“Then it’s lucky you picked a job where your clients can’t complain.”

“Ha-ha. Are you going to talk to Cate?”

“I asked the detective to get word to her that I’m fine.”

Another sigh. “Look, why don’t I come in tonight? We could go shopping tomorrow, have lunch, make a Ted Drewes run. It’s been ages since I’ve had a marshmallow concrete, and I’m in the mood for frozen custard.”

Pressure built in Eve’s throat.

Grace’s plate was already full. Too full. No surprise, given the short supply of forensic pathologists with her credentials, especially in rural areas. Carving out a weekend to babysit her sister would eat into what minuscule free time she had.

No way could she agree to that sacrifice—much as she was tempted to accept. While a whole day with her sister would be a treat . . . and a welcome diversion from this afternoon’s nastiness . . . it wouldn’t be fair to Grace.

“I appreciate the offer—but my goal this weekend is to paint the living room. Now, if you’d like to help with that . . .” The corners of Eve’s lips twitched. Considering how much Grace hated do-it-yourself home projects—with painting at the top of the list—it would be fun to see how fast she backtracked.

“Uh . . . I guess I could do that if you really need another pair of hands, but I do have a ton of paperwork to catch up on.”

“No worries. I’ll put on up-tempo music and groove to the beat while I paint. It’ll be a blast.”

“If you say so.”

The doorbell chimed, and Eve jerked, fumbling the almost-empty soda can. “I have to run. I think my detective’s back.”

“I’ll watch for a text update. In the meantime, be careful.”

“That’s my plan. Let’s organize a sisters weekend as soon as Cate’s done with her undercover assignment.” She finished off the soda and pitched the can in her recycle bin.

“I like that idea. Talk to you soon.”

Eve picked up her pace as the doorbell chimed again. Assuming that was Brent Lange, he must be anxious to talk with her.

Perhaps he and his colleague had found a lead that would help them identify the perpetrator.

That would be encouraging. If she knew they were on the trail of the person who’d risked a felony charge by leaving a fake bomb, it was possible she’d even sleep tonight.

Yet as she caught sight of the dark-haired detective through the sidelight on the door, a sixth sense told her that wasn’t the news he was planning to deliver. That whatever Brent Lange was about to tell her would be far from comforting.

Her step faltered . . . but delaying the inevitable wasn’t going to change it. She had to face whatever was ahead.