Page 13 of Over the Edge

AS THE BLADE SLASHEDacross her finger, Lindsey let out a yelp, dropped the knife, and dashed toward the sink, leaving a trail of crimson dots on the wood floor.

Annoying as it was to admit, she should have followed Detective Tucker’s advice and called it a day instead of trying to muscle through with her scheduled cooking session.

Sometimes there was a fine line between perseverance and stubbornness—and she’d crossed it today.

Lindsey twisted the faucet and stuck her left index finger under the spout. As water diluted the crimson stream, she pumped out hand soap from the dispenser beside the sink and washed the cut.

She could blame the accident on the unfamiliar knives, but why kid herself?

Her nerves were shot.

In fact, if anything, her shakiness had worsened over the course of the past few hours.

She rinsed her finger, dried it with a paper towel, and held it up to examine the cut.

No, not cut. It was more like a slice. Straight down, fromthe outside of the middle knuckle to the one closest to her nail. Even elevated above her heart, it was already filling up again with blood.

There were bandages in her kit, though, along with other first-aid supplies. If she could get through this cooking session, she’d have the whole weekend to chill. All she had to do was take the remaining prep slower than usual and focus on pleasant thoughts while she worked, like her first therapist in South Carolina had taught her.

Lindsey pulled out antiseptic cream and bandages, doctored up the cut, and cleaned the blood off the floor and counter as she psyched herself up for the task at hand. At least her mise en place was finished, and today’s clients had chosen familiar dishes that weren’t difficult to prepare.

She could manage this. Especially since both halves of the couple were working late tonight, which would minimize interruptions and eliminate chitchat. Unlike Heidi Robertson, these clients liked to talk.

Calling up the calming memory of her last rowing session at Creve Coeur Lake before the abrupt cold front had descended, she moved at a measured, deliberate pace rather than charging ahead at her usual high-speed velocity. She made steady progress too—until her phone began to chirp.

At the sudden noise in the quiet kitchen, her hand jerked, sending two of the shrimp she was sautéing skidding out of the pan and across the floor.

Well, crud.

She needed that soothing music and relaxing hot bath.

Fast.

Continuing to stir the remaining shrimp with one hand, she tugged her tote bag across the counter, fished out her phone, and skimmed caller ID.

Madeleine Clark.

Perfect.

She could use a friendly voice about now, and Madeleine’s more than qualified. If they hadn’t met at church, and if Madeleine hadn’t gone above and beyond to welcome a stranger in their midst—plus convinced that stranger to volunteer at the nonprofit she ran—the transition to both a new city and new career direction would have been much harder.

After removing the pan of shrimp from the burner, Lindsey put the phone to her ear. “Hi, Madeleine. What’s up?”

“Praise the Lord! You’re okay.”

Lindsey frowned.

How could Madeleine know about—

Wait.

During their phone conversation last night about the six-week class she was teaching for Madeleine’s Horizons organization, she’d mentioned the forgotten knife roll she had to retrieve today.

“You heard about the murder at the Robertson house.” Lindsey pulled out a stool at the counter and sat.

“It’s all over the news. Were you there?”

“Yes.”

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