Lotus Effect

by Trisha Wolfe

  Lotus Effect

  Trisha Wolfe

  Contents

  Dedication

  Quote

  Prologue

  1. Book of Chelsea

  2. In Her Wake

  3. Book of Chelsea

  4. Cold Case

  5. Book of Cameron

  6. Rivulets

  7. Book of Drew

  8. Open Ending

  9. Book of Cameron

  10. Discovery

  11. Notes of the Past

  12. Book of Cameron

  13. Ghosts

  14. Book of Him

  15. Charge in the Air

  16. Impulse Control

  17. Book of Drew

  18. Primal Instinct

  19. Perfect Storm

  20. Nexus

  21. Book of Dreams

  22. Prime Suspect

  23. Book of Drew

  24. Murder Board

  25. Emergence

  26. Downpour

  27. Collide

  28. You

  29. Body of Water

  30. That Night

  31. Of Past and Present

  Epilogue

  Cruel

  Also by Trisha Wolfe

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2019 by Trisha Wolfe

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Blue,

  If I Could Turn Back Time.

  There is the mud, and there is the lotus that grows out of the mud.

  ~Thich Nhat Hanh

  Prologue

  Rebirth

  Lakin

  I remember the way the water rippled from above. The silver light of the moon cast the waves in shimmering motion, as if staring at a theater screen, the movie reel jammed. The projection lamp melting the film.

  A life paused, halted. The fabric of time rippling around the seams.

  Later, a neurologist would tell me my nervous system was shutting down. My mind, deprived of oxygen, caused bursts of light to flicker across my vision, like one experiences right at the moment of death.

  There was no moon that night.

  There was only the lake, the vegetation, and my body.

  And him.

  Through rapidly firing synapses, as the Grim Reaper gripped my soul, I glimpsed his dark silhouette amid the shimmering waves. He drove a hand through the water surface and pulled me from the murky depth.

  A phantom. A figment of my imagination.

  There was no man.

  Only the lotus flowers floating above, their stalks tangling my hair and limbs at the bottom of the lake.

  There was only my death.

  1

  Book of Chelsea

  Lakin: Then

  I dreamed of my death before it happened.

  Between cramming for final exams and packing for spring break, I’d get momentary glimpses. Fleeting wisps, broken fragments of the dream that felt so surreal. I’d shove the abstract images away just as quickly as they came.

  It was only a dream.

  Then one day, when our Louis Vuitton bags were parked near the mahogany door, my passport in hand—because I just knew I’d forget it otherwise—it happened.

  I died.

  Right there in the entryway of the beautiful Spanish colonial.

  I still remember the sickening acid roiling my stomach. The noxious taste in my mouth as oily vomit clawed up my throat.

  I couldn’t stop looking at her hair. Like an angel’s, her platinum-blond locks were spun like white gold, wrapping her tan shoulders in a sun-kissed halo around her perfect figure.

  “I’m pregnant.”

  Two words imploded my world. Two little words that, when strung together, changed the course of my life.

  I could only stare at her. I’d dreamt this…

  “I just thought you should know.” She crossed her arms, pushing her ample cleavage near her slim throat.

  That night, during the fight that would lead to my meltdown, I would unleash every venomous slur and purge every question from my mouth that I should’ve raised there, but right then, I could only stare vacantly, the earth beneath my Guess wedges shifting me off kilter.

  I watched her walk away, down the driveway, her hips swaying.

  A sense of déjà vu snatched me. The edges of the dream bleeding in through my stupor.

  I knew this was going to happen.

  It wasn’t a prophecy, of course. Maybe a self-fulfilling one in a sense. The subconscious tickling the conscious, planting hints. Trying its damndest to reveal the truth that our waking minds are too stubborn to accept.

  Drew, my psych professor, the only man I had ever loved, had gotten one of his students pregnant.

  I crumpled to the marble foyer.

  I’d never felt so close to death as I did in that moment. Wanting the world to open up and swallow me—to end my humiliation and misery.

  I should’ve known. I heard it all the time…

  Be careful what you wish for.

  2

  In Her Wake

  Lakin: Now

  New chapter:

  It’s said the lotus represents purity. In Buddhism, the lotus flower is revered, its value to the human condition a staple in many proverbs and metaphors. Gautama Buddha often spoke of how the lotus came from the muddy sludge, and rose above to spring through the water surface unsoiled.

  Botanist and lotus expert Thomas Ryker explains the lotus effect more scientifically, describing the self-cleaning properties. As the lotus unfolds each morning, it cleanses itself of dirt and debris, the filth collecting in the dew and rolling off its leaves. The texture of the lotus leaf produces a hydrophobic ability: repelling water.

  I could go into further detail, expounding on the years of research I’ve devoted to this remarkable flower. I could also illustrate what I personally know from my own experience: the silky feel of the petals when submerged, the way the stalks cling to hair. How, despite the beauty on the water surface above, just below is a dark, desolate world—a shadow world—void of life. Where the stalks twine and trap like a spider’s legs, and no matter how hard you fight to escape, you’re forever entombed.

  A shiver crawls along my skin, and I hit Enter to start a new line.

  It’s a warped piece of irony, for such beauty on the surface is terrifying beneath.

  You can love and fear a thing all at once.

  I stop rocking and swipe the mouse pad, toggling the computer screen from one document page to the other. I do it again. Back and forth.

  Two documents are open on my Mac. Two incomplete novels. One has been incomplete for years. The other is a shiny new, blank page.

  My fingers probe for the rubber band around my wrist. I roll the pads of my fingers over the band as I think, then I flip back to the previous document and continue.

  I read a proverb—though I can’t recall by whom—that states knowledge dispels fear. Trepidation only exists because we do not understand what we fear. That, by uncovering the mystery, we slay our demons.

  This is my only hope as I endeavor to be as pure as the beautiful lotus that haunts me.

  That’s about as poetic as I’ll get on the subject. I’ve made many attempts to describe the lotus, what it signifies to me, since nothing scientific does it justice. I fail every time. And truthfully, my inability to describe what the lotus means to me goes much deeper than mere word choice.

  There’s a boiler of shame holding me back.

  Truth is, I’m not a botanist. I’m not a scientist. And after
failing to complete my major, sadly, I’m not a psychologist, either.

  I’m a true crime writer.

  And as a writer, I’m allowed to take certain creative liberties. Transforming people’s very real lives, their experiences, their pain and sorrow—that which I sharpen myself against—into a story. Readers want the truth. But they also want the fiction.

  That’s what sells books.

  My publisher sells a lot of books.

  The word deadline has become one I loathe.

  I tell myself the deadlines are what keep me from completing my own story, uncovering my own mystery…but after all this time, it’s getting harder to swallow that lie.

  Deep breath, and I flip over to the newest document.

  The Delany murder. What is the mystery? I ask the blank page.

  I push back in my glider, stare at the screen. The white page with the little blinking curser, a taunt. Writer’s block, I don’t believe in it. It’s a lame excuse we writers rely on when the simple truth is we’ve lost the imagination.

  No, I’m not blocked—I’m sidetracked.

  This is not my story.

  In order to weave a tale around the Delany murder, one needs all the pieces. I don’t have them. Not yet. For now, there’s a human element missing. Some facet of the victim or even the killer that is required to reveal the humanity.

  Fine. Invent it—that’s what I do.

  In Her Wake is the first book to investigate the gruesome Delany murder, and the woman behind the mystery…

  I write for half an hour, filling three pages with psych terms and raw, gritty details of the crime scene. Because, although that’s all I have at this point, I need to start the story somewhere. Even before I have the facts, before I fully immerse myself in the investigation, I need a glimpse into my opinion—as this is also how readers will first perceive the victim.

  I do this because my editor says I have a difficult time relating to people. She’s being polite, when what she actually means is people have a hard time relating to me. She claims my writing, although good, is stilted in the emotions department. Therefore, my first drafts are more technical, and my writing leaves her feeling distanced, removed from the characters.

  At least, that’s the feedback I got from my editor before she shredded my first book. I suppose it was the right choice, because that novel went on to hit the best-seller’s list.

  Sometimes, when I’m reading her notes, I feel like a fraud.

  Her: “More insight into the victim’s past.”

  Her: “More depth—give us raw emotion here.”

  And so on and so on.

  Then there’s the question of whether or not a writer of truth should weave themself into the narrative. I wondered this from the start, when I first began my descent into the realm of true crime writing. Every writer—whether of fact or fiction—imbues the pages with a part of themselves. It’s impossible not to. We slip into our characters, the dialogue, the prose. Like a thief, we creep onto the scene, hoping no one will notice.

  Only how much of oneself belongs in someone else’s story? I find it’s like walking a tightrope. Too much of the author’s narrative, and we’re regarded as indulgent. Too little, and we’re labeled pretentious, boring, or worse, derivative.

  My argumentative reply to my editor: the author cannot be the story.

  Yet, in order to create a brutally honest work, there must be layers of the author, bared, unvarnished. Exposed. Vulnerable. Woven throughout the story seams.

  I envy those who demonstrate this talent so effortlessly.

  Stretching my neck, I work out the kink, then brace my fingers over the keys. “Dig deep.” My editor’s advice still fresh, I write the best intro I can with my limited emotional range.

  This is the victim’s truth.

  As blood bloomed the murky water, pain sliced her insides, cold crushed her chest. Icy water filled her lungs.

  My fingers halt over the keyboard. I stop rocking.

  Was the water cold for the victim?

  A flitting wisp of a memory assaults me, then it’s gone. A cruel tease. Trying to hold on to a sudden flash from the past is like trying to grip a wiggling fish. My mind knows the memory will cause pain, so it quickly rids itself of the thought. Throwing the fish back in the lake.

  Lake.

  There it is again, the floating lotus bobbing up into my mind.

  You don’t belong here.

  Dammit. This is the third time I’ve attempted to begin this book, only to be sucked down by the undertow of the past. It’s why the book is open on my Mac now. Why I can’t quit toggling between documents.

  The victim’s death is too similar.

  I should’ve said no to this project.

  I snap the rubber band against my inner wrist as I focus on the differences between the crimes. There were no lotuses at the victim’s crime scene. I checked. It’s the first thing I look for when a floater case comes across my proverbial desk.

  The Delany case is the first drowned victim cold case I’ve agreed to work.

  “We don’t have to take this case…”

  Special Agent Rhys Nolan said this to me two weeks ago, and my answer at the time was: “If we don’t, who will?”

  Now, I’m wondering if his concern was valid, whether he was right to question if it would hit too close to home. The victim was discovered floating near the shore of a lake, stabbed. Drowned. Only a hundred miles separation between my crime scene and hers.

  I would have to be inhuman not to feel a connection—not to see a connection.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself. Looking for patterns that aren’t there.

  According to the medical examiner’s report, the victim was stabbed eight times. Rib cage to pelvis. Although that is an alarming near resemblance, Rhys would point out the disparities. The biggest of which is: There was no lateral laceration to her sternum.

  As for the absent white lotuses… The crime scene landscape is not an indicator; it’s based on the MO, or motive. The kill method. The victimology.

  Which I’ve pursued all before in search of my killer. I’ve exhausted the parameters.

  Against my acutely logical disposition, I even sought out a dream interpreter. To see if they could knock loose the suppressed memories. It failed, of course. My dream was not a premonition. It was conjured out of fear—fear of losing Drew.

  I don’t believe in omens.

  Past and present touch at different moments in our lives, like a blade of grass arcing in on itself. Events repeating. A scene already lived in a dream. Some refer to this as deja vu. Or a past life experience.

  I find if I explore hard enough, I can always find an explanation.

  Like Baader-Meinhof phenomenon; frequency illusion. My mind tries to form a pattern because it’s engineered to do so. After the attack, I saw white lotuses everywhere. They haunted me.

  Of course, I lived in Florida. Phenomenon or inevitability?

  Clearly, I’m not sentimental. I don’t give credence to fate or chance, and most phenomena can be explained away. Like, I probably never noticed them as much before. Prior to the event, a white lotus held no significance for me. It’s as simple as that.

  So I’ve accepted my new quest. Knowledge. Enlightenment. To uncover the mystery. If not for me, for others—to solve the riddle and bring them closure.

  This is how I got into true crime writing. Documenting closure is as close to the real thing as I may ever get.

  I shake out my hands, blow a forceful breath from my lungs. “It’s not my story.” I’ll keep uttering these words, like a rehearsal. “It’s about finding the victim’s killer.” Not mine.

  Because that’s the missing part, the link. The jagged puzzle piece that will eventually slip into place, giving me that moment of completion. Peace.

  I start a new paragraph.

  How did he select her?

  The killer’s link to the victim is always a mystery…until it’s not. Like the ending to almost a
ny story, it’s never very imaginative. Wrong place, wrong girl. What other reason could anyone have in taking Joanna Delany from this world in such a cruel way?

  Rhys and I will link the killer to the victim. No matter how tenuous, there’s always a nexus. They may have never crossed paths before, or they may have seen each other every day. No matter where the maze starts, both killer and victim are connected on a visceral level now. They are connected in a way that most people will never fully understand.

  This thought consumes me, and I stare at the page on the screen, not really seeing it. The screen wavers at the edges, and I blink hard. Rub my eyes.

  A flash of his hand reaching through the water...and then it’s gone.

  This time, I set my laptop on the hardwood floor and trek to my cluttered desk, grabbing a sheet from the printer tray.

  I sketch an outline of the flower, its stalk descending into the depths like a wiry tentacle. I recall, in that fleeting moment, thinking how rare it was to see a red lotus. It wasn’t red, of course. White tinged with my blood, a death filter, the inky color clouding the water.

  My hand stills over the outline of a man, his features blank. A throb pulses at my temples as I strain to recall…

  Nothing.

  Sometimes, when this moment surfaces in a dream, the face is of Officer Dutton. The first person I recall seeing afterward, when I awoke in the hospital room. Other times it’s Drew, my college professor and ex-boyfriend. The face takes on different features, different people from my life, always elusive.

  I curse and set the pencil down.

  Today is no different.

  “Just another day,” I say aloud, to the only other being in my small house.

  Lilly wraps her slender cat body along the glider footstool, her long tail coiling around the leg. She’s all black with a little pink nose. During the first year after, I found the silence the most unbearable part. As a kitten, Lilly chased away the quiet, brought life to my very dead existence.