by Trisha Wolfe
He doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he throws back the covers and, planting his feet on the floor, he keeps me in his sights as he stands and crosses the small span between us. I have to angle my head back to meet his eyes as he towers over me.
“Honestly,” he says, voice gravelly low, the question implied.
I swallow. “Yes.”
“I’m always going to protect,” he says. “That comes first. Before the case, before the evidence…it’s how I’m wired. And no matter how bruised and beaten my ego gets, my pride doesn’t factor in. Ever.”
“All right,” I say, still holding his steely gaze.
He reaches over and clicks off the lamp. “Goodnight, Hale.”
The room morphs into darkness, for which I’m thankful. I don’t want him to see the shame I know registers on my face. “Night, Rhys.”
I sink farther beneath the cool sheets, listening to the hum of the air conditioner, acutely aware of the note’s proximity to me.
Where is the author of the note now? How close are they to me?
I grab my phone from the nightstand and plug in my earbuds. I replayed the audio file of Torrance’s interview three times, listening for the exact moment he realized that I was a part of the investigation. I listen to it again, trying to merge the past with the present, to discern if Torrance and his brother know more than they claim.
Rhys wants handwriting samples—and he’s looking for the suspect amid Joanna’s case. He still refuses to see the emerging pattern, the lotus petals floating on the lake…
If I mark today as the nexus where my and the victim’s paths crossed, then I might know where to start.
14
Book of Him
Lakin: Then
I read his letter in the sun.
It wasn’t some cliché rainy night, with howling wind and creaking shutters banging against the house. It was a bright, sunny morning when I held the off-white stationary in my hands as I stared out over Silver Lake from my parents’ back porch. I remember thinking the paper was so creamy. Soft and rich. Delicate. And the morning was so bright.
Once I was released from the hospital, I returned to my parents’ home to continue my physical therapy. I took the semester off from college. That choice was made more for self-preservation than for my recovery. The investigation had circled heavily around Drew. Detective Dutton liked him for the prime suspect, and the media smelled rich blood in the water.
I was in hiding, more or less. Wary of the sharks in the water.
A few letters and emails came at first. Prayers. Well wishes for my recovery. The hope that my attacker would be arrested.
Then others started to pour in.
Angry, spiteful letters written anonymously, blaming me for my own mishap. I had been drunk, at a bar, therefore I was asking for trouble. I had never corrected Detective Dutton on my assumed state at the Dock House. Even if I’d tried, I doubted he would’ve believed me. The letters asked the question: What right did I have to point the finger at Andrew Abbot? A wealthy, well respected member of an affluent family.
And as I predicted, to stave off the negative media frenzy, Drew and Chelsea announced their engagement the same week I was released from the hospital. It momentarily thwarted the investigation, but Detective Dutton used the announcement to his advantage, singling out a motive for Drew.
Then the media turned on me. I was painted as the eyesore, the irritating blemish in Drew’s picturesque life. The scorned, jealous, obsessive student with an unhealthy obsession for her college professor. I read it all in the letters. I was called names: whore, slut, even prostitute. One of the anonymous letters declared I had been trying to blackmail Drew into giving me passing grades.
It became a wild, swirling vortex, and when Drew was ultimately cleared with an alibi, I knew the dam was about to burst, the floodwaters coming for me.
My mother tried to get me to focus on recovery. Cam tried to reassure me that it would pass—like every drama at school, people would soon move on, forget about the scandal.
But I was being sucked down by the undertow.
Then his letter arrived.
Just when the storm clouds seemed to be dispersing, the clear blue day giving me hope, chance guided my hand to pluck his letter from the pile. I sat on the rocking chair on my mother’s porch and tore open the envelope, and a shiver rocked me.
I’ve never seen anything as beautiful as you.
The horror in your face, the pale wash of your porcelain skin, as the darkest red swathed you in a shroud of death.
Mesmerizing.
You’re everything I have been searching for.
Do your wounds ache with the memory of the blade?
Do you feel that hollow echo longing for completeness each time you touch the scars?
I have to know the answers.
We have to meet.
Blood roared in my ears, my heartbeat erratic, mounting higher. Tremors shook the letter from my hands. I pressed my palm to my chest, inhaled deeply, trying to control the climbing panic.
I hyperventilated until I shut down, blacked out. My body’s response to the flood of adrenaline. Its own defense mechanism since the attack. I just turned off.
No one discovered me in that state, which I was thankful. My mother had been through enough. When I came to, I had balled the letter in my fist. I clutched it tighter, attempting to crush it into nonexistence.
Even now, I don’t fully understand my response to the message. It was vague, cryptic, and no actual threat was made in those blocky letters, but the veiled warning rung clear.
It could’ve came from some deranged person. A sick individual that just wanted a connection to a crime. When I became involved in true crime writing, I learned there were a lot of people like that, obsessively following crime stories.
Or it could’ve came from the killer himself.
Or the person who pulled me from the water.
I analyzed the note, the words, trying to decipher the meaning. Whoever sent the letter, it didn’t matter. I realized that I didn’t only have my killer to fear—there were other disturbed, unhinged people in the world that wanted me dead.
In the end, only one action could be taken in response.
My killer had no face. Fear is a living, breathing entity when you’re staring into the unknown. When you don’t know who is your friend and who is an enemy. Any choice, any direction, and I could collide into the wrong person.
I packed a bag that night and boarded a bus.
I left Florida. I took the money I had in my college savings, and I pulled up a map on my phone and chose the most obscure place I could find. Then I promised myself that I wouldn’t run forever. I swore that I would catalog the events, the details, everything the police were overlooking in connection to my attack, and I would solve my own murder.
And I did that with a vehement hunger for six months before my case ground to a halt, the leads dried up, and it went cold.
It would be years before I returned to Silver Lake.
15
Charge in the Air
Lakin: Now
A storm hovers on the edge of Melbourne. The sky over Melbourne Beach swirls in striations of grays and purples, as if an angry hand swiped the sky. Bruised clouds roll over the rising deep-blue waves. It’s beautiful and violent, a turbulent dance. A kind of promise lingers in the air. How the waves reach toward the sky, the crest kissing the sand like an angry lover, trying to fuse a connection. But the sand keeps receding.
The packed grains beneath my bare feet corrode with the outgoing tide. Captured by its lover, after all.
I remind myself that this is only my perception. Hundreds of skin-clad bodies dot the beach, viewing the doused sun as a cool reprieve from the heat. Rhys and I stand out amid the beach goers in our slacks and pressed shirts. Anyone trying to avoid the cops can make us a mile away.
He walks along the hard-packed sand while I choose to get my feet wet. We’re returning to the Tiki Hiv
e, but this time we’re here to talk to the beach bunnies. They’re not difficult to locate. Three women in their late-fifties with skin the color of tawny leather, the texture just as coarse.
“Yikes,” Rhys comments, and I laugh despite myself.
“That’s Florida for you,” I say. “No fear of the sun.” I don’t think my mother knew what sunscreen was when I was a child. I have a spattering of freckles across the bridge of my nose to prove it.
Rhys lifts his shades for a second to get a better gawk at the women. “Least you don’t take if for granted. I can count the number of days I saw the sun in my childhood. When it did peek out, we got the day off of school.”
I glance at him. “You’re joking.”
“Seriously. Other kids got snow days. I got sun days.” He gives me a wink.
I don’t know whether or not to believe him, but I appreciate his effort to keep the mood light. Our first day here met with a rocky start. I can trust his opinion on the lotuses; Florida is a haven to the white lilies. Maybe somebody did plant them there in memory of Joanna—not the killer—but a friend, or a family member.
I’m having a more challenging time buying into the theory that Torrance’s connection to Joanna’s murder is only a coincidence. And the note…slipped under my room door, meant to frighten me away… That can only be intentional. But with only three words to go on, after sleeping on the matter, I’m no longer certain the author is the same person who penned the cryptic note after my attack.
Still, fresh start.
Today we search for the elusive Kohen. We’ll either get answers, or hit a wall. Either way, that item on the checklist gets marked off so we can move on to the next bullet point.
Rhys and I have a system, and it hasn’t failed us yet.
We were able to interview Jamison Smith—the boyfriend—over the phone this morning. He’s out of town on business. Jamison reiterated the same thing he told Detective Vale a year ago. With a little less detail.
This is normal, and bodes well for checking him off our list. Liars tend to elaborate, adding more and more layers to pad their story over time.
The loose sand sticks to my feet as we approach the sunning ladies stretched out on beach chairs just steps from the Tiki Hive’s deck. I set my phone to Record inside my bag. The wind could disrupt the feed, so this way we might get clear statements.
Rhys flashes his badge. “Morning, ladies. I’m Special Agent Rhys Nolan. Could we have a quick word?”
One of the weathered-looking women smiles up at Rhys. “Just a quickie, special agent? I’d like to think we could make it last a bit longer than that.” She elbows her friend to her right, and I swear I see a flush crawl up the back of Rhys’s neck.
The other woman sits forward and shields her eyes as the sun peeks out. “Why do they call y'all special, anyway? That’s what I’d like to know. Got a special package you carry around, do ya?”
Christ. They have no shame. I eye the mimosas next to their chairs. “State law prohibits alcohol on the beach.”
The third woman noticeably rolls her eyes. “Hon, ain’t nobody caring about that.” She looks to her friends. “Seems this one might have a thing for the agent, here. Maybe we should play nice.”
Now I’m the one blushing. My fingers seek the comforting feel of the rubber band against my skin.
Rhys clears his throat and directs the conversation back on topic. “The owner of the Tiki Hive mentioned you might know how we can locate a man named Kohen.”
“Vivian,” the first lady says. “But you can call me Vinnie. And why do you want to know about him for? Lord, that boy was something else.”
Rhys cranes an eyebrow. “Meaning what, exactly, Ms. Vinnie?”
She snorts. “Haven’t been a miss in ages, but thank you, Agent Nolan.” She reaches for her drink. “Kohen was sure nice to look at, but he had this way about him.” She visibly shivers. “Something just seemed off, you know what I mean?”
It’s difficult to read vague statements. People interpret interactions differently, in their own understanding of the world. “He made you uncomfortable,” I say, offering clarity.
Vinnie nods. “Oh, did he ever. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I was flattered a young thing like him was interested, but my warning bell was going off. I have years of experience, and I’ve learned to trust my instincts when it comes to men.”
The other two women nod enthusiastically, offering words of agreement.
“Did Kohen do something in particular to sound your alarm?” Rhys asks.
The woman seated in the middle responds. “This one time, we were up at the bar, and he showed me a picture he had on his phone of this girl all tied up in ropes. Said that’s what he’d like to do to me. Can you imagine?”
I trade a glance with Rhys. “Was this image of someone he knew, or was it from the Internet?” I ask.
The woman shakes her head. “I have no idea. I didn’t ask. I laughed it off as a ludicrous idea, and two days later Mike had fired him, anyway.”
I make a mental note on the timeline. “And your name?”
She smiles. “Angela Moretti.” She spells it out, and then states all their names for the record. “I suppose this is being recorded, too? You being the government and all.”
By law, I have to make them aware. “Yes. I’m recording our conversation, though it’s not for government use. It’s for my personal notes.”
Angela huffs a derisive laugh. “Sure, honey.”
The wind picks up, and Rhys turns his back to shelter us from the sand spray. “We appreciate your honesty and cooperation. Did any of you ladies ever see Kohen and Joanna Delany together?”
“Oh…” Vinnie grins knowingly. “So that’s what this is all about. That poor girl. So tragic. Such a horrible way to die.” She shakes her head. “And her mother, dear lord. Poor thing. But to answer your question, no. Not to my recollection. Kohen wasn’t an outgoing sort; you had to draw him out of his shell. And, well, Joanna was out of his league. That would’ve never happened.”
Rhys cocks his head. “But he mentioned her before?”
Angela frowns. “She was a very beautiful girl, agent. Of course he noticed her. All the men at the bar did.” She glances at her friends. “She was once this big model, I heard.”
“Do you know where Kohen is now?” I ask.
Vinnie hesitates, and Angela notices. “Oh, you old hussie.”
“What? A cougar’s got to eat. Shoot.” Vinnie looks up at us. “It was just the one time, but he took me back to his place.” She gives us the address and directions.
Angela hmphs. “Sounds like you’ve been there more than once.”
I speak up. “Can any of you ladies recall seeing either Mike or Torrance working the night of March twenty-third?”
“The night Joanna died, you mean?” Vinnie says. I nod. “I’m sorry, hon. I can’t say for sure. Too many mimosas, and too many of the same kind of days all run together.” The other women agree to this.
“Well, thank you, ladies.” Rhys interrupts before they can derail the conversation again. “I believe that’s all we need at this time. We appreciate your cooperation. The government extends its gratitude, also.”
We start off, but Vinnie catches my pant leg, letting Rhys get a few steps ahead. “Little advice, darling. That one there is a bundle of sexual tension just waiting to erupt. You take care of that man before he blows. Boy, I’d love to be the one to release the pressure on that steamy kettle.”
The women nod in agreement, and a warm flush prickles my cheeks. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
I’m able to pry myself away from the beach bunnies before they can start in on my lack of love life. I have a feeling that was next on their agenda. When I catch up to Rhys, I notice his slight limp as he navigates the boardwalk.
I slip on my shoes. “Is the sand bothering your leg?”
He noticeably corrects his gait. “Not too bad. It’s a good workout, though. I just need to strengthen the
muscles.” Then he switches the topic. “What else did the beach bunnies have to say?”
I reach into my bag and dig out my phone to stop the recorder. “Nothing relevant.”
He glances back at me, but says nothing. I can see it in his steel-gray eyes, though. He somehow knows. “How do you do that?” I ask.
He walks ahead. “Do what?”
“Nothing,” I say, because he knows exactly what I mean, and he’ll only deny it. I may have knowledge and skilled insight into people due to my years devoted to study, but he was born with an inherent intuition. I admit that it makes me jealous.
As we merge onto the pavement of the beach parking lot, I ease up beside him. “You only dismiss psychology because you don’t need it to do your job,” I say. “You read people naturally.”
He clicks the key fob to unlock the sedan. “I don’t dismiss it. I just think there’s more than that to people. And you have to use it all to work a case.”
I stare at him for a moment. “I agree. But since I don’t possess that natural ability—”
“You do,” he says, then turns to look at me. “Just learn to trust it.”
I hold his gaze, wondering what he sees that I don’t when I look in the mirror. His phone rings, the interruption allowing me out of a critical self-analysis.
“Markus, what do have?” Rhys holds his phone to his ear as he stares out over the sand dunes. “Okay, thanks. Go ahead and forward the reports to me.” He ends the call. “Background checks on Mike and Torrance came back. I had Markus dig deeper into Torrance this time around.”
Torrance wasn’t a suspect or even much of a person of interest when we were working my case. His alibi was solid. “Anything come up?”
His shoulders deflate. “Nothing much. A few bad checks on Mike’s part. Some past due payments to venders.”
I frown. “And Torrance?”
He pockets his phone. “One expunged assault record. Victim was a sixteen-year old girl.” He heads toward the car and opens the driver-side door. “You can read me the file on our way to Kohen’s place.”