She smiled as she put the phone to her ear . . . but her lips flatlined as she listened.

“Eve, I’m sorry to bail on you, but I got pulled into a double homicide early this morning and I expect to be here for hours.” She had to strain to hear him against the backdrop of sirens and a cacophony of voices and other noises. “I’ll do my best to get to the park for your speech, but I can’t guarantee it. Please be careful. If I don’t make it to the event, I’ll call you later.”

Sighing, she silenced her phone and shoved it back in her pocket. Why leave it on? Brent wouldn’t be calling, and she wanted no interruptions during her appearance.

Back in her kitchen, she set the plate of rolls on the counter, said a quick prayer for Olivia, and retreated to her office. She had exactly one hour to review her speech and transform herself into Eve Reilly, glam radio personality. Coiffed hair, sophisticated makeup, chic clothing . . . the whole nine yards.

She wrinkled her nose. The least favorite part of her job.

Thank heaven she didn’t have to worry about glamour while she was behind the mic in the studio. If she did, the gig would hold far less appeal. As it was, she could put all her energy into what mattered—content, not image.

But all her primping would be worth it if Brent was able to join her later for the speech—and a trip to Starbucks.

Before the day ended, however, she’d swing by the hospital. Perhaps by then Olivia would be allowed visitors. You didn’t have to be family or have power of attorney to hold someone’s hand and offer a bit of comfort.

Focusing on someone else’s needs might also help her deal with the insidious fear she hadn’t been able to shake. While she’d reassured Brent that fear had diminished, her instincts continued to warn her danger was nearby, waiting to pounce.

And until law enforcement was certain the threat was over, she intended to keep looking over her shoulder and preparing for the worst.

23

WE’RE READY TO TRANSPORT. Did you find any contact information?” As the paramedics stood, one of them called the question over his shoulder.

“No.” Officer Clark shook his head. “I went through her purse. Nothing in the wallet but credit cards, driver’s license, library card—the usual.” Nor had the cell he’d found been helpful. Eve Reilly had been correct. It was ancient technology. A password hadn’t even been required to pull up the contacts list—which had been blank.

The other paramedic angled toward him and locked onto his gaze. “The hospital will want that information fast. Decisions may have to be made.”

In other words, the homeowner was in bad shape, and dramatic measures could be necessary in the near future to keep her alive.