Cast the First Stone by David Warren (i have read the book a hundred times txt) 📗

she was suddenly, keenly aware of the fact that indeed, he’d stepped over that line, right into her living room.

Oh boy. “How did it go with Ramses?”

“He’s out of pocket. Burke is staked out at his house, but…I gotta get into that data base of distributors of Good Earth coffee in our area.”

“Tonight?” She didn’t mean it quite how it sounded, but—

“I know it sounds crazy, Eve, but I just…” The look in his eyes turned solemn, even a little fierce. “I just know that there will be another bombing in the morning, and we have to figure out where.”

It was how he said it, so much conviction, so much oomph in his voice, she felt it to her bones, adopted it and made it her own. “Okay.”

“Okay?” He blinked at her.

“How can I help?”

He drew in a breath, as if surprised, but he had called her brilliant.

And sure, Rembrandt might be a little impulsive, maybe even had a dark side, but no one could accuse him of giving up. Or not caring about the people who had lost their lives—who could lose their lives—if the bomber wasn’t found.

No wonder he never had any cold cases.

“I was thinking your brother—”

“Asher?”

“Can he really hack into websites?”

“I think so. But—”

“Is he still living with your parents?”

Now this was weird, because—

“You mentioned that he was younger than you, so I just assumed.”

Oh. But he swallowed, rather oddly.

“Yeah, he’s at home. I think. Probably.”

“Let’s go.” He started toward the door.

“I’m in my pajamas.”

He glanced at her. “Those are your pajamas? Trust me, you’re fine.”

Hmmm.

He opened the door. She took off her socks, slipped on flip flops and headed outside.

A black Camaro sat under the lights. The sight of it stirred a dangerous flame inside her. Like she might be in high school, sneaking out of—or in this case, into—her house.

She settled in beside him and as he turned the car over, a classic rock tune queued up. “Lonely People,” by America.

He was drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as he headed towards Minnetonka.

“You know where my parents live, too?”

He glanced at her, then, a deer in the headlights expression. “Uh, no, I was guessing—”

“Don’t give me that. You’re a detective.”

“Sorry.”

“You’re as bad as my dad. This is why I had no dates in high school. Dad did a background check on everyone.”

“Everyone?”

“Maybe just the troublemakers.”

“You like the troublemakers, Eve?”

Her eyes widened. “What? No.”

He was grinning, though. 38 Special’s “I Want You Back” came on and he started to hum.

“I prefer to stay out of trouble, thanks.”

“Which is why you’re here, about to sneak into your old house—”

“You asked me for a favor.”

“Yes.” He glanced at her. “Yes I did.”

“I don’t get into trouble.”

“I know that.” Still singing, still grinning.

Fine. “I was thinking about the coffee shop bombing, and I was wondering how Ramses or Gustavo might know how to build a bomb. What if they had an accomplice? Someone they met along the way that could add terror to their protests.”

His smile faded and he nodded. “Yeah. That’s another angle we need to take a look at. Maybe your brother can hack into the ICDL site and get a list of their members.” He turned off Hwy 7, onto Vine Hill, then west on Cottagewood. Arching cottonwoods and poplars dissected the night sky, clear and dotted with stars. A golden moon hung over the lake as they turned onto her road. He dimmed his lights and pulled to the side of the road, across the street.

“Now what?” Eve asked.

“Now, we go in there and get your brother.” He turned off the car.

“How?”

“Through the garage? Is your dad home? And now I’m having this creepy déjà vu high school flashback.”

“Of what, sneaking into your girlfriend’s house?” She didn’t know why she asked that.

“Nothing that crazy—I was never big on overactive dads with baseball bats—just sneaking out of the house with the boys. You know, to climb the water tower, shoot BBs at the local squirrels.”

“What?”

“Calm down—we always missed.” His eyes shone, the moonlight casting over his face, turning it mysterious, shadowed, tempting. “I didn’t have a girlfriend in high school.”

“Not one?”

“I played football and…aw, I didn’t really know what to say…” His smile faded.

Behind his eyes, she saw it. The wounds of his loss still open, enough to keep people at arm’s length.

All except her. That fact twined through her, turned the air between them thick and sweet, tugging her in.

She could too easily fall for a guy exactly like Rembrandt Stone.

“Well, I didn’t sneak out—or have any boyfriends sneaking in—so it’s highly likely we’re about to get busted.”

“I’ll take my chances.” He got out, closing the door quietly behind him.

She came around the car and when he took her hand, the warmth of his grip only ignited the surge of electricity buzzing under her skin.

“Stay along the edge of the driveway and the motion detection lights won’t flicker on.”

“See, you have done this before,” he said as followed her. The lights stayed off and they reached the garage door.

“Maybe you should stay here,” she suggested

“I’m not afraid of your dad, Eve.”

The man could quite possibly read her mind.

“But I am,” she whispered and patted him on the chest. Was his heart racing?

So, not as calm as his voice let on. Interesting.

“Fine. Hurry. And if you need me, do something, like make a noise, or scream, or call my name—”

She pressed her hand to his mouth. “Shh.” Then she let herself into the garage.

Funny how in the thick of night, the familiar seemed foreign, riddled with danger. She nearly tripped over the lawn mower and right into a box of Christmas decorations. But she brailed her way to the back door, eased it open, and reminded herself to mention to her mother, sometime, casually, to lock the garage door at night.

The refrigerator hummed and she tiptoed through the kitchen, then up the stairs, avoiding the third step, right side, then into the hallway and right to her brother’s bedroom.

His light was off,