by Trisha Wolfe
Rhys claims that what changed his mind was one thing: victims rarely get the chance to tell their story. So many times he wished he could ask the dead their secrets. Now, this was his chance.
Maybe I should’ve been offended about the comparison. But I was, in fact, neither dead nor living when we met. I was found on the lake’s muddy bank. That dirt never washed off. By the time I left for good, I was the mud.
But, I had answers that could help solve my case, even if I didn’t realize it.
After our first meeting, where he asked questions to help fill in the gaps, Rhys returned to Quantico and across the distance, we worked tirelessly on my case.
He re-interviewed witnesses from the Dock House and the Uber driver. He spoke with the local PD in my hometown, questioning the detectives assigned my case. He pored over the images of my attack. He memorized my wounds. The placement, the degree of the injuries, the depth of every laceration. Each contusion and the abrading on my skin.
Near the three-month mark of the reopened investigation, Rhys knew my scars as well as I did.
But despite our exhaustive search, we were no closer to solving the mystery as to why I was targeted one night in March. It appeared I was a victim of chance. Although the facts of the case did pull up similar MOs across the country, Rhys theorized that I might have been the perpetrator’s first victim. A stranger selected because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
It was possible that, if I had been the first, the killer’s MO had since changed.
I can’t admit aloud how hopeless that possibility makes me feel.
On the one-year anniversary of my attack, Rhys convinced me to return to Silver Lake.
I had vowed never to go back…not until my attacker was apprehended…and it was a painful vow to break. We retraced my steps. From the campus to the driveway of Drew’s previous home (where Chelsea told me about the pregnancy). From the apartment I shared with my roommate (where Drew and I argued and the police took my statement) to the Dock House (where my roommate tried to help me forget). Then, to the pier of the lake, not far from the Silver Lake community where my parents still live.
Rhys and I stared at the rippling reflection of the crescent moon on the water.
Lotuses blanketed the lake with a iridescent sheen.
I listened to the crickets’ chirr, a haunting melody that I had no memory of from that fateful night. The wicked sound of frogs croaking filled the otherwise calm air. A desolate and eerie quietness that froze my bones.
That was the moment I revealed him to Rhys. The secret I’d kept from everyone—that twisted belief I had wrestled with, wanting to believe in my phantom hero some days, to deny his existence others.
The man who pulled me from the water.
The only memory—real or not—that I had from the night of my near demise.
In that moment, I wished I had Rhys’s training. I wanted to look at his face and read what he was thinking. But then, I was also terrified to know.
His actions have always spoken louder than his words. His silence sliced at me like the weapon used to carve my body all those nights ago. His weighted stare bled right through me, and when he cupped my face and placed a kiss to my brow, I dissolved under that comfort.
It didn’t matter if he believed me or not. Whether I had imagined it or not.
I was alive.
Man or animal, ghost or angel—whatever fished me from the lake—I had not drowned.
It was time to live.
The roll of the car engine awakens me from my post-flight trance. Inside Rhys’s rented sedan, I reach for my seatbelt and buckle in, pushing the heaviness from my chest.
“Ready?” he asks.
Deep breath. I twist the band around my wrist. “I am.”
5
Book of Cameron
Lakin: Then
I recall the way the room pulsed with light and color. Vibrating waves of red and blue.
I had Cameron’s leather jacket draped over my shoulders. It was a humid eighty-something degrees even in the spring evening, but the biting chill of the situation was making me shiver.
“I dreamed this would happen.” A mantra I kept repeating.
Chelsea’s visit that day had triggered the reminder of the dream. But there was more… More twisted visions inside the dream, beckoning me closer.
A knife slashing. Red streaming. A scream wrenched from the abyss of pain.
An officer glanced my way. I couldn’t focus on details—my mind unable to absorb the scene. But I remember the officer’s tight frown, the way it made him appear older than he probably was. This man who had seen so little was judging my life, disapproval crawling down his features like a surly grub.
“She needs help.” I heard another officer say.
Cameron was nodding, agreeing, giving her statement. My roommate just wanted the two cops out of our apartment. She hated scenes, drama. She hated eavesdropping neighbors.
It had been an eavesdropping neighbor that called the police on me and Drew.
Our fight had escalated quickly.
Heart thudding heavily in my ears, I squeezed my eyes closed. Pressure built at the back of my sockets. A threat to crack my skull.
The flashing brought on a strobe light effect of the dream. Chelsea and a scream…dark water… The past and present were merging into some horrid nightmare that I couldn’t shake, that I couldn’t wake from. I was detached, wandering through a fog.
“What the hell happened?”
Cameron knelt before me. The warmth of her hand on my knee.
She’d gotten rid of the cops. Finally, I opened my eyes, able to take a breath. I shook my head, not knowing where to start, how to explain to my friend.
Shouts. Breaking glass. Threats.
In the end, Cameron didn’t need me to tell her what happened. Rumors were already circulating campus. Social media was abuzz with posts reveling in a tawdry affair between teacher and student.
Once she saw the first thread on her phone, she cursed.
“He’s a dick.” A disgusted noise escaped. “No, dicks are at least useful. He’s a douchebag.” Her eyes turned soft. “Oh, Cynth. I’m so sorry.”
Me too.
But not as sorry as Drew would soon be.
Should’ve locked him away.
When Drew became the prime suspect in my case, that’s what the detective had said, though he thought I couldn’t comprehend from my drug-induced state on the hospital bed.
They should’ve locked them both away.
6
Rivulets
Lakin: Now
Rhys and I, we needed a win.
After our failed trip to Silver Lake, I returned to Missouri, still fleeing a faceless, nameless killer, and I could’ve given up. There was nowhere to go from there. No new leads. And my brave attempt to confront my fear by visiting the scene had failed.
That moment in time was a black hole.
But I had brought something back with me.
Hope.
And depending on your mental state, hope can either be a blessed thing or a curse.
Right then, my newfound hope was a mix of both. But it was a nice departure from helplessness. While I was working my case with Rhys, I wasn’t fixated on the fear. I wasn’t paralyzed.
Once home, I scoured the Internet and pod casts for cold cases. I had become addicted to them. The moment I found the one, I sent Rhys the information. I put together a starting point, a theory, and investigative notes from the case. My journalism classes were finally coming in handy.
The agent probably won’t admit it, but he needed that new case just as badly as I did. His failure to solve my case threatened him; he needed to believe, to hope, that his career as an FBI agent wasn’t over. I believe that’s the only reason he conceded to let me “tag along.” Soon, I became a consultant for the FBI’s cold case division. An unofficial team member with a very unimpressive hourly pay rate for my time.
The FBI also won’t a
cknowledge this, but the positive publicity they got from a solved cold case turned NYT Bestseller is what keeps Agent Nolan’s small team above reproach within the department.
We solved the Patterson case within two months. And it felt good. Addictive.
I wrote and completed my first novel. Sold the rights. Another written book later, the special agent and I have solved six unsolvable cases.
Neither one of us has looked at my case since.
I crack the car window, then immediately regret doing so. The humid Florida air is congested with the marshy scent of the east coast. You can throw a stone in any direction and hit a body of water. Lakes, ponds, rivers. Florida is one long peninsula slowly sinking into the ocean.
Unbidden, a wave of melancholy washes over me, and the compulsion to snap the rubber band takes hold. I scratch my wrist, antsy. A memory of Drew and I on the beach stirs, and I quickly suppress it. I hit the control to roll up the window.
As if he’s reading my mind, Rhys says, “You miss it.”
I change the car A/C from vent to circulate to stop the outside from seeping in. “Is that a question or an accusation?”
He doesn’t laugh. Rhys rarely laughs. I spot the slight curve of his lips, though.
“Do I miss the smell?” I ask. “The muggy humidity that clings to your skin and makes you feel dirty with grime and sweat even after you’ve just showered?” I look out the window, at the flatness of Highway 1. “Not a chance.”
I don’t have to glance his way to know the grin he wears.
“I think we should hit the apartment complex first,” he says, and I’m thankful for the topic change. “Canvass the neighborhood and get fresh statements.”
Relieved, I agree. “First thing in the morning. Where are we staying?”
I packed quickly and jumped on a plane, knowing Rhys would handle the details of our stay. He says it’s easier for him to work out the reimbursement from the bureau.
He flips the blinker and merges onto the onramp. “Holiday Inn. Between Melbourne and West Melbourne. Not too far from the crime scene, and near enough to other locations we’ll need to look at.”
Rhys checks us in at the front desk while I wait in the lobby, luggage and bag seated around my Converse-clad feet. When not traveling, I typically dress more professional; people have a preconceived expectation of how agents and their cohorts working an investigation should dress. If they’re not distracted by your clothes—trying to figure out if you’re qualified—then they can concentrate on the facts.
Special Agent Rhys Nolan, on the other hand, always looks the part in his standard black suit and tidy, light-brown hair. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him with facial scruff; always clean-shaven.
He likes to say: “I am the job.”
I’m the job, too, but I guess writers get a little more flexibility with their wardrobe. At least I leave the pajamas at home when I’m on a case.
I bite my lip to keep from frowning. At one point in my life, on a very different course, I’d have been expected to dress the professional part. Psychologist Dr. Marks has a more professional ring to it than Lakin Hale, true crime writer. Although I suppose both avenues led me to a place where I explore the mind and behavior of criminals.
Semantics.
“All set.” Rhys hands me a room card, interrupting my thoughts.
“Thanks. See you in the morning.”
We go our separate ways at the end of the hallway. By the time I’m lying on the hotel bed, I’ve compulsively snapped my wrist twenty-six times throughout the day. Despite that, my thoughts still cling to the past.
Vista Shores apartment complex is situated across the street from the crime scene. The victim, Joanna Delany, lived in apartment 208. Her mother, Bethany Delany, lives in 213.
Rhys and I ride the elevator up to the second level.
“Jumping right into the deep end,” I mutter as the ding of the elevator sounds. My insides flutter with the feel of the car coming to a sudden halt.
He lets me step into the hallway first. “Mothers are the hardest part,” he agrees.
“You know that parents are usually the last to know what’s going on in a victim’s personal life.”
He sighs. “Ms. Delany lived a few doors down from her daughter. Maybe they were closer than normal.” He stops outside her door, cutting a glance at me. For a second, I wonder if he’s insinuating something about my lack of relationship with my own parents. “Her proximity to the vic could give us more insight to her last days.”
His logic makes sense. Still, I pull in a steadying breath and brace for the painful encounter. My detachment from people comes across as uncaring, heartless, or so I’ve been told. That doesn’t work well when dealing with grieving parents.
Over the past few years, with Rhys’s training on interviews, I’ve gotten better at concealing. Or rather, blending. I guess call it what it is: faking. Not the caring part—I’m not a sociopath—but conveying my sentiments.
A few seconds after Rhys knocks, Ms. Delany answers the door. Her dark complexion was probably striking once with a rich, healthy glow. Now there’s a pallid, sallow hue overlaying her skin. Sunken eyes and chapped lips complete the neglected look.
“Ms. Delany. I’m Special Agent Rhys Nolan with the FBI cold case division. We spoke on the phone yesterday afternoon.”
His mention of their conversation awakens the woman. “Oh, right. Of course. Come on in.” She widens the door, allowing us to enter her home. “Please ignore the mess. I’ve been meaning to box up a lot of stuff.”
She continues to make excuses for the apartment’s condition as she leads us to a sofa in the living room. Rhys waves off her apologies. “You have a beautiful home.”
Other than piles of folded clothes and knick-knacks lining the living room wall, the space is immaculate. Ms. Delany sits opposite us in a comforter chair, and I notice her dry, cracked hands. She cleans…all the time.
A pang twinges beneath my breastbone.
Rhys nods for me to begin. Most women find it easier to talk to another woman. At least right at first. I push Record on my phone and set it on the glass table. “Do you mind? It helps us when we can replay interviews.”
Her head shakes rapidly. “That’s fine. I don’t mind.”
With what I hope is a delicate approach, I delve into the hard questions. The things that the case detectives have already asked this mother over and over. Things she’s tired of repeating, I’m sure—but we need the answers one last time, in hope of discovering new information.
“Ms. Delany…”
“Please, call me Bethany.” Her smile wobbles.
I match her smile. “Bethany, who do you think did this to your daughter?”
One of the most painful questions, but also one of the most important. Rarely does a parent’s bias result in an arrest, but it can lead to another person of interest. Another witness. Someone that the investigating detectives overlooked.
Her face pales. She reaches a shaky hand toward a dust rag on the table only to place it in her lap. “Jo wasn’t seeing anyone at the time, other than Jamison. She wasn’t like that.”
She’s aware that the boyfriend/husband is always the initial suspect. I wonder how many cop shows she’s tortured herself watching, looking for clues on how to solve her daughter’s murder.
“It doesn’t have to be anyone she was intimate with,” I press. “Maybe it’s someone who first popped into your head but you shut it down, wondering where the thought even sprang from.”
Nothing beats a mother’s intuition.
Her brown eyes latch on to me and widen, as if I’ve revealed some secret. “Rixon,” she says. “Mike Rixon…I think that was his name. He was Jo’s boss at the restaurant where she worked. She’d only been there a few months, but I remember the way he looked at her one night while I was there. Just something about it didn’t sit right with me.” She frowns.
“Thank you, Bethany. That’s very helpful.” I glance at my notepad. �
�Can you tell us a little about Joanna’s modeling career?”
I get her talking about what Ms. Delany calls “the good days.” The victim’s early bio was quite impressive. At the age of nineteen, Joanna was on track to become a well-known model in the industry. A rising star. Four years into her career, and the bottom fell out. It’s a ruthlessly competitive, unforgiving industry, and models either make it or they don’t. The older one gets, the harder it becomes to soar to the top against younger, fresher faces.
Joanna toured Europe for a brief time, shot impressive photos for women’s magazines, and then suddenly, as quickly as the stardom came, the offers stopped.
It’s a rags to riches to rags…to shocking death story.
My publisher will only accept true crime novels based on people who they deem will pique and hold the public’s interest. Not surprisingly, a pretty face on the cover with a tragic story inking the pages is ideal. People want to be shocked and awed. But they also want to feel marginally better about their own lives by comparison to someone else’s unfortunate life.
Sad, but utterly true.
I chose Joanna Delany not because she was a good fit for the publisher—but because Joanna Delany chose me. She reached out from the grave, whispered of the parallels between us, and quickly became an obsessive enigma that demanded to be solved.
Rhys jumps in with his own questions, connecting the dots, learning the victim’s routine in the weeks preceding her murder.
Once the interview is complete, I stop the recording and check the log, making sure we got everything. Then we thank Bethany and make our way toward the door.
“You’re that crime writer,” Bethany says. I pause in the open doorway, and Rhys takes up my side. “I read your book. After Agent Nolan first reached out with the possibility of reopening the case, I looked you up. Your team has solved every cold case you two have worked on together.”
Every case except one.
I look to Rhys for help. His mouth flattens into a line, eyebrows drawn. His steel-gray eyes say: she said it’s your team.