Chapter 13

Thirteen

"SORRY FOR SCHEDULING ANOTHER after-hours Monday appointment, Dr. Oliver. This is getting to be a bad habit."

"Like I told you last week, Lindsey, being here for clients during a crisis is part of my job." He handed her a bottle of water and took the seat he always claimed. "Tell me about the upsetting experience you mentioned on the phone."

"It's going to sound off the wall." Pulse picking up, she wrapped both hands around the bottle of water. "Crazy, almost."

He offered her an encouraging smile. "Trust me, I've heard more than my share of unusual stories. Crazy is too strong a word for most of them."

"Mine may be the exception."

"I'll give you my honest opinion after you share it with me. Fair enough?"

"Yes." After taking a swig of water, she launched into a condensed version of the lake incident and the doubts that had begun to infiltrate her mind about the accuracy of her perceptions.

Throughout her account, his expression remained neutral, giving no indication of his reaction.

When she finished, he tipped his head and studied her. "That's a very scary story."

"Because someone attacked me, or because the attack could be a figment of my imagination?"

His brief hesitation wasn't reassuring.

"Primarily the former. In the eighteen months you've been seeing me, I've never picked up any indication of compromised mental processes. That said, however, repeated stress can take a toll."

She frowned as her fingers tightened on the water bottle, producing a harsh crinkling sound in the quiet office. "I don't think the police detective is certain about my mental soundness after all the bizarre turns my life has taken of late."

"Let me ask you this. In your own mind, is there any doubt about where you left your car last week, or that a hand grabbed your foot at the lake?"

"No on the car. I'm not absentminded, and I remember parking it by the basketball hoop. The lake situation is a little different. I couldn't see much in the murky water. All I know is that whatever latched onto my ankle felt like fingers."

"It couldn't have been a submerged object?"

"I don't think so. My foot didn't just get caught. I was pulled down. Hard. I thought I was going to ... to drown."

"Yet you didn't." He tapped his pen against his tablet. "Whatever—or whoever—this was, released you."

"Yes."

"Why?"

One of many questions she couldn't answer.

"I have no idea. I can't explain anything that happened yesterday. All I know is I ended the day very unsettled, questioning myself, and on the cusp of a panic attack."

Faint furrows scored his forehead. "You haven't had one of those in months. Not even after finding yourself at a murder scene."

"I know."

"When and where did it come on?"

She set the water bottle on the table beside her and wiped her palms down her slacks. "At home. After I told the detective about the South Carolina shooting."

His eyebrows peaked. "I thought you avoided talking about that incident."

"I usually do."

"What prompted you to discuss it with the detective?"

"I'm not certain. I'd referenced it in passing during one of our conversations, and when he came to take my statement about the lake, he asked me about it. I tried to put him off, but he said he was going to research it anyway. In the end, I decided to save him the trouble." Not a lie, but there had been more to her motivation than that—even if she hadn't pinpointed exactly what.

One more mystery to add to her growing list.

"I have to say I'm surprised."

"That makes two of us."

"Why did the detective care about South Carolina?"

"He wasn't specific. I got the impression he doesn't like to leave any stone unturned in an investigation. Plus I'm his star witness in the Robertson case. Not that I've been much help."

"He could be hoping you'll remember more."

"That's true. But other than the shoe brand I mentioned at our session on Thursday, no other details have come to mind. Do you think I could still remember anything helpful?"

He gave a slight shrug. "The human mind can sometimes surprise us, although memory does tend to become less reliable over time."

"So if I do happen to remember another detail or two, they might not be accurate."

"That's possible."

She sighed. "It probably doesn't matter if I do. After all that's happened, I think Detective Tucker will be inclined to take anything I say in the future with a grain of salt."

"I'm not worried about his perceptions. Only yours. Let's focus on you, and how you've been feeling now that you've had more than twenty-four hours to think about what happened. Any panic attack issues today?"

"No." She picked up the water again and rotated the bottle in her fingers. "But I'm starting to feel paranoid. I even began wondering whether I could trust a friend who called not long after the panic attack." She filled him in on her conversation with Madeleine.

He listened without speaking until she finished. "After you thought through the logic of her assumptions, did you still have doubts about her?"

"Not as much ... but I couldn't shake them entirely. And that's not like me. I'm not the type to overreact or see threats where none exist. But I'm starting to feel like I need to keep looking over my shoulder."

"That sounds more like hypervigilance than paranoia to me. I often see it in people suffering from PTSD. Given all your recent trauma, a manifestation of hypervigilance wouldn't surprise me. I would expect it to eventually subside, like the panic attacks did."

"Except I came close to having one yesterday."

"Triggered for a logical reason. And you managed to contain it before it got out of control."

The knots in her shoulders loosened a hair. "So do you see any major cause for alarm in my mental state?"

Another hesitation.

"Not yet. If any more odd situations come up, we can reevaluate. At this point I'd suggest you continue to follow your usual schedule. That will help restore a sense of normalcy and balance to your life. You may want to avoid the lake for a couple of weeks, until you feel more settled, but don't neglect your exercise routine."

"I'm not planning to go back to the lake until next season, anyway. The weather's supposed to change tomorrow, and I'm not a cold-weather rower. I'll use my rowing machine on Wednesdays and Fridays for the winter and start my day with a run the rest of the week."

"Excellent. A predictable pattern will help you regain a sense of control. How did you sleep last night?"

"Not great."

"Understandable after what happened."

"I tried my usual relaxation techniques, but none of them helped. And I've been tense all day today too." Thanks not only to the lake incident, but to the mystery of why she'd opened up to Jack Tucker about South Carolina and why he'd taken off so fast afterward.

"Why don't we do a visualization? I have a new one I can walk you through that's been effective for most people."

"At this stage, I'll try anything."

Lindsey eased back into the cushions, closed her eyes, and let herself travel to the garden Dr. Oliver described. She took in the expanse of colorful blooms as the grass tickled her bare toes, touched the velvety softness of the rose petals, inhaled their sweet fragrance, listened to the trill of a cardinal.

By the time they finished, her tension had melted away.

"Better?" Dr. Oliver smiled.

"Much."

"Shall we schedule another appointment for later in the week? I know we'd decided to scale back to monthly visits, but in light of all that's happened, it may be wise to see each other more often for a while."

"I agree. I'll call tomorrow and see if Margie can find me a slot during regular office hours."

He stood. "If you have any problem scheduling, let me know. And remember, if anything comes up, don't hesitate to call."

"I appreciate your accessibility."

"Always. Take care, and I hope you sleep better." He opened the private exit door.

"I'm sure I will."

She walked down the hall, her footsteps silent on the carpet in the professional building that was quiet at this hour, since most occupants were gone for the day.

Almost too quiet.

A shiver snaked through her, and she looked over her shoulder. Shook her head.

Must be the hypervigilance Dr. Oliver had mentioned. Not that caution was bad—as long as it didn't morph into paranoia. But he didn't seem overly concerned about that, nor about her mental state in general.

It was unfortunate Detective Tucker wasn't as convinced her mind was sound.

But what did it matter? Unless she remembered another relevant detail about James Robertson's killer, there would be no justification for further contact. And after his fast escape from her condo yesterday, he wasn't likely to seek her out.

Which was good, given her feelings about him. After all, while he exuded professional competence, he also came with a ton of baggage as far as she was concerned. And that wasn't a complication she needed in her life.

Yet as she hurried toward her car in the November darkness, the notion of not seeing him again didn't offer much solace.

Odd.

But whatever the explanation for that reaction, she'd get over it. If she never had to talk about the Robertson case again it would be too soon. And what were the odds another incident like yesterday's would bring them together?

Slim to none, which suited her fine. She could do without any more excitement in her life for the foreseeable future.

After sliding behind the wheel of her car, she locked the doors and tossed her purse onto the seat beside her.

Going forward, she'd follow Dr. Oliver's advice. Stick with her routine. Keep everything as normal as she could. Try not to worry about her mental state.

And hope nothing else happened to rock her life as that unseen force had rocked her scull in the early morning hours yesterday at Creve Coeur Lake.

THIS WAS HIS CHANCE.

Eric braced as Heidi Robertson exited her husband's office early Tuesday evening, long after most of the employees had left for the day and hours after she'd met with the key leadership for a briefing on financials and pending deals.

Fabricating an excuse to extend his day hadn't been difficult, even if it was out of pattern. But she didn't know anything about his usual work schedule, so this aberration wouldn't raise any red flags with her. And hanging around, waiting for an opportunity to talk to her alone, was about the only way he'd be able to get a handle on her personality along with a few insights into her business acumen, as Nolan had directed.

"Good evening, Ms. Robertson." He stepped forward as she strode toward the exterior door.

She paused, faint parallel creases denting her forehead. "Good evening."

He introduced himself and explained his role in the company. "I wanted to express my condolences on the loss of your husband."

"Thank you." She opened her purse and pulled out her keys.

"If there's anything I can help you with here at the office while you get up to speed on the business, please let me know."

"I appreciate that." She glanced at her watch.

Not the most friendly person he'd ever encountered—but she'd just lost her husband, and people manifested grief differently.

If he didn't get her talking, however, he'd only be able to offer impressions, not information. Insufficient for a man like Nolan.

"I, uh, hope the police find answers for you quickly." An awkward segue, but it was the best he could come up with on the fly.

"They haven't found anything yet." The creases on her brow deepened. "Our chef was in the kitchen, but the only detail she's remembered hasn't been helpful."

What detail was that?

Did it have anything to do with the conversation between Nolan and Robertson?

If there was a diplomatic way to ask that question, it eluded him.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Well, I suppose she could remember more." She jiggled her keys. "Your name came up in the meeting this morning, in reference to a strip mall my husband was interested in acquiring. I believe you've been doing the due diligence on it, correct?"

"Yes."

"I'd like to go over the financial analysis with you Thursday. I'll be here part of the day. It seems to be an attractive opportunity. The balance sheet is impressive, and the income stream has been steady."

His pulse skittered.

That news wouldn't please Nolan.

Nor would he be happy to hear that Heidi Robertson appeared to have a decent mind for business.

"It does look solid on paper, but there are a few liabilities that don't show up in the numbers."

"Let's talk about them on Thursday. Have a nice evening." She continued down the hall.

He remained where he was until the door closed behind her, debating next moves.

Should he text Nolan?

Sweat broke out above his upper lip, and he swiped it away.

Why not wait until after he met with their new CEO? A quick conversation in the hall didn't provide much basis for evaluation. It was possible she wasn't as savvy about business matters as their brief exchange suggested.

Yet as he returned to his office to get his coat, Eric faced the truth.

Heidi Robertson wasn't an airhead trophy wife, as the office staff had joked when James married her eight years ago after his spouse of thirty-four years died of cancer.

She was smart—and from all indications more than capable of stepping into her husband's shoes. Perhaps all along, despite the low profile she'd kept, she'd been his trusted partner on the business front too. In fact, she might be as ruthless as he'd been. Potentially worse, since James had become more hard-hitting and less lenient about mistakes after his marriage.

None of which boded well for Nolan's plans to get the strip mall. Nor did it provide an incentive for him to pay off the insider who was supposed to smooth the path for a deal of a lifetime that seemed less and less likely to happen.

Meaning Nolan could resort to more drastic measures to beef up his odds.

Eric exhaled a shaky breath.

All he could do was hope that come Thursday, whatever case he built would convince Heidi to write off the strip mall and finally get him out of the corner he'd painted himself into.