Page 113 of Over the Edge

“The lab did a rapid test for me.”

“What strings did you have to pull to make that happen?”

He hiked up one side of his mouth. “I borrowed a page from your playbook. You know how Hank likes your sister’s baklava? Someone in the lab is partial to my chocolate mint squares and was willing to work through lunch with that as an incentive.”

“Bribery.”

“Kindness.” His grin broadened as he parroted her words back to her from their conversation weeks ago about Hank. “What can I say? I’m a nice guy.”

“Hmph.” She pulled out her gloves. “It’s a shame your effort to expedite the process didn’t lead to a match in the system.”

“It may confirm a suspect as our killer down the road, though.”

“You’re an optimist. If you want my opinion, that case will die on the vine unless your witness remembers something else useful.”

“That could happen.”

“Keep the faith. Whoever killed Robertson needs to bebehind bars. Let’s regroup on this one tomorrow and hope the wife ends up confessing.”

“Now who’s being optimistic?”

“At least I have a suspect.”

“I will too, one of these days.”

“In the meantime, go home and get some sleep. See you tomorrow.” She fished out her keys and strode toward the door.

Jack followed more slowly.

The truth was, Cate was spot-on. The Robertson case was cold, and getting colder by the day. Their few breaks hadn’t produced any usable leads, and as Oliver had reminded him during their chat, the more time that passed, the less likely Lindsey would remember anything—and the less reliable her memory would be if she did. That wasn’t a negative assessment of her mental stability. It was a fact. Memories had a tendency to fade and become fuzzy.

So unless the killer made another mistake or they got a lucky break, the Robertson murder seemed destined for the cold case file.

MAYBE SHE WAS BEINGPRESUMPTUOUS.

Frowning, Lindsey braked in the circle drive in front of Dr. Oliver’s house as darkness fell, leaving the world in shadows.

The chicken and broccoli casserole she’d put together for him last night after their session, stored in a cooler in her trunk, was a thoughtful gesture—but did a home delivery to your therapist cross a line between professional and personal?

She surveyed the upscale, contemporary house. While not as glitzy as some of the homes she visited as a personal chef, it was at the high end of the housing spectrum. Obviously well-established psychologists with a solid client base made big bucks.

Not that she begrudged him a handsome return for hiswork. Heck, anyone who helped people get through tough stretches deserved to live in a mansion as far as she was concerned.

It was clear, though, he had the means to order a meal from any restaurant in town and have it delivered by one of the many services that had sprung up during the Covid era.

However, the food was in the trunk and she’d veered far off her usual route to do a good deed. As long as she was here, she could apologize up front for invading his personal space, hand over the casserole, and make a fast exit.

It would be hard for anyone to find fault with such a kind gesture, right?

Mind made up, Lindsey slid from behind the wheel, scooped the casserole from the cooler, and ascended the steps that led to the front door.

A muted, musical echo sounded in the house after she pressed the bell, and she tucked herself into the recessed doorway to avoid the biting wind while she waited for a response.

And waited.

And waited.

Drat.

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