“Don’t feel bad about what happened in there—or out here.” She waved a hand in the direction of the smell. “A weak stomach doesn’t equate to a weak character. One of the finest men I know gets queasy at the sight of blood. Even a cut finger can turn his stomach. That would be my dad.”

Question answered.

“For the record, the visuals I can handle. It’s the formalin that does me in.”

“Really? I don’t even notice that smell.”

“Hypersensitive nose. What can I say? I’m working on it.”

“If it’s any consolation, you do get used to autopsy scents. But reaching that point isn’t always pleasant.”

“Tell me about it. Are you done in there?” He motioned toward the mortuary.

“Yes. Max is closing for me. I’ll finish up the paperwork at home. The day’s too pretty to spend in a funeral home. Any news on the vandalism?”

“I went over the lot again before I joined you inside, but it’s clean. I’ll talk with the local police, see if there’s been a rash of this sort of crime recently, discuss potential suspects.”

Twin furrows scored her brow. “Whoever did this is going to get away with it, aren’t they?”

He studied the faint shadows beneath her lower lashes—clear evidence that last night’s incident had disrupted her slumber—as he debated how to answer. Grace Reilly struck him as the kind of woman who liked the truth straight up.

But the truth wasn’t going to help her sleep.

“We could get a lead from the local police. If not, we’ll keep this on our radar and work it from our end.”

“That didn’t answer my question.”

Why was he not surprised she’d called him on his hedge?

“Without a lead or two—fast—this could be difficult to solve.”

She exhaled. “No one dusted the car for prints.”

“I doubt anyone touched the car.”

“They could have.”

“If they did, odds are they were wearing gloves. Even the most inept criminals these days are smart enough to do that. And if it was teenagers out for fun and games, they wouldn’t have a record that would put them in the database.”

Her nostrils flared, and she propped her fists on her hips as she scanned her Civic. “I want to know who did this.”

Of course she did. Anyone would be upset by a vandalism incident directed at them and would want the perpetrator found.

But there was a subtle, simmering anger in her tone that went beyond righteous indignation.

Why?

Did it have anything to do with the gun on her nightstand . . . and perhaps in her purse?

“I do too.” He considered her. “I could swing by your place later today and dust around the areas of damage on the car.” The odds of that resulting in any useful prints were negligible, but if the effort gave her more peace of mind, why not? Until dinner tonight, there was nothing on his agenda that couldn’t wait.

She surveyed his jeans and T-shirt. “Are you on duty today?”