Chapter 18

Eighteen

"YOU BEAT ME HERE AGAIN."

As Bri greeted him and claimed her usual seat for their bi-weekly Tuesday night dinner, Jack set his cell on the table. "I was in the area for a case follow-up and finished early. No point going back to the office. I can do email anywhere."

"I hear you." She hung her purse on the back of her chair and inspected him. "You look tired."

Not surprising. That's what happened when you tossed for two nights in a row and only clocked a handful of hours of sleep, thanks to an unsolved murder case and a personal chef in whom you'd taken far too much personal interest.

"Work's busy."

"Yeah?" She didn't seem convinced. "Work's always busy. What else is going on? Is there a new development with the Robertson case that's causing you to lose sleep?"

"Not exactly."

Their server arrived before Bri could respond, but as soon as he took their order and left, she morphed back into inquisitor mode.

"Explain that."

Naturally she'd home in on his vague answer.

He picked up the basket of rolls and held it out. "Have one."

"I'd rather have an explanation." She took a roll anyway, her expression growing speculative. "I'm thinking your insomnia is related to your witness."

He tried not to gape at her.

How on earth did she do that?

More importantly, how much should he share with her? She was a clear thinker, and he could use a sounding board at this stage. Plus, since she already suspected he was attracted to Lindsey, what did he have to lose by getting her take?

"Give the lady a gold star." He took a roll.

"I knew it." She leaned forward. "She's gotten under your skin, hasn't she?"

"Let's just say I find her intriguing."

"There are worse places to start a relationship."

"Our relationship is professional."

"I wouldn't expect anything less—for now. Doesn't mean more can't develop. Like with Marc and me."

"This is a whole different scenario, with very different obstacles."

"Such as?"

Jack shook out his napkin. Draped it across his lap.

How much could he say without giving away secrets he'd never shared with anyone? Not Mom or Dad. Not his sisters. Not the counselors who'd tried to help him after he entered the foster program.

But his background was a big stumbling block with Lindsey, so he'd have to touch on it without going into detail.

"There was an incident Sunday." He gave Bri a quick recap of the report Lindsey had called in, as well as the other strange situations she'd encountered and the tense standoff she'd been pulled into in South Carolina.

His sister exhaled as he finished. "Wow."

A gross understatement that didn't come anywhere close to capturing his feelings.

"It's a boatload to deal with. For her and for me."

Twin grooves appeared in Bri's forehead. "So let me clarify. The incident in South Carolina happened. That's documented. The murder happened. There's a body. But there's nothing to support her claims about the car or lake or stabbing, correct?"

"Yes."

"Huh." She focused on a spot over his shoulder, her brain clearly working overtime. "I think I see the problem. You like her, but you're worried she's having a mental breakdown."

"Or worse."

"What could be worse?"

He shrugged. "She could have psychological issues, period. Maybe long-standing in nature, which have been exacerbated by recent events."

"Does she come across as unstable?"

"No. But everything that's happened has thrown her for a loop. I think she's beginning to question her grasp of reality."

Bri snorted. "Who wouldn't, if they'd gone through everything you described? Has she gotten any professional help to deal with all that?"

"Yes. Here and in South Carolina."

"That's a positive sign. It means she recognizes she's in over her head."

"The thing is ... what if she does have ongoing issues—and always will?"

Bri tapped her two index fingers together. "You're thinking of your birth mom, aren't you?"

He tried not to let his shock show. "Why would you ask that?"

"Come on, Jack. We grew up in the same house. Even though you never talked much about her, and Mom and Dad were close-mouthed, I could read between the lines. I don't know what she did to you, but I always assumed it was bad. And I also got the sense it was way outside the realm of normal child abuse—if the terms normal and child abuse can be used in the same sentence. That she may have had psychological issues."

Good luck to any arsonist who tried to put one over on his smart, perceptive sister.

"She did." And he wasn't going to offer any details about them. Now or ever. "That's not a place I want to visit again."

"It's also problematic for your case, isn't it? I mean, if your witness is unreliable, anything she remembers about the killer will have to be taken with a grain of salt, right?"

"Yes."

"A double whammy." She leaned back. Folded her arms. Pursed her lips. "Have you considered talking to her therapist? With her permission, of course. Just to get a better read on her mental state?"

"She offered that."

"Take her up on it. An unbiased professional opinion may help you get a handle on whether her issues are trauma-induced or longer-term in nature."

"It feels like an invasion of privacy."

"It isn't if she offered. Get over the guilt complex." She leaned forward again. "What's your take on her stories about the car and lake and stabbing?"

He picked a loose crumb off his roll. Mashed it between his fingers. "I think she thinks they happened."

"What if they did?"

He peeled the squashed crumb off his skin. "There's no evidence in any of those cases to support her claims."

"But they could have happened, right?"

"The car and lake, possibly. The attack in the park? Doubtful. I had our best crime scene tech go over the area. Hank found nothing."

"Maybe someone didn't want him to find anything."

He narrowed his eyes as her meaning registered. "Are you suggesting the attack may have been staged?"

"I'm trying to think outside the box. That said, I admit the notion of a setup is bizarre. Out in left field. A stretch. But is it possible? Yes."

Jack stared at the salad the server set in front of him and declined a sprinkling of pepper. There was more than enough spice in his life already.

While Bri conferred with the man about changing a side for her order, Jack ran her idea through his mind.

It was kind of crazy—but her approach was rational. When investigating any case, a competent detective took all possibilities into account, no matter how off-the-wall they were.

As he should have done in this case. Would have done if he hadn't let personal feelings for a witness and his own history interfere with his usual sound judgment.

If nothing else, why not take Bri's advice and meet with Lindsey's psychologist? If the man's verdict raised no red flags, it might be time to devote serious brainpower to his sister's theory.

"Does your silence mean you think I'm losing it too?" Bri arched her eyebrows at him as she dug into her salad.

"No. I think your idea may have merit. At the very least it gives me food for thought."

"Excellent. While you chew on that, let's concentrate on the food at hand. I'm starved after working through lunch today, thanks to a new case that landed on my desk."

He listened as she described the probable arson scenario, but his star witness remained top of mind.

It was hard to believe someone would move her car, go scuba diving at Creve Coeur Lake, and fake an attack in a park. That was extreme.

But if you'd committed murder and were afraid the sole witness could remember an incriminating detail, you might be willing to push the envelope to discredit that witness in order to save your hide.

It was a definite stretch—perhaps even grasping at straws—but if Lindsey's psychologist gave him a positive report, he wasn't going to discount any theory that provided a rational explanation for the strange experiences she'd had since this case began.

"LINDSEY, I'M SORRY we couldn't get you in sooner. We've been slammed with one crisis after another this week." Dr. Oliver joined her in his office, closing the door behind him.

"No worries. I'm getting to be a nuisance, aren't I?"

"Never." He took his seat and set a large mug of coffee on the table beside him.

She did a double take. "I don't think I've ever seen you drink coffee." Or anything other than water during their sessions.

"A rare exception to my no-caffeine rule. I was here twelve hours yesterday and it will be the same today. I needed an energy boost. Tell me what's going on."

"More of the same."

"Explain that."

As she gave him the rundown on what had happened Sunday, he sipped his coffee, expression unreadable.

When she finished, he set his mug down. "I can see why that would be very disturbing for you, both the experience itself and the lack of evidence to support your story. Are you certain the police investigated thoroughly?"

"Yes. The detective on the Robertson case called in the crime scene unit. He sent me a text yesterday to let me know they came up blank. I think his confidence in my reliability is plummeting." She fidgeted in her seat. "To tell you the truth, mine is too."

"You don't think what happened on Sunday was real?"

"It felt real. But if it happened the way I thought, wouldn't there have been some evidence? A few drops of blood, minimum?"

"That would be a reasonable expectation."

"So what's going on? Am I losing it?" She braced.

Eternal seconds crawled by as he mulled over her question.

When he at last responded, his tone was slow and measured. "I have to admit I'm a bit baffled. Nothing in our interactions up until now suggested to me that you had any deep-seated psychological issues. Nor did any of the case notes your therapist in South Carolina provided. However, we do have to factor in your recent ordeal at the Robertson house. You've had a lot to deal with over the past twenty-one months, and repeated trauma can take a toll."

"Could it make me imagine things that aren't real?"

"As a byproduct of trauma alone, that would be unusual. Stress can intensify symptoms of psychotic disorders, and it sometimes plays a role in hallucination episodes in a number of those illnesses, but I'm not seeing anything to suggest bipolar or delusional disorder. Likewise for schizophrenia. We could be moving toward PTSD, though. Tell me how you're doing emotionally. Are you feeling depressed?"

"A little. But wouldn't it be normal to be a bit down, with all that's been happening?"

"To some degree. If it gets worse than that, you need to let me know."

"I think I'm more anxious than anything else. I mean, I can't believe I imagined what happened Sunday. Or at the lake. The experiences are vivid in my mind. And I'm functioning fine in every other area of my life. Why would these two anomalies occur? And what if it happens again?"

"Did the police give you any opinion about your reports?"

"Not directly. The only one who's talked with me at any length about them is Detective Tucker. He hasn't said he has doubts about my mental stability, but that's what I'm picking up. Which brings me to a question. If I gave you permission, would you be willing to talk with him? Offer him a professional opinion about my psychological state?"

"May I ask why?"

She squirmed in her seat. That was a question she wasn't prepared to fully answer ... but if she couldn't share her feelings with Dr. Oliver, who could she share them with?

"Two reasons. First, I don't want him to discount me as a witness in the Robertson case. If he does, nothing I remember will be of any use to him in solving the murder. But I also ... well, he's a very nice man. I would hate for him to discount me on a personal level, either."

Dr. Oliver's lips flexed. "You like this man."

"Yes."

"Under those circumstances, I can see why his skepticism would be troubling. Yes, I can talk to him. He's welcome to call or come by. And I promise you I won't tell him anything I haven't told you."

Not altogether reassuring, but she wouldn't renege on her offer to Jack.

She forced up the corners of her mouth. "You did say not long ago that you didn't see any major cause for concern in terms of my mental state."

"True—but I do think we should be watchful. Should you continue to have these experiences or any new symptoms develop, I want to hear about them immediately. I don't like the trend line I'm seeing. If the depression worsens, or your anxiety intensifies, I want you to call me and I'll consult with your primary care doctor to discuss potential medications to help you over the hump."

She wrinkled her nose. "Medication would be a last resort for me. I don't even like taking it for panic attacks."

"Understood. It's just one other tool we have in our arsenal. Shall we end with a visualization?"

"I'm not certain that's necessary tonight. Talking with you was a huge help. And as the last client, I don't want to extend your already long day any longer than necessary."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." She picked up her bottle of water and her purse. "I'll have Detective Tucker reach out to you. Thanks for your willingness to talk to him."

"Not a problem."

He walked her to the door, and Lindsey picked up her pace down the hall toward the exit.

Thank goodness Dr. Oliver hadn't been alarmed by her story about what had happened on Sunday. Nor did he seem to think it necessarily indicated a mental breakdown.

But he knew her far better than Jack Tucker did. While a discussion with a credible source like him couldn't hurt, there was no guarantee it would dispel all—or even most of—Jack's doubts. Not after the recent bizarre events.

Truth be told, it didn't dispel all of hers, either.

She pushed through the outside door, cringing as a blast of cold air stung her cheeks.

Trying to prove what had happened at the lake was an exercise in futility. If someone had grabbed her ankle, all they'd had to do was swim away without leaving a trace. But why had there been no evidence of the stabbing in the park? What had happened to the woman? Why hadn't she reported the crime? How come the man with the knife had stopped pursuing the jogger who'd witnessed his crime?

Nothing added up.

Yet despite the lingering doubts lurking in the corners of her mind, with each passing day she was more and more certain that scenario hadn't been the figment of an overactive imagination. It had happened.

The dilemma was how to prove it.

She slid behind the wheel and put the car in gear.

Maybe she ought to venture back to the park. Poke around herself. It was possible the County crime scene unit had missed something, wasn't it?

Not likely, Lindsey.

She blew out a breath.

Fine. It was a long shot. But what could it hurt to take another look around after her two cooking gigs tomorrow? There were always a few walkers in the park in the afternoon. Probably more than usual, with many people starting their long Thanksgiving weekend. It wasn't as if she'd be there by herself again. And she'd keep her pepper gel at the ready.

Worst case, she'd find nothing and end up exactly where she was now.

But sitting around passively while people questioned her sanity was getting old.

At least she could make an attempt to find one tiny piece of proof that would help convince Jack his key witness in the Robertson case wasn't coming unglued.