At the end of the cul-de-sac, he handed her off to a County officer inside the yellow police tape that cordoned off the neighborhood.
The uniformed woman introduced herself, but the name didn’t penetrate the fog that had begun to swirl through Eve’s brain.
“Ma’am?” The officer peered at her. “Are you all right?”
The question registered at a peripheral level, and she forced herself to concentrate. “Um . . . sure. I think so.” She tightened her grasp on the key in her hand as police officers swarmed the area, sweat glistening on their brows.
But the hot sun couldn’t dispel the cold chill that rippled through her.
“Let me get you a bottle of water.” The officer kept tabs on her as she strode toward the emergency vehicles that were multiplying like mosquitoes in a stagnant pond.
Eve suppressed another shiver and tried to tune out the controlled frenzy around her.
Weird how she could pontificate for six hours a week to a quarter of a million listeners around the country about the violence, vulgarity, and vice besetting society, yet when serious nastiness hit close to home, her stomach morphed into a blender.
It wasn’t a good feeling.
But she was not going to succumb to pressure. Or threats. Or intimidation.
No way.
She’d honor the promise she’d made to herself the day she’d launched this venture—to seek and stand up for the truth, whatever the cost.
Still . . . a bomb?
Seriously?
Yet if someone was determined to undermine her resolve, an explosive device did have more punch than a nasty letter.
Except the scare tactic wasn’t going to work.
She mashed her lips together and lifted her chin.
Whatever the motivation for today’s incident, she was sticking with her principles. She would not back down from her point of view, no matter the danger. Tomorrow would be business as usual.
In the meantime, though, she needed to rein in her galloping pulse, get her shakes under control—and try not to lose her lunch.
So much for any hopes of a quiet end to his first week in the Crimes Against Persons Bureau.
Expelling a breath, St. Louis County detective Brent Lange shoved his cell back into its holster, executed a U-turn, and pointed his Taurus east.
A possible bomb hadn’t been in his Friday afternoon plans, but if you were the detective closest to the action, you got the call.
And even if it ended up being a false alarm—as most such calls were—he’d be on the job long after the bomb and arson crew called it quits. Someone had to dig in and get all the details, make certain there wasn’t more to the story than a silly prank or a simple mistake.
Despite his rookie detective status, after ten years as a street cop he knew how the system worked.
Flipping on his lights and siren, he pressed harder on the unmarked vehicle’s gas pedal. It would be much easier to get questions answered before the news crews descended and added to the chaos.
Ten minutes later, as he approached his destination in a neighborhood of older but well-kept middle-class homes, he gave the area a sweep.
In the distance, yellow tape blocked the entrance to the cul-de-sac where the possible bomb was located. A second perimeter had been staked out beyond that to create a working zone for law enforcement and emergency crews.
Standard protocol for a situation like this.
He flashed his creds at the local officer who was monitoring the flow of traffic into the restricted area, and the man waved him past.
Brent wedged his vehicle behind a County patrol car, slid out of the driver’s seat, and surveyed the scene in the outer perimeter.
It took mere moments to locate the 911 caller. Eve Reilly, according to Sarge. As the only civilian inside the yellow tape, she wasn’t difficult to spot.
Pausing near the front of his vehicle, he studied her. The slender thirtysomething woman was clutching a water bottle, every toned muscle of her five-foot-sixish frame taut, her free hand clenched. Gray leggings extended a few inches below her knees, delineating a pair of notable legs, and a moss-green tank top outlined generous curves. Her copper-colored hair was pulled back into a stretchy band, but the elastic loop was losing its grip, leaving her short ponytail askew. While the strong tilt of her chin hinted at fortitude, her pallor suggested her stamina had taken a major hit.
As if sensing his scrutiny, she angled toward him.
His cue to approach.
Resuming his trek, he took in a few more details as he drew close.
Gold-flecked irises the same hue as her tank top were fringed by lush lashes. A faint sprinkling of freckles arched over her nose. Her full lips bore no trace of artificial color.
Even makeup free, Eve Reilly was a beauty. The typical girl next door, with a hint of exotic glamour.
An intriguing combination.
But nothing in her appearance offered a clue about why she would be the victim of a bomb scare.
Determining that was his next order of business.
He nodded to the female officer who was sticking close. “I’ve got this, D’Amico. Thanks.”
“No problem.” She moved off.
“Detective Brent Lange.” He turned his attention to the redhead and extended his hand. “Eve Reilly?”
“Yes.” She attempted to transfer the bottle of water to her left hand but appeared stymied by the key she held—as if she couldn’t recall why it was there or what it was for.
“Your house key?”
She inspected the ridges in her fingers. Shook her head. “No. Uh . . . my neighbors’. I grabbed it as I left. I wanted to put their dog in a safe place.” She set the water bottle on the ground and held out her right hand.
Her grip was firm—but her hand was cold despite the late-afternoon heat, and subtle tremors vibrated through it.
“Let’s move over to the side.” He indicated a bench near a mailbox that was out of the line of traffic, bending to retrieve her water.
He let her lead as they wound through the crush of emergency personnel and vehicles, then took a seat beside her and handed over the bottle.
“Thanks.” She tipped her head back and took a long swallow, the plastic crinkling beneath her fingers.
Brent pulled his gaze away from her long, graceful neck and retrieved a notebook from his pocket. “Why don’t you walk me through what happened with the package?”
She recapped the bottle and gripped it with both hands. “It was there when I got home from spinning class. About three-thirty. I saw it as I pulled into the driveway, so after I parked in the garage and dropped my gear in the kitchen, I went to retrieve it. I opened the door, started to bend down—and heard ticking. After I spotted a wire sticking out, I called 911.”
“Keep going.”
“I left the house and went next door to warn my elderly neighbor. Then I ran over to my other neighbors’ house to stow their dog in the basement and take cover. One of the local officers met up with me there and brought me here.”
He frowned. “Didn’t the 911 operator instruct you to vacate the area?”
“Yes—but I didn’t want Olivia or Ernie to get hurt.”
“You were taking a chance.” True as that was, it was hard to fault a woman who put the safety of others above her own.
“I couldn’t live with myself if anyone was injured because of me. This mess isn’t their fault.”