But after that, he’d have to give Colin’s advice serious deliberation. Eve was sure to bring up the subject again tomorrow over their cold drinks, and he couldn’t keep putting her off.

In the interim, though, a few prayers for guidance—like a definitive sign from above—wouldn’t hurt. Because with every encounter, her appeal grew . . . and the thought of letting her go was getting harder and harder to stomach.

Meaning he had to come to a reasoned decision soon, before the left side of his brain shut down.

An imminent possibility if he continued to fall for the lovely radio personality at his current breakneck pace.

Life stunk.

Steve eased his recliner back and stared at the ceiling.

His broken ankle was aching.

Meg had cleared out, so there was no one to wait on him.

His high-priced attorney wasn’t making any guarantees about getting him off the hook, thanks to a stupid nine-year-old witness. The man had already broached the idea of a plea bargain.

And Candy had dumped him.

As Friday nights went, this one sucked.

He didn’t even have much food in the house. A can of soup would have to suffice for dinner—unless he ordered a takeout pizza. That wasn’t—

The landline began to ring.

He started to struggle to his feet. Stopped. Why answer? Everyone important had his cell number.

Sinking back in the chair, he picked up his phone from the table beside him, scrolled through for the pizza joint’s number, and placed his order as the landline went silent.

Fifteen minutes later, it rang again.

He ignored it.

Fifteen minutes after that, as he heaved himself to his feet to answer the door for the pizza delivery, it trilled a third time.

Weird.

Someone must really want to talk to him.

He paid the delivery guy, clumped into the kitchen, and rummaged around in the fridge for a beer. That supply was running low too. He’d have to go to the grocery store tomorrow and restock. That chore wouldn’t be fun with this cast, but—

The landline rang again.

Muttering a curse, he limped to the wall, snatched the phone off the hook, and snapped out a greeting.

“Steve Jackson?”

The deep voice was muffled, as if someone was speaking through several layers of cloth.

“Yeah. Who is this?”

“You have legal difficulties. I have information that can help you.”

He studied the cracked pane of glass in the back window that Meg had been after him for weeks to fix. “Who is this?”

“That’s not important. But what I have may keep you out of jail.”

Was this for real—or someone’s idea of a sick joke?

“What do you have?”

“I’ll give it to you tomorrow.”