“Sorry.” He wiped a hand down his face. “I hate not being in the thick of the investigation, but I don’t want to leave until I talk to Eve.”

“Understood. Been there, done that. How’s Al, aka Michael Alan Lander?”

“Critical. They’re saying fifty/fifty. Olivia didn’t make it. What’s the story on Lander?”

“We’re still digging. He and Eve went to the same high school but were in different classes. After living in California for a while, he came back here two years ago. Not married. Works as a house painter.”

“What’s his connection to Antifa?”

“Evidence in his apartment suggests he’s been involved in the movement since his days in California. Unless Eve can shed some light on why he may have a personal grudge against her, my take is that he was a zealot who somehow caught Olivia’s eye, and she tapped him for today’s assignment.”

“Did you find out anything else about her?”

“Some. The Battle of Seattle material in her file cabinets—along with attached handwritten notes—indicates she took part in the 1999 World Trade Organization protests . . . in which the Direct Action Network played a major role. That’s the earliest indication we’ve found of radical activities after her first husband was killed.”

“I wonder if that event reignited the fire in her, and once her second husband died she dived back into anti-government protest mode in a more behind-the-scenes role.”

“Could be. Once a rebel, always a rebel.”

“But why would she marry a banker and live a quiet life for more than three decades?”

“Maybe she didn’t. It’s possible she was dabbling in anarchist activities on the QT all along. The files in her office or on her computer may confirm that. Or not. At this point it doesn’t much matter.”

True.

“Keep me in the loop, okay?” Brent glanced toward the door to Eve’s room.

“You got it.”

Brent pressed the end button, slid the phone back onto his belt under the bilious green scrub top he’d scrounged up to replace his bloodstained shirt, and picked up the drinks. With Eve’s sisters hanging around, he might have to defer the discussion he wanted to have with her.

But Cate and Grace had to go home and sleep sometime.

If necessary, he’d wait them out.

Because he wasn’t leaving without saying what he wanted to say.

He strode down the hall, shouldered the door open—and stopped as three pairs of eyes swung his direction.

Only one set, however, stayed on his radar.

Eve’s beautiful jade-green irises were focused on him—bright, alert . . . and filled with warmth and tenderness.

His breath hitched.

“Are those for us?”

Somewhere in the recesses of his consciousness, the amused question registered, and he dragged his gaze away from Eve.

Cate was pointing at the drinks he was holding.