Page 69 of Over the Edge

She took a steadying breath as those moments replayed in her mind.

Her vision had been compromised for a few seconds as she’d eyed the vase she’d hoped wouldn’t have to double as a defensive weapon. But it had started to clear as the killer bent down to pick up the piece of dropped jewelry—and the sleeve of their jacket had pulled up briefly to reveal part of the forearm.

She closed her eyes. Tried to call up that image.

There had been color on the patch of exposed skin. A bruise, perhaps? Except it had had a more defined shape, hadn’t it? Like a ... tattoo?

Or had she imagined that? After all, she’d had no more than a quick glimpse, and the lingering sunspots in her vision could have played tricks on her eyes.

But what if they hadn’t?

What if what she’d seen had been real?

Should she tell Jack about this?

Mind racing, Lindsey slid behind the wheel of her car. Locked her doors. Started the engine.

Telling him could be risky. He already had doubts about her reliability. In this case, evenshewasn’t certain about what she’d seen—if it had been anything at all.

Maybe she ought to think it through, wait until morning to settle on a course of action. If she passed on any more dubious information, her credibility as a witness would be shot.

As would her credibility, period. Jack would write her off as a delusional woman who’d succumbed to too much stress.

For whatever reason, the loss of personal credibility with him bothered her more than the idea of him dismissing her value as a witness.

She pulled out of the parking lot and aimed her car toward home.

It was too late in the evening to analyze that odd reaction, especially after listening to Dara’s dilemma and doing her best to offer counsel and support.

Besides, in light of the younger woman’s predicament, her own quandary paled in comparison. She wasn’t dealing with a new husband who could end up being accused of murder.

So she’d sleep on the situation and decide tomorrow how much, if anything, to tell Jack.

Assuming she didn’t wake up as uncertain about the accuracy of the new memory that had surfaced as she was about what had really happened at the lake.

Fifteen

A CALLFROM LINDSEY BARNES.

Jack’s mouth bowed.

That was a midweek treat, even if he still had no idea what to say to her about his culpability in Clair’s death.

He detoured into the empty headquarters break room, put the cell to his ear, and greeted her.

“Good morning, Detective. Do you have a minute?”

“Yes. How can I help you today?”

“I have some ... pass ... may be ... the case.”

He squinted at a scuff mark on the wall. “Sorry. You’re breaking up. Can you say that again?”

“... range, so ... unreliable reception ... different area.”

“I’m missing most of what you’re saying.” But if it was related to the Robertson case, he needed to hear it.

“Why don’t ... text, or I could ... afternoon? I’m on ... client’s house.”

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