Tell your sisters to watch their backs. Don’t expect that detective to keep you—or them—safe. If you want this to end, shut up. Now.

Brent reread the note Eve had handed him the instant he walked in the door. Looked at her.

Her arms were folded tight against her chest, and her fair skin had paled, calling attention to the few, faint freckles on her nose that weren’t usually detectable.

The latest incident had shaken her.

And he wasn’t any too steady, either—especially after the phone calls he’d placed on the heels of his conversation with her while he was driving back to St. Louis.

“Let’s sit somewhere.”

“I’d offer the living room, but as you can see, it remains furnitureless.” She motioned toward the empty space as she walked toward the back of the house.

“Floor turned out great, though.”

“Thanks.” She indicated the fridge as she entered the kitchen. “Do you want anything to drink? Or a killer brownie made by my eighty-one-year-old neighbor? She may be totally clueless about technology and prefer soaps to heavy discussions about social issues, but she sure knows how to use an oven.”

Eve’s uncharacteristic chatter was more evidence her nerves had kicked in.

“No thanks.”

She continued to the table, perching on one of the bar-height chairs as he dropped the note into an evidence envelope and claimed the seat next to her. “Always prepared, I see.”

“Goes with the territory. I keep a few of these in my personal car for emergencies.” He ran his hand over the scruff on his chin. “Sorry about this, by the way. I don’t shave on these camping trips, and rather than detour to the house after your call, I drove straight here.”

“No problem. The bad-boy stubble is intriguing on a good-guy face.” She attempted a smile, but the corners of her mouth quivered. “So what’s going on? Did you find out if your people have had Steve under surveillance?”

“On and off—but not for the past two hours.”

She exhaled. “So he could have put that on my porch.” She touched the evidence bag.

“No, he couldn’t. He’s been in the emergency room for several hours. Car accident.”

Eve stared at him. “But I . . . I don’t understand. I thought he was . . . isn’t he our guy? I mean, you found his DNA in the parking lot. Doesn’t that incriminate him?”

“Circumstantial evidence isn’t all that helpful, unless there’s a preponderance of it. Even then, it’s iffy. A competent defense attorney would dismiss it. But I’d bet my bank account he was the slasher.”

“Yet he isn’t responsible for that.” She waved her hand toward the note. “So where does this leave us?”

Nowhere good.