by Irene Hannon
“Did she tell you anything helpful?”
“Helpful as in giving us ammunition to nail her husband, no. But after she digests everything—and has a talk with Jackson—she may reconsider. You ready to go home?”
“I can get a cab if there’s somewhere you have to be.”
“I’ll drop you off en route.”
She didn’t protest.
He followed her out the door, into the elevator, and to his car.
Not until they were buckled in and pulling out of the parking space did she speak. “What happens next with the case?”
“We continue to dig. I’m going to talk with a few of Jackson’s coworkers, keep the heat on. We also have eyes on him periodically—and we’re not trying to be covert about that. I want him to think we’re watching him 24/7. That should keep him from trying anything else until we get definitive evidence against him.”
Unfortunately, the man had covered his tracks well. Finding evidence could be a matter of if, not when. A possible outcome he wasn’t yet ready to admit to Eve.
“Does that mean I can go about my business as usual and forget about hiring Phoenix?”
“Do you have a busy weekend scheduled?”
“If you mean will I be running around doing errands, no. I plan to finish the floor in the living room. That will keep me housebound other than going to church on Sunday.”
“Don’t bother to call Phoenix, then. I’d offer to take you to services, but the youth group from my church has its annual weekend campout, and I always volunteer.”
“That should be fun.”
He hiked up one side of his mouth. “Depends on how you define fun. Watching over a group of ten-to-twelve-year-old boys for thirty-six hours is a challenge. Many of them have never spent a night in the woods. We’ve had more than a few freak out during a coyote howlfest at midnight.”
“I can imagine.”
“So tell me about today’s program. I was only able to listen to bits and pieces. Any unusual calls?”
She glanced at him as he maneuvered the car out of the garage and headed toward the highway.
Uh-oh.
Unless he was misinterpreting the vibes, she was debating whether to reintroduce the subject they’d discussed during the drive down in the dark.
Please don’t, Eve. I’m not up for that after talking to Meg.
As if she’d heard his silent plea, she launched into an account of the exchange she’d had with one caller who was convinced the American Revolution had been about slavery, not taxes.
By the time he asked several questions and they shared a few chuckles over the more bizarre calls that had come in, he was pulling into her driveway.
“I’ll walk you to your door.”
He set the brake and circled the car, giving the neighborhood a quick scan. All appeared to be quiet.
As they followed the path to her porch, he took her arm—and when she smiled up at him, his heart did a strange flip-flop.
Funny.
Since Karen’s scathing assessment after their breakup, he’d been convinced he wasn’t up to the job of being a husband. Women needed emotional connections, sharing at the deepest levels, and that had never been his strong suit. How could it be, after the upbringing he’d had?
Karen had never complained much about his reticence until the end, though. Perhaps she’d thought that in time she could change him. And perhaps she could have.
But with Eve, it was already different. In the space of two weeks, he’d shared more about his past than he’d ever revealed to Karen—which was telling.
It also supported Eve’s theory that he had it in him to open up . . . with the right woman.
That didn’t solve the other problem, however.
He stepped back while she fitted the key in her lock, keeping tabs on their surroundings.
It had been a good try on her part to suggest their jobs had similarities, that if she abided by his rules she’d never marry either. Yet that was a stretch. Once they got past this traumatic incident in her life, there wasn’t likely to be a repeat. It was an anomaly, even for a high-profile career like hers.
The danger in his job, on the other hand, would last forever. While detectives weren’t as vulnerable as first responders, no street job in law enforcement was without risk.
Was it possible, though, that because of all she was going through now, Eve would be better equipped than most women to understand and handle the psychological pressures that came with the risks of his job?
That question continued to loop through his mind as he said goodbye, waited until the lock clicked on the other side of the door, then returned to his car.
It was certainly a possibility worth pondering this weekend in the few spare minutes he’d have between bandaging cut fingers, putting salve on minor burns suffered while toasting s’mores, and comforting kids who’d never spent a night in the arms of Mother Nature.
Nor could it hurt to send a few prayers heavenward. Not asking for a specific outcome—he believed the line in the Lord’s Prayer that said thy will be done—but for guidance to make a wise decision . . . and the fortitude to follow through.
Wherever that might lead.
17
SOMETHING WAS WRONG.
Steve closed the door from the garage and sniffed as he entered the kitchen. No savory aromas greeted him.
He checked the stove. Nothing was simmering on the burners.
Frowning, he swiveled toward the table. It wasn’t set.
But Meg’s car was in the alley.
The niggle of unease that had plagued him all day morphed into gut-knotting dread. Maybe his calls and texts today hadn’t gone unanswered because she was too busy to respond. Maybe the cops had gotten to her.
Muttering a curse, he tossed his keys on the table and stalked to the living room. Empty.
He tried the bedroom next. Also empty . . . but the covers were thrown back on the bed.
The toilet flushed, and a few seconds later Meg exited the bathroom, dressed in a ratty tee and baggy shorts, clutching a towel.
He furrowed his brow. “What’s going on?”
“I wish I knew.” She circled around the far side of the bed and slid under the covers. “I’ve been throwing up.”
He retreated a step. Blood, he could handle. Puke? No way.
Another reason he’d never been thrilled about having a bunch of rug rats cluttering up his life. Kids were always throwing up.
“So, uh, I guess I’m on my own for dinner.” He eased toward the door.
“Sorry.”
The sentiment was appropriate. Her tone wasn’t.
He stopped. Squinted at her. “What’s wrong?”
She punched two pillows into position and leaned back, watching him. “Detective Lange stopped by.”
His pulse picked up. “You didn’t talk to him, did you?”
“He did most of the talking.”
“About what?”
“Candy . . . jewelry purchases . . . restraining orders.”
He bit back another oath, mind racing. What could he say to mitigate the damage the cop had done? He needed his wife in his corner for the immediate future.
Meg scrutinized him in silence, fingers kneading the towel draped across her lap, her expression wary. Yet a touch of hope glimmered in the depths of her eyes.
She didn’t want to believe all the incriminating information the detective had dumped on her.
That was a positive sign.
But unless he smoothed this over fast, he could lose her.
“Whatever he told you is a bunch of garbage.” He crossed the room, trying to rein in his gag reflex. One whiff of vomit, though, and they’d both be leaning over the toilet.
As he sat on the bed and lifted a hand to touch her cheek, she recoiled and lost a few more shades of color. “Don’t jiggle the mattress. My stomach won’t be able to take it.”
He jerked his hand back and froze. “I’ll be careful.”
“Who’s Candy?”
/>
Answer her questions fast, Jackson, or she’ll realize you’re making up most of this as you go along.
“A waitress at the bar I always go to. She’s been having issues with her boyfriend, and she calls once in a while if she wants a sympathetic ear.”
“What about the jewelry?” Meg locked onto his gaze.
His brain began cranking at warp speed. The detective could have given her details about his purchases. He had to mention all three items. “I bought two pieces for you. One for your birthday, one for Christmas. The third piece was for a buddy to give his girlfriend. He couldn’t figure out what to get her, so I picked it out for him and he paid me back.”
She plucked at a loop on the terry-cloth fabric. “Why did you lie to me about your first wife?”
“Because I was ashamed.” He heaved a sigh that stopped just shy of being overly theatrical. “I wanted a new start with a good woman, and I didn’t think you’d have anything to do with me if I told you my real history. In hindsight, I can see that was a mistake.”
Several beats passed as she studied him. “They think you’re behind the threats Eve’s been getting.”
“I know. It’s crazy.”
“Your DNA was next to her car in the parking lot.”
“Coincidence.” He had to stick with that story. It was the only innocent explanation—and while implausible, it was possible.
Meg swallowed, and her eyes began to shimmer. “I want to believe you.” The admission came out in a whisper.
Yes!
Once again he leaned over. Stroked her cheek. “I’m telling you the truth, babe.”
She didn’t respond.
He scooted closer to her. “Why don’t I lay here for a while with you? Later, if you feel up to it, I could show you how much I love—”
All at once, she clapped the towel to her mouth, scooted off the opposite side of the bed, and dashed for the bathroom.
Seconds later the sounds of retching came from behind the closed door.
His own stomach heaving, Steve hightailed it out of the room and down the hall, where he could no longer hear his wife upchucking.
In the kitchen, he braced his hands on the edge of the sink and took slow, deep breaths until his nausea passed.
He had to get out of here. Find a distraction.
Like Candy.
But paying the curvaceous waitress a visit while he was on law enforcement’s radar would be reckless. For all he knew, they were watching his every move. A car with dark windows had been on his tail during most of his drive home.
Spending the evening with a sick wife, however—especially one who wasn’t up to providing him with an evening meal . . . or satisfying his other appetites—held no appeal.
Why not grab a burger somewhere and see if any of the guys from work wanted to bowl a few games? If he was lucky, by the time he returned, the worst of Meg’s bug would be over.
He picked up his keys from the table, jiggling them as he looked toward the hall. Had he convinced her he was telling the truth? That none of the detective’s allegations had any basis in reality? Or was she weighing his explanations even now, trying to decide who to believe?
Impossible to know. For once, his transparent, needy wife had been difficult to read.
But the cops had no hard proof to tie him to any of the threats made to Eve. Soon, they’d leave him alone and the case would go cold.
As long as he forked out the dough to buy Meg jewelry and kept a low profile with Candy for a while, he could smooth out the waters in his marriage. The setup on the home front was too sweet to muck up. What was not to like about a wife who cooked, cleaned, handled chores, did his bidding, and shared his bed?
Spirits rising, he tossed the keys in the air . . . caught them . . . and strolled toward the door to the garage. This would all turn out fine. Meg was easy to influence, and the cops were at a dead end.
He had this under control.
The first coat of finish was done.
Yay!
Eve swiped the back of her hand over her forehead and surveyed the gleaming hardwood floor in the living room. Not a bad end to the week. One more coat tomorrow, and by next Saturday she could begin putting all her furniture back where it belonged.
At a sudden, loud rumble from beneath her rib cage, she twisted her wrist.
Good grief. Was it seven-thirty already? No wonder her stomach was sending out distress signals. For a woman who rose long before the sun, this was way past the dinner hour.
A salad from Panera would be the perfect meal—but she’d promised Brent she’d stay close to the house . . . and home delivery would take too long.
Eve blew out a breath.
An omelet would have to do. Any other hot meal would require more energy than she could muster after all her hours of labor.
But once she finished the final coat on the floor tomorrow, she’d dig out her recipe for—
The doorbell chimed—and her heart skipped a beat.
She wasn’t expecting company, and Brent was out of town.
Pulse accelerating, she crept across the tiny foyer to the front door and peered through the peephole.
On the other side, Cate and Grace were making goofy faces at her.
What on earth?
She undid the bolt, twisted the handle, and pulled the door wide.
In unison, her two sisters did a double take.
Cate recovered first. “The Martians have landed.”
“I was thinking more creature from the Green Lagoon.” Grace gave her mask, safety goggles, long-handled roller, and booties a sweep.
“Cute.” Eve pulled off her mask and motioned them in. “Welcome to my world—if you can stand the smell.”
Cate sniffed . . . wrinkled her nose . . . and nudged Grace. “We may want to rethink this.”
“Not a chance. After driving for close to two hours, I’m not leaving without a short visit, at least.” Her youngest sibling marched in, a brown bag in her hand.
“The smell shouldn’t linger long. I used a water-based finish.” Eve set the roller in a bucket. “But we can sit on the deck.”
“That’ll work.” Cate entered.
“Give me a few minutes to ditch this garb and clean up. Help yourself to drinks while you wait. Hey.” She snagged Cate’s arm as her older sister started toward the kitchen. “I thought you were undercover.”
“Job’s done. Can’t you tell by this?” She swept a hand down her usual off-duty attire of jeans and tank top.
“Yeah—and that outfit is a vast improvement over the all-black number you had on last visit.”
“I agree.”
“You nail the bad guys?”
“Yep.” Cate continued down the hall and disappeared into the kitchen.
“I didn’t get any more out of her either.” Grace shrugged and lifted the bag. “I brought you gumbo for dinner tomorrow from the Cajun place you like near my house.”
“How about dinner tonight? I haven’t eaten yet.” She took the bag and lifted it to her nose. Inhaled. “Bliss.”
“I’ll nuke it while you clean up. It’s been in a cooler.”
“With gumbo as an incentive, that won’t take long.”
Six minutes later, she found Grace monitoring the microwave and sipping her iced tea. Outside, Cate had already claimed a chair and put her feet up on the railing, legs crossed at the ankles, head thrown back to catch the last rays of sun.
“She looks tired—but more relaxed than the last visit.” Eve motioned outside and picked up the glass of soda one of her sisters had poured for her.
“I agree.” Grace pulled the gumbo out of the microwave. “I brought corn bread too.” She indicated another container on the counter.
Eve began to salivate as she took out a piece. “You’re a keeper.”
“Remember that the next time we have a disagreement.”
“What? Us, disagree?” She grinned at Grace as she took a huge bite of the crumbly yellow square.
&n
bsp; “Now and then. Come on. If we don’t join Cate soon, she may doze off on us.” Grace picked up the bowl of gumbo and moved toward the door.
Eve got there first and pushed it open.
“I was beginning to think you guys had succumbed to the fumes.” Cate kept her face angled toward the sun.
“Didn’t anyone ever tell you that ultraviolet radiation is harmful to your skin?” Eve took a seat at the table.
“I need the warmth and light right now, okay?”
Eve looked at Grace, who arched an eyebrow.
“Does that mean the undercover gig was tough?” Eve kept her tone conversational.
“It wasn’t easy—and it definitely isn’t my thing. Straight detective duty for me from now on.”
“Want to tell us about it?” Grace plunked a chair halfway between her sisters.
“Nope.”
“I guess that ends that discussion, huh?” Grace prodded their big sister’s leg with her toe.
Cate didn’t respond.
Eve knew better than to push. Once Cate clammed up on a subject, she was as hard to pry open as the humidity-laden windows in this fixer-upper of a house.
“So . . .” Eve ate a spoonful of the gumbo, savoring the spicy flavor. “What brings you two to my doorstep unannounced. Again.”
“Do we have to have an invitation?” Grace’s eyebrow peaked.
“No—but you usually call first.”
“This was a spur-of-the-moment decision. After Cate and I compared notes by phone, we decided we wanted an in-person update on your situation.”
“I’ve been texting you.”
“We want details, girl.” Grace took a sip of her iced tea. “‘Suspect identified and being checked out’ doesn’t cut it. Who is this guy and what’s his beef?”
“I bet Cate’s already reviewed a full dossier on the case.” Eve spoke around a mouthful of food, mangling her pronunciation. But her sisters had been through this drill often enough to interpret her gibberish.
“Not this go-round.” Cate angled toward them. “I just wrapped up my case two hours ago. I barely had time to go home and change before Grace swung by to pick me up. Spill.”
“Fine.” Eve washed down a mouthful of gumbo and gave them a topline.
“In other words, this guy is mad about his wife working, so he decided to launch a terror attack and destroy your career?” Grace stared at her.