Page 90 of Over the Edge

“Understandable. May I?” He motioned toward the bench.

“Sure.” She shoved the container into the pocket of her coat, sat, and scooted to the end.

He took the other side, leaving plenty of space between them. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

“I wanted to take one more walk around the area where you saw the attack.”

“Me too.” She expelled a breath. “It was a wasted effort. I didn’t spot anything helpful. Nor did being back here trigger a memory that would lead to proof it all happened.” She cocked her head and regarded him. “I’m surprised you revisited the scene, though. I assumed you had total confidence in whoever went over it.”

“I do, but I like to dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s. Especially when I have a feeling something’s been missed.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. But a colleague had a theory.” Not a precise description of his relationship with Bri, but close enough. If he told Lindsey he’d been discussing the case with his sister, he’d have to explain why. “It’s a stretch, but I’m not discounting it.” He gave her the highlights.

Lindsey stared at him. “You think someone would go to all that trouble just to undermine my credibility?”

“I can’t rule it out. You’re the only witness in the Robertson killing, and desperate people do desperate things. Someone who’s trying to evade a homicide charge may fall into that camp.”

Her expression spelled skepticism in capital letters. “I don’t know. It seems like averylong stretch.” A cold gust of wind barreled past, and she turned up the collar of her coat. “But speaking of credibility, did you talk to Dr. Oliver?”

“Yes. Early this morning. He was cordial and answered all of my questions.” No reason to mention all his caveats.

“Did he tell you enough to convince you I’m not hallucinating?”

“Hallucination was never mentioned. He gave me a quick tutorial on the effects of repeated trauma and stress, and it was obvious he thought your issues were related to those kinds of factors rather than any sort of psychosis. So I’m comfortable with—”

A flying object shot over his head, and he ducked.

“Sorry, mister.” A boy of eleven or twelve trotted over, gaze fixed on the branches of the oak tree above the bench. “My Frisbee’s stuck. Can you get it for us?” He waved to two other kids who were running toward them.

Jack looked up. A plastic yellow disk was wedged into a branch of the tree ten or twelve feet up.

His heart began to pound. “I’m, uh, not sure I can reach it even if I stand on the bench.”

“You could put your foot on that branch.” The boy indicated one that was accessible from the bench and would give him the height he needed to get the Frisbee.

He started to sweat. “Climbing trees isn’t safe.”

“Yeah, I know. My dad told me that. He made me promise never to do it. But you’re a grown-up. Nobody can tellyounot to climb a tree.”

He swallowed. Hard.

“Maybe I could help.”

At Lindsey’s soft comment, he looked over to find her watching him, her gaze curious—and discerning.

She’d picked up on his discomfort and was trying to give him an out.

He couldn’t ask her to climb a tree, though. How chivalrous would that be?

On the other hand, the thought of taking his feet off terra firma sent a chill through him far colder than the frosty air nipping at his cheeks.

“We can do this.” Without waiting for him to respond, she stood and stepped up onto the seat of the bench. “If you’ll spot me, I’ll have it down in a jiffy. And I promise to do my best not to fall and squash you.” She flashed him a smile.

Hard as he tried, he couldn’t get his lips to curve up in response.

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