Say Goodbye (Romantic Suspense #25) by Karen Rose

            Mercy’s gaze met hers once again, this time beseeching and afraid. “That’s why I have to do something. He loves me. I know he does. He’s going to get himself killed—or someone he’s hired—and it’ll be on me. I cannot live with that. Do you understand?”

            “Yeah,” Liza said softly, covering Mercy’s hand with her own. “I really do. It’s like you’re in a combat situation, always prepared, always ready. It grates at you, makes you jumpy. Sometimes it makes you throw caution to the wind just to feel normal for a day. An hour.”

            Mercy’s throat worked as she tried to swallow. “Thank you,” she whispered. “That’s exactly it. You sound like you know this from experience.”

            It was Liza’s turn to look away. “Yeah. You spend weeks, months, in uniform, and gunfire is like . . . background noise.” So were the screams and moans of the wounded she cared for until the surgeons could work their miracles. “And you want just one day to be . . . normal.”

            “And then?” Mercy asked quietly.

            “And then a sniper on a rooftop starts shooting and . . .” She shrugged. “People die.”

            “Oh, Liza.” Mercy looked as if she’d start crying again.

            Liza hoped that wouldn’t happen, because she didn’t think she could keep from crying, too, and her eyes hurt too much. “It happens. I mean, it’s combat. A war zone. Shit happens.”

            “That’s how you recognized the sniper’s scope this morning.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Who died?”

            Liza smiled bitterly. “People I liked. People I loved. People I’d never met before that day. People died and I couldn’t save them. I have to live with that, every goddamn day. So please, please, do not make me have to mourn you, too.”

            Mercy exhaled. “I don’t want you to have to mourn anyone. But something has to give, Liza. We can’t go on like this forever.”

            “Don’t do anything impulsive. Can you at least promise me that?”

            Mercy nodded. “I can promise you that.”

            Liza’s heart settled. “Thank you.” Forcing a grin, she rose from her dining room table. “You wanna watch TV until Rafe comes back? I’ve been bingeing old Amazing Race episodes.”

            Mercy put the lid on the ice cream. “That sounds really nice.”




YUBA CITY, CALIFORNIA

            WEDNESDAY, MAY 24, 8:15 P.M.

            DJ crept through the semidarkness of Mrs. Ellis’s house, patting his pocket for the tenth time. Yes, the used syringe and empty vial were there. No, he hadn’t left them behind.

            He’d watched the surveillance feed from the cameras that Kowalski had mounted throughout the old woman’s house until he’d seen her get into bed with a novel to read, then had donned his leather gloves and broken in through her back door. He’d be fixing that before he left her house, along with covering the cameras.

            She was dead. He’d stayed to make sure, ignoring the tug of remorse at the sight of her facial muscles going slack, her mouth falling open. She’d been a pain in his ass, but she had baked the most amazing cherry pies.

            No more pies, he thought with a silent sigh. He’d watched the camera feed, mouth watering, as she’d filled three plastic containers with cookies and taken two pies from the oven to cool.

            He paused now as he passed the pies in the kitchen, his stomach growling loudly. His name was written on one of the pie pans, and he was tempted to take it, but he left all the baked goods behind. He wouldn’t do anything that might alert investigators to an intruder in her home. He wasn’t so certain the ME would buy that she’d had a heart attack.

            The needle had left a mark on the inside of her elbow. It might get missed in the crepey folds of her skin. But if it didn’t? He wanted nothing to point to him.

            No more pies, he thought again, stifling a sigh as he picked up the cordless phone. He’d reviewed the video of her talking on the phone the night before, the conversation in which she’d called him “weird and antisocial.” She’d picked up the receiver of the ancient phone in the living room and begun speaking, so it had been an incoming call.