Chapter 11

Eleven

"THANKS FOR THE UPDATE, SARGE."

Pressing the end button on his cell, Jack crossed to the kitchen cabinet beside his sink.

Now that his boss had confirmed what he'd expected to hear—that the lake reconnaissance had produced nothing—there was no reason to report back to Lindsey in person. A phone call would suffice. Their conversation from this morning gave him all the material he needed for his report.

He withdrew a glass, filled it with OJ, and surveyed the shelves in his fridge. All the ingredients were on hand for the chicken cordon bleu and chocolate mint squares he'd promised to make for the sibling gathering he was hosting today. If he started to work on the meal now, it would be ready to serve by one o'clock, as promised.

But if he squeezed in a church service and paid Lindsey a visit instead, Bri and Cara would have to make do with far less ambitious fare.

He swigged his juice.

Church and family always came first—unless work intruded. Thankfully, his sisters understood the demands of a job that didn't have regular hours and often disrupted plans.

That wasn't the case today, though. He didn't have to give Lindsey priority this morning.

Yet considering how upset she'd been earlier, and taking into account all she'd been through over the past nine days, passing on the results of the lake reconnaissance face-to-face would be a thoughtful gesture.

Give it a break, Tucker. You just want another chance to try and figure out why she took such an instant dislike to you.

Scowling, Jack gulped down the remainder of the juice and set the empty glass on the counter with more force than necessary.

Okay, fine. There would also be a personal motive for his visit. Her puzzling antipathy bugged him, and the detective in him hated unsolved mysteries. There had to be an explanation for her attitude, and it wasn't a crime to want to ferret it out. Besides, it wouldn't hurt to try and get a few more insights into the South Carolina incident she'd referenced.

Decision made.

He'd forgo cooking, squeeze in church, and pay her a visit. The pan of lasagna in his freezer that he always kept on hand for emergencies would have to suffice. Cara and Bri would forgive him for the change in menu if he explained that duty had called.

He didn't have to tell them Lindsey's enmity was also eating at him.

An hour later, after putting the lasagna in the oven on low heat, dashing to the midmorning church service, and alerting his star witness in the Robertson case that he'd like to drop by, he pulled up in front of her condo and checked his watch.

In one hour, he had to be back at his house to welcome his sisters. Shouldn't be a problem. What he had to say to Lindsey wouldn't take long.

But hopefully long enough for him to do a little probing and identify the burr under her saddle about a certain police detective.

As he circled his car and strode up the walk to her unit, Lindsey pulled open the front door, brow knitted, her baggy sweatpants and oversized fleece sweatshirt screaming comfort clothes.

Once he got close, she cut to the chase. "Did the officers find anything?"

He ascended the two steps to her porch, pausing at the top to give her a quick once-over.

Near as he could tell, she wore no makeup. Her hair was combed straight and tucked behind her ears, the slight frizz suggesting a recent shower. The shapeless wardrobe gave no hint of any curves underneath.

How could a woman who'd done zilch to enhance her appearance for his visit, who'd given him the cold shoulder during each of their encounters, have the power to make his fingers tingle and his pulse pick up?

Go figure.

"Well?"

Whoops.

Her annoyed prompt must mean his attempt at a subtle perusal had been less than discreet.

He refocused on the professional purpose of his visit. "No. They didn't find anything."

She sank back against the doorframe and massaged the bridge of her nose. "I can't say I'm surprised, but I am bummed. Without even a tiny shred of proof, my story has all the credibility of a Loch Ness monster sighting."

At least she was under no delusions about the difficulty of establishing the legitimacy of her story. With no evidence to validate what she said had happened this morning, the scenario was a hard sell.

He tried to dredge up a modicum of hope, however flimsy, to lift her spirits. "It's possible a piece of corroborating information will turn up."

Her get-real look said she knew how improbable that was. "You never answered my earlier question about whether my name might have slipped out."

So she wasn't letting go of the theory that she'd been set up this morning at the lake.

"Unlikely from the PD. Our crew is tight-lipped. But you've told a number of people about your involvement, right?"

"Only friends and people I trust."

"Who may have told other people. So it's possible the killer knows your identity."

"But you think that's a long shot."

"I try not to rule anything out during an investigation."

"A diplomatic way to say I'm grasping at straws." She eased back. "Are we finished?"

"I still have to take a formal statement."

"I already told you the whole story."

In other words, she'd rather not invite him in.

Too bad.

Disappointing his sisters with an impromptu menu was only justified if he got a few answers during this visit.

"Like I told you at the Robertson house, sometimes new information emerges in a retelling."

She huffed. "I doubt that will happen—but come on in." She pulled the door wide and motioned toward a living room that felt larger than it was, thanks to a vaulted ceiling and light, neutral décor accented with spots of vibrant color.

Nice.

The warm, inviting contemporary space was the kind of room that said welcome after a long day.

He walked over to an upholstered chair, waiting to take his seat until she dropped onto the couch across from him and tucked her stockinged feet under her.

"Before we get to the statement, I want you to know that the officers at the park stopped in all the parking lots around the lake and talked to everyone they saw on the perimeter. It wasn't a token effort. We take all crimes-against-persons reports seriously."

"Despite your doubts."

He wasn't going to pretend he didn't have any. The astute woman across from him would see right through that claim.

"A healthy dose of skepticism is valuable in my line of work." He pulled out his notebook. "Why don't you walk me through what happened again?"

She repeated the story she'd told him earlier, including her contention that someone had grabbed her ankle. But in the retelling, her tone was a bit less definitive.

Interesting.

"Are you thinking there may not have been another person involved after all?" He stopped writing to assess her.

"I was certain I felt fingers around my ankle." She spoke slowly, forehead wrinkling. "But your comment on the phone about stress made me start to question my perceptions. I mean, I have to admit that the premise of a scuba diver lying in wait is bizarre. Plus, the past week or so has been more than unsettling. First a murder, then my car gets mysteriously moved. Add in South Carolina, and I—" She snapped her jaw shut, snatched up one of the throw pillows on the couch, and hugged it to her chest. "All I know is something strange happened at the lake, and I don't have a logical explanation for it. That bothers me."

"Understandable. No one likes unanswered questions."

"Speaking of unanswered questions—did your tip this morning lead to anything helpful with the Robertson case?"

Not a topic he could discuss.

"That remains to be seen." But her reference to South Carolina was about the best opening he was going to get to probe for details, and hearing the story from the source would be more informative than whatever his research unearthed.

As if sensing the direction of his thoughts, she shifted on the couch, keeping a tight grip on the pillow. "Are we done?"

"With the statement."

She gave him a wary look. "What else do we have to talk about?"

Her attitude toward him, for one thing.

But the incident in South Carolina could offer important insights about her mental acuity and her reliability as a witness if she did begin to remember helpful information regarding the killer she'd seen.

Best to begin there.

"What happened in South Carolina?"

Her shoulders stiffened, and she moistened her lips. "That's not relevant to my life here."

"Maybe it is."

"How?"

"I don't know, but it's my job to ask questions. To dig deep. You mentioned a grocery store shooting once. I can research the case and get the essentials, but I'd rather hear your version."

"I don't like to talk about it." A film of sweat broke out on her upper lip. "It's taken me hours of counseling to get past the repercussions."

His antennas went up.

"With a psychologist?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Yes. Both in South Carolina and here. But that doesn't mean I have deep-seated psychological issues. My problems stem from trauma. I went to a professional for a psychological injury, just like I'd go to an MD for a physical injury."

"I get that. And I admire the fact that you recognized you needed help and were proactive about getting your life back on track."

That was true. Yet lingering repercussions of trauma could impact her value as a witness in the Robertson case, especially if she began to have notable lapses in memory or to imagine danger where none was present.

He closed his notebook. "I can research the South Carolina case if necessary." In light of what she'd shared, pushing her to elaborate on that experience right after another upsetting incident wouldn't be kind. Neither would digging for clues about why she disliked him.

Eyeing him, she squeezed the pillow she'd mashed against her chest. "I haven't talked about it in any detail except with my therapist in South Carolina and Dr. Oliver here. And the local police there."

"I can appreciate how difficult it is to revisit bad memories." More than she'd ever guess.

He started to rise.

"But I can give you the topline, if that would be helpful."

He froze.

Nothing in her guarded features offered a clue about why she'd had a change of heart, but if she was willing to talk, it would be foolish to stop her.

He sat back down. "That would save me time."

She dipped her chin in acknowledgment.

Yet second after second ticked by as he waited for her to begin, the silence broken only by the muffled hum of a lawnmower pushed by someone who must prefer mulching leaves to raking them on this almost-balmy fall day.

Jack stifled his frustration.

She wasn't going to follow through on her unexpected offer.

Not surprising, given how reluctant she'd been all along to discuss South Carolina. He'd have to resort to research and hope—

"I was in the produce section when the guy s-started shooting." Lindsey's choppy voice was so low he had to lean close to hear her. "There was chaos around me. People were running, screaming ... bleeding." Her breath hitched, and a shudder rippled through her.

It took every ounce of his willpower to ignore the powerful and unprofessional urge to move beside her and fold her hands in his. "Witnessing that kind of carnage can take a huge toll."

"It was worse than th-that. I was more than a bystander. I ended up being the gunman's hostage."

Jack bit back a word he never used. Took a long, slow inhale. The kind that usually calmed him in stressful situations.

Didn't work today.

The woman sitting across from him had dealt with more trauma in the past twenty-one months than most people faced in a lifetime. And in South Carolina, she hadn't just witnessed violent bloodshed. She'd been a victim herself.

If anyone had a reason to freak out, perhaps experience psychological issues, it was her.

"I'm sorry." He gentled his voice. "I've been involved in those kinds of investigations, talked to the victims. Recovering from an experience like that can be a slow process." And being a witness at a murder scene wasn't going to help her regain her balance or heal.

"That's why I got counseling. I couldn't deal with the terror or the nightmares."

"Did the cops determine a motive?"

"Yes. The shooter was a disgruntled former employee out for revenge on the manager who fired him, and he didn't hesitate to aim his gun at anyone who got in his way. A clerk, several shoppers, the security officer at the s-store. I was hiding behind a display of tomatoes when the cops arrived, and he dragged me out. Pointed his gun at my head and threatened to k-kill me if they didn't let him leave. I remember the tomatoes smashing onto the floor around us. There was red everywhere. Like b-blood."

Jack leaned forward, hands clasped. "Did they let him leave?"

"No." She began to shake. "They tried to talk to him. Brought in what I assume was a hostage negotiator. But he k-kept getting more and more agitated. When he pressed the gun to my temple, I was sure it was over. Then all of a s-sudden, he took it away, and a shot went off. I waited for everything to go black, but instead he collapsed b-behind me."

"A sniper got him?"

"No."

Meaning the man had turned the gun on himself, leaving Lindsey unharmed.

Yet she'd come within a hair's breadth of death, just as she had at the Robertson house.

Amazing that she was still functioning after two such traumatic incidents so close together. Not to mention her bizarre experience today.

"I'm sorry you had to go through that." Not nearly adequate, but a hug was out of the question.

"I survived." She lifted an unsteady hand and tucked her hair behind her ear. "But it left scars no one can see. The first few days afterward, I took dozens of showers, but I never felt like I could get all the b-blood off. And the nightmares ... they never stopped. Waking or sleeping."

A bead of sweat trickled down her temple, and her respiration grew erratic. Like she was beginning to hyperventilate.

Could be a panic attack coming on. The symptoms were all there.

As he well knew.

Though such attacks were in the past now, they remained vivid in his memory.

"Sorry." Her breath came in short gasps as she confirmed his conclusion. "Panic attack. This is ... why I don't talk ... about South Carolina. Haven't ... had one ... in a while."

"Tell me how I can help."

She closed her eyes. "Xanax ... in kitchen cabinet ... by the sink."

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.