Page 44 of Over the Edge

Treading water, she coughed and searched the lake for her scull.

It was ten feet away, upside down.

She swam toward it and grasped the edge, trying to process the bizarre scenario as she hacked up lake water.

Failed.

A shiver rolled through her, and she forced herself to focus on the immediate danger. Namely, hypothermia. She had to get out of the water and back to shore ASAP.

Following the rote procedure she’d learned long ago, she righted the scull. With both oar handles in her left hand, she clasped the opposite deck edge with the other, scissor kicked, and pulled her hips up and over the edge. After retaking her seat, she scanned the water.

The placid surface offered no hint of the trauma that had taken place a dozen feet down minutes ago.

Lindsey grasped the oar grips, maneuvered the scull in the direction of the boathouse, and picked up her rhythm again. Or tried to. But a severe case of the shakes left her strokes jerky rather than smooth. Besides, it was hard to concentrate on technique after coming within a heartbeat of death.

Again.

Right on the heels of her close encounter with James Robertson’s killer.

She almost lost her grip on the oars as that connection registered.

Was it possible the killer had somehow learned her name? Could they have decided to dispense with her in case she remembered a pertinent piece of information that would help the police identify him or her?

Or was she jumping to conclusions? Being overly dramatic? After all, the hands had released her.

Someone fully briefed on the case would be able to provide the best answer to her questions.

Someone like the lead detective.

As the dock came into sight, Lindsey squeezed the oar grips. If she never saw Jack Tucker again, it would be too soon.

But who else could she talk to? The cops in this municipality would file a report if she called them, perhaps poke around the lake and ask a few questions. But they had no connection to the Robertson case, nor any clue as to whether a dangerous leak may have occurred.

Only Jack Tucker could provide that kind of insight.

So as a matter of self-defense, she’d have to touch base with him. Like it or not.

Definitely not.

LINDSEY BARNES WAS CALLINGhim at—Jack checked the cell he’d set on the bathroom vanity—seven thirty on a Sunday morning?

Did that mean she’d remembered a pertinent detail about the killer?

He exited the shower, secured a towel around his waist, and snatched up the phone. “Tucker here. How can I help you, Ms. Barnes?”

“I’m sorry to bother you on a weekend.” A tremor ran through her stilted apology.

He tensed. “No bother. What’s up?”

“More like what’s down.”

It was too early for riddles, especially after tossing most of the night over the lack of progress in the Robertson case.

“Sorry. You’ll have to explain that.”

He listened while she gave him a quick recap of her experience at Creve Coeur Lake, frowning at his reflection in the bathroom mirror as she wound down.

“At first, I thought maybe I’d hit something under the surface. But when it happened again, and then hands grabbed my ankle and pulled me down, I knew it had to be deliberate.” Her voice hitched again. “So I wanted to ask you if someone involved in the investigation could have let my name slip.”

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