Say Goodbye (Romantic Suspense #25) by Karen Rose

            “That’s good thinking. And I’m going to reread your Eden file while we wait for the truck.”

            Leaving Tom to check his phone for any messages from Liza. There were none. He sent her a text, asking if she was okay, but got no answer.

            I need to fix this. But if she shut him out, he wasn’t sure how.




SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

            THURSDAY, MAY 25, 5:15 P.M.

            DJ’s eye twitched as he was beeped into the rehab center through the back door. He was still shaking an hour later.

            Kowalski had lured him into a trap. The package that DJ was supposed to pick up had been a trap. His last-minute decision to take Smythe’s Lexus might have saved his life. His gut hadn’t liked the setup—the warehouse in Stockton had been too quiet. He’d been right.

            He’d pulled into the loading area of the next warehouse and looked through his scope. And there had been Kowalski, waiting with two of his biggest thugs. His finger had itched on the trigger, but he hadn’t fired a shot. If DJ had fired, he would have been made, and likely wouldn’t have been able to escape.

            So now he was sneaking into Sunnyside Oaks through the employees’ entrance, wearing a cheap goddamn wig that he’d been forced to buy at a party store, because his drug-dealing boss wanted to kill him because his fucking face was all over the fucking Internet.

            A nurse met him at the door, a surgical mask in her hand. “You’re wanted by cops in several jurisdictions and by the FBI. I think covering your face may be in your best interest, since that wig won’t fool anyone, and not everyone here is paid to look the other way.”

            DJ rolled his eyes, but he took off the wig and put on the mask. Dammit. “How is my father doing?” he asked as she led him down a hallway where the stainless-steel wall tiles gleamed so brightly he was tempted to put on his sunglasses.

            “He’s awake and talking.”

            Alarm skittered down DJ’s spine as he imagined all the things Pastor might say if he was high on painkillers. All the truths he might speak that both DJ and Pastor would prefer he keep quiet.

            “What’s he saying?” he asked casually, but the nurse wasn’t fooled.

            “Nothing like that, sir. You’re not alone in your worry, though. We keep all recovering patients who are still on painkillers in their own rooms with specialized personnel who are trained and vetted. They won’t share anything they hear.”

            “Or what?”

            “Or they’re terminated,” she replied without a heartbeat of hesitation.

            DJ wasn’t sure if that meant fired or killed, but he didn’t really care if it was the latter. “I see. Thank you for letting me know. What’s he talking about?”

            “His children mostly.” A sad note entered her tone. “The ones who died. That’s not uncommon, though. Painkillers can fog the patient’s brain and make old memories resurface.”

            DJ remembered Pastor’s twins. They’d been a few years older than him and real assholes. They’d been the prince and princess of the community and had never let anyone forget it. They’d also believed they were invincible and ignored the warnings to stay out of the forest. Their mother had gone hiking with them and nobody had seen any of them alive again.

            It might have been the only case where Edenites truly had been killed by wolves.

            Pastor had disappeared for two weeks, searching and then mourning. When Pastor had returned, he’d immediately adopted DJ and declared him his new heir.

            Fat lot of good it’s done me.

            “He’s a real sweetheart,” the nurse continued. “All of his nurses love him already.”

            A sweetheart? Pastor? “I’m glad,” DJ managed, and she smiled.

            “They’re often nicer here than they are at home. Don’t take it personally.”

            They walked the rest of the way in silence, for which DJ was grateful. He was still trying to wrap his mind around Pastor being a “sweetheart.” He was loved by his congregation, but that was more of an awed worship. Not affection.