by Irene Hannon
“Questioning a suspect isn’t harassment.”
“So now I’m a suspect?”
“You’ve been one all along. The difference today is that we have a witness who saw you leave the package at Eve Reilly’s house—and a warrant for your arrest is in process.”
Meg’s stomach dropped to her toes. So much for all her prayers last night that the allegations about Steve were wrong.
Her husband’s complexion grew more pasty. “You’re bluffing. You don’t have a witness.”
“Yes, we do. He came forward yesterday, and his testimony is credible.”
Meg’s legs began to shake, and she sank back into the chair she’d occupied most of the night.
“I also spoke with a few of your coworkers this morning.” The other detective joined the conversation. Colin something. “Including the guy who picked up lunch for you at a Subway near his house the day of the bomb incident. Which leaves you unaccounted for during that hour.”
“And I touched base with Candy.” Detective Lange sent her a brief glance. There was no missing the sympathy that flared in his eyes for a nanosecond before he turned back to her husband. “She confirmed you’d spent an hour with her the night of the tire slashing—but there’s a significant gap between the time you gassed up and your arrival at her place.”
Meg stared at Steve.
He’d lied about the waitress too.
As if sensing her scrutiny, he looked over at her. “Why don’t you go get a cup of coffee?”
It wasn’t a request.
But thanks to his injury, he was in no position to make her do anything.
Nor would he be ever again.
“I’m staying.”
He glared at her, but she straightened in her seat—even though she felt like curling into a ball and sobbing. Because all at once, her course was clear.
When the detectives left, she would too—and she wasn’t coming back.
“Let me tell you how this is going to play out.” Detective Lange moved to the foot of the bed and folded his arms. “As soon as you’re released, we’ll be booking you on multiple counts.”
“That’s crazy! Everything you have is circumstantial—and witnesses aren’t always reliable.”
“This one is credible.”
Steve’s lips thinned. “I’m not talking anymore without a lawyer.”
“Your choice. But if you cooperate, you improve your chance of a plea bargain. Keep that in mind.”
After glancing her direction, the two men disappeared out the door.
Meg stood, drawing Steve’s attention again. Beneath his veneer of bravado, he looked scared—and she almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
But he’d brought this on himself. On them.
She picked up her purse and clenched the strap to steady her shaking fingers. “We’re done.”
“You’re leaving me?”
“Yes.”
“What about those vows we took?”
“I don’t think the ‘for worse’ part includes deception, cheating, manipulation, and law-breaking.”
“The evidence they have won’t hold up in court.”
“So you’re admitting you threatened Eve? Left the fake bomb, slashed her tires?”
“I’m not admitting anything.”
“What about Candy?”
He studied her for a moment. Shrugged. “I made a mistake, okay? But she doesn’t mean anything to me. And they can’t put me in jail for having a fling. That’s not a crime.”
Despite the rays of sun warming her back as she faced him, a cold chill rippled through her. “No—but it’s a sin.”
He snorted. “Don’t get all religious on me. You’re not perfect either, you know.”
“I know—and you’ve reminded me of that on a regular basis for the past eighteen months. But I would never, ever cheat on you. Or do anything illegal—or immoral.” She crossed to the door, hoping her shaky legs would support her.
“So that’s it? You’re going to walk out on an injured husband in his hour of crisis?”
“You wouldn’t be injured if you hadn’t been driving recklessly. I heard the officers talking in the ER after they brought you in. This”—she swept a hand over the bed—“and everything else is your fault. Not mine. My lawyer will be in touch.”
As soon as she hired one.
Turning her back, Meg walked out the door.
But once she reached the hall, she leaned against the wall and tried to shift her numb brain into gear.
Besides finding an attorney, she had to pack up her belongings and get out of the house before Steve was released from the hospital. Thank heaven she had a job, and money to pay for an apartment until whatever lawyer she found could sort through the mess and divvy up the assets.
What a sad end to the fairy tale life she’d envisioned.
Her vision misted, and she sniffed. She should have known this wouldn’t end well.
Nothing in her life had ever been a fairy tale.
“Are you okay?”
At the question, she blinked and straightened up. One of the nurses had stopped beside her, faint furrows denting her brow.
Okay?
Not even close.
But she couldn’t admit that to a stranger.
“Yes. Just . . . um . . . thinking about everything that has to get done.”
The woman offered her a sympathetic nod. “I hear you. Illness and accidents can overwhelm families. If you need any assistance, our social services department can recommend several resources.”
“I appreciate that, but I’ll be fine.”
Meg waited until the woman walked away. Then, straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin, she continued down the hall toward the elevator.
She would be fine. This setback wasn’t going to destroy her. She wouldn’t let it.
Maybe she wasn’t as smart or pretty or dynamic as Eve Reilly, but watching her high school acquaintance in action these past few months—and especially during the recent trauma—had been inspiring.
If you approached life with a can-do attitude, stuck with your principles, and stood up for yourself and what you believed in, life could be good.
Beginning today, she was going to follow in Eve’s footsteps.
And thanks to the radio station job, she had the financial wherewithal to walk away from Steve—and find her own happy ending.
Eve stood on tiptoe and felt around on the top shelf of her kitchen cabinet. Huffed out a breath.
Where had she put that box of little-used spices? Her dolmathes wouldn’t be the same without the distinctive hint of dill that gave her mother’s recipe its extra zing.
Between a blog post that was fighting her every step of the way, an air conditioner that was making odd noises, and now a key spice gone missing, this Tuesday had been a bust.
She stretched further—only to jerk back as the pulsing beat of “I Won’t Back Down” erupted from her cell on the counter.
Sweet mercy!
Grabbing the edge of the cabinet to steady herself, she coaxed her lungs to kick back in. If Brent and his cohorts didn’t wrap up this case soon, her nerves would be shot.
She picked up the phone, skimmed the screen, and greeted Grace.
“Am I interrupting anything?” Her sister seemed a tad distracted.
“No. I’m on a spice search.”
“A what?”
“Spice search. I’m trying to find my dill for Mom’s dolmathes recipe. I haven’t made that one in a while, and I thought I’d whip up a batch for us when you and Cate come to dinner tomorrow.”
Two seconds ticked by. “I didn’t know we were invited for dinner tomorrow.”
“You weren’t. But I talked to Cate earlier, and she mentioned she might drop by. She also said you were going to be in town for a forensic seminar. Rather than have you two show up with food in hand again, I decided to feed you this visit.”
“Is your detective going to be there too?” Her sister was fully engaged i
n the conversation now.
“No. Why would he be?”
“Well, he’s doing chauffeur duty for you. It would be a hospitable gesture to invite him to join us.”
And subject him to the third degree from her sisters?
Not a chance.
“Considerate of you to think of that—but plan on a threesome. So what’s up?”
As if she had to ask.
Her two sisters had been tag-teaming phone calls since she’d told them on Sunday about the twist her case had taken. While neither had seemed concerned about the threat to themselves, they had not been thrilled to hear that there could be a second person targeting her.
But two calls a day from each of them?
Overkill.
Now another in-person visit.
Much as she loved them, they had their own lives—and impinging on their free time wasn’t fair.
“I had kind of a gruesome case today—but I doubt you want to hear about it.” Humor lurked in Grace’s inflection.
Eve put her hand on her stomach. “Gruesome is more than sufficient detail. Anything else going on?”
“Nope. How is it on your end?” Her sister’s casual tone didn’t fool her one bit.
“If you’re asking whether I’ve received any more communication from my harasser, the answer is no.”
“Any updates from your detective since we last talked?”
“He isn’t my detective.” Yet. “And I promised during our last chat to let you know if there were any developments. That was a mere seven hours ago, by the way.”
“I know—but I like to hear your voice. You have an issue with that?”
Eve leaned back against the counter. “No. But you and Cate have full plates. You don’t have to keep checking in with me. I’m in excellent hands.” She cringed. Poor choice of words.
“In a literal or rhetorical sense?”
Of course her sister would home in on her faux pas.
“Very funny.”
“I’m serious. Cate texted me a photo of Brent Lange. Whoa! Hot guys like him never enter my orbit—not that I’d want to replicate your meeting strategy, you understand. There have to be easier . . . oops. Call coming in. I have to take this.”
“Go. I’m fine. I’ll see you tomorrow. Come hungry.”
“Never a problem. Watch your back.”
The line went dead.
Eve set her cell back on the counter and went in search of the stepladder to chase down the elusive dill. It had probably gotten pushed to the back of the cabinet.
But her mind wasn’t on cooking. It was on her sister’s suggestion that she invite Brent to join them.
Too bad Cate and Grace were so nosey. If she did ask him to dinner, they wouldn’t give him a moment’s peace the whole evening.
As soon as this nightmare was over, though, he was going to be first on her guest list. She’d make her killer moussaka—and she would not invite her sisters.
Brent could very well drag his feet about accepting her invitation, given his conviction that he wasn’t romance material. But nothing could be further from the truth.
And proving that to him was going to be her number one goal the instant the person or persons intent on wreaking havoc in her world were safely behind bars.
21
YOU DON’T LOOK like a happy camper on this bright, beautiful Thursday.”
Brent leaned back in his desk chair and scowled as Colin entered. “Jackson lawyered up—and clammed up. He’s out on bail.”
“Who’d he hire?”
When Brent shared the name of the attorney, Colin groaned. “He doesn’t play nice.”
“I know. I ran into him while testifying during a few trials. With this case, he’ll discredit all the circumstantial evidence in the first ten minutes—and I hate to think what he’ll do to Jeremy’s testimony if the boy ends up on the stand. Assuming we get that far.”
Colin sat. “He’ll do his best to punch holes in it, that’s a given. But on the bright side, Jackson can’t evade the reckless driving charge. There are too many witnesses.”
“His wife also walked out on him. He did let that slip during our interview here, before his attorney shut him down.”
“So there’s some justice, at least.”
“Not the kind I’m after.”
“May I offer a suggestion?” Colin linked his fingers over his stomach. “For all intents and purposes, the threat from Jackson is over. He’d have to be a lunatic to try anything else—as I’m sure his lawyer has counseled him. Step back and let the prosecutor try to get a conviction. In your shoes, I’d focus my energy on finding out who wrote the last note to Eve. Did your canvass of the neighborhood turn up anything?”
“No. None of the neighbors saw anyone suspicious on Sunday afternoon.” Brent stood and began to pace.
“It could have been a one-off perpetrated by a sicko who got a vicarious thrill by tagging on to the string of threats. Eve may never hear from him again.”
Colin’s theory was plausible. Copycat crimes weren’t uncommon, and there were people who jumped into the fray simply to get a taste of the action.
But that wasn’t what was going on here.
Someone else was targeting Eve—and it wasn’t for fun and games. The danger was real . . . and getting closer with every hour that ticked by. He could feel it in his bones.
“You’re not buying that theory, are you?” Colin tapped his index fingers together, watching him.
“It’s possible—but my gut is telling me to be on red alert.”
“Then go with your gut. If you’re wrong, worst outcome is you get a few gray hairs. If you’re right, you’ll be more prepared to handle whatever’s coming.”
“Problem is, I don’t know where to go from here.” It killed him to admit that, but it was the truth—and Colin wasn’t the type to rib him about being a rookie. “The note came back clean from the lab, no one saw the person who left it, and the threat is too vague to address.”
“Those are the negatives. On the plus side, the note was left four days ago and nothing else has happened, correct? No one’s bothered Eve or her sisters or you?”
“No—but that doesn’t mean they won’t. And I don’t want to sit around waiting for this guy’s next move.”
“You may not be. Did you see the memo Sarge sent out an hour ago?”
“No.”
“Check your email. There could be trouble brewing at a political event this weekend. FBI intel says that anti-government Antifa factions may turn out in force. Groups from several states are apparently planning to crash the venue to demonstrate and disrupt. County is going to have a large uniformed police presence.”
“How are we involved?” Brent sat again. Most situations of this type were handled by patrol officers, not detectives.
“We’re on standby in case the situation goes south and extra hands are needed to investigate.”
“When is this happening?”
“Saturday.”
“Where?”
Colin named the county park. “Knowing how those groups operate, this could get dangerous. You may want to read the memo and the backup material, just in case.”
“Yeah.” Brent swiveled toward his desk. “But Antifa is a known quantity. They’re easy to identify if they go black bloc, with those dark hoods and masks—and that attire is also a tip-off to prepare for violence. I’d rather deal with them than this shadowy figure targeting Eve, whose appearance and methods are a mystery.”
“I agree with you in principle—but I clashed with Antifa folks once. It wasn’t pretty. Let’s hope they’re content to carry signs and chant slogans, and that they leave the black garb at home.”
“I hear you.”
“You still on chauffeur duty for Eve?”
“Through tomorrow. We’ll have to regroup after that. Phoenix is a possibility for security.”
“Excellent resource. Also pricey.”
“That’s why I’ve tried to pick up the sl
ack while the case was hot.”
Colin booted up his laptop. “Maybe something will break in the next couple of days.”
“I hope so.”
Brent opened his email to read the memo from Sarge about the Antifa situation—but his mind kept wandering to Eve. As far as he could see, given the lack of clues to follow on this latest threat, it would take another incident to generate new leads that could help them identify the most recent note writer.
But much as he wanted a break in the case, the prospect of another episode that could put Eve in the line of fire curdled his stomach.
It was possible, as Colin had suggested, that whoever was behind the latest note was nothing more than a thrill seeker. Someone who’d fade away once the press sniffed out the news that Jackson was a serious person of interest in the case.
Much as he wished that was how this would play out, however, every instinct in his body was screaming that another incident was about to happen.
And that this one could be deadly.
“Hey, Buzz, you wanna stop in at Bubba’s for a beer?” Suds took off his painter’s cap and wiped the sleeve of his T-shirt across his forehead as they walked toward the company truck. “A cold one—or two—would hit the spot after working in an oven all day. It’s not supposed to be this hot in September.”
“Can’t tonight.” Buzz stopped at the truck and set down the drop cloths he’d been carrying. He had more important things to do than spend an hour guzzling beer with a moron.
“Hot date?” Suds grinned as he repositioned the eight-foot ladder he was lugging and slid it into the truck.
“Nope. Errands to run.”
“Can’t they wait? Crip and most of the other guys will be there.”
Not a selling point.
“Drink one for me.” He loaded up the empty paint cans, and Suds gave him a hand with the tarps. Driving his own wheels to the job site today had been a smart choice.
“You’ll miss out on the fun—and the babes.” Suds waggled his eyebrows.
Buzz tried not to grimace. “Maybe next time.”
“Your loss.”
Hardly.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah. If we’re lucky, we’ll finish up here early. I wouldn’t mind getting a jump on the weekend.”