At least she hoped not.
“You’re probably right. But I do hope you’ll be careful.”
“That’s my plan.”
“Well . . . you have work to do and I have a soap to watch.” She winked and rose. “If I can ever be of help, though, don’t hesitate to call. I may not move as fast as I used to, but I can dial 911 as quick as anyone.”
“I’ll keep that in mind—and thank you.”
“No thanks necessary. This is what neighbors do. Enjoy the rest of those brownies—and keep your phone close at hand when you’re outside . . . just in case.”
With that encouraging thought, her neighbor lifted a hand in farewell and recrossed the lawn.
Eve glanced around her backyard, a tiny tingle of trepidation prickling through her.
She didn’t need Olivia’s warning to remind her to be on red alert. Ever since she’d found the fake bomb, she’d been looking over her shoulder and jumping at every tiny noise—not how she’d ever intended to live her life.
So while reasonable precautions were prudent, she’d carry on as usual otherwise . . . although that would be much easier to do if the police identified the person who’d left the fake bomb.
She picked up her cell. Weighed it in her hand.
Brent Lange had said to call him anytime. All she had to do was scroll through her address book, press his number . . . and ask for an update.
However . . . if he had anything to report, he’d have called her—as he’d promised. The detective struck her as the kind of guy who kept his word.
She set the phone on the table and sank back in her chair.
Bothering him at work simply to hear his resonant, reassuring voice was selfish. For all she knew, the man could be at a crime scene.
So she’d wait for him to call her.
And until then, she’d continue to do what she’d been doing—and what Olivia had advised.
Be super careful.
Because even though her life had been quiet since Friday night, she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was another threat hovering in the wings.
“Until next time, this is Carolyn Matthews signing off.”
Carolyn ended the podcast with one keystroke, sat back in her chair, and took a sip of water.
That had been an excellent program.
Excellent enough to deserve a slot on real radio.
Yet no matter how hard she’d pushed Doug, he’d given her no specific promises.
She screwed the lid back on her water with more force than necessary.
After eight months stroking his ego and playing the charm card, she should have gotten concrete results by now.
Shoving her chair back from the computer, she rose and began to pace.
Too bad Eve hadn’t buckled after the bomb scare. That would have made life much simpler. But apparently the woman wasn’t intimidated by physical threats.
Still . . . there were other ways to make people squirm.
Carolyn wandered into the kitchen. May as well finish off the bottle of wine in the fridge. There wasn’t more than a glass or two left.
She pulled it out, removed the cork, and poured a generous serving, swirling the golden liquid as she mulled over how best to proceed.
There was one card she hadn’t yet played in her break-into-radio campaign. One she’d been holding in reserve in case the opportunity presented itself . . . or nothing else worked.
This could be the moment to put it on the table.
She took a slow sip of wine and walked over to the picture window in her condo, giving the city lights below her a slow sweep. Not a bad view—but a larger . . . higher . . . unit would offer a more impressive panorama.
That wasn’t going to happen on her reporter’s salary—although it would be within the realm of possibility if she ever got the chance to host her own radio program.
Propping a shoulder against the edge of the window, she watched the traffic below. Thanks to the new office building that was under construction, all vehicles were being diverted north, toward less-savory side streets in the city. An unappealing but necessary detour if the drivers wanted to reach their destination.
Maybe that’s how she should view the card she held. She didn’t have to like using it . . . but if it got her where she wanted to be?
Worth considering.
Carolyn returned to her desk and pulled out the file she’d been holding in reserve for months. Set it beside her computer.
She didn’t have to decide tonight.
But she couldn’t wait too long or the window would close.
Al
Mon., Aug. 27, 9:35 p.m.
Where do we stand?
Dan
Mon., Aug. 27, 9:44 p.m.
Working on it. Patience.
Al
Mon., Aug. 27, 9:44 p.m.
She needs 2 b gone.
Dan
Mon., Aug. 27, 9:45 p.m.
Agreed—but details must b thought thru carefully & timing must b perfect. Stand by.
5
THANKS FOR CALLING THE SHOW” —Eve double-checked the name on the phone monitor—“Denise. What’s on your mind today?” She glanced at the clock. Seven minutes to go on her Wednesday program. She should be able to take one more call unless this one ran long.
“I wanted to weigh in on that big protest at the abortion clinic yesterday.”
“Sure.” The massive turnout of picketers, a cooperative effort by a number of churches, had elicited more than a few comments on today’s program—but it was impossible to tell from this woman’s tone where she stood on the issue.
The caller didn’t leave her guessing for long.
“I get that people have a right to protest peacefully, but I think it’s terrible to subject women already under stress to more grief. Abortion is a personal decision, and it’s nobody’s business but the woman’s.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Eve caught a movement in the sound booth.
She looked over.
Brent Lange was standing behind Ryan.
Her heart missed a beat as he lifted a hand in greeting.
“Hello? Are you still there?”
At the caller’s query, she forced herself to refocus. This topic was important and required no less than her full concentration despite the very distracting man standing ten feet away who was watching her every move.
She swiveled her chair to eliminate the appealing view in the sound booth. “Yes. I’m here. And I have to disagree with you. The woman isn’t the only one affected by her decision. So is the unborn child.”
“It’s not a child until it’s born.”
“So you agree with late-term abortions?”
“Umm . . . up to a point.”
“What point?”
“Well . . . after the baby could live on its own outside the womb, it would be wrong to abort it.”
“No baby can live on its own outside the womb. Even full-term babies have to be fed and changed and clothed and sheltered from the elements.”
“That’s not what I mean. They should be able to survive with basic care.”
“So you’re saying a premature baby who requires medical intervention isn’t really a baby, and we’re under no obligation to help him or her live.”
“No. I’m not talking about that either.” Frustration etched the woman’s words. “I mean earlier than that, when it’s just a mass of cells—that’s not a baby.”