Chapter 5

Five

"THANK YOU FOR EXTENDING your office hours to see me, Dr. Oliver." Lindsey rose as the psychologist, attired in his usual sport coat and open-necked shirt, greeted her from the waiting room doorway.

"I'm always happy to accommodate clients, especially in the aftermath of a trauma." He ushered her through the door. "Would you like water or another beverage?"

"I'd love coffee, but that won't help my sleeping problem. Water is fine."

"Make yourself comfortable while I get you a bottle."

He continued down the hall to the tiny kitchenette as she detoured to the familiar office where she'd spent countless hours over the past eighteen months. Though her visits had tapered off, having this resource to tap into after everything that had happened three days ago was a godsend.

"Here you go." Dr. Oliver rejoined her as she claimed her favorite seat—a comfortable, cushy wing chair that wrapped its comforting arms around her.

She took the water and twisted off the cap while he sat in the more modern chair angled toward hers in the cozy conversation nook. "I'm sorry to keep you so late." She motioned to the second-floor window that overlooked the tree-rimmed parking lot, where pole lights cast ghostly pools of illumination in the darkness. "That's not the best way to start the work week."

"I knew this wasn't a nine-to-five job when I signed on." His calm, welcoming manner imbued the room with tranquility.

The tension in her shoulders began to ease. She owed her therapist in South Carolina a huge debt for researching and recommending Dr. Oliver. Given his empathy, keen insights, and ability to guide without directing, it was amazing he hadn't had a long waiting list of potential clients.

"I promise not to take up too much of your evening."

"I'm in no hurry." As if to demonstrate that, he leaned back and crossed an ankle over a knee. "It sounds as if Friday's experience has set you back a bit."

"More than a bit, based on this weekend." She sipped her water and set it on the side table next to her. "Like I said on the phone, the nightmares are back."

"Are they disrupting your sleep?"

"Yes."

"How many hours have you clocked since Friday?"

"I don't know. Nine or ten, total? Once I wake up, I can't get back to sleep. None of my usual de-stressing techniques have worked—breathing exercises, progressive muscle relaxation, visualization."

"That's not surprising. Friday's incident is very fresh. Why don't you walk me through it, then we'll talk about what you've been experiencing in the aftermath, and end with a guided visualization. Sound like a plan?"

"All except the retelling of Friday's event."

"I understand your reluctance to revisit that, but to best help you I need to have a sense of what happened. You don't have to go into great detail. An overview of the situation would suffice."

"Okay. I'll try." Linking her fingers, Lindsey launched into a topline of the story she'd told Detective Tucker.

Dr. Oliver jotted a few notes as she talked but otherwise gave her his full attention, as usual.

"So you were in close physical proximity to the killer."

"Yes. At one point, three feet. All I could see was their legs, but I was terrified they'd s-spot me." An echo of the mind-numbing fear that had clutched her as she huddled under the island swept over her again. "I knew I could be seconds away from death."

"Like last time."

"Yes." She took a sip of water, holding the bottle with both hands. "I mean, how many people encounter one life-and-death situation, let alone two? The whole thing was surreal. Like lightning striking twice."

"Yet you survived both experiences."

"With major fallout."

"Aside from dealing with the lingering shock anyone would experience after the situation you described, tell me your biggest concern."

"I'm not certain." She chewed on her lower lip as she pondered the question. "I guess ... I guess I'm scared because this person is still out there. What if they find out I was in the kitchen? That I saw them?"

"Have you been publicly named as a witness?"

"Not that I know of. But what if that information leaks?"

Dr. Oliver sat back and tapped his pen against the edge of his notebook. "Let's apply logic to this. From what you said, you weren't able to tell the police anything that would help them identify the person. Even if that person finds out you were there, they know their features were masked. Is it possible your concerns are overblown?"

As always, Dr. Oliver was the voice of reason.

"Yes. And the left side of my brain accepts that. The right side, however, isn't convinced."

"Then let's focus on the right side. Tell me about the dreams you've been having."

"They're strange and disjointed, with elements from both of the events I experienced."

"Again, not surprising. In the mind, trauma is trauma. Events that evoke similar emotions can meld together. Tell me how the dreams have played out."

Lindsey relayed the bizarre sequences that had kept sleep at bay for the past three nights. Shook her head. "I told you they don't make sense. I mean, why would I put the guy's scarred hand from the grocery store in South Carolina with the boots I saw at—" A vague image flashed through her mind, and she halted. Tried to bring the fuzzy picture into focus.

"What's wrong?"

"I don't know." She knitted her brow. "For a second, I thought I was remembering a detail about the killer's boots—or overshoes—but now it's gone."

"It wouldn't be unusual for details to begin to emerge as the initial shock subsides."

"That didn't happen with the South Carolina situation."

"Every case is different. Or it could be that what you think you're remembering is only part of your fabricated dream, with no basis in reality."

She forced up the corners of her mouth and tried for a teasing tone. "Are you telling me I'm beginning to imagine things?" That was a scary thought.

"No. I'm suggesting it's important to realize that trauma can mess with the brain." He set his notebook aside. "In times of turmoil, routine can restore a sense of normalcy. I'd recommend sticking with your usual schedule as much as possible for the immediate future. Are you still rowing twice a week?"

"Yes—weather permitting. I didn't row last week, but I'll keep going as long as I can until it gets too cold on a regular basis."

"And you're running?"

"Every day I don't row. But I didn't do either this weekend. Other than church, I stayed home and locked the door."

"Perfectly fine in the immediate aftermath of a frightening experience. A return to routine as soon as possible may be helpful, though."

"I intend to pick up the running again tomorrow and the rowing on Wednesday. And I'm not planning to cancel my Horizons cooking class on Tuesday."

"Excellent. Any concerns about going back to the scene of the crime for your job?"

"Some. I'm sure Chad Allen feels the same way."

"The handyman you mentioned, who was also on-site during the incident?"

"Yes. I know him and his wife from church. And his wife is taking a cooking class from me. Nice couple. Probably as much in need of encouragement as I am. I'm trying to stay in touch, but it's hard to offer reassurance when you're on shaky ground yourself."

"Then let's do our best to get you off that shaky ground. Why don't we schedule another session for Thursday and end today with the visualization I mentioned?"

"That works for me." She settled back in her chair.

"I know you like to use your morning row as a visualization when you do this on your own, but today let's travel to that white-sand beach you enjoyed on your trip to Antigua a few years ago." He tapped an app on the phone beside him, calling up soothing music. "Go ahead and close your eyes. Concentrate on filling your lungs. Slow and easy. Now let the air out, slow and easy. Picture the stress leaving your body along with your breath."

As Lindsey listened to his mellow baritone and followed his instructions—calling up an image of the turquoise sea, the taste of salt on her tongue, the caress of the warm breeze, the pliant sand squishing between her toes, the lulling cadence of the lapping waves—her tension melted away.

Fifteen minutes later, as Dr. Oliver brought her back to reality, the restless agitation that had plagued her had dissipated.

"Better?" He smiled at her.

"Much."

"I'll alert Margie you'll be calling tomorrow and tell her to work you in on Thursday." He rose. "Let me walk you out."

Bottle of water in hand, she followed him to the door that offered clients discreet access to the hall in the professional building. "Thank you again for going above and beyond."

"My pleasure. And remember I'm here anytime if you need to talk. Since the beach visualization worked well today, try it again tonight if you can't sleep."

"I will."

Hoisting her shoulder tote into position, Lindsey left his office behind and strode down the quiet corridor that led to the outside door, mulling over the session.

What Dr. Oliver had said about routine being helpful made sense.

So beginning tomorrow, she'd do her best to forget those terrifying minutes in the Robertson kitchen and stop worrying about the possible repercussions of sharing a room with a murderer.

After all, as her psychologist had pointed out, the perpetrator didn't know she'd been there. And if they did find out, she'd seen nothing that would incriminate them. They had no reason to target her.

She had to set aside foolish fears and get on with her life. She'd survived, and she was safe.

There was nothing to worry about.

"THANKS FOR BUMPING our dinner up a day, and sorry I'm late. A glitch at the scene delayed me, and I had a call while I was in the parking lot."

As a breathless Bri slid into the chair across from him at their favorite neighborhood eatery, Jack sized up his sister. The long hours she worked as an investigator with the St. Louis Regional Bomb & Arson Unit sometimes took a toll, but tonight she was animated and energetic despite the tiring rigor of poking through a fire scene and the aftereffects of a job-related near-death experience nine days ago.

"From the sparkle in your eyes and the flush on your cheeks, I presume the call in the parking lot was from the new boyfriend."

She waved his comment aside and picked up the menu. "You know better than to trust circumstantial evidence."

"A preponderance of circumstantial evidence is compelling. Like reading the menu you know by heart from the restaurant we come to every other Tuesday."

With a wry twist of her lips, she set the bill of fare down. "Fine. It was Marc. He said to tell you hello. You're lucky he doesn't hold that overprotective-brother act you pulled at your first meeting against you."

"We reached an understanding. Besides, after I saw him in action when that nutcase went after you, he got my stamp of approval."

"I'm sure he'll be relieved to hear that."

He ignored her droll tone. "You doing okay?"

"Yep. Other than a few bruises that are disappearing as we speak." She tapped her cheek, where the black-and-blue contusion was fading to yellow.

"Getting back to the new man in your life—I've been thinking."

"Uh-oh. That could be dangerous."

"Ha-ha. I'm trying to be serious here."

She folded her hands on the table. "Lay it on me."

"Now that Marc's in the picture, maybe we should rethink our locked-in-stone every-other-Tuesday dinners. Be more flexible going forward."

She stared at him. "Why?"

"In case Marc wants to see you on one of those nights. I don't want to stand in the way of romance or alienate a potential future brother-in-law."

"Aren't you getting ahead of yourself? We just started dating."

"To borrow fire investigation lingo, I suspect this relationship will rapidly combust."

Her slow smile confirmed his take. "I have the same feeling." Then she grew more serious. "But I'm not throwing you and Cara over. Marc knows we're the Three Musketeers, and that will never change. So don't even think about trying to stand me up for our Tuesday dinners. Got it?"

Warmth filled him at her passionate declaration.

It was inevitable that marriage would eventually alter the dynamics in their small family circle, but it was heartening to know Bri would continue to consider the sibling relationship a priority and that Marc was on board with that.

"Got it."

"Good." She selected a roll from the basket on the table as the server arrived to take their orders, picking up the conversation after they were alone again. "I hear you're the lead on the Robertson case."

"Yeah."

"You landed a big one."

"Luck of the draw."

"Not buying. Your boss knows you're tenacious—and cool under fire. The latter is an important asset when the press comes to call. And they'll be all over this one."

"I don't talk to reporters."

"Excellent strategy." Surveying the dining room from the secluded corner table that offered an expansive view of the restaurant, she lowered her voice. "Any leads?"

"Nothing solid." In truth, nothing period. The killer seemed to have vanished into thin air.

"No one in the neighborhood or the park behind the house saw anything suspicious? Nothing on security cameras?"

"No. And the witness couldn't offer anything helpful, either."

Bri stopped chewing. "You have a witness?"

Whoops.

This was why he didn't talk to reporters. It was too easy to let important pieces of information slip that were well known to the detectives working the case but news to the public.

Except Bri wasn't public. She was one of them.

No harm done.

"That fact isn't for general consumption."

"My lips are sealed." She made a zipping motion across her mouth. "Someone saw the murder?"

"No. The perpetrator. After the victim was dead." He gave her the bare bones.

"Whoa. That had to be super scary for her. Was she a wreck?"

"I wouldn't go that far, but she was shook."

"Who wouldn't be?"

"True." He unfolded his napkin and draped it across his lap. "But she was also kind of ... cool."

As the words tumbled out, he mashed his lips together.

Blast.

Why had he mentioned Lindsey Barnes's attitude? His perceptive sister wasn't likely to let that slide by or miss the nuance in his inflection.

Bri inspected him. "Cool as in composed, or cool as in unfriendly?"

His sister's ability to pick up subtle cues only got better with age.

"Closer to unfriendly."

"It's possible cops spook her. Did you run her?"

"Yes. She's clean. And she was nice to Meyers."

He stifled a groan. What was with his case of motormouth tonight? That wasn't information Bri needed to know.

"Did you rub her wrong? You can be off-putting in interrogation mode, you know. Ask Marc."

"I wasn't off-putting. I was nice."

"Hey, don't get all defensive. I'm on your side." She broke off a piece of her roll and swiped it through the pat of butter on her plate. "Why do you care about her attitude anyway?"

"I don't."

Too strong, Tucker. Dial it back.

Affecting nonchalance, he took a roll from the basket.

"Yeah, you do." She examined him the way she used to study the pieces of a puzzle she was trying to put together when she was a kid. "The question is why."

"Can we please eat our dinner and forget about work tonight?"

"How old is this woman?"

Apparently Bri wasn't in a forgetting mood.

"Thirtysomething."

"Pretty?"

"Yeah."

"Single?"

"Unknown. But she wasn't wearing a ring." Pretending he hadn't looked would only raise more red flags. Single guys did ring checks on attractive women.

"I can see why you'd be upset." She bit into her roll and chewed.

He gave her a cautious glance. "You can?"

"Sure. It's an ego thing with men. You like to think you're appealing to the opposite sex even if you have no interest in a particular woman. But in this case, I'm thinking you do have an interest."

"Wrong. I know very little about her."

"You don't have to know a lot about someone for sparks to fly." She hummed a few bars of "Some Enchanted Evening."

He snorted. "You're just seeing the world through rose-colored glasses now that romance has entered your life. And for the record, there were no sparks."

"I'll concede there may be a rosy hue in my lens at present." She slathered more butter on her roll with her knife. "But you haven't convinced me about the lack of sparks. We'll have to get Cara's unbiased input at our next Sunday get-together—unless she comes up from Cape Girardeau sooner than that."

"No, we do not have to get her input. In fact, you can't mention this conversation to anyone. The witness angle is being kept under wraps."

Bri made a face. "Spoil sport."

Their salads arrived, and as they dug in, Jack changed the subject. It was never hard to get Bri to chat about her smokejumper days, or to reminisce with him about the adventures the two of them had shared during his trips out west to visit her during her previous high-risk career.

By the time they finished their shared dessert and walked out to the parking lot, his case—and Lindsey Barnes—had fallen off Bri's radar.

Yet as he drove away on the unseasonably balmy night, both were front and center on his.

In terms of the case, they needed a break soon or it was going to go cold fast and the perpetrator could walk.

As for Lindsey Barnes, unless he could get a handle on why her coolness bothered him beyond the ego ding Bri had suggested, he was going to be stuck with two unresolved issues that would eat at his gut until he had answers.

Which did not appear to be forthcoming on either front anytime in the immediate future.