by Irene Hannon
So how had this caller found out about it? And was he the person who’d dropped the fake bomb at her house, as Brent had suggested? Was this a continuation of his campaign to silence her?
None of those questions were her immediate concern, however.
First, she had to tell her story to Doug and Brent—and hope they believed what she had to say.
Then she’d put all her efforts into damage control with her audience.
Brent entered the room first, set her mug on the table, and took the seat beside her. “You okay?” Warmth radiated from his dark brown eyes.
She wrapped her cold fingers around the ceramic, fighting a sudden disconcerting urge to lean into this man and draw strength from his steady presence.
But she wasn’t a leaner. Never had been, never would be. She could hold it together until she was alone.
After that, all bets were off.
“Eve?”
At his gentle prompt, she took a sip of the coffee and carefully set the mug on the table in front of her. “I’ll be fine. I just never expected to have to deal with this. Do you honestly think that call is related to the fake bomb?”
Doug came in on the tail end of her question and slid into the chair across from them. “I’d like to hear the answer to that question too.”
“I think it’s possible. The quality of the voice on the call caught my attention. I suspect the person was using voice-altering software. We can check your 800 carrier’s log for the number, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it came from a burner phone that’s already been disabled and pitched.”
“Does that mean we can’t even find out where it came from?” Eve picked up her coffee again, more to keep her hands busy than because she needed a caffeine boost.
“Not without a specific court order for that number—and since there was no overt threat, that would be difficult to obtain. But my gut tells me it’s related to the bomb incident.”
“If you’re right, that would indicate this guy means business—and may not be willing to quit until Eve does. Not the best news I’ve had today.” Doug rested an elbow on the table and massaged his temple. “So what’s the scoop on this caller’s story, Eve?”
She gripped her mug. Everything would be fine.
It had to be.
Just tell the truth and put the rest in God’s hands, Eve.
With that admonition echoing in her mind, she dived into the story. “Eight years ago, when I was twenty-four and launching my teaching career at a private high school, I met a man who was ten years older than me at a teacher workshop. He was one of the presenters. I ended up sitting at his table for lunch, and we hit it off. He called a few days later, invited me to dinner, and I accepted. For the record, he wasn’t wearing a ring.”
“But he was married?” Doug leaned forward.
“Yes—but I didn’t know that.”
“Didn’t you ask?”
“No. In those days, I thought the best of people. It never occurred to me anyone would openly cheat on a spouse—and I would never have pegged this guy as a cheater.”
“Why not?” Brent joined in the questioning.
“He came across as honest, clean-cut, well-educated, and straightforward. He had a responsible job in education and appeared to be committed to the welfare of students. The man radiated integrity. And it wasn’t as if he took me to sleazy bars or met me in dark, out-of-the-way places.”
“How did you find out the truth?” Brent was watching her with an intent, penetrating look she suspected had made more than a few criminals fold under questioning.
Yet empathy radiated from his pores—as if he was searching for the facts, but nevertheless believed in her.
She telegraphed a silent thank-you.
“From his wife, who stormed into a restaurant where we’d met for dinner and proceeded to shriek to everyone in the place that her husband was having an affair.”
Doug cringed. “Ouch.”
“Ouch is a vast understatement. I was mortified and hurt and angry and shocked and . . . you name the emotion, I was feeling it.”
“What did your friend do?” Brent leaned closer, almost as if he wanted to take her hand.
Now wouldn’t that be nice?
She linked her fingers in her lap, fighting the temptation to initiate that inappropriate contact.
“He turned beet red, apologized, and beat a hasty retreat with his wife.”
“Did you ever hear from him again?” Brent folded his arms and leaned back, his jaw hard.
“Once. He sent a letter. Unsigned, no return address. He said his wife had been emotionally strung out for years, was on a variety of medications, and that life at home was a living hell. He’d thought about divorcing her but felt that was wrong.”
“Yet dating another woman—and misleading her—wasn’t?” Brent narrowed his eyes.
She shrugged. “I can’t speak to his reasoning. All he said was that he was lonely, and the connection he’d felt with me had been too strong to ignore. He claimed he would have told me the truth down the road—but he also admitted he enjoyed our dinners and the respite they gave him from his problems at home. He said he’d never done anything like that before, and never would again. At the end, he apologized, wished me well—and that was that.”
“No one knew about this liaison?” Doug frowned.
“Liaison isn’t the appropriate word. Friendship would be more accurate. We met for dinner five times. There were never any romantic overtures.”
“Didn’t you think that was odd after five dates?” This from Brent.
“No.” She met his gaze straight on. “I told him up front how I felt about casual intimacy. That I wanted to get to know any man I dated on other levels—intellectual, social, spiritual, emotional—first. He accepted that.”
“And you never heard from him again?”
“No.”
“Did anyone else know about this?” Doug repeated his question.
“I told my sisters and my most recent boyfriend. I guarantee my sisters have kept it to themselves, and my ex-boyfriend would have no reason to spread the story around. As for the man who started all this—I doubt he’d share the embarrassing tale.”
“What about his wife?”
“I’m not confident she was as discreet, based on a look I got once from a woman I met at an educational event, who I later found out knew her. But it’s been a dead subject for years, and my only fault in the situation was trusting this man too much.”
Doug tapped a finger on the table. “What are you planning to say in your blog post today?”
“Exactly what I told both of you—along with a warning to all my listeners who are dating to be careful, because it’s easy to find yourself in a compromising situation if you’re too trusting.”
“Let’s hope they buy your version.”
“It’s not my version. It’s the truth.” Eve lifted her chin—but the show of bravado was nothing more than that. Pure show. If her own boss was having doubts about her moral character, that didn’t bode well for the reaction of strangers.
“I didn’t mean it like that. I’m in your corner, Eve.” Doug touched her shoulder and rose. “I’ll deal with any fallout from advertisers and try to keep knee-jerk reactions at bay while we monitor audience feedback.” He shifted his attention to Brent. “Did you want to talk with me while you’re here?”
“No. I just have to ask Ms. Reilly a few questions.”
“In that case, I’ll head back to my office. The conference room is free until ten, so no hurry to vacate.” He reached over to shake Brent’s hand. “Thanks for your work on this case. Anything more we can do to help, give us a shout.”
“I’ll do that.” Brent rose and gripped his fingers.
He remained standing, and after Doug exited he picked up his disposable cup. “I’m going to get a refill. Would you like a warm-up?” He indicated her half-empty mug.
“I’m fine.”
“Give me two minutes.”
/> As he disappeared out the door, half-closing it behind him, Eve let out a shaky breath.
Her reassurance to Brent seconds ago had been a lie. She wasn’t fine. Not even close.
First a fake bomb on her doorstep, now a bomb of a different kind. Both calculated to intimidate and ruin her career.
And maybe they would.
Maybe forces beyond her control would ultimately torpedo her radio program and silence her.
But she wasn’t going down without a fight.
Eve Reilly had never been a quitter. As far back as high school, the yearbook had named her Most Likely to Beat the Odds.
That hadn’t changed.
Assuming she could convince her audience that today’s caller had a hidden agenda, she’d weather this latest attack and go on to fight another day.
Unless her nemesis had more firepower in his arsenal, ready to deploy if this latest tactic didn’t work.
Not the most optimistic thought—but she had a sinking feeling it was a very real possibility.
Meaning that for the foreseeable future, she’d be looking over her shoulder, trying to anticipate his next move . . . and watching for danger in every shadow.
6
BRENT REFILLED HIS CUP, set the pot back on the warmer, and took a sip of the strong brew as he retraced his steps to the conference room.
It was lucky he’d decided to stop by the studio and see Eve in person rather than provide a case update by phone. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been on hand to witness the latest bomb being dropped.
The providential timing also helped mitigate his guilt over what, until the final minute of her show, had been an unnecessary trip. He didn’t require a face-to-face with Eve to bring her up to speed. A phone call would have sufficed, given how little news he had to offer.
But the simple truth was he’d wanted a face-to-face. Hard as he’d tried to keep the red-haired radio personality from infiltrating his thoughts over the past five days, she’d popped into his mind too often to count.
Which explained why he’d shown up at the station at seven-forty-five even though his meeting a few blocks away wasn’t until eleven.
Not his smartest decision if he wanted to avoid the complications relationships entailed—but now he had a professional excuse to spend a few minutes in her company.
He paused outside the conference room, resettled his jacket on his shoulders with a shrug, and entered, shutting the door behind him.
“Sure you don’t want a warm-up?” He motioned toward her half-empty mug.
“No, thanks.”
He took the chair beside her. “I wanted to brief you on where we are with the case.”
“Does that mean there’ve been new developments?”
“Nothing specific.” He set his cup to the side and angled toward her, resting one elbow on the table. “The lab didn’t come up with any leads from the bomb package or the note. We ran basic background on the Monday callers Ryan identified as regulars once we isolated their cell number, but no red flags popped up.”
“I didn’t think they would. What about the social media comments and letters Meg pulled?”
“I spent several hours going through those yesterday, looking for patterns, flagging the ones that came across as threatening.”
“You must have ended up with quite a stack.”
“I did. However . . . I couldn’t detect any pattern in the threats—and most weren’t specific. A few of them wished you ill but didn’t indicate they personally intended to cause any harm.”
“Where does that leave us?” Faint furrows creased her brow.
No place good.
But he wasn’t ready to admit defeat.
“Until this morning, I’d have said we were in a waiting mode to see if the person who left the package took any further action now that you’ve made it clear you weren’t intimidated by the fake bomb. Today’s call answered that question.”
“In other words, this game isn’t over.”
“It doesn’t appear to be.”
“And we’re no closer to an answer than we were on Friday.” The corners of her mouth drooped.
“We don’t have an ID, no—but the language today’s caller used suggests we’re dealing with someone well-educated. ‘The moral high ground you advocate’ and ‘inconsistent with the image you present’ isn’t the typical speech pattern of the average person on the street.”
The twin grooves on her forehead deepened. “That’s almost scarier. Someone who’s smart and savvy is a more formidable foe.”
He couldn’t argue with that.
“That’s why you should keep watching your back.”
“You think he’ll try again if this doesn’t work?”
“Let’s just say I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s another attempt to silence you.”
She swallowed, watching him. “Yet he hasn’t done anything to physically harm me.”
Her comment was straightforward—but the underlying question was clear.
“Yet.”
She sucked in a breath. “So you think that may be coming.”
“I don’t know. It depends on the strength of his feelings and how committed he is to whatever purpose is motivating him. Whether he would resort to actual physical violence is a huge question mark.”
“In that case, until this is resolved, I guess I should keep my pepper gel close at hand.” She offered him a shaky smile and picked up her coffee.
“You could also reconsider personal protection—or take a hiatus from your show.”
Her nostrils flared, and she lifted her chin. “I’m not spending a fortune on a bodyguard—and I’m not going to slink away and let this guy win. This is America. People have a right to express their opinions. What kind of message would it send if I let this guy bully me into silence?” She set her cup on the table with more force than necessary. “This is as bad as the Antifa zealots who show up at rallies and protests hiding behind black hoods and masks and beat up people whose opinions they don’t like. That’s not how this country works.”
Man, she was a sight to behold when she got worked up, with her green eyes flashing and energy sparking off her like a transformer gone haywire.
“You don’t have to convince me, Eve. I’m on your side. And I admire your convictions. But you also have to take care of yourself.”
“I’ll be careful.”
That might not be enough.
Yet what else could he suggest? The PD didn’t have the resources to offer protection to citizens, and he couldn’t dispute the expense of private security.
Much as he disliked the thought of this woman being exposed to the risks that holding her ground entailed, he had to admire her willingness to stare this threat in the eye without backing down.
“The advice I gave you on Friday stands.”
“Duly noted.”
There was nothing else to say. This meeting was over.
But he didn’t want to leave.
He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “How did the painting go over the weekend?”
Eve seemed as surprised as he was by the off-topic question that spilled out of his mouth, but she recovered quickly—as if she too was happy to have an excuse to continue the conversation.
“Very well. Other than spinning class and church, I never ventured out the door. My neighbor, Olivia, came over for a few minutes with homemade pumpkin bread—and a question about her cellphone. She’s a sweetheart, but she’s lost in our wired world. Anyway, I focused on making progress in the house. I’m happy to report that the hall and living room ceiling and walls are finished. Next up is the hardwood floor.”
“How did you learn to do all that?”
“YouTube.” She grinned.
“Seriously?”
“Yep. It’s amazing what you can pick up from those DIY videos.” She tipped her head. “I get the feeling you’re not the home handyman type.”
“I never had an incentive to be. I lived in an apartmen
t until I bought an updated condo four years ago.”
“Your dad wasn’t into home maintenance projects either?”
Uh-oh.
This wasn’t the direction he’d expected their conversation to go.
He shifted in his seat and picked up his coffee, keeping his tone casual. “I was raised by my grandparents. My grandfather was an accountant who didn’t like hands-on projects.”
Like home repairs—or raising his daughter’s illegitimate son.
Several beats ticked by as Eve scrutinized him, and he had the uncomfortable feeling she’d picked up the lingering residue of resentment from his childhood days that he’d never quite been able to vanquish.
“Do you have any siblings?”
“No.”
“Mmm. An only child raised by an older couple. That could have a few downsides.”
More than a few.
And she was giving him an opening to talk about them.
But he hadn’t shared his history with anyone other than his best friend. Even with Adam, it had taken months to establish a sufficient trust level to risk confidences.
So how weird was it that he was tempted to spill his guts to a woman he’d met a mere five days ago?
He should get out of here before he caved and did something he could regret.
“It had pluses and minuses.” He pushed back his chair and rose. “I have to get to that meeting I mentioned.”
“Okay.” She stood more slowly and took a sip of her sweetened brew. Grimaced. “Yuck. Cold coffee ranks right up there with soggy Reuben sandwiches on my most-unappetizing list.” She grinned at him.
Hard as the lady dug in her heels on matters of principle, she knew how to read the signals—and when to back off—in interpersonal relationships.
Another check in her positive column—not that he was keeping score.
“My list would include instant mashed potatoes.”
She gave him a look of mock horror. “Perish the thought! In the Reilly family, the potato is sacrosanct.”
One corner of his mouth twitched. “That’s a mite stereotypical.”
“But true. Thanks to my mom’s heritage, though, we’re not entirely one-dimensional in our culinary tastes. After she died, Dad made an effort to expose us to Greek food and culture while we were growing up. In fact, I make a mean moussaka. And my sister Grace whips up world-class baklava.”
