By the time he rang the bell precisely half an hour after their phone conversation, she’d had ten minutes to get all hot and bothered.

Sheesh.

At this rate, she’d need another shower.

Fluffing her hair, she took a deep breath . . . peered through the peephole to confirm the identity of her visitor . . . and opened the door.

He gave her a swift head-to-toe—and the quick glint of appreciation in his eyes put her doubts to rest. Brent might be here on business, but he was glad to have an excuse to see her.

Maybe she hadn’t scared him off after all.

“Come on in.” She stepped back and waved him through the door. “As you can see, the living room floors have been stripped. That accounts for the dust motes floating through the air and coating every available surface. I’ve kept them under control in the kitchen—sort of. I’d suggest we move there as fast as possible.”

“I’m right behind you.”

She led him back, shaking her head at the surface of the table as they approached. “I wiped this down ten minutes ago. So much for the plastic shield in the doorway that was supposed to keep the dust in the living room. Give me a sec.” She retreated to the sink, retrieved a dishcloth, and dispensed with the new layer of fine powder.

He claimed one of the chairs and set the bag on the table, along with their drinks. “Do you want to eat first or hear my news?”

“News first—unless you ordered a hot item that will get cold.”

“Nope. I got a sandwich.” He removed the lemonade she’d ordered from the tray and set it in front of her.

“No coffee tonight?” She indicated the large, clear cup of amber liquid he put in his own place.

“After spending several hours questioning a suspect in an apartment building with temperatures approaching sauna level, I was in the mood for iced tea. The plain version, not mango.”

“I wish I could convince Grace to settle for that. It would be much less expensive.” She sat and pulled the paper off her straw. “Tell me you have good news.”

“I consider it good.”

Curious answer.

“You mean I won’t?”

“I’m not certain.” He stuck his straw through the opening in the lid and took a drink. “We were able to identify the person whose hair our CSU tech found beside your car.”

“How can that be anything but good news?”

“The person has an indirect connection to you.”

She squinted. “You mean he’s more than a listener?”

“He may not be a listener at all—but he’s married to someone who works on your program at the station. Steve Jackson.”

Eve’s jaw dropped.

Meg’s husband was the person who’d been plotting against her? Planting fake bombs, calling in during the program with exposés about her past, slashing her tires?