by Trisha Wolfe
Cameron.
But his brother…
I turn and peer around the beam. The kitchen door swings open, and Mike leads his brother toward Rhys. It’s him. My chest flutters as adrenaline climbs over my nerves.
No one questioned the bartender’s brother about the night of my attack. Why would they look at Mike Rixon? There was no feasible reason to interview him, to look at people connected to Torrance.
It’s still a stretch to try to link him to the case now, the connection circumstantial, but it’s a real thread. The first lead we’ve ever had in my case.
“Shit,” I mutter. Stop it.
This is not about me.
I turn away and stare at the beach, repeating that tune: It’s not about me. I recite it until Rhys is standing in front of me. “Did he recognize you?” I ask.
Suit jacket slung over his shoulder, Rhys rolls up the sleeves of his white dress shirt. “Yeah. I guess most people don’t forget being questioned by an FBI agent.”
No, most people wouldn’t forget that. I shift in place, antsy. Wanting the answers to my questions all at once.
Rhys tics his chin toward the parking lot. Once we’re a good distance away from the Tiki Hive, he finally says, “We can’t assume anything yet.”
Slow breath. “I realize that.”
“I’ll start by contacting the team at Quantico. We’ll get a thorough background check on Mike Rixon and Torrance Carver. Who, apparently, are half siblings, by the way. Let’s see where the pieces overlap…if they do at all.” He glances my way. “Could be a coincidence.”
“There’s no such thing.”
He huffs a terse breath. “You going to psych one-oh-one me?”
I shrug. “Not psychology, just reason. The very definition of coincidence is two or more events coming together unexpectedly without an obvious explanation.” I stop walking so I can face him. “The fact that my case may connect in some way to Joanna’s…that’s not coincidence. We have two persons of interest linked to two cases. That’s fact.”
He considers this a moment. “All right. Walk me through a theory.”
I look away, past him. “Rhys… I don’t have one. I just feel we should investigate—”
“No. You’re already hopping to conclusions. I can see it in your eyes. That distant, hopeful look. So let’s do this.”
I cross my arms. “I take offense to that.”
“I don’t care. No matter how many cases we work, how many we solve, you’re still a victim, Hale. That is fact.”
His words lance right through me, wounding deep.
He releases a long breath, his features losing their edge. His voice drops to a softer cadence. “I didn’t mean it that way.” He steps closer, crowding the air with his scent of aquatic cologne. “I just meant that, you come at cases from a victim’s point of view. You know what they felt. You can relate to them. That’s insight the best case detectives and agents don’t have.”
“But…?” I provide.
“But, it’s not about getting inside the victim’s head. We’ve talked about this. That can be dangerous. You have to know where to draw the line. You have to put hard and cold distance between you and the vic. And I don’t think you’re going to be able to do that with this particular case.”
Stubbornness rears inside me, and I want to scream at him to look at the facts. How can he dismiss such an obvious connection? But he’s right. God, I hate to admit that, but he is. I’m taking this personally. I’m already too close to it.
From the second I heard Torrance’s name mentioned, my mind was already decided. This was about my case, about me. Silver Lake isn’t but a hundred miles away. Logically, logistically, it’s not out of the realm of possibility that the bartender and his brother could be associated with two similar attacks.
It’s unfortunate, but not impossible. Statistically, the brothers are probably associated with other attacks on women in some mundane way. That fact is a terrible reality, though a true one. They work in an environment where alcohol is a factor. That’s the cold, hard thinking which will distance me from Joanna’s case.
“We’re going to look into this,” Rhys says, drawing my attention fully on him. “I promise. We’re going to investigate every angle and theory, and if—”
“Don’t say it.” I close my eyes for a beat. “Just don’t. I know I leaped. I saw the lotuses at the crime scene…and I was primed to overreact.” I swallow hard. “I got this. I’m good.”
He nods slowly. “I need you to be objective until it’s time not to be.”
“All right.”
Once we’re in the rental car, Rhys hands me my phone. I left it on the bar. “We’ll play the interview back at the hotel. I think Rixon might have given us a new lead.”
My head buzzes at the news. I’m unsure where I want this new lead to take me—whether it could draw me closer to my killer or not—but at least we haven’t hit a dead end yet in the victim’s case.
When I dove headfirst into true crime writing, I wanted to be exactly like Rhys. Someone who could think like a criminal, like a killer. Someone who could get inside the perpetrator’s head.
I have to be that person now.
We stop for lunch at a burger joint near the hotel, since my dash away from Torrance resulted in no food. In the hotel lobby, I tell Rhys I’m going to my room to freshen up, then I’ll meet him at his. I ride the elevator up in a strange kind of trance. Not allowing myself to fully evaluate the events so far.
Once inside my room, I take a quick shower, my thoughts on autopilot. I wrap my hair with a towel and head to my luggage on the bed, noting a folded slip of paper shoved under the door. Assuming it’s a bill, I scoop it up and carry it to the room desk, where I can call reception to let them know they made a mistake. I’m not checking out today.
“Hello, yes. I received an invoice—” My words break off as I scan the note.
A roar floods my ears. I can barely hear the woman on the other end of the line trying to get my attention. “Ma’am?”
“Sorry.” My voice is unsteady. “I made a mistake.” I hang up the receiver. “Oh, God.”
I drop the note on the desk, then rush to my bag. I dig out a pair of latex gloves and a forensic baggie. I need to call Rhys.
I stop in the middle of the room. Stalling. Just staring at the letter.
Rhys might not want this case to involve me, but someone else does.
11
Notes of the Past
Lakin: Now
I found you.
How can three simple words incite so much fear?
Out of context, they mean nothing. Like a line from a song. A text message. I found you could have infinite meanings.
Amid this cold case, desperately trying to sever myself from the past, these words elicit an image of a man—a memory of a dark silhouette buried in my subconscious. A hand reaching toward the water…
Has he been searching for me the way I’ve been searching my memories for him?
I’ve spent the past few years believing this person was my rescuer. But as I stare at the note, unease slips inside me. I recognize the handwriting.
A question I’ve tried not to ask:
What if the man who snatched me from death is the killer himself?
Cases have been documented. An action taken to end a life, and seconds later, remorse. But that doesn’t fit the narrative of the brutal crime. It’s hard to paint a scene where a murderer stabs a woman ten times, dumps her in a lake, then returns to save her.
My psychologist said it’s likely I conjured this image, this fictitious memory, the same way I imagined the bright, shimmering light.
Chances are, I have no real memory from the time of my death. My mind orchestrated a story to fit the narrative of what I’d been told happened.
Morosely, there is only dark surrounding my death.
But it’s in that period of darkness where I find myself lingering. The answer is there…if I can just challenge the fear. Because it’s often t
he unknown people fear the most. When what we dread finally happens, there’s nothing to be done but accept the reality of our situation.
That’s my utterly logical brain at work. People are remarkably resilient. We recover. Triumph, even. Then wonder why we were scared in the first place.
The impending doom is where fear lives. It thrives in that dark place, like how moss grows on the shaded side of a tree. All that we fear harbors in the shadows. A nameless, faceless monster. That’s why, this time, the message has to be brought into the light.
Rhys places the bagged note on the room table. He dusted for prints, but only recovered mine. “The handwriting is characteristically male.”
I agree with his analysis. I thought the same. The person who wrote the letter didn’t try to hide. Not really—they just didn’t give me much else to go on.
Rhys called hotel security to inquire about recorded hallway footage. The hallway outside my room does have a camera, but the system is down due to security updates.
Perfect timing, or dumb luck?
“If I wanted to frighten someone,” Rhys says, “I’d write the most cryptic thing possible. The more information you give a person, the more power you hand them. This note gives nothing away. I think it’s meant to scare you.”
I lace my fingers together at the base of my neck, elbows resting on my knees. Thinking. “Knowledge is power,” I say in agreement. “But then why send a message at all? If I only wanted to frighten someone off a case, there are far more effective ways to do so.”
This is the initial theory we’ve entertained. The author of the note wants us to stop digging into the Delany murder.
The why seems obvious enough: the murderer doesn’t want to be caught.
The method, on the other hand, is a bit more murky.
“Why target me?” I ask the more apparent question. “If this has nothing to do with before—” before feels less threatening than my murder “—then why not send you the message? You’re the federal agent. It’s your call to close the investigation.”
I want Rhys to read between the lines. I want him to make the connection.
“I think it’s obvious,” he says. At my confused expression, he sighs. “Anyone observing us closely—you and me; our team dynamic—can deduce that you’re the tool.”
“Again,” I say, the annoyance tingeing my voice only partially in jest. “So many compliments from you today.”
He drives a hand through his hair, looking as agitatedly disheveled as I feel. “Tool as in means to control me.”
“Oh.” I ponder his theory for a moment, then: “That’s rather sexist. You don’t believe that, do you?”
Rhys relaxes against the sofa. He swipes his palms along his slacks, smoothing out crease marks. When his gaze lifts to meet mine, I glimpse the faintly concealed worry beneath his guarded eyes.
We’ve had people try to stymie investigations before. Old, hardboiled detectives who don’t want to be proven wrong. Family members suffering guilt, who believe their actions led to the death of their loved ones.
But this is different. This feels sinister.
“I believe that to anyone looking in from the outside, you’re a writer on the FBI’s payroll. Which means you’re important enough to the division to bypass training and lengthy procedures most have to endure to get there. Important means you probably have sway.” He shrugs against the couch. “Just like Ms. Delany. She looked to you for reassurance. She read your book. She wanted your word that we would solve her daughter’s murder.”
Fair enough. “That could also make me a target to someone on the inside.”
“Like an agent?” he asks, doubt resonating in his tone.
“Why not? If someone got bypassed for a promotion, or didn’t make the team… They might blame me for circumventing protocol.”
He shakes his head. “No one applies to be in the cold case division.” His features darken with his deprecating statement. “What about an obsessed fan?” he challenges with a cock of his head.
I admit, that hadn’t occurred. But no—I’ve hidden my identity pretty well. “When there are too many possibilities, it’s usually the simplest one.” I watch him closely.
He smirks. “More psychobabble.”
“Philosophy, actually. Occam's razor. Too many assumptions can lead down a wrong path.”
“I believe that.” He groans as he sits forward to grab my phone. “Regardless, we’re doing exactly what the suspect wants. Stalling the investigation.”
He moves on, and like being cut free of a noose, tension uncoils within me. Rhys has never brought up my death’s door “hallucination.” Not once since I confessed it to him. Admittedly, I was anticipating the mention of it at some point—as if the letter could reopen the conversation.
He didn’t put credence in my admission then, so I shouldn’t expect him to consider the prospect now.
The letter proves nothing.
Rhys may be right about my leaping to conclusions amid this case.
I scrub my hands over my face, trying to rub away the achy tiredness. “Okay. Let’s go over the brothers’ interview. What did they give us?”
He sets my phone on the table and tabs the Play bar to the middle of the sound bite. “Torrance recalled a line cook that his brother employed for a few weeks. Said he was let go due to some complaints from women.”
I quirk an eyebrow. “And this didn’t come up during Mike Rixon’s first interview with the case detectives?”
“Here. Listen.” He starts the recording.
I reach for my notebook. I like to jot down my thoughts as they come to me, transcribe them into the book later. Focusing on the story gives me a degree of separation, too. I need the distraction.
“…We didn’t have a full staff that week. Don’t you remember, Mike? That guy… What’s his name? God, I can’t even remember now. Some weird-ass name.”
“Kohen.”
*snap* “That’s it. Kohen. He laid out a couple of days that week, and I had to cover his shifts. Worked doubles. Anyway, with all the complaints we got from the women at the bar, Mike fired his ass.”
“What kind of complaints?”
“Some of the regular customers, beach bunnies, we call them. They said he made them uncomfortable. He’d like, just stare at them, all creepy. One woman said he hit on her, offered her free drinks. Ha. Yeah, he had to go.”
Rhys pauses the recording.
I look up from my notebook. “Was Torrance able to give a last name for this Kohen who was suspiciously missing from the initial interview with his brother?”
“No,” he says. “And even more suspicious is the fact that, according to Rixon, since this guy only worked a few weeks, he didn’t bother to log him into the payroll system. Basically, he might not exist.”
“Except for in their imagination.” A way to throw suspicion off the brothers.
Rhys walks to the wet bar and fetches a bottled water from the mini fridge. His gait is hindered as he puts most of his weight on the leg that didn’t suffer a gunshot. After a full day of walking, his leg starts to aggravate him in the evenings.
“But I was able to get the names of the women who lodged complaints,” he says. “Since they frequent the bar, it should be simple enough to track them down.”
“Maybe,” I say, “if they’re at the bar often enough, they can even confirm whether or not the brothers were actually working the night of Joanna’s murder.” Because otherwise, we’ll have to pry that information out of the staff. Family members cover for each other.
A smile twitches at my lips, thinking about Rhys fighting off the advances of the beach bunnies. “You should take the lead on that. I’m sure the beach bunnies will take to you.”
He takes a swig of water and recaps the bottle. “Funny. But I do have a way with the ladies, don’t I?”
I crane an eyebrow. “Is that a joke, Agent Nolan?”
“Don’t get used to it.”
I shake my head, then start o
n my notes again. I’m sure Rhys is trying to lighten the mood, and I appreciate his attempt at humor, for my sake. I halt writing as a thought occurs.
I eye my phone, wondering what Torrance the bartender said about me. It’s not as if we’re friends, or remotely close; brought together by unfortunate circumstance. After that night, according to Cameron, she never saw her spring break fling again. A one-night stand that, after her best friend was attacked and nearly died, she forgot all about.
Then the interview when Rhys reopened my case. A ten-minute conversation with Torrance that only reiterated what I already knew. I walked off toward the dock. Torrance and Cam left the bar and went to his apartment. Nothing else.
I reach for my phone. I need to know what he said about Joanna and me. It’s too uncanny that two women were attacked in establishments where he worked.
I try to picture Mike Rixon’s face coming toward me on the dock…
Did Torrance’s brother come there looking for him, only to find me? Are Joanna and I trying to tell the same story?
“I think I got enough for now,” I say as I stand, tucking my notebook close to my chest. I slip my phone into my back pocket. “I’m calling it a day. See you in the morning.”
“We should share a room.”
His words stop me at the door. “Are you serious? Because of the cryptic, three-word note? I thought you said we shouldn’t take it seriously.”
“I never said that. Be it an obsessed fan, jealous agent, or unhinged ghost from your past, I err on the side of caution.”
His mention of a ghost from my past makes me shiver. He hasn’t forgotten. Does that mean he believes it’s a possibility, or just that he believes I think it’s real?
“And your tingly agent senses tell you I’m not exactly safe,” is all I say.
“They tell me that this person knows where you’re staying. They know your room number, because they most likely followed you here.” He pauses to let this sink in. “Until we smoke out the author of the note, I’m keeping you close. You’re staying in my room tonight.”
12