by Trisha Wolfe
“Did you show her a picture of him? See if she recognized Rixon from the Dock House?” Black tie hung loose around his neck, he removes his shoulder harness and takes a seat across from me on the bed.
“No. I didn’t…” I should have, and I probably would’ve thought to do so had I not been so focused on Drew. “And the element of surprise is gone now. Going back to ask probably won’t render any new information on that front. Especially since we didn’t part on the best of terms.”
The stern contort of his expression relaxes at this. “I take it she wasn’t exactly happy to dredge up the past.”
I glance at the floor. “She lied to me,” I say. “I don’t know why I didn’t realize it before. I can’t blame faulty memory there; I knew something was off. I just didn’t know what or didn’t want to know. Maybe.” When I look at him, the commiseration I glean in his eyes is a comfort. “She’d been sleeping with Drew.” I barrel ahead before he can start an interrogation. I fill him in on everything Cam revealed. “She claims she wasn’t with him in that capacity the night of the attack, but that she was with him at his house. That he couldn’t have possibly went back to the Dock House.”
Rhys takes it all in, then says, “Not unless he never left.”
Alarm skitters through me at that realization. “The drive from the bar to Drew’s house then is over an hour.”
“It would be tight, but we don’t actually know the time of your attack. It could’ve been an hour after Cam left, or it could’ve been five minutes. Which would make it possible.”
And Drew allowing Cam to come over gives him a conspirator—two alibies in case one falls through. “Drew told her not to tell the police the truth, probably claiming that it would hurt me further and damage our friendship. He knew he’d be a suspect, and sleeping with my best friend and roommate would make him look even worse to the case detectives.”
Rhys nods knowingly. “We profiled your attacker as intelligent and cautious. Abbot always appeared that way to me.”
Which means if Drew was behind my attempted murder, he put thought into it. Premeditated. Not a crime of chance.
I stand, feeling sick. Start to pace. “I never thought, not once, not really, that Drew could be behind it…that he could be capable…”
Even when Cam revealed he was at the bar, it just didn’t compute. What reason did he have to want to harm me—to want me dead? I wasn’t the one pregnant. I wasn’t a threat to his freedom or his career. “It makes no sense,” I whisper to myself.
Lost in thought, I don’t realize Rhys is standing behind me until I feel the charge of his skin near mine. He touches my arm, and I flinch.
“It’s all right,” he says, but he removes his hand as I turn to face him.
I cross my arms, acutely aware of the thin material of my shirt, the only thing I’m wearing other than boy shorts, the flimsiest of barriers between us. “Do you think he could’ve really done this to me?”
Rhys knows people. He reads suspects and motives. His opinion is the only one that matters.
He removes his necktie, wraps it around his hand as he considers this. He exhales heavily, then: “I don’t know.”
His admission shocks me. I shake my head, unable to accept that Rhys doesn’t at least have a theory. “You interviewed him. You’ve had to consider the prospect before now. That Dutton missed something, or just couldn’t put it together—”
“And I did. I have,” he cuts in, his voice low, worn. “What is Abbot’s motive, Hale?”
Right. Motive. A weight sits heavily on my shoulders.
“Think,” Rhys urges. “After seeing Cam, does anything come back to you? Anything at all?”
I look away as the same unsettling anxiety creeps over me—the one I experienced when Rhys and I returned to the Dock House. Back then, he implored me to remember, to think… As if all I had to do was tap into those memories and the answers would tumble free.
“It’s so frustrating,” I say, shaking my head. “Being back here.”
His frown deepens. “I know.” A short beat. “We looked at Drew hard when we first reopened your case, but just like now, even after this new information, we’re unclear on motive.”
I deflate. I’m not sure if Drew’s lack of motive is a comfort, but it’s damn infuriating.
“What I do know,” he says, moving a fraction closer, “is that people respond to threats oddly. I’ve worked on cases where a perpetrator’s motive made no logical sense to me, but it’s not about me. It’s not even about you. If Abbot is good for this, then he had his reason. Whether or not you’ll ever be able to understand it…well, that might be the hardest part to live with.”
I stare into his eyes. “Even harder than not knowing?”
He’s so close now, I can smell his aquatic cologne. His body heat touches my skin, making me yearn to press against him and absorb his warmth.
The thought sends a jolt of awareness through me.
“You’ve worked cold cases,” he says, drawing me out of my thoughts. “You know there’s never any satisfaction at the end of the tunnel. There’s truth, there’s a form of closure, of justice. But there’s no gratification.”
He’s right, of course. How many times have I longed to know what the families felt when I’m writing their story, only to sit in front of my laptop, blank. Stalled. Unable to find the words.
I rub my arms, chasing away the sudden chill of the A/C unit. “Okay,” I say, accepting. “Then we just follow the lead.”
“To wherever it takes us.”
My gaze snaps to his. Us.
“I think I was being followed.” It just comes out. The need to divulge the utter truth to Rhys may be lingering guilt from my former mistruth, or something else—something I see in his eyes; that yearning my brain says to ignore, to avoid.
His expression darkens. “Where?”
“After I left Cam’s. Not far from her house. I thought I saw a man.” I shrug. “Maybe it was nothing.” But the note resurfaces fresh in my mind. Someone wants me off the case.
“Did you see what he looked like?” Rhys forces the subject.
“Tall. Could’ve even been a woman. They dipped into the tree line as soon as I spotted them.” It sounds stupid to hear myself say it aloud.
Rhys is still holding my arms; his grasp tightens. “You can’t go off solo,” he says. “Until we prove otherwise, we have to take this seriously. Someone sent that note. That person doesn’t want you working the Delany case, or they fear…” He trails off.
“That I’ll make the connection to my own case?”
I can see it in the hard press of his lips, the painful realization that he’s refusing to admit. My stalker is connected to my past. This person could be the key, if he doesn’t end my pursuit first.
If he doesn’t kill me.
What’s he waiting for?
“I don’t want to talk about this now,” I say, trying to step out of his hold.
His dark brows draw together. “There’s more,” Rhys says, reading me clearly. “What else, Hale?”
I try to turn away, but he holds on. Strong fingers embed my flesh. This time, he’s not letting go. “Tell me.”
Even as I try to push it away, the image of Cam on her patio flares vividly in my mind. “Cam. She’s pregnant.”
God, I’m pathetic. I came here to solve Joanna’s case, to bring a murderer to justice. Not wallow in self-pity.
I should’ve never come back.
I note the slackening of Rhys’s hands. He softens at my admission. Then his palms graze my arms, a comforting caress that should feel foreign coming from him, but it’s the most natural touch. Like he touches me in this way all the time.
Everything that could be said is relayed through that touch. How sorry he is that this was taken—stolen—from me. That I’ll never experience this miracle for myself. That I’ll never be a mother.
An ache pushes against the back of my eyes, the threat of tears, but I sniff them back. I won’t succumb to grief.
>
I’m alive.
Joanna’s not.
Rhys attempts to say something, but I stop him. Fearful of what my reaction might be if he opens up to me right now.
“It’s not…I’m fine.” I force a tense smile. “Besides, that’s the furthest thing I should be thinking about.”
His hands move to my shoulders. He’s somehow even closer, his towering height making me feel sheltered, protected. A strange mix of security and tantalizing heat charges the air between us. It’s torturous, this confusing combination that I’ve never felt near Rhys before—only it feels as if it’s not unfamiliar; like past and present colliding; the way it’s always been.
He cups my face. His thumb strokes my jawline, my skin heating at his tender touch. The way he’s looking at me… He kissed me once—just the one time. By the lake, when he pressed his lips gently to my forehead. It was done in a way a brother or a friend might kiss you; consolingly.
But intent is everything, and I do not see the intent to console me in his burning gaze now. There’s a ravenous hunger blazing in the depths of his irises. I’m torn over whether I meet him there—whether I should lean in or pull away.
“Lakin…I have to tell you…” His voice is thick, a guttural whisper that reverberates the warring emotions within me. I’m Hale to Rhys. His partner. Who is Lakin the woman to him?
His mouth nears mine, so close I can feel the warmth of his uneven breaths, when the ringing starts.
It’s the hotel room phone.
I awaken and take a step back. His hands fall away, and I already miss the feel of them. His gaze holds mine one second too long, a question there. It says if he walks away right now, we may never get this moment back. If he walks away…we’ll never admit to it.
I hesitate a fraction of a second…
Before I can voice anything, he turns to answer the phone.
I listen to him have a brief conversation with the hotel management, my emotions a swirling vortex, and then he hangs up the receiver.
“What is it?” My heart still thuds heavily in my chest.
Rhys drives a hand through his hair. “The locals know we’re working the Delany case. One of the case detectives left a message for us at the desk.”
It usually doesn’t take long for law enforcement to get wind of the FBI reopening a cold case. Some take offense to us encroaching on their turf, thinking we’re out to make them look bad, like they didn’t do their job, if we solve the case where they couldn’t.
“Are you going down there?” I hate the tremble of my voice, the ragged want that resonates.
Rhys releases a breath, tucks his hands in his pockets. “Not tonight.” His gaze lifts to meet mine.
There’s still that question hovering between us, as if I can reach out and grasp it. Bring the moment back from just two minutes ago. It’s my choice. As he waits me out, I know it’s all mine.
I’m a coward.
I glance around the room, then head toward my side of the bed. “I guess dealing with the locals can wait until morning.” I drag back the covers and crawl underneath, shivering at the cool caress of the sheets. So acutely different than his heated touch.
This can’t happen.
I know once the sun comes up, I’ll feel differently. He’ll feel differently. It’s the late hour. It’s my vulnerability. His protective nature. We’ve created a perfect storm, and the morning light will disperse the vapors.
I rest my head against the pillow and watch as Rhys readies himself for bed. He turns off the lamp. “Night, Hale.”
20
Nexus
Lakin: Now
There are three primary motives for murder: sex, money, and revenge.
Since that night, I’ve wondered what my attacker’s motive was. I wasn’t rich. I wasn’t raped. And at the time, what could I have done in my short twenty-three years to warrant that level of sadistic revenge?
I think about the murder board back at my Missouri home. Countless hours invested in the rebuilding of my case. Every player has at least one black line drawn in connection to the event. But it’s conjecture. Circumstantial. What’s important and relevant to me is not so much to the detectives.
Rhys has never seen my murder board.
When there appears to be no obvious motive, there’s the question of whether or not the murder could be serial in nature. A serial killer typically has no connection to his victims. Sometimes there’s a victimology, his victim selection process, where the offender is meticulous, systematic, and other times a victim is chosen at random. Possibly out of convenience.
This is the reason law enforcement becomes confounded when working serial killer cases. They depend on the victim’s link to the killer to find him, and when there is no link…
Well, I believe there is always a link. No matter how tenuous. The nexus may just be too minute for caseworkers to consider it significant.
A look. Bat of the lashes. A smile.
One single moment caught, suspended in time. And you’re in his web.
I’m not blaming the victim; the connection is misconstrued by the perpetrator. Serial killers rationalize, quite elaborately, their justifications. The actions taken are always in the killer’s control.
So how does a surviving victim take back that control?
I’m still searching for the answer.
Cam’s past betrayal has possibly implicated Drew. At least opened the door to question him further. That may lead to more information. I should feel relieved—one step closer.
I believed once that control was restored when the killer was caught.
Rhys’s declaration is a sobering truth. The never-ending quest for gratification is a dark, bottomless pit. Even darker than my underwater tomb.
Before I move forward, I have to decide if catching my attacker will restore the balance of control. Or send me spiraling down.
Coffee nestled in my lap, we pull up to the Brevard County Medical Examiner’s Office. The parking lot is near empty, and Rhys snags a spot in front of the brick building. We open the car doors to the humid morning air.
I take one last sip of coffee and then set it on the floorboard.
Even now, I need to know. Despite the warning, in spite of my own detriment, I’m more determined than ever to find my killer.
Before we left the hotel, Rhys picked up the message from Detective Vale. The detective is aware that we’re working the Delany case and wants us to come to the precinct. We’d eventually work our way to the detectives, to get their insight, but we try to save that interview for last. Not wanting to taint our own investigation at the start.
With the morning came a fresh perspective, last night safely and securely locked in its own secret compartment as part of the past. Rhys and I decided we’d postpone the interrogation (as nearly every meeting with major crimes and detectives results in them questioning us), and instead get the pertinent information on Joanna’s murder right from the source. That way we can start building the case backward.
Sounds confusing. Well, it is. Mystery writers often use this tactic to create a who-done-it storyline. Solve the crime first, then work backward planting clues for the reader.
I’m picturing Rhys and I as very clueless readers today. We need the end—Joanna’s end—so we can work backward toward her attack.
Rhys rings the doorbell, then inserts his hands in his pockets. “I have to send in a formal update to Quantico today,” he says. “At some point.”
“But you just got back from checking in,” I say. “Do we have anything to file yet?”
He blows out a terse breath. “No. But my superiors don’t care about individual cases. They just want to see progress from the team as a whole.”
My eyebrows draw together. I don’t envy Rhys this part of the job. He gets the bureaucratic bullshit, while I get to weave stories in my comfy glider.
“Shouldn’t take long to work up a report that shows the team’s involvement,” he says, rocking on his heels and tapping
the doorbell once more. “You want to call home? Check in on your cat and neighbor?”
A guilty twinge pangs my chest. I’ve been so consumed by the case, by my past, that I haven’t thought to do so on my own. And honestly, ever since I revealed Cam’s confession to Rhys last night, I’ve been agitated, impatient for us to question Drew. I’ve snapped the rubber band six times already this morning.
“Yes. I will,” I say.
“You could still fly back for a day,” he says, not meeting my eyes. “Check in on them properly while I handle the paperwork.”
“I don’t know. Seems like unnecessary mileage if I’m just turning around to come right back…” As I say this, I realize I might not be returning—that maybe this is the point.
Rhys never voiced his disapproval of my meeting with Cam, but I know it’s still simmering between us. A cold splash of betrayal slaps me. I trust Rhys more than anyone; he’d never deliberately deceive me. Is this about me being followed?
Before I’m able to voice my concern, the glass door clicks open. Dr. Keller, the district medical examiner, is dressed in green scrubs. I recognize him from his picture on the website.
“Can I help you?” Dr. Keller greets us.
Rhys flashes his FBI shield. “Dr. Keller, I’m Special Agent Rhys Nolan, and this is my partner, Lakin Hale. I’m hoping you have time this morning to answer a few questions we have on a past case.”
I smile to myself. Rhys may dismiss psychology, but he often uses it to his advantage. He never gives people the opportunity to not answer his questions. He just gives them the option to do it now, or later.
In his late-forties, with patches of gray-and-black hair peeking from beneath his cap, the district pathologist frowns. “I’m sorry, but could this be done another day? I’m in the middle of an autopsy.”
Rhys tucks his badge into the inseam of his suit jacket. “We’re only in town for a few days, and we’d really like to get a firsthand account from the expert on Joanna Delany’s case.”
Dr. Keller tilts his head. The victim’s name seems to pique his interest. “All right, come on back. You’ll need to wash up and don scrubs.”