Lotus Effect

by Trisha Wolfe

  Following my physical recovery, I did seek mental help. Another way to free the trapped memory of that night, but it proved useless. All the psychologist wanted to talk about was my feelings and coping mechanisms. Utterly useless to my case.

  Yet, Dr. Lauren did say one thing that resonated with me: We’re all connected.

  Because of this, I often envision the submerged, wiry stalks and vines all entwined at the bottom of the lake as everyone from my past. All linked in that dark, underwater world. Secrets trapped.

  Where I left them.

  I glance up, sneaking a glimpse of the murder board. A neurotic action from when I was obsessed with solving my case. A while ago, I draped a sheet over the whiteboard to hide the names and curb the compulsion.

  I’ve related to people differently my whole life. This, along with my failed memory, was an obstacle. An exploration into the human condition started me on a quest to uncover people and their connections to me before the event. That’s why I started the book.

  At first, I worked diligently on my case to find the truth.

  I thought a lot about Drew. How his actions led to that night. Was my young, naïve love for my psych professor the catalyst, or was he more centric?

  Or maybe Chelsea was the first tipped domino. Showing up at his door to announce her pregnancy catapulted me right into the arms of a killer.

  After nearly four years, I’m not any closer to narrowing it down than the case detectives were then.

  I have come to only one conclusion. Life is a twisted web of people and their actions.

  And we’re all at fault.

  My laptop sounds with the Skype jingle. I twirl my hair into a bun at my nape as I head to the glider, then plant my Mac on my lap. Rhys’s image fills the app screen.

  I accept the call. “Hale, what’s the progress on the Delany case?”

  No greeting. No formalities. I appreciate this about the agent.

  “Uh, witness accounts are sketchy at best.” I set the laptop on the footstool and grab a binder from the floor, leafing through the pages. “They were sketchy a year ago, to be honest. Of course, I did question the dog walker and the neighbor couple from the complex over the phone as an ‘investigative journalist’, so they may need a more authoritative voice in law enforcement to interview them for new leads.”

  “All right. Agreed,” Rhys says. “Have you contacted the mother yet?”

  I glance up from the reports. No use making excuses; I’m an open book to Rhys. “No. I’d rather you do so.”

  He brings the phone screen closer so I can see him clearly. “I want you to get comfortable talking to family members,” he says. “You have to get over your aversion.”

  “It’s not an aversion, per se.” Out of his view, I snap the band at my wrist. “I know my limitations. Family interviews are too important.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. That awkward throat clearing thing you do really grates on people’s nerves.”

  I twist my mouth sardonically. “Thanks.”

  His mouth tips into a smile. “You’re the one who values honesty. I’m happy to feed you flattering lies, instead.”

  I shake my head, moving on. “Could they have overlooked anyone?” By this, I’m referring to the assigned homicide detectives on the Delany case a year ago.

  He quirks an eyebrow. He’s attractive in that brutally cliché FBI agent way. If he didn’t care so much about solving cases and righting wrongs, he could star in his very own criminal justice TV show.

  “It’s always possible,” he confirms. “I’d have to canvass the neighborhood and place of employment myself, go door-to-door.” He releases a lengthy breath. “Lot of man hours.”

  Too quick for him to notice, hopefully, I glance around my empty house—empty all except for Lilly. “I can be there by tonight. My man hours are cheap.”

  He pulls his most contemptuous look. The Federal Bureau of Investigation comps the travel fair, but it’s Rhys who has to suffer the ungodly stack of paperwork. “I can’t do much more from Missouri,” I add. “We really need to question everyone again, and find out if the locals missed anything the first time around.” Which, not to rag on small-town cops, but they usually do. It’s politics. Not enough men, not enough pay, to work a murder case like this.

  Rhys concedes. “Might take a week, tops.” A flash of commiseration, then he says what’s really bothering him about this field trip. “It’s Florida, Hale. Are you all right with that?”

  The bobbing lotuses rise up, and I tamp them down. Back into the murky depth where they have resided.

  “I’ll be fine. Besides, Florida is a big state. West Melbourne is like, a hundred miles away from all that.”

  All that.

  My murder. My death.

  Killer never caught.

  Rhys nods uneasily. “All right, then. See you tonight. Be safe.”

  I pack quickly. I book a flight, order an Uber, and call my elderly neighbor to inquire if she can cat sit. She can, and so I give Lilly a thorough brush down before I leave, the sun just dipping behind the tree-lined horizon.

  At the airport, I fiddle with my keys as I await the boarding of my flight. Twirling the gray fob around the key ring, I stare at the USB drive I keep clipped to my key chain. The unfinished manuscript—the book—resides within the digital code. It goes with me everywhere. After my case officially went cold, I thought that, if I couldn’t solve my murder, then I could at least tell my story. I would purge it from my system. Cleanse my leaves like the lotus.

  But as I delved into that night, I realized I had very few facts. Worse, my memories never fully recovered. They’re a patched quilt of the sad and macabre moments that led up to the event.

  The event.

  My editor is right. I even distance myself from myself, referring to the brutal attack that took my life for sixty-seven seconds in an obscure way.

  Regardless, I couldn’t complete my story because I had no idea why I was targeted, and no clues as to whom the perpetrator was. So instead, I dove into true crime novels and read others’ stories. Getting small, gratifying glimpses of other victims and their closed cases.

  Closure. I was starved for it.

  That spurred me to start my own investigation into other unsolved cases, and the numbers were staggering. Statistically, one-third of murder cases go unsolved. Television and movies would have the public believe otherwise.

  And maybe that’s not such a bad thing, making would-be murderers think twice before committing the act if he or she believes they won’t get away with it.

  That was not the case for my attacker, however.

  That person found me at my most vulnerable and struck.

  A familiar ache blooms beneath my breastplate. Muscle memory, sparked by thought, of slashed ligaments and bone. The wounds healed, but my mind won’t let me forget. The phantom pain triggered by anxiety, stress. Anger.

  Likely the most significant reason as to why I’m unable to solve my own case. I’m too psychologically connected. In the time that Rhys and I have worked together, I’ve helped solve six cold cases. One becoming a best-selling novel. With a second book slated to release in six months. But the emotional blinders go on when I stare into my past.

  The closer I get to Florida, the more alive the pain becomes. A greeting from my former life.

  Welcome home.

  3

  Book of Chelsea

  Lakin: Then

  He wanted her the way I wanted to be her.

  Envy is a powerful and debilitating emotion. Stunting, all consuming. Jealousy can twist you into a gnarled creature, bent on self-destruction. Though at the time I felt powerless, as if the tighter I held on, the quicker the wispy tendrils slipped through my fingers.

  I was losing Drew.

  I saw it in his eyes. When he looked at her, called her name. He coveted her.

  I coveted her life. Sitting three rows behind Chelsea, I positioned myself so I could see the way she tossed her blond hair, the wa
y she chewed on her pen cap, the way her temples creased when she laughed at his jokes.

  She was every man’s fantasy. And every woman’s nightmare.

  But it was so much more than that; I craved to know more…look beneath the topical veneer she displayed for others, and dissect her. Open her up so I could learn what made her tick. How she appeared to be so open, made everyone around her love and hate her at the same time, while fearing being rejected by her.

  She was a study into everything that I wasn’t.

  I was attending the University of Central Florida on scholarship. Her affluent parents made donations to the school. I was poised at one end of the spectrum, and she the other—a much better fit for Drew. His own family held in high regard, knowing his doctorate would—finally—launch him to the proper level, where he would no longer have to teach.

  I majored in psychology. A senior, Chelsea was auditing the class. If I didn’t stop comparing myself to her, Drew said, I was going to drive myself crazy. There was nothing between them. It was all in my head. She wasn’t his type. He flattered her because their families moved in the same circles. He had to be polite. Besides, she was a student.

  So am I, I wanted to say.

  Insecurity is not attractive to men.

  But I couldn’t help myself. Couldn’t stop the obsessive thoughts. If I thought about it enough, somehow, I would prevent it from happening. Like wishing on a star; those dreams never came true.

  I knew she wanted him, in the way beautiful girls want men, so they can toss them aside afterward. Their stamp on the man’s backside like a grade of meat: processed.

  Me, on the other hand, I believed I had something special with Drew. I wasn’t outgoing. I was reserved, difficult to connect with, and Drew broke through my defenses. He swept in and shone a light on my dark little corner, and the fear of losing that intimacy…

  I couldn’t lose him, or what we had. The dread of it hollowed me out inside, and I felt sick, helpless.

  As much as I loathed what Chelsea was doing, I also hated myself for what her presence in my life was doing to me, flaunting my past, that other girl before Drew, right in my face. In a way, she reminded me of Amber—how my cousin’s vibrant, charismatic personality stole the spotlight.

  I was always second to Amber. As kids, she demanded all attention on her. But I loved her, my best friend, and I was content to at least follow in her shadow. I was shy back then, but it wasn’t until she was gone that I became withdrawn.

  Without Amber’s light, I didn’t want to see the world.

  That’s why, this time, I can’t let Chelsea win.

  Amber would make me stand up for myself.

  I push the unhealthy feelings down, down. Breathe. Drew has helped me overcome so much; he’s opened me up in a way that I never experienced before, and when I’m finally on the cusp of sloughing off the rest of the dead shell encasing me, Chelsea swirls onto the stage, a self-indulgent twister wreaking havoc.

  Class dismissed, I lingered near the doorway, pretending to check messages. I watched her lean over his desk, twirl her hair, her trilling laugh drowning out the rapid beat of my heart. I closed my eyes.

  One more week.

  Just another week and Drew and I would be leaving for spring break. Together. Away from temptations and fears. I’d have his undivided attention. I’d rekindle the spark that seemed to dwindle over the past couple of months.

  The longer I watched them together, the more helpless I felt. They looked good. A perfect fit. Desperation slithered in through my widening cracks.

  I have to stop this from happening.

  But my dream, still fresh, mocked me. I’d already seen how this ends.

  As Chelsea passed me, she tossed her hair, the ends smacking my cheek.

  I still remember the strawberry scent of her hair.

  4

  Cold Case

  Lakin: Now

  Here’s what we know about the Delany case:

  On Friday, March 23rd, 2018, at approximately 9:45pm, Joanna Delany was discovered dead at Lucent Lakes West. Joseph Meyer (pseudonym) was walking his dog (chocolate lab) on the pathway that abuts a man-made lake when he spotted what he first thought to be an animal washed up in the reed grass.

  The curious lab directed their course toward the body, and Joseph muttered a profanity when he realized it was a naked woman floating near the bank (according to his statement). There was no question if she was dead: her pale body was encased in mud and grass. Her skin bloated, opaque eyes wide and vacant. Joseph forced his dog away from the scene and dialed 9-1-1 from the pathway.

  Officer Leon Brady, a patrol officer with the WMPD (West Melbourne Police Department), responded to the call. Upon Officer Brady’s arrival, he radioed the precinct to request the on-duty homicide detective. Then he proceeded to question Joseph and take his statement.

  Detective Orson Vale and trainee detective Allen Right ordered CSU to rope off the area around the victim and backside of the lake within ten minutes of their arrival to the crime scene. Detective Vale then requested the medical examiner and proceeded to inspect the scene and question the witness himself.

  What followed, according to the reports, was standard procedure in a homicide investigation. No glaring mistakes of protocol or oversights stand out. But no foremost insight from either detective or major crimes, either.

  The first hours in a murder investigation are crucial. Most of your pertinent information comes in during the first twenty-four hours on the case. Victim ID. Next of kin. Cause of death. The trifecta to help point the way to the prime suspect.

  Which, during the first two days of the investigation, according to Detective Vale’s report, was the boyfriend. It’s always the love interest, until he can be cleared.

  Jamison Smith cooperated with the locals and was cleared within forty-eight hours with an alibi. Though not an ideal alibi, personal judgment shouldn’t overshadow an investigation. Jamison’s lover, Kimberly Towell, had definitive proof of Jamison’s whereabouts for the estimated time of death of his girlfriend. He was with Kimberly. Handcuffed to her bedpost. There’s a video to prove it.

  Long exhale. Flip the page.

  Cases that involve cheating trigger a negative response in me. Of course, I try not to let my personal feelings muddy the water, but I’m human. I’m going to have human emotions and reactions to details that pluck a sensitive nerve.

  And sometimes, those things that make us human can even further the investigation.

  It’s all how you look at it.

  Right now, sitting in Orlando Melbourne International, brushing up on the facts of the case, I’m looking at the case too personally already.

  I hate this godforsaken state.

  As I’m putting away my binder, I spot Agent Nolan through the glass-sliding doors. Seeing him is like coming home in a way that Florida will never hold for me again. I stand to meet him, and with a slight nod, he grabs my carry-on and we’re off. No time for pleasantries; there’s a case to solve.

  It’s truly what I like best about him.

  How I met Special Agent Rhys Nolan:

  My case went cold around the six-month mark. Honestly, it was cold well before then, but that was when Detective Dutton officially threw his hands in the air. When leads halt, and officials are at a loss for where to take the investigation, the case goes cold. That doesn’t mean that my case was closed—unsolved cases are never officially closed—they remain open. Just set aside.

  Every detective I’ve interviewed has admitted to working on cold cases in their free time. What little free time they have, that is. For them, they’ve said, it’s a compulsion, a driving need to break out the files and go over the cases at least once a year, to see if the distance allows them to view things in a new light. Discover some piece of the puzzle they missed.

  No one was driven to compulsively work on my case. After six months, the understaffed and overworked Leesburg PD declared the Cynthia Marks (my given name) case cold. I was set
aside for more pressing investigations, like the local drug ring.

  I was alive, after all. Detective Dutton wasn’t trying to solve a murder. There were no similarities between my attack and any others around the Lake County area; there was no pressing concern to prevent a future attack.

  The return calls from the department heads and detectives became fewer and fewer. The lengthy pauses on the line dragging out longer. Soon I didn’t bother with the routine calls seeking updates.

  My case was dead.

  My parents were content to let it go. Talking about the event only caused them anxiety, pain. I wasn’t Amber. I hadn’t become lost to them like she had. Their daughter, their only child, had survived. They weren’t pursuing justice. I no longer involved them in my obsessive search.

  I turned my focus to other cases with similar MOs. I expanded the search radius. Maybe my attacker wasn’t a local. Maybe it wasn’t a personal assault. It’s possible the assailant moved from city to city in Florida, attacking young women. And no one looked close enough to connect the dots.

  For Agent Nolan, working in the FBI’s cold case division didn’t happen willingly. At the age of twenty-nine, Rhys was injured in the field. Gunshot to the thigh. His injury benched him for nearly a year, where he worked hard at recovery in order to be reinstated as a field agent.

  We had this in common.

  My recovery took me on a different course, also. All the way to Missouri. With a new name, new identity, and a new career path. A self-imposed—inflicted—witness protection program.

  Agent Nolan would never be a field agent again. And I would never complete my degree to become a psychologist. By some divine twist of irony, due to our failures, our paths crossed.

  I placed a call to the FBI cold case division and spoke with a sullen Agent Nolan who had no time for paranoid victims. Later that week, a knock at my door, and there stood the sullen agent, case file in hand.

  I was his first official cold case.