Page 55 of Over the Edge

A common med for anxiety symptoms.

“I’ll get it for you.”

Instead of responding, she focused on her breathing, using a common technique to dispel panic attacks. Inhale on a prescribed count, hold it for a second, exhale on the same count.

It was obvious she had the routine down.

As she fought to regain control, he hurried to the kitchen and checked the cabinets beside the sink. One pill bottle was tucked beside the salt and pepper shakers, and he pulled it out. Read the label.

Bingo.

He searched through another couple of cabinets until he found a glass, then moved to the water dispenser on the fridge.

While he waited for the glass to fill, he glanced at the photo affixed to the door with a magnet. A beach scene, with a smiling Lindsey looking more relaxed than he’d ever seen her.

But as his gaze flicked to the woman standing beside her, his pulse stumbled.

Clair Arnold and Lindsey had been friends?

Close friends, if the sole photo on Lindsey’s refrigerator was of the two of them.

And if they’d been close, it was not only possible but probable that Clair had mentioned him to the woman sitting in the next room.

The woman whose manner toward him in every encounter had been frosty at best.

A muscle in his cheek ticced.

Clair must have told her about the recommendation he’d made that had led to her death, and the strong encouragement he’d given her to pursue it.

Liquid spilled over his hand, and he yanked the glass away from the waterspout, gut knotting.

A mess on the floor, and a mess in his heart.

Clenching his teeth, he tugged a length of paper towels off the holder on the counter and sopped up the spill.

He’d come here hoping for a few pieces of information about South Carolina and a clue that might help him get a handle on why Lindsey disliked him.

What he’d gotten was far more than he’d bargained for.

A story that had shaken the usual rock-solid, stoic composure he’d cultivated to survive in a field where blood and bodies abounded, and a photo that had fanned to life the simmering guilt he’d been plagued with for three long years.

He disposed of the damp paper towels, picked up the bottle of pills and the glass of water, and crossed the room.

Game plan?

Confirm Lindsey was okay, then make a fast exit before he said or did anything that would further alienate the traumatized woman in the next room who’d somehow managed to pique his interest and breach his defenses without even trying.

He had a lot to process before they had any further conversation.

And with Bri and Cara due to arrive soon, this wasn’t the time to try and think through the ramifications of everything he’d learned today—or work out what he could say to Lindsey that would make her blame him any less than he blamed himself for the death of her friend.

Twelve

THAT HAD BEENWEIRD.

As Jack’s car disappeared down the street, Lindsey frowned after him from inside the front window.

What had carved those deep grooves above his nose as he’d delivered her pill and water? Why had he gone from solicitous to distracted in a heartbeat? What had triggered his fast departure?

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