Whatever the motivation for today’s incident, she was sticking with her principles. She would not back down from her point of view, no matter the danger. Tomorrow would be business as usual.

In the meantime, though, she needed to rein in her galloping pulse, get her shakes under control—and try not to lose her lunch.

So much for any hopes of a quiet end to his first week in the Crimes Against Persons Bureau.

Expelling a breath, St. Louis County detective Brent Lange shoved his cell back into its holster, executed a U-turn, and pointed his Taurus east.

A possible bomb hadn’t been in his Friday afternoon plans, but if you were the detective closest to the action, you got the call.

And even if it ended up being a false alarm—as most such calls were—he’d be on the job long after the bomb and arson crew called it quits. Someone had to dig in and get all the details, make certain there wasn’t more to the story than a silly prank or a simple mistake.

Despite his rookie detective status, after ten years as a street cop he knew how the system worked.

Flipping on his lights and siren, he pressed harder on the unmarked vehicle’s gas pedal. It would be much easier to get questions answered before the news crews descended and added to the chaos.

Ten minutes later, as he approached his destination in a neighborhood of older but well-kept middle-class homes, he gave the area a sweep.

In the distance, yellow tape blocked the entrance to the cul-de-sac where the possible bomb was located. A second perimeter had been staked out beyond that to create a working zone for law enforcement and emergency crews.

Standard protocol for a situation like this.

He flashed his creds at the local officer who was monitoring the flow of traffic into the restricted area, and the man waved him past.

Brent wedged his vehicle behind a County patrol car, slid out of the driver’s seat, and surveyed the scene in the outer perimeter.

It took mere moments to locate the 911 caller. Eve Reilly, according to Sarge. As the only civilian inside the yellow tape, she wasn’t difficult to spot.

Pausing near the front of his vehicle, he studied her. The slender thirtysomething woman was clutching a water bottle, every toned muscle of her five-foot-sixish frame taut, her free hand clenched. Gray leggings extended a few inches below her knees, delineating a pair of notable legs, and a moss-green tank top outlined generous curves. Her copper-colored hair was pulled back into a stretchy band, but the elastic loop was losing its grip, leaving her short ponytail askew. While the strong tilt of her chin hinted at fortitude, her pallor suggested her stamina had taken a major hit.

As if sensing his scrutiny, she angled toward him.

His cue to approach.