Lotus Effect

by Trisha Wolfe

  He appears unsure at first, but then he accepts my excuse. “We can still go back.”

  “No. I want to work this case. Joanna deserves to have us both on it.”

  From my periphery, I watch Rhys lift and drop his hand. Maybe a moment where he thought about touching me, comforting me. He curls it into a fist by his side. “All right.” He glances around. “Looks like the third floor of the middle building, and the third and fourth of the last building could have a good viewpoint. We have some ground to cover.”

  And like that, the discussion is dropped. Unless I push the topic, Rhys will end it right here.

  As we navigate the shore, I snap pictures of the buildings. I tag any apartments in view of the crime scene with notes to further look into. Later, when I’m writing this scene, I’ll omit the conversation with Rhys. No one knows Cynthia or what happened to her. Lakin writes from a place of passion to uncover the truth. That’s her story.

  We round the bend, the reeds overgrown and the marshy smell overpowering, and that’s when I see them.

  Lotuses.

  White and floating atop the gray lake. The flowers bob in the wake like a rolling satin sheet.

  Oh, God.

  Rhys is already rushing to me. I’m not expressive, but Rhys is even less so—he doesn’t touch; he respects boundaries. But his hands are on me, making a physical, grounding connection.

  “Let’s go,” he says, his voice guttural, urgent. “Don’t look.”

  I can’t stop staring at the white petals. “They weren’t here before.”

  He doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t need to. The crime scene images taken at the time had no flowers. The reports made no mention. The lotuses are new—someone planted them here. Someone placed those awful flowers right over the place where the victim drowned.

  9

  Book of Cameron

  Lakin: Then

  Real memory or recovered memory? You might think: what’s the difference? A memory is a memory. Here’s the difference with recovered memories. They’re not always accurate. It’s like code. There’s a sequence to events, and when the mind can’t recall certain details, it looks at the events before and after to splice together the most logical sequence to fill the holes.

  So what actually happened will be different than how my mind attempts to fill in the gaps.

  I’ve been padding the blanks with what others tell me occurred, and what the case detectives—with years of experience—have deduced.

  Below is my recount of that night to the best of my ability:

  The thump of reggae music imbued the night air of the Dock House. White string lights dotted the blackness above like a starlit canopy. It was beautiful, and in my distraught state, I swayed to the slow rhythm on a barstool, trying my damndest to forget.

  Everything.

  Cam had convinced me to go to my parents’ house. To get away from campus. On our way to Silver Lake, she took a detour; a quick stop at a bar to drink away my sorrows.

  I chased the burn of heartache with soda. Then I chased the carbonated sweetness with water. Though Cam thought the shot glass held Vodka. I was there for her as much as she was there for me. This was her attempt to cheer me up. I was trying, but I’d never been a drinker. Hell, I’d never been drunk before. But admitting to that would have made me feel even more awkward, and I just longed for a moment of normalcy.

  I shivered as the night’s warmth blanketed my body. It was a generic kind of comfort.

  Cameron stood at the end of the bar top, flirting her way to another round of shots from the bartender. His name… Tony? Tyler? I waved it off, as if blowing off any of the random guys that had hit on us that night. Except by that point, there weren’t too many around.

  The night was winding down. It was the official spring break kickoff, and all the campuses had executed a mass exodus to more southern locations, where they could drink and party and revel in debauchery far from here.

  The few sad stragglers left behind were trying to keep the party going. A couple making out near the bar gazebo. Two military guys at a table downing beer, obviously looking for loose spring break chicks in the wrong place. A lone, partied-out drunk man leaned up against a beam.

  We were a pathetic bunch. Desperate not to let the night end, because we didn’t want to face the next day. At least, in my current state, that’s how I viewed the world around me.

  Cam set a shot glass with amber liquid before me. “Last one. Torrance is closing shop.”

  Torrance. I snapped my fingers. Although emotionally and physically numb, my finger and thumb didn’t quite connect. “I couldn’t remember his name.” I pretended to throw back the tequila, sending it over my shoulder, then glanced at Cam. “You should go home with him.”

  I was done with pretending for the night.

  She scoffed. “Yeah, that’s just what I need.”

  “I’m serious. He’s hot. And you sacrificed your spring break in Cancun for me.” I frowned. “Go. Have some fun. Make bad choices.”

  Her gaze captured the bartender, and I could tell she wanted him. Her devotion to me would keep her by my side all night. That’s not what I wanted.

  “Hey, Mr. Bartender dude—” I called out.

  “Oh, God…Cynth. You’re so hammered.” Cam laughed and shook her head.

  He swaggered our way, a white towel slung over one beefy shoulder. He was dark-skinned and muscled, and he wore a devious smirk. He was everything a hot bartender should be.

  “Hey,” I said, bracing my elbows on the bar. “You want to fuck my friend?”

  He was used to this kind of attention from women. Torrance’s features registered no shock at my crass interrogation. He knew I wasn’t drunk. He’d been fixing me soda and water all night. But I doubted he’d turn down any ploy to get into a girl’s pants. He simply smiled and winked at Cameron.

  Cam kicked my leg. “I’ll never take you drinking again,” she said, but her flirtatious smile for the bartender said she wasn’t embarrassed in the least. She held up a finger to him. “Give me a second with my girl here.”

  He shrugged and headed to the register to start closing out.

  Cam sighed as she pushed the shot glasses to the edge of the bar. “We only have my car. How are you going to get to your parents’?”

  I waved off the issue. “I didn’t want to go there anyway.”

  She hesitated. “Are you going to be okay?”

  “Sure,” I said, an automatic response.

  She swiveled my stool around, forcing me to face her. “I’m serious, Cynth. Today has been…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “Insane.”

  I’d almost willed all conscious thought of Drew and Chelsea away. But here it was again. Cam’s reminder hit like a punch to the throat. My glands thickened, making it hard to swallow. The sour aftertaste of resentment a nauseous sickness churning the pit of my stomach.

  What happened wasn’t insane. It was very real, and it happened to women all the time. Insanity would’ve at least freed me of the obligation to deal with the fallout. I wished I could just cop out. Skip to the next chapter.

  I wasn’t that lucky.

  I was too aware of my thoughts, and what Drew had done to me.

  What Chelsea had done…

  I closed my eyes, let the music drown out my thoughts.

  “Cynth…” Cam’s voice reached out to me. “At least it all went down over spring break. By the time classes resume, everyone will be moved on to the newest scandal.”

  Except I would not, could not move on.

  Maybe the board would investigate Drew. His wrist slapped for sleeping with not one but two students, and knocking one of them up. But his parents would buy him out of trouble. Prof. Andrew Abbot would be back to teaching in a month’s time. After he married Chelsea, of course, making the whole scandal some romantic tryst.

  I would go through my last year as “the other one”. The salacious fling and dirty thing.

  I didn’t have enough money to buy
my reputation back.

  “Let me get you an Uber.”

  I opened my eyes. “All right.”

  Cam took my phone and pulled up the app. “Where do you want to go? The apartment or your parents’ house? Honestly?”

  The Dock House was much closer to Silver Lake. But our apartment was empty, and would remain so with Cam staying overnight with the bartender.

  “I want to go home,” I said.

  Cam nodded. She knew where I thought home was. “Ride will be here in twenty minutes.” She stared down the long bar top at Torrance.

  I pushed off the stool and latched on to the counter to gain my balance. I hadn’t eaten that day, I realized. “Go ahead. I want to walk down to the dock first. Clear my head. Stare at the stars.”

  She made an uncertain face, but she was already inching toward her conquest. “You sure?”

  I forced a smile. “Yeah. Go on.”

  She left.

  I could take it back. Tell my best friend that no, I don’t want to be alone with my thoughts. That it was her idea to stop here and drink away my insane problems.

  But she was already gone.

  I dragged my fingers through my unruly, humidity-tangled hair, and for a second, I felt eyes on me. A creepy feeling of being watched touched the back of my neck, eliciting cold prickles.

  I shivered the eeriness away. I’m distressed. Upset.

  And alone.

  The lights dimmed, denoting the bar was closed. I slugged toward the boardwalk. All my sad friends had vacated the bar. As I watched Cam leave with the bartender, a desperateness clawed at me from the inside.

  What if the bartender had a girlfriend…or a wife? Had she even bothered to ask?

  I used to be in the camp that believed men were solely to blame for their cheating ways. Now…? Chelsea’s blond hair and perky tits invaded my mind.

  God, I loathed her.

  My anger toward Cam and even Chelsea was unfounded, I knew that. I was a hypocrite. I had dated my college professor. A cliché deserving of my sad circumstance, as if I had asked for it.

  Karma.

  Maybe I deserved this pain, I thought as I stepped onto the wooden planks of the dock. I wasn’t sure why I wanted to walk out there. Maybe it was the dream. My biggest fear had already been realized. I’d already faced the hurt, the pain, that came from discovering the truth.

  What else was there to fear?

  Yet I wandered onto the pier wishing I could rewrite time—as if just being there was a challenge to fate.

  So utterly illogical of me.

  Love and pain make us irrational.

  I wondered if Drew and Chelsea felt any of this heartache. My mind was going to dark, dark places. Every lecture from my psych classes was spinning in my head. No one ever succeeded in retaliation. And yet…

  I wanted retribution.

  I wanted both of them to experience this awful, humiliating pain.

  Old, water-worn boards creaked beneath my feet. I couldn’t tell whether it was the pier swaying or me. I walked to the end of the dock and peered over, into the black water. Lotuses blanketed the inky lake top, their petals a strange iridescent white, dew refracting the light of the stars.

  I dropped down, seating myself on the edge. After a while, my phone dinged with a message from the Uber driver. She was in the parking lot. I ignored the message and muted my phone. I didn’t care. I curled into a ball right there, the lapping sound of the lake against the boards a soothing calm.

  I fell asleep. Or I passed out from hunger, exhaustion. I’m not really sure which. All I know is that I was staring out over the lotuses as the lake breathed them in and out with the rising tide, then…nothing. Blackness blots out that period of time.

  There are flashes, glimpses of blood in the water. A red stained lotus. The crushing pain in my chest as I struggled to breathe. An outline of a man…his hand.

  That’s all I have now.

  Real, recovered, or false memories my mind fabricated to fill the blank.

  The next thing I recall is waking up in the hospital.

  10

  Discovery

  Lakin: Now

  The Tiki Hive is just one of the many “tiki” establishments that scatter the Florida coast, and it was the last place of employment for the victim. Unlike other beach bars, with their cheap tiki torch theme, this one is a mix of refined beach life and elegance. A bar for the more affluent residents and tourists of Melbourne.

  Sheer white curtains billow in through floor-to-ceiling windows. The scented breeze of ocean and coconut drifts inside, infusing the beachfront restaurant with a lively current of youth.

  Mike Rixon was a person of interest further down our list, but Bethany Delany’s maternal instinct bumped him up to number one. He was originally questioned due to the flow of drugs around the food and beverage scene. With Joanna’s history of drug use, the case detectives already explored this angle, but we can’t write anything off; every angle has to be looked at again.

  Joanna’s toxicology screen was clean of any known street drugs, but that doesn’t mean a drug link from her past can be completely ruled out.

  Rhys and I are seated across from the restaurant owner at the bar as he dries tumblers. Slowly. Mike Rixon is taking his time, putting us off. He doesn’t realize that, with cold cases, he can take his sweet time. We’re in no rush. We’re the ones who take a fine-tooth comb to the case, going over details that may have been overlooked the first time during a hasty investigation.

  After we left the crime scene—fled, more accurately—Rhys and I went door-to-door in the neighboring apartment buildings, seeking anyone who might have seen the victim the night of her murder. We turned up nothing. So we decided we’d take a lunch break at the Tiki Hive. Two birds, one stone.

  Mike sets a glass down on the matt. “I’m not sure what I can offer you that would help. I told the other guys everything I knew a year ago.” He slings a white towel over his shoulder.

  Deja vu tickles the edge of my awareness. The action triggers a memory from that night at the Dock House, and Torrance the bartender flashes in my mind. His suave moves. Good looks. The way he winked at Cam.

  I push away from the memory and clear my throat. “Let’s go over it one last time, anyway.”

  At his indifferent shrug, I pull out my phone and start recording. While Rhys directs the interview, I try to ignore the sense of familiarity sneaking over me. My heart is a pulse too fast. Palpitations mute my hearing every time Mike smiles.

  That smile.

  It must be paranoia, the sight of the white lotuses at the crime scene still fresh, but when Mike Rixon looks at me…I swear recognition steals across his sharp features. Something about him feels so familiar.

  “She worked that day,” Mike confirms with another shrug. “Last I saw of Joanna. I found out two days later she’d been killed when the police showed up here to question me and my staff.”

  I lift an eyebrow. “Who was questioned?”

  He pushes out a long breath. “Me, Sal, Romero, and Jessica.”

  That doesn’t seem like a full staff. I glance around the restaurant floor, noting at least twenty tables.

  Rhys catches on. “Do you remember who worked with Joanna during her last shift?”

  Mike drives a hand through his wind-tousled hair. “I really don’t. I’ll go print out the schedule for you, okay?”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  He nods and turns to head to the back, but pauses to add, “Oh, and Torrance.” My heart stutters at the name. “He was also here with me that afternoon.”

  “Wait,” I say, stopping him from leaving the bar area. Stalled, I rack my brain for how to press for more information about Torrance. “This person wasn’t mentioned in the case file.”

  Mike shrugs. “Tor wasn’t here the day the cops came by.”

  Rhys studies my profile. I lean closer to the counter, out of his view. “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask my b
rother that himself.”

  My heart knocks painfully against my chest. Brother. “He’s here? Now?”

  “Yeah. I’ll grab him from the back.”

  Panic flares in my veins, blood rushing. As he pushes through the swing-door, I slide off the stool. I can’t be here. If it is the same bartender from the night of my attack, I could compromise the investigation.

  Rhys catches my upper arm before I can slip away. “There’s more than one Torrance in Florida, Hale. Just like there is more than one lake with lotuses.”

  “I know.” Rhys knows my case as well as I do. He questioned Torrance the bartender. I read the interview he conducted, the probing questions, as he attempted to build a narrative of that night.

  The urge to snap the band at my wrist rises up. I tuck a stray hair behind my ear. “I know there are,” I say again, “and Torrance’s last name isn’t Rixon. Mike said his brother. So likely, not the same person. But if there’s even a slim chance… I need to go.”

  His mouth curves into a tight frown. If this is the same man from my past, Rhys knows this investigation will change drastically.

  “Two women,” I say, my voice low. “Both attacked in parallel fashion.”

  I don’t have to say the rest. One dead. The other not.

  “Rhys, if this is the same person, he might not recognize you. Not if I leave.”

  But the both of us together will be hard to dismiss.

  Rhys nods once. “Go.”

  I head to the outside deck, my feet heavy, the world at a tilt. My mind is already leaping from connection to connection, linking the two cases together. That’s not a good thing. We have to keep them separate to investigate Joanna’s murder; it would be a disservice to her to muddy the water before we’ve even started.

  I press my back to a beam underneath the deck canopy, making sure I’m out of eyeshot. Taking even breaths, I slow my heart rate, letting the salty ocean air cleanse my lungs.

  I rub the band, twisting it against my skin.

  Torrance had a solid alibi for the night of my attack.