“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.
3
BASED ON HER BODY LANGUAGE, Eve was prepared for bad news.
That made this a bit easier—but not by much.
“We’re finished.” Brent motioned toward the hall behind her. “May I come in? I’d like to bring you up to speed before I take off.”
“Sure.” She moved back, pulling the door wide. “The living room’s on your right.”
He stepped past her but halted in the arched doorway of a construction zone as he took in the scene.
Big swaths of mudding swirled over the walls, indicating serious drywall patching had been done. The floors were covered with tarps, and a ladder was propped against a built-in bookcase. Most of the furniture had been shoved into the middle of the room, leaving the couch and side chairs inaccessible.
“Oh. Sorry.” She stopped beside him. “I forgot there’s no place to sit in here. Let’s try the kitchen.”
She headed toward the back of the house.
He followed, skirting around a spattered paint pan that contained two used rollers and brushes of varying sizes.
“Looks like you’re doing big-time remodeling.”
“A fair amount. I bought the house at a bargain price—but that was because the older couple who called it home for fifty years hadn’t updated anything. However, it has solid bones and great potential. The kitchen and my bedroom are finished, and the living room is up next. That’s my weekend project for the foreseeable future.”
He followed her through another doorway, stopping on the threshold to survey the bright, airy, contemporary space.
“Not what you expect in a mid-century Cape Cod, is it?” She leaned back against the granite-topped island, crossed her arms, and grinned.
That was putting it mildly.
“No.”
He gave the room a slow sweep. Evening sun spilled through a skylight in the vaulted ceiling above the dining nook, spotlighting a round bar-height table and four matching stools with backs. Stainless steel appliances and a light-colored oak floor contributed to the open feeling. Beyond the dining nook, a comfortable seating area featured a gray-and-white patterned L-shaped sofa in front of a fireplace with a raised hearth.
“There used to be two walls back here.” Eve swept a hand around the cheery space. “The kitchen was a cubbyhole, with a door that led to a tiny breakfast room, which in turn led to a small den. Ripping out walls was my top priority. And would you believe there was indoor/outdoor carpeting on top of this hardwood floor? The glue was a mess to get off.”
“Did you do all this yourself?” He could handle basic home handyman chores, but tearing down walls? Refinishing floors? Out of his league.
“The majority of it. I had a construction crew come in to take out the weight-bearing wall and put in a new support beam, and I left the granite and skylight installation to the experts. Otherwise, this is my handiwork.”
“You finished all this in six weeks?”
“No. I closed on the house a month before I terminated the lease on my apartment.” She arched an eyebrow at him. “How did you know when I moved in?”
“A background check is SOP for the victim of a bomb threat.”
“Why?”
“Sometimes we spot a piece of information that helps us put the pieces together.”
“Did you in my case?”
“Nothing beyond the obvious. Given your profession, a disgruntled listener would be the logical suspect—especially after the note we found in the package.”
Color leeched from her face, and she felt for the stool tucked under the island behind her. Sank onto it. “So there was a message. My sister thought there might be.”
He pulled out his cell and scrolled through his photos. “It’s already in the lab, along with the package. But I snapped a picture to show you.” He walked over and handed her the phone.
“‘Be silent . . . or be silenced.’ Short and to the point.” A slight quaver ran through her voice as she passed the phone back. “What happens next?”
“We’ll go over the package and its contents with a fine-tooth comb. My colleague and I also walked your entire yard and the perimeter of your house. We didn’t see anything suspicious—nor did the CSU tech. Our assumption is that the person who delivered the fake bomb came and went fast and was careful not to leave any evidence behind—other than the package.”
“Do you think your lab will find anything on that?”
“I’m not counting on it. TV crime shows get a ton of law enforcement details wrong, but they have helped bad guys learn how to avoid detection.”
“Then this person could walk.”
“That’s a possibility—but we’ll work this until there’s nothing left to work.”
She scrubbed at her temple, and the stretchy band on her hair finally lost its grip.
He snatched the elastic circle as it fell and dropped it on the island.
“Impressive reflexes.” She flashed him a smile and tucked her side-parted, shoulder-length hair behind her ear. “So . . . what about the threat inside the package? Do you think this person will follow through?”
She was trying to present a calm front, but the rapid pulse beating in the hollow of her throat sabotaged the effort.
Much as he hated to scare her, sugarcoating the truth could put her at further risk. Forewarned really was forearmed.
“Do you mind if I sit?” He indicated the stool next to hers.
A flush washed over her cheeks. “Please—and I apologize for my bad manners. Would you like a glass of water or a soft drink?”