Page 89 of Over the Edge

He walked her to the door, and Lindsey picked up her pace down the hall toward the exit.

Thank goodness Dr. Oliver hadn’t been alarmed by her story about what had happened on Sunday. Nor did he seem to think it necessarily indicated a mental breakdown.

But he knew her far better than Jack Tucker did. While a discussion with a credible source like him couldn’t hurt, there was no guarantee it would dispel all—or even most of—Jack’s doubts. Not after the recent bizarre events.

Truth be told, it didn’t dispel all of hers, either.

She pushed through the outside door, cringing as a blast of cold air stung her cheeks.

Trying to prove what had happened at the lake was an exercise in futility. If someone had grabbed her ankle, all they’d had to do was swim away without leaving a trace. But why had there been no evidence of the stabbing in the park? What had happened to the woman? Why hadn’t she reported the crime? How come the man with the knife had stopped pursuing the jogger who’d witnessed his crime?

Nothing added up.

Yet despite the lingering doubts lurking in the corners of her mind, with each passing day she was more and morecertain that scenario hadn’t been the figment of an overactive imagination. It had happened.

The dilemma was how to prove it.

She slid behind the wheel and put the car in gear.

Maybe she ought to venture back to the park. Poke around herself. It was possible the County crime scene unit had missed something, wasn’t it?

Not likely, Lindsey.

She blew out a breath.

Fine. It was a long shot. But what could it hurt to take another look around after her two cooking gigs tomorrow? There were always a few walkers in the park in the afternoon. Probably more than usual, with many people starting their long Thanksgiving weekend. It wasn’t as if she’d be there by herself again. And she’d keep her pepper gel at the ready.

Worst case, she’d find nothing and end up exactly where she was now.

But sitting around passively while people questioned her sanity was getting old.

At least she could make an attempt to find one tiny piece of proof that would help convince Jack his key witness in the Robertson case wasn’t coming unglued.

Nineteen

WHAT WAS LINDSEY DOINGin the park in the middle of the afternoon?

Jack paused as he rounded the curve on the path that led to the scene of the supposed stabbing three days ago.

She was slouched on a bench under a towering oak that sported a few withered leaves clinging to their grip on life, fixated on the small cluster of pine trees where she’d said the attack happened.

Stay or go?

It wouldn’t be difficult to beat a hasty retreat—but he ought to let her know he’d followed up on her text and had a conversation with Dr. Oliver. While the psychologist had thrown in more caveats than the lawyers who wrote those voluminous, eye-glazing terms of service agreements you had to sign for almost everything in today’s risk-averse world, he’d been more cautious than negative about Lindsey’s mental acuity.

As for the strange situations she’d found herself in? He’d had no definitive explanation for those.

But Bri’s theory was gaining traction in his mind.

And it might be time to share that theory with Lindsey. Reassure her he was keeping an open mind and hadn’t writtenher off as a nutcase—the conclusion she’d reached on Sunday, if he’d read the hurt in her eyes correctly as he’d left her place.

He resumed walking, greeting her from several yards away to warn her of his approach.

Despite his attempt to mitigate the startle factor, she jumped to her feet, spun around, and aimed a container of pepper gel his direction.

He halted and lifted his hands. “Hold your fire.”

Color surged on her cheeks, and she lowered the canister. “Sorry. It doesn’t take much to spook me anymore.”

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