Page 132 of Over the Edge

You’re giving up, Lindsey. That’s not likeyou. You’re a fighter. This isn’t over tillit’s over. Think! Come up with a plan ofattack. Maybe they’ll win in the end, but don’t let them steal your spirit along with your life.

As that silent pep talk echoed in her mind, anger began to build inside her.

No matter the odds, she wouldn’t go down without a fight. At the very least, she’d make their job more difficult. Inflict injury of her own on them if she could.

Her brain began to click into gear, the left side taking over.

First, to do anything, she needed her hands. Freeing them had to be her top priority. If she could loosen the cording around her wrists, have her hands available, she’d be in a much stronger position to resist. Even if they intended to throw her into a lake or river while she was in this bag, having the use of her hands would give her the ability to perhaps open the bag and swim out.

Second, if their plan was to get her out of the bag at theirfinal destination before finishing her off, they’d either have to carry her or free her ankles so she could walk. In his current physical condition, Dr. Oliver didn’t appear to be up to toting anything over fifty pounds for any distance. Freed ankles would also work to her advantage.

Third, she should leverage the element of surprise. Let them think her hands were still secured when they hauled her out of the trunk. Catch them off guard once she was ready to launch her strike.

So as the car wove toward its destination, Lindsey got to work.

And if she succeeded, the two people who’d already killed an innocent man in a surprise attack would get a surprise of their own when their latest intended victim threw a few roadblocks on their path to murder.

THATWAS FAST.

As Emma’s name flashed on the screen of his cell, Jack greeted her. “I didn’t expect to hear back from you in less than fifteen minutes.”

“I bumped you to the top of the queue, as promised.”

“I owe you.”

“Bring me a few more of those chocolate mint squares and I’ll call it even.”

“You got it. Were you able to decipher the plate?”

“Yep.” She rattled it off. “I also ran it for you, since I assumed that would be your next step. It belongs to an Anthony Oliver.”

As Jack tried to digest that startling piece of news, his car began to drift, forcing him to do a fast course correction.

Anthony Oliver?

Lindsey’s therapist?

That was crazy.

And yet it made perfect sense in a warped way. Who would better know someone’s vulnerabilities—and how to exploit them—than the psychologist of the patient being targeted?

But that also meant he was either Robertson’s killer or the accomplice.

This was getting weirder by the minute.

Why would he get involved in such a sordid mess?

And who was the woman who’d been in the car with him earlier tonight?

“Detective Tucker?”

He refocused on the conversation. “Yes, I’m here. You just solved one of my cases. Expect a whole plate of mint squares. Do you have an address for the vehicle?”

“Yes.” She recited it.

“Thanks. I’ll be in touch.”

Without waiting for her to respond, he punched the end button, called Sarge, and gave him a fast rundown. “I know we have to get a court order to search his house and office, but I’m going in under exigent circumstances while we wait for that to come through. Can you get officers there fast? Quietly, in case Oliver’s home.”

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