2
I APPRECIATE YOUR CONCERN, Doug, but I’m fine.” Eve repositioned the phone against her ear, keeping Brent in sight as she talked to the station’s program director.
“I still can’t believe someone left a bomb at your home.” Shock dulled Doug Whitney’s usual upbeat tone.
“It’s probably a fake.” Shifting away from the reporters massed behind the yellow tape who were calling out questions to every first responder within ten feet, she took a quick inventory of the tall detective.
Athletic physique. Neatly trimmed dark brown hair. Coffee-colored eyes. Powerful shoulders and broad chest beneath a tailored jacket. Authoritative posture that gave him a commanding—and reassuring—presence.
He looked like the kind of guy who would be comfortable wearing a white hat and riding into town to—
“. . . is real?”
Whoops.
She’d lost the thread of her conversation with Doug.
“Sorry.” She turned away from the distracting detective. “It’s noisy here. What did you say?”
“When will they know if the bomb is real?”
“Soon, I hope. But the detective said the odds were low.”
“A major hassle—and scare—nonetheless.” He exhaled. “I’m sorry about this, Eve.”
“Don’t apologize. I’m the one who throws out all those incendiary topics to the masses. Pardon the pun.”
“I’m glad you’re able to joke about this.”
“Joke may be a tad strong . . . but I am trying to take it in stride.”
“You think you’ll be up to doing your show on Monday?”
“Count on it. If whoever pulled this stunt is hoping to shut me down, they’re going to be disappointed. Unless you’re getting cold feet.”
“No. Sorry for the clichés, but intimidation raises my hackles and makes me dig in my heels.”
“I knew there was a reason I liked you.” Brent began weaving toward her through the crowd. “I have to go. By the way, the detective said he may be in touch with you to review any recent nasty communication that’s come in.”
“He better set aside a whole afternoon.”
“I already warned him.”
“I’ll alert Meg to begin putting a file together.”
“Perfect. She’s a dynamo.”
“I agree. She wasn’t the best candidate on paper, but I’m glad you convinced me to hire her. Keep me in the loop on the bomb situation.”
“You got it.” She pressed the end button.
Brent dropped back onto the bench beside her. “You didn’t have to cut your conversation short. I just wanted to let you know the press has picked up that you were the recipient of the package.”
“It was only a matter of time.”
“I’m assuming you’d prefer not to talk to them.”
“Correct. I’ll confine all public statements to my own show and social media.” She lifted the cell. “Do you mind if I make one more call? I don’t want my sister a couple of hours from here to find out about this on the news. She worries too much about me as it is.”
“Help yourself.”
“I’d also like my other sister brought up to speed . . . but it may be safer if you initiate that contact.”
His eyebrows rose. “How so?”
“She’s a County detective—on her first undercover assignment as we speak. She said she’d be unavailable for the duration, barring an emergency. I don’t want to put her at any risk, but I’d like to reassure her I’m fine and that the situation is under control.”
“What’s her name?”
“Cate. Same last name as mine. Do you know her?”
He gave a slow nod. “I’ve run into her on a few occasions, but we’ve never worked together. I can ask her handler to communicate your message.” He tipped his head. “You two don’t resemble each other at all.”
“Nope. I got my dad’s Irish blood, and she got my mom’s Greek DNA.”
He studied her for a moment. “You have a touch of your mom’s Greek heritage too.” Without giving her a chance to respond, he rose. “Let me get an update on the situation while you phone your other sister.”
As he left her to join the bomb crew that was watching the feed from the robot, she punched in Grace’s number.
The phone rang once . . . twice . . . three times . . . then rolled.
Naturally.
She blew out a breath. When had she last connected with her younger sister on a first attempt?
But she didn’t want to hear any excuses for the detour to voicemail—especially if they involved the gruesome details of an autopsy.
Eve shuddered as she left a brief message. Her sister’s clients didn’t send nasty letters or leave bombs on her doorstep, but cutting up dead people for a living had its own downsides.
Not that you’d know it talking to Grace, though. The woman loved forensic pathology. Claimed it was like living a mystery novel every day.
Go figure.
But if it made her happy . . . hey. To each his own.
“Good news.” Brent rejoined her. “Your bomb appears to be a fake. One of the crew is going in to verify that.” He motioned toward a guy who was donning what looked like an overinflated space suit.
She handed him back his phone, and as their fingers brushed, a spark zipped through her nerve endings.
Oh, for pity’s sake.
She was a mature thirty-one-year-old, not a teen with unruly hormones. She needed to get a grip.
“Does, uh, that mean I’ll be able to sleep in my own bed tonight?” She tried for a casual, conversational manner—and came close to pulling it off.
“I don’t see why not. We’ll be around the area for a few hours talking to neighbors, searching for any evidence the delivery person left behind—but you can go back to your usual routine.”
Usual routine? After finding a pseudo bomb on her front porch?
Ha.
The chances of a routine Friday night were zero to none.
“Or not.”
She blinked at his postscript. “What?”
One corner of his mouth twitched. “Reading people’s expressions is a handy skill in my business. You’re thinking normal won’t be in your vocabulary for a while.”
“I guess a poker-playing career isn’t in my future.”
“Let’s just say winning a fortune at blackjack in Vegas probably shouldn’t be on your bucket list.”
“Never was, never will be. Cycling through Tuscany, however—different story.”
“Now that sounds appealing.” His gaze locked on hers, warming for an instant before he stood abruptly. “Will you be okay here by yourself?”
“Uh . . . sure. I’m used to going solo.”
He hesitated, as if debating whether to respond—but in the end walked away.
Easing back against the wooden slats of the bench, Eve watched him until he disappeared behind a fire truck.
Interesting man.
Intriguing, even.
The kind of man who could be an enjoyable companion on her wish-list cycling trip to Italy.
Perhaps even the kind of man who could be an enjoyable companion period.
Now wouldn’t that be fun to explore?
Except Brent Lange was here in an official capacity, and she was just one of many victims he dealt with every day. The odds of their paths crossing again after this incident was put to rest were about as low as the odds had been that her bomb was real.
She sighed.
Too bad.
Because confident as she was in her ability to stand up to intimidation, it would be comforting to have someone like Brent in her corner if by chance today’s prank morphed into a much more ominous threat.
“Honey, I’m home.” Meg Jackson dropped her purse on the kitchen table and continued toward the booming TV in the living room.
Steve glared at her from his overstuffed chair as she entered. “Why didn’t you call and tell me about this?” Muting the sound, he waved a hand toward the screen, where video footage of Eve’s scary afternoon was front and center on the evening news.
“Doug didn’t tell me until five—and I was anxious to get home.” Summoning up a smile, she continued toward her husband of eighteen months, trying to settle the flutter in her stomach. She should have called. Given how negative he was about her job, it was a no-brainer he’d be upset about today’s incident.
But it was easier to deal with his agitation, calm the waters, in person.
At least that was how she justified the delay.
“You could have called from the car.”
She perched on the arm of the chair and bent to kiss his forehead. “I thought this merited a face-to-face conversation.”
The twin crevices above his nose deepened. “That doesn’t change the reality of what happened. You know how I feel about your job. Now I have to worry about you being in danger and overworked.”
“I’m not overworked—and Eve’s the one in danger, not me.”
“What if the bomb had been left at the station?”
“It wasn’t—and the building has excellent security. Besides, Eve told Doug the bomb was probably a fake. Did they say anything about that on the news?” If she deflected his focus, it was possible they could avoid another row about her job.
“Yeah. It was a hoax.”
“See? Everything’s fine. I’m fine.” She rose. “Let me get dinner started. You must be hungry.”
He grabbed her hand as she began to move away. “Meg.”
She braced and angled back. “Let’s not argue about this, Steve. Please. I like my job. This was a fluke. I’m not in any danger.”
“I don’t want anything to happen to you. I couldn’t go through that again.”
She gently wiggled her fingers to loosen his taut grip and sank back onto the arm of the chair.
Cut him some slack, Meg. Losing a young wife to cancer had to be devastating. If he’s a bit overprotective, live with it. You might feel the same if the situation was reversed.
“You’re not going to lose me, I promise.” She brushed back the lock of hair that liked to fall forward, onto his brow. “I’m safe at work, and what I do there doesn’t take away from our relationship. You’re gone all day too. And sitting around here moping after the miscarriage wasn’t healthy for me. We agreed a job could help me get back on my feet emotionally.”
Well . . . that wasn’t quite true.
She’d pushed hard for the job, and after tons of cajoling he’d given in—with clear reservations.
But framing it as a mutual decision could help keep this discussion from escalating to an argument.
“You seem to be doing fine now. The job was never intended to be permanent. We also agreed on that.”
“Yes . . . but I’ve only been there six months. After how Eve went to bat for me, I don’t want to walk out and leave everyone in the lurch—or cause an issue for her.”
His jaw hardened. “I don’t care about Eve Reilly. I care about you.”
“I know, but she did pull strings to get me hired. If she and I hadn’t been high school classmates, I doubt I would have gotten the job. There were better-qualified candidates.”
“I wish one of them had been hired. You don’t have to work. My salary can support both of us.”
“It was never about the money.”
His nostrils flared. “I don’t know why you can’t be satisfied running the house and being my wife.”
“I am.” She bent again and touched her mouth to his stiff lips. “But being here alone all day while you were at work was hard. The job was a godsend after I lost the baby.”
“I can think of other ways to describe it.” Anger scored his words—and twisted the knot in her stomach.
“Oh, come on, Steve.” She forced a lightness she didn’t feel into her tone. “I’m here tonight—and I’m all yours for the whole weekend.”
“I thought you had a church thing tomorrow.”
Yes, she did.
But if giving up the annual ladies’ luncheon would placate him, it was a small price to pay for a peaceful weekend.
“I’ll cancel that. We’ll have the whole day together.”
The tight lines in his face relaxed a hair. “I like that idea. We can sleep in and go to Bob Evans for a late breakfast.”
She did her best to mask her dismay.
He knew she didn’t like heavy, calorie-laden breakfasts. Knew she was working hard to lose weight after her late-term miscarriage.
And Bob Evans wasn’t the place to follow a diet.
Worse yet, he’d insist she join him in the high-carb, high-fat splurge he could afford, given the physical nature of his construction job.
“What’s wrong?” His frown was back.
She realigned her features. Balking at his idea would only create more tension. “Nothing. I’ll get dinner going.”
“What are we having?”
“Pork chops and mashed potatoes.”
“One of my favorites.” He smiled at her.
Finally.
“I know. It won’t take long.” She stood.
Once more he caught her hand, the tender expression she loved softening his features. “You’re a good wife, Meg.”
Her throat tightened. “Thanks.”
“You’re not sorry we got married after such a quick courtship, are you?”
“No.” Her response was immediate. It had to be, or Steve would mope for days.
And it was true. Really, it was.
After battling weight and self-esteem issues her whole life, how could she not have fallen in love with a smooth-talking, charming, attractive man like Steve who’d made her feel like a femme fatale for once in her life?
If—in hindsight—she sometimes wished they’d taken the relationship slower, learned more about each other before committing for life . . . if she was sad that her parents had judged her hasty nuptials as a foolish mistake and written her marriage off as another one of her dim-witted blunders . . . well, everyone harbored a regret or two.
Besides, fretting over history was pointless. The deed was done.
He released her hand, unmuted the TV, and turned his attention back to the screen. “That’s what I like to hear.”
Meg rose, kissed his forehead again, and returned to the kitchen to prepare dinner.
Rubbing her temple, where the first hint of a headache was beginning to throb, she crossed to the fridge.
It would be nice once in a while if Steve kept her company while she cooked—or lent a hand with cleanup.
But after living with a gourmet chef who’d banished him from the kitchen until the food was ready, he would never think to offer assistance. He was used to how his first wife had prepared meals.
And since she wasn’t anywhere close to Le Cordon Bleu caliber—as Steve often reminded her—the least she could do was let him wind down from the day in front of the TV.
Marriage was all about accommodation, after all.
He doesn’t accommodate you very much, though.
She clenched the handle of the fridge and yanked the door open.
That wasn’t true. Letting her take the job at the station had been a big concession for a man who’d told her up-front he wanted a stay-at-home wife and mother—terms to which she’d agreed.
Yeah . . . but he only relented after you almost died from the miscarriage.
Meg pulled out the pork chops and slapped the package on the counter.
Enough.
Steve was a fine man.
So what if he was a bit overprotective and controlling?
Grief—and fear—could do that to a person.
After his experience with his first wife, he’d naturally be terrified about losing her too. That’s why he always wanted her close by, kept tabs on her activities and friendships.
Stifling the dissenting voice in her head, she pulled two potatoes from the cabinet and began peeling them.
Her husband’s behavior was perfectly reasonable, given his history. She should be flattered he hovered and wanted to keep her safe, not resent his attention.
And it wasn’t as if this pattern would last forever. Once they settled into their marriage and he felt more secure, he’d ease off, badger her less.
She began quartering the potatoes . . . but stopped as a putrid smell assailed her nostrils.
It didn’t take her long to find the source. There was a rotten spot in the middle of one, hidden under skin that had appeared normal.
Wrinkling her nose, she tossed the potato in the trash—and quashed a niggle of unease.
Hopefully the bad spud wasn’t an omen about the meal she was preparing. Steve wouldn’t be happy about an unpalatable dinner.
So in case the chops were dry or the potatoes were lumpy or the green beans weren’t cooked to his liking, she’d serve his favorite dessert tonight instead of keeping the sundaes until tomorrow.
That should earn her a smile.
And life was so much more pleasant when Steve smiled.
They were still at it.
Eve propped a hand on her hip and peered through the blinds in her spare bedroom. Brent’s Taurus and the car that belonged to the detective who’d joined him remained parked in front of her house, although the Crime Scene Unit van was gone.
She rubbed her fingertips together, still gritty after the elimination prints she’d provided. The house-to-house canvass Brent had said they were going to do must be taking a while.
She let the slat fall back into place.
It was possible one of her neighbors had noticed the person who’d dropped off her ticking package, but she wasn’t holding her breath. Most of the residents had arrived home from work after the police descended.
Wandering toward the kitchen, she detoured around the cans of light gray paint destined for the walls in her living room and hall. One of the many chores on her weekend to-do list.
Maybe she’d get a jump on it tonight. After today’s excitement, it would take hours for her vital signs to—
She jerked to a stop as the driving beat of “I Won’t Back Down” pulsed from her cell in the quiet house.
Lungs jamming, she rolled her eyes. Just what she needed—another adrenaline spike.
This did not bode well for a restful night’s sleep.
In fact, if her nerves didn’t settle down soon, she could end up painting until dawn.
As the ringtone filled the house with music, she jogged toward the kitchen. Thank goodness she’d remembered to stop and retrieve her cell when Brent escorted her back to the house after the all clear.
She snatched the phone off the counter and skimmed the screen.
Grace.
Shoving back a few errant strands of hair, she tapped talk. “Hi. I take it you got my message.”
“Yes. I was in the middle of an autopsy for a farm accident. It wasn’t as grisly as the one I did early in my tenure for a guy who got caught in a combine and lost both—”
“Stop! I do not want to hear the details.” Eve pressed a hand to her stomach, which was already flipping around like a beached fish.
“Fine. I didn’t call to discuss my job anyway. What’s going on? Why didn’t you respond to my texts?”
She checked the screen again.
Oh.
Grace had texted six times in the past hour.
“Sorry. I’ve been a little distracted.”
“Under the circumstances, you’re forgiven. Now fill me in.”
She gave her sister a quick recap, pulling a soda out of the fridge as she wound down. “Law enforcement is talking with my neighbors as we speak, but I’m not expecting any breakthroughs. Unless the person who left the package also left behind a piece of evidence or two—a long shot—we may have to chalk this up to a disgruntled listener who was more creative than most of my critics.”
“I don’t like this, Eve.”
Neither did she—but if she admitted that, Grace would toss all night too. No sense both of them missing out on their beauty sleep.
“I’m used to negative feedback.” Eve released the tab on the soda, and the CO2 hissed out. “This was nothing more than a prank. If the person had wanted to hurt me, the bomb would have been real.”
“Maybe next time it will be.”
“Gee, thanks for that cheery thought.”
“I’m being a realist.”
“More like a pessimist. You’re overreacting.”
“You always say that—and you’re too blasé about the risks of your job. Cate agrees.”
Eve snorted. “Like she has such a safe occupation.”
“She’s trained to deal with unsavory people—and she carries a gun. You ought to think about doing the same.”
“Get real, Grace.”
Her sister exhaled. “Fine. Scratch that idea. A gun would be useless to a woman who puts life and limb at risk to rescue a turtle stranded in the middle of a busy street. You can’t even kill a fly.”
“Not all of the Reillys were wired with a penchant for blood and guts, okay?” She sipped her soda.
“You are so like Dad.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. He’s the kindest, gentlest man I know.”
“I agree. And that’s fine for someone in his profession. Archaeologists don’t tend to find ticking bombs on their doorstep.”
“Tell that to the ones in Syria and the Middle East who are trying to preserve antiquities. ISIS is not their friend.”
“Dad’s in Cambridge at the moment. Not exactly a hotbed of intrigue or danger. You’re changing the subject. Should I drive in?”
“No. I’m fine.” Or she would be, if her nerves ever quit pinging.
“So you say.” A beat passed. “What was in the package other than a ticking clock?”
“I don’t know that there was anything else in there. I’ll ask the detective later. He said he’d stop by after they finish canvassing the neighborhood.”
“I bet there was a message inside. You’ll let me know about any new developments, right?”
“I’ll text you with important updates.”
“Your definition of important and mine don’t mesh. If I got one letter like any of the vile missives directed at you, I’d be rethinking my profession.”
“Then it’s lucky you picked a job where your clients can’t complain.”
“Ha-ha. Are you going to talk to Cate?”
“I asked the detective to get word to her that I’m fine.”
Another sigh. “Look, why don’t I come in tonight? We could go shopping tomorrow, have lunch, make a Ted Drewes run. It’s been ages since I’ve had a marshmallow concrete, and I’m in the mood for frozen custard.”
Pressure built in Eve’s throat.
Grace’s plate was already full. Too full. No surprise, given the short supply of forensic pathologists with her credentials, especially in rural areas. Carving out a weekend to babysit her sister would eat into what minuscule free time she had.
No way could she agree to that sacrifice—much as she was tempted to accept. While a whole day with her sister would be a treat . . . and a welcome diversion from this afternoon’s nastiness . . . it wouldn’t be fair to Grace.
“I appreciate the offer—but my goal this weekend is to paint the living room. Now, if you’d like to help with that . . .” The corners of Eve’s lips twitched. Considering how much Grace hated do-it-yourself home projects—with painting at the top of the list—it would be fun to see how fast she backtracked.
“Uh . . . I guess I could do that if you really need another pair of hands, but I do have a ton of paperwork to catch up on.”
“No worries. I’ll put on up-tempo music and groove to the beat while I paint. It’ll be a blast.”
“If you say so.”
The doorbell chimed, and Eve jerked, fumbling the almost-empty soda can. “I have to run. I think my detective’s back.”
“I’ll watch for a text update. In the meantime, be careful.”
“That’s my plan. Let’s organize a sisters weekend as soon as Cate’s done with her undercover assignment.” She finished off the soda and pitched the can in her recycle bin.
“I like that idea. Talk to you soon.”
Eve picked up her pace as the doorbell chimed again. Assuming that was Brent Lange, he must be anxious to talk with her.
Perhaps he and his colleague had found a lead that would help them identify the perpetrator.
That would be encouraging. If she knew they were on the trail of the person who’d risked a felony charge by leaving a fake bomb, it was possible she’d even sleep tonight.
Yet as she caught sight of the dark-haired detective through the sidelight on the door, a sixth sense told her that wasn’t the news he was planning to deliver. That whatever Brent Lange was about to tell her would be far from comforting.
Her step faltered . . . but delaying the inevitable wasn’t going to change it. She had to face whatever was ahead.
Wiping her palms down her leggings, she straightened her shoulders, gripped the knob, and pulled the door open—praying that whatever Brent had to say wouldn’t unleash yet another surge of sleep-banishing terror.