“And did he?”

“Nope,” she said with forced cheer. “I’m good.”

“He’ll come back tomorrow to help me with the tables. You can hide anywhere you like.”

“If I’m still here,” she said lightly. “I have to go home sometime. Although I do recall you promising pancakes for breakfast when I first got here, so I’ll stay for those.”

Rafe’s smile was one of relief. “Okay. But maybe tell that to Mercy? Otherwise I’ll be sleeping with Abigail’s puppy in the doghouse tonight.”

“It’ll be quieter there,” she told him. “Abigail wants to stay up all night telling stories. I give her till midnight before she conks out.”

She opened the door to rejoin the party, only to stop short at the sight of Mercy holding one of the cartons of rocky road and a spoon.

Liza appreciated the gesture more than she could say, and she really, really wanted that ice cream, but she shook her head with a smile. “I’m good. Let’s save the dessert until after the pizza. Abigail, we need to finish polishing your fingernails.”

“Mercy did it for me.”

Well, shit. Liza amped up her smile. “What about your toenails? You can’t leave them naked. That would be too scandalous.”

“Can I have stickers on them?”

“You sure can.” Liza sat on the floor and patted her lap. “Come sit with me and we can choose your design.” And if she squeezed Abigail a little harder than necessary, the little girl didn’t complain.