Chapter 19

Nineteen

WHAT WAS LINDSEY DOING in the park in the middle of the afternoon?

Jack paused as he rounded the curve on the path that led to the scene of the supposed stabbing three days ago.

She was slouched on a bench under a towering oak that sported a few withered leaves clinging to their grip on life, fixated on the small cluster of pine trees where she'd said the attack happened.

Stay or go?

It wouldn't be difficult to beat a hasty retreat—but he ought to let her know he'd followed up on her text and had a conversation with Dr. Oliver. While the psychologist had thrown in more caveats than the lawyers who wrote those voluminous, eye-glazing terms of service agreements you had to sign for almost everything in today's risk-averse world, he'd been more cautious than negative about Lindsey's mental acuity.

As for the strange situations she'd found herself in? He'd had no definitive explanation for those.

But Bri's theory was gaining traction in his mind.

And it might be time to share that theory with Lindsey. Reassure her he was keeping an open mind and hadn't written her off as a nutcase—the conclusion she'd reached on Sunday, if he'd read the hurt in her eyes correctly as he'd left her place.

He resumed walking, greeting her from several yards away to warn her of his approach.

Despite his attempt to mitigate the startle factor, she jumped to her feet, spun around, and aimed a container of pepper gel his direction.

He halted and lifted his hands. "Hold your fire."

Color surged on her cheeks, and she lowered the canister. "Sorry. It doesn't take much to spook me anymore."

"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 a very long 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 tell you not 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.

Instead, he rose and positioned himself beside the bench next to her. "Be careful."

"My middle name."

She stepped up, onto the back of the bolted-down bench, and grabbed a sturdy branch to the left. Once she had a firm grip on it, she hoisted herself up onto the limb the boy had indicated. The Frisbee came loose with one tug, and she sent it sailing down before lowering herself back to the seat of the bench.

"Thank you, lady." The boy grinned up at her.

"Happy to do it."

Jack held out his hand to assist her down, and she took it in silence, descending to the ground mere inches away from him.

"One crisis averted. I wish all of them were as simple to fix." Her tone was light, but her eyes continued to probe.

At least she hadn't asked him why he'd let her do the climbing, despite her obvious curiosity.

"So do I."

She played with the zipper on her jacket. "Well ... I have to get busy on the dessert I'm contributing to tomorrow's dinner, so I best get at it. And I know you want to take a look around here. I should head home."

"Did you walk over?"

"No. I drove. I used my rowing machine this morning, which is more than sufficient exercise for today." She eased back a hair. "If you get cold out here and want to, uh, stop in for a cup of hot chocolate after you're finished, feel free. I also have coffee, but my hot chocolate is legendary." She displayed a dimple he'd never noticed. Or maybe she'd just never given him that kind of smile before. "No need to commit now. See how you feel after you're done. And if you decide to pass, happy Thanksgiving."

"You too."

"Thanks." She lifted her hand and took off at a fast clip for her car.

He watched her go, mulling over the tempting idea of detouring to her condo for a cozy get-together over hot chocolate.

Could there be a better prelude to Thanksgiving?

But if he accepted, would she expect an explanation for his odd reluctance to climb up and pluck the boy's Frisbee from the tree?

And if she asked him about it, what would he say?

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he wandered toward the copse of trees where the alleged stabbing had taken place. The odds of finding any evidence to substantiate Lindsey's claims were about as dismal as the odds of him finding a cure for his fear of heights.

And until a few minutes ago, he'd also have classified the odds of him sharing the cause of that phobia with anyone as equally dismal.

Somehow, though, the thought of giving Lindsey a peek into his background wasn't as stomach churning as he'd expected. And the explanation for his change of heart was simple. The appealing personal chef had gotten under his skin, as Bri had already discerned.

So since Dr. Oliver had seen more evidence of trauma than psychosis, it might make sense to begin opening up a bit in anticipation of the day when this strange and unsettling chapter was behind them and they could move on to a more personal relationship.

He stopped at the edge of the trees to assess the scope of his reconnaissance task, then began a methodical if informal grid search of the area, as he'd done on Sunday. Hoping for more productive results this go-round.

What he found or didn't find here, however, had no bearing on his decision about whether to take Lindsey up on her invitation. That involved a leap of faith with no basis in empirical evidence. It was all about the heart. And trust. And laying the groundwork for the future.

It was also heavily contingent on whether he could dig deep for the courage to dredge up his terrible memories and reveal to her the source of the scars he'd never shared with a living soul.

HE WASN' T COMING.

Quashing a pang of regret, Lindsey poured the filling over the crust in the springform pan, slid her contribution to tomorrow's dinner into the oven, and set the timer.

Now what?

Pie.

Why not make a pie too? Focus on baking instead of dwelling on the handsome detective who, sad to say, didn't appear interested in her despite his chat with Dr. Oliver.

Doing her best to think pleasant thoughts about the holiday dinner tomorrow at Madeleine's, she preheated her second oven, mixed together the crust ingredients, rolled out the dough, and fitted it into a pie pan. After crimping the edges, she pricked the bottom all over with a fork and brushed it with an egg wash.

No doubt Madeleine already had someone lined up to bring a pumpkin pie, but was it ever possible to have too much pie? And Thanksgiving was all about leftovers anyway, so—

Ding dong.

Lindsey's heart lurched.

Had Jack decided to take her up on her invitation?

Wiping her hands down her apron, she hurried toward the front door and peeked through the peephole.

The blue-eyed detective stood on the other side, wind ruffling his hair, cheeks ruddy from the cold.

Her pulse tripped into double time.

He must be interested after all.

Or perhaps he'd found a piece of evidence to validate her claim about Sunday's attack.

Either would be welcome news.

Taking a calming breath, she opened the door.

The corners of his mouth rose. "Is the hot chocolate offer still valid?"

"Of course. No expiration." She moved back to allow him to enter. When a gust of wind followed him inside, she closed the door behind him. Fast. "Did you find anything?"

"No. I didn't really expect to, but hope springs eternal. I considered doing a second pass, but after the wind picked up and the temperature dropped, I had hot chocolate on my mind."

"I'll have it ready in a jiffy. May I take your coat?"

"Thanks." He shrugged it off and handed it over.

Lindsey opened the coat closet in the foyer, inhaling the faint, masculine scent emanating from the cold fabric as she slipped the jacket onto a hanger.

Whew.

She took longer than necessary fitting the garment into the closet, giving her cheeks a chance to cool down.

When she turned back, his killer smile remained in place. "It smells good in here."

Yeah, it did.

But he must be referring to the aromas wafting from the kitchen.

"Cheesecake's baking."

His eyebrows peaked. "Cheesecake for Thanksgiving?"

"I take it you're a pumpkin pie traditionalist?"

"Guilty as charged. But I like cheesecake too."

"This one has an Oreo crust and chunks of Oreos inside."

"Sold. I'd forfeit pumpkin pie for that any day."

"I could save you a piece." Now where had that come from? It sounded like she was angling for another excuse to see him.

Oh well.

The truth, indiscreet as it could be, had a way of slipping out.

But his next comment suggested he was fine with the idea of another social meetup. "If there's any left, I'll take you up on that. So is your baking done for the day?"

"Not quite. I decided to make a pie too. Why don't we go into the kitchen and I'll finish that up while we drink our hot chocolate?"

"That works."

He followed her to the back of the condo but remained standing while she pulled out a saucepan.

"You can sit." She motioned to one of the two stools at her counter.

"My parents had a rule. Nobody sits till everybody sits. Put me to work."

"I like that as a general rule for families, but guests are exempt."

"Not this one."

He wasn't budging.

Kind of nice, really.

"Well ... if you insist." She handed him a container of unsweetened cocoa powder. "Measuring spoons are in the drawer to the right of the sink. Sugar canister is on the counter above. You can add two tablespoons of cocoa and two tablespoons of sugar to the milk."

"Got it."

She measured two cups of milk into the saucepan and set it on medium heat.

While he completed his task, she pulled a bag of chocolate chips and a bottle of vanilla extract from another cabinet.

Once the milk was warm, she whisked in the chips and vanilla until the chips had melted.

"And now for my secret ingredient." She pulled out a bottle of peppermint schnapps from the cabinet under the sink. Added a splash.

"Aha. You're a mint lover."

"Can you think of a more perfect combination than chocolate and mint?"

"As a matter of fact, no. My mom's recipe for chocolate mint squares always gets rave reviews. I'll save you a couple next time I make them."

Another excuse to see each other again.

This day was getting better and better.

After stirring the hot chocolate again, she poured it into two mugs and topped it with whipped cream. "Enjoy."

He took a sip, which left him with an endearing white mustache. "Amazing."

Tapping her upper lip, she handed over a paper napkin. "One of the downsides of whipped cream, but so worth it."

"I agree." He wiped off the residue and motioned to her piecrust. "Are you going to blind bake that?"

She blinked.

He was familiar with blind baking?

While a fair number of men knew their way around a kitchen, most in her acquaintance stuck to the basics.

"Yes." She picked it up off the counter and slid it into the oven. "You seem to be familiar with some of the intricacies of baking."

"I learned to cook long ago. By necessity. These days I do it for fun on weekends. Nothing on the scale of a professional like you."

"Why did you have to learn to cook?"

He took a slow sip of his hot chocolate. "It's a long story. I don't mind telling it to you, but why don't we finish your pie first?"

We?

He wanted to help with that too?

A little shiver of pleasure rippled through her at his offer, which was odd. Cooking solo had always been her preference.

But the idea of having a partner in the kitchen was suddenly oh-so-appealing.

"If you're certain you want to help."

"I wouldn't have offered if I didn't."

"Okay. Then let's do this." She sampled her own hot chocolate and positioned the recipe for him to see. "I'll put the pumpkin, brown sugar, and eggs on the counter. You can measure them and whisk everything together while I get the rest of the ingredients out."

"Sounds like a plan."

As he went to work and she began collecting the spices, cream, and milk, it was clear Jack was at home in the kitchen. She didn't have to tell him to pack the brown sugar, or remind him to be precise in his measurements, or show him how to whisk.

"You're good at this." She pulled the cream from the fridge and started back to the island.

He hiked up one side of his mouth. "Thanks. That's quite a compliment, coming from a pro. How did you become a chef, anyway? Did you follow in the footsteps of someone in your family?"

She froze at the innocent but loaded question.

While Madeleine had gleaned bits and pieces of her background, only Clair knew the whole story.

Yet all at once she was tempted to share it with the handsome detective whose calm demeanor, quiet competence, and caring manner had helped her navigate the turbulent waters that had roiled her life these past three weeks.

But should she, at this early stage of their relationship?

Or was her less-than-rosy history with her parents best kept under wraps until a stronger foundation of trust had been established?