“Correct. I’ll confine all public statements to my own show and social media.” She lifted the cell. “Do you mind if I make one more call? I don’t want my sister a couple of hours from here to find out about this on the news. She worries too much about me as it is.”

“Help yourself.”

“I’d also like my other sister brought up to speed . . . but it may be safer if you initiate that contact.”

His eyebrows rose. “How so?”

“She’s a County detective—on her first undercover assignment as we speak. She said she’d be unavailable for the duration, barring an emergency. I don’t want to put her at any risk, but I’d like to reassure her I’m fine and that the situation is under control.”

“What’s her name?”

“Cate. Same last name as mine. Do you know her?”

He gave a slow nod. “I’ve run into her on a few occasions, but we’ve never worked together. I can ask her handler to communicate your message.” He tipped his head. “You two don’t resemble each other at all.”

“Nope. I got my dad’s Irish blood, and she got my mom’s Greek DNA.”

He studied her for a moment. “You have a touch of your mom’s Greek heritage too.” Without giving her a chance to respond, he rose. “Let me get an update on the situation while you phone your other sister.”

As he left her to join the bomb crew that was watching the feed from the robot, she punched in Grace’s number.

The phone rang once . . . twice . . . three times . . . then rolled.

Naturally.

She blew out a breath. When had she last connected with her younger sister on a first attempt?

But she didn’t want to hear any excuses for the detour to voicemail—especially if they involved the gruesome details of an autopsy.

Eve shuddered as she left a brief message. Her sister’s clients didn’t send nasty letters or leave bombs on her doorstep, but cutting up dead people for a living had its own downsides.

Not that you’d know it talking to Grace, though. The woman loved forensic pathology. Claimed it was like living a mystery novel every day.

Go figure.

But if it made her happy . . . hey. To each his own.

“Good news.” Brent rejoined her. “Your bomb appears to be a fake. One of the crew is going in to verify that.” He motioned toward a guy who was donning what looked like an overinflated space suit.

She handed him back his phone, and as their fingers brushed, a spark zipped through her nerve endings.

Oh, for pity’s sake.

She was a mature thirty-one-year-old, not a teen with unruly hormones. She needed to get a grip.