“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.”