Father and Child Reunion. Christine Flynn

voice had softened. Something that sounded suspiciously like the concern she’d so briefly glimpsed moments ago had stripped it away.

      It made no sense at all to Eve, but if he suddenly turned nice on her, she didn’t know if she’d be able to handle it.

      She drew a quick, steadying breath. At least, to Rio, it seemed she was seeking some sort of control just then. All he really knew was that he hadn’t expected to see her this way. More than that, he hadn’t expected her to matter.

      Not anymore.

      He had stopped an arm’s length from her, forcing her to tip her head back to look up at him. He could tell she’d been crying. Or trying to avoid it. Yet, even with the telltale pink tinting her sky blue eyes, there was no denying how lovely she had become. She was no longer the girl he remembered, but she was still as small and slight as a fawn. Her pale blond hair looked shot with sunlight, and though the stylish, sophisticated cut was far too short for his taste, it framed a face of fragile beauty; a face that revealed far more than he wanted to see.

      Between the grief she so bravely held in check and her obvious hunger for anything she could learn about her mother’s murderer, she looked desperately in need of a pair of arms. Realizing that he was actually thinking about easing her into his, he shoved his hands into his pockets. Even if he could get past what she’d done to him, his touch could well be unwelcome.

      “Are we on the record, or off?”

      “None of what you say to me is going anywhere right now. I already told you that.”

      “But this doesn’t have anything to do with your story.”

      “This isn’t about the story. It’s about why your brother has cut you out of the loop.”

      His words seemed to magnify the distress in her eyes. She already looked far too vulnerable. Far too alone.

      Balling his hands into fists, Rio took a mental step back, regrouping, reassessing. Any investigative reporter worth his byline knew how important it was to remain objective. And he had been so sure his objectivity was in place where Eve was concerned. Obviously, he’d overestimated himself. With anyone else under such circumstances, he would never have barged in with the steamroller routine. But with her, all he’d wanted to do was get in, get the information he wanted, and get out. All the way across town, he’d reminded himself that whatever it was they’d once shared had ceased to matter the day she’d run off without so much as a goodbye, good luck or go to hell. The visit today was strictly business.

      He reminded himself of that again, wanting to believe it this time, and watched her cross her arms. The bright slash of red scarf tangled from elbow to wrist.

      “Eve,” he said, his tone quiet. “Why isn’t he talking to you?”

      He spoke her name the same way she remembered his saying it when he knew something was on her mind. As if he was prepared to patiently drag it out of her if he had to.

      He’d never had to try very hard.

      “He’s upset because Mom named me the executor of her estate instead of him. We haven’t agreed on much of anything since we found her will.” She paused, just short of adding that she thought Hal’s feelings were hurt.

      “So he’s punishing you by not giving you information?”

      It sounded so juvenile when he put it that way.

      “Grief affects people in many different ways,” she said defensively, thinking that someone who covered the trials and traumas of life for a living should certainly know that. Her older brother’s pain was as deep as her own. “But it’s not like Mom cut Hal out of the will. All she did was change her executor.”

      “When did she do this?”

      “Just a few months ago. Her attorney said he was talking to her about some other matters and she brought it up, almost as an afterthought.”

      “She never hinted she was thinking about it?”

      “She never said a word to me. I keep thinking that she planned to mention it and just didn’t get the chance. There was always so much going on with her, and with Hal’s wedding and everything, it just wasn’t a priority.”

      She pushed her hand through her hair, the motion as unsteady as she looked. “She left so much undone, Rio. Every time I turn around, I find some other project she was in the middle of. If it’s not something for the Children’s Center, it’s the women’s shelter. And I’m trying to tie up all those loose ends by guessing how she would have wanted things handled. In the meantime, I’m on the fringes as far as the investigation is concerned. It’s hard not knowing anything.”

      It shouldn’t have been so easy to admit all that to him. Nor should it have seemed so natural to stand there letting him see the frustrations she was so careful to shield from everyone else. But then, no one else had ever known her like he had. Even when she hadn’t felt like talking, he’d always been able to draw her out. And he’d always listened.

      The knowledge was not only seductive, it was dangerous. And she had to be seriously addled to be going on as she was with Molly en route even as they spoke. Her little girl would be barreling up the steps in a matter of minutes.

      “You know, Eve, it’s possible that you know more than you realize.”

      “I really don’t think so.”

      “Are you willing to talk to me to find out?”

      She didn’t even hesitate. “I’ll do whatever I can to find out who did this to Mom. And I’ll answer your questions.” Praying the bus wouldn’t be early, she glanced nervously toward the door. “I just can’t do it now.”

      “Are you expecting someone?”

      The man was observant to a fault.

      She told him she was and started across the room. “This isn’t a good time to talk.”

      “Then, I’ll come by later. Just give me a time.”

      “No! No,” she repeated, more quietly. “I’ll meet you tomorrow. In the morning. Is that okay?”

      More curious about her reaction than about whoever she was expecting, he lifted his shoulder in a deceptively casual shrug. “Sure. When?”

      “Is nine all right?”

      She was already at the door. Rio was right behind her, wondering what had put the sudden tension in her slender shoulders. She was definitely more agitated than she’d been a moment ago, and far more evasive. He’d already noticed how she tended to avoid his eyes. But he wanted to think that was only because she was feeling a little guilty about the way she’d dumped him. Anxious as she was to get rid of him now, however, he couldn’t help thinking she was hiding something.

      Whatever it was, he told himself, unless it had to do with Olivia Stuart’s murder, he didn’t care about it.

      She opened the door, standing back so he could pass. He didn’t move, though. The doorway was blocked.

      “You have company,” he quietly said, and watched with interest as the color drained from her face in the instant before she whirled around.

      “You’d think the incompetents at the Herald would hire people with a decent aim, wouldn’t you?” A large woman with a headful of silver waves, silver-rimmed glasses and wearing a peacock blue pantsuit, held out a newspaper. “Yours was in the arborvitae. I found ours in my rosebushes. Yesterday, he missed the fountain by an inch.”

      “Millicent,” Eve murmured, her hand leaving her throat to open the screen and reach for the paper the sprinkler had soaked. “Come in.”

      “I can’t, dear.” She cast a pleasant smile toward the darkly attractive man by Eve’s shoulder, but just as she opened her mouth to continue, she recognized the reporter who’d interviewed most of the neighbors following Olivia’s death. “Well, Mr. Redtree. I didn’t realize you were