Point of Danger

by Irene Hannon

  “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.

  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 f
loor 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.”