Lotus Effect

by Trisha Wolfe

  “We’ll let you know if we have any questions about the Delany case,” I say.

  “You do that, Ms. Hale.”

  Rhys heads to the door, but I don’t budge. I look at Detective Vale expectantly.

  “Oh right,” he says. “Seems that I wasn’t authorized to give you visitation, after all.”

  I grab my bag and hoist it across my shoulder. I could have the last word; I could tell Detective Vale what I think about his interview skills that are completely obvious and lacking. Or the fact that I could smell his unpleasant breath from across the table.

  Instead, I offer him a smile and leave. I stop myself from thanking him, as that feels crass. He doesn’t need to know that, by trying to intimidate me, he’s given us a key piece of his investigation.

  Once we’re outside the hospital, Rhys says, “I promise, I’ll explain. But we need to get the handwriting analyses back from Quantico first so we can—”

  “See if either Torrance or his brother is a match to the note,” I finish for him.

  We stop at the trunk of the rental car, and Rhys studies me. “You caught that.”

  “I did. Detective Vale is conducting interviews at the hospital. Why? The perpetrator spared Cam’s baby. He thinks there’s a link to my case.”

  Rhys nods slowly as he thinks it through. “He’s looking at Torrance as the prime suspect. A theory that Cameron could’ve maintained an affair with him throughout her marriage.”

  “Right. He’s read my file. Read Cam and Torrance’s statements. Torrance is connected to both victims. I mean all three…”

  Rhys does something so uncharacteristically open, my breath catches. He hooks a finger beneath my chin and lifts my face, angling my gaze to meet his.

  “You’re not a victim,” he says.

  I nod against his hand. “I know.”

  “Do you?” His thumb strokes my cheek, his slate eyes intense, before he drops his hand. He steps away, putting a comfortable distance between us, and I drag in a full breath.

  “What I meant was, Torrance has a link to all three women. Me, Cam, and Joanna. With his juvi assault record, that makes him suspect number one.”

  Rhys looks up at the sky, then checks the time on his phone. “Let’s get our answers to the handwriting analyses before Vale brings in Torrance.”

  “All right.”

  I appreciate Rhys’s collective control. By staying calm and not leaping to conclusions, he’s keeping me grounded. We’re here to solve Joanna Delany’s murder. If, by chance or fate…or some other divine design…we discover a perpetrator to investigate in my attack…

  There’s time.

  First, the cold case.

  I was so focused on Drew not having a competent alibi that I failed to connect the other piece of the puzzle. Torrance had gone along with Cam’s lie—why? The obvious explanation: He still needed an alibi. Which gave him motive to get rid of Cam—the person who could reveal the truth and implicate him.

  As we head to the Tiki Hive, I try to envision Torrance stalking toward me on the dock. His hand gripping a knife. I try to visualize his features on the man who pulled me from the lake. I see the white lotuses on the dark water.

  I blink hard when the rest won’t come.

  If we prove Torrance is the killer, I will have to accept it as fact. Regardless of what my mind wants to believe. There’s no room for two beliefs. The mind is the most powerful tool. But just like a tool, it can be sharpened and molded. It can be bent. It can be trained to believe almost anything.

  23

  Book of Drew

  Lakin: Then

  Have you ever told a lie and immediately regretted it? Either because you believed you’re inherently an honest person, or because the lie contradicted your principles, your own beliefs? How badly did you feel after telling the lie? What did you feel? Remorse? Guilt?

  This is called cognitive dissonance. The uncomfortable feeling that squirms inside you when two beliefs challenge each other. When this occurs, our mind has to decide how to correct the imbalance and restore harmony. To alleviate the guilt, in other words.

  There are four choices:

  Modify. Trivialize. Add. Deny.

  We can modify our belief system to accept a portion of the lie as truth. Or trivialize it, coming to the conclusion that the outcome of the lie isn’t that important. We can add another cognition, or behavior or belief, on top of the lie in order to accept what we’ve done. Or we can downright deny that we ever told a lie to begin with.

  The last one gets a bit tricky.

  How do we convince ourselves of something that we fundamentally know is the opposite?

  Logically, we have to understand that our mind wants to protect us. If a belief is causing pain, the brain will map a way around that area of hurt in order to find a less painful avenue.

  The path of least resistance.

  It’s why we occasionally look at people and question their choices, their situations. It’s inconceivable to us, in our belief structure. But we haven’t walked in their shoes, to quote a cliché. We don’t know the logical avenues their brain had to map in order to protect them from destruction.

  I’m thinking about this now, as I write a scene from my past, because—at this particular moment in time—I couldn’t see the path ahead. I wasn’t aware of the very real pain my relationship with my psych professor was causing.

  Love, in so many ways, is a deceptive lie in itself, triggered by the chemicals in our brain.

  Maybe that’s a bit jaded. Or maybe it’s just plain science.

  On this day, Drew was lounging in a hammock on the back lanai of his Spanish Colonial home, book in hand. A mystery novel. Something I’d teased him about; his guilty pleasure.

  “You’re supposed to be writing a paper,” he said, and flipped a page in his book.

  I put my pen down on the patio table. “It’s coming off as rambly.”

  He looked over at me. “Rambly?”

  I twisted my lips. I’d heard Cam use it recently. “I am a college student, you know.”

  He set the book on the deck and rocked out of the hammock. “You’re not just a college student. If that were the case, I’d have no interest in you.”

  “Very bluntly put.” Tired of this latest head game, I stood and marched toward the house. Lately, Drew and I had been testy with each other. Not fighting. Not even arguing, per se. Just…prickly, for lack of a better word.

  Maybe it was the upcoming spring break trip. With less than a week to go, I’d been anxious to get away. From school. From Cam. My parents.

  Chelsea.

  I sensed Drew behind me, closing in. I sped up as I neared the sliding-glass door. He grabbed me around the waist and lifted me off the deck. I squealed as he slung me around and pinned my back to the glass.

  Hair slipped from my bun and covered the side of my face. He cupped the back of my neck, digging in his fingers and tilting my head. He wedged his knee between my thighs and forced them apart, so he could slip his other hand beneath my skirt.

  I bit my lip hard, but a deep, achy noise slipped free.

  His mouth hovered close to mine as he said, “If you paid closer attention in class, then you’d have Law of effect nailed by now.”

  I took measured breaths, unable to control the tremor in my voice as his palm grazed my skin and inched higher. Heat simmered from deep within. “Maybe I would, if you’d teach rather than nailing your students.”

  Sharp pain snatched my breath as Drew pinched my inner thigh, hard enough to leave a mark. “Student,” he stressed. “Maybe you need another lesson in operant conditioning.”

  I swallowed. “I’m easily distracted,” I said, changing course. “My teacher is pretty hot.”

  But this didn’t alleviate the aggressive resentment thrumming through him. Jaw set rigidly, he gripped my face before he kissed me savagely. I gave in to the yearning, the hunger to have him desire me again.

  I knew my behavior was causing a rift between us, b
ut I couldn’t control the compulsion. I’d been making snide accusations about him and Chelsea. The signs were obvious to me, though. Along with Chelsea’s grossly observable flirtation, there was the recurring dream. I was sleep deprived and paranoid. And the gossip inflamed an already tender nerve.

  According to the rumor mill, Chelsea’s pursuit of the professor was a welcome one; Drew’s parents not opposed to the union of their prestigious families.

  He broke the kiss. “I only want you.”

  I searched his eyes, seeking that uncomfortable feeling—that tell—which would present with a lie. If he felt guilt, if he was disturbed by it, he hid it well.

  Drew’s life was—compared to most—a charmed life. Wealthy. Educated. Attractive. He wanted for nothing, and yet he found ways to endanger it all. Like a gambler needed to skirt the brink to feel alive.

  “I’m not good for you,” I admitted, shocked when it left my mouth. I’d never professed it aloud before, but he had to know it was the truth.

  The Chelseas and Drews of the world were better. They just were.

  His voice softened. “I only want you,” he repeated.

  He didn’t refute my claim. He couldn’t. I knew right then that I could never be his match, his equal, just as I’d known when I was a child that I’d never be like Amber. She shined so brightly…until her light went out. Me trying to exist in his world was like trying to force a square peg into a round hole. Too much friction. It doesn’t belong.

  “Why?” I had to know. Why me?

  He smoothed my hair away from my face, his gaze dancing over my features. “It’s the human condition. We want what’s bad for us. We’re designed to self-destruct.”

  Our bubble burst in that moment. Reality crept in like a thief, stealing my serenity, my bliss I’d found with Drew. He was an excellent teacher. The Law of effect. My behavior was earning me unpleasant consequences from him.

  Pain, acute and blinding, lanced my soul. I only had four choices:

  Modify. Trivialize. Add. Deny.

  The lie I told myself was that, if I was incapable of change, then Drew could change. That he would shun his affluent life for me. Because we were special together—neither one of us had ever experienced such intense emotions before.

  I was half right.

  And when his lips descended on mine, I was well again. The dark tide washing ashore within me started to recede.

  Cognitive dissonance ensures that our mind will correct the imbalance.

  24

  Murder Board

  Lakin: Now

  “You guys must either really like bar food or—” Mike Rixon breaks off in the middle of his sentence, letting the weight of implication hang heavy in the air.

  Rhys picks up on his thread as we approach the bar top. “We have a few more questions for Torrance.”

  “He’s not here,” Mike answers simply. “But when I see him, I’ll let him know to contact you.”

  “Thanks,” Rhys says. “We also have another question for you, regarding Kohen Hayes.”

  On our drive here, I examined the handwriting analysis report. These reports read kind of like throwing a dart at a moving target…while amid a tornado. Strong winds send that dart somewhere in the vicinity of the target, but you have to include many other factors in order for it to be useful.

  They’re best used for ruling people out. Mike Rixon, for example, was ruled out as the author of the note by 94%. His half-brother, Torrance, scored 33%. Considering that’s below fifty percent, we can’t entirely rule him out, but we can’t confirm with one hundred percent accuracy that he did write the note.

  Math makes my head hurt.

  All we know for sure is that Torrance scored lower than his brother, and Torrance is the only one of our persons of interest who has a connection linking him to all three women.

  That makes Torrance our prime suspect for the time being, and the local authorities—particularly Detective Vale—are already interested in him. Once major crimes gets him into an interrogation box, our cold case will be sidelined.

  My case will be sidelined.

  And Cam…

  I try to keep perspective, but as I stand here, anxiously twirling the band around my wrist, watching Rhys suss out the truth from Mike about why Kohen was fired, I feel as if the walls are starting to close in.

  “I need some air,” I say to Rhys, as I’m already bolting for the open doors of the bar.

  Rhys cuts his conversation short and follows me outside.

  The sprawling beach deck is teeming with beach goers as they crowd in for the lunchtime rush. The crashing waves of the ocean sound too loud in my ears, all other noise muffled and distant against the battering wind.

  “Hale, wait.”

  It’s Rhys’s voice that finds me, and I brace my back against one of the beams.

  “Just breathe,” he says.

  He lets me get through the sudden anxiety attack on my own, giving the adrenaline time to work its way out of my system. A person can only panic for so long. After about ten minutes, the mind and body regulates. You just have to keep your composure until the attack passes.

  Rhys moves in closer, blocking most of the people from my view. “Better?”

  I nod. “It’s just…all catching up. Or hitting too fast at once.” I’m embarrassed. I don’t suffer panic attacks. This isn’t common.

  However, when it comes to Rhys, I don’t need to elaborate. The concern etched in hard creases on his face softens with his understanding. “You haven’t had time to process Cam,” he says knowingly. “Or mourn her.”

  It’s only been hours, but it feels longer, much longer since I saw her body on the slab. I cringe at my internal thoughts. I’m not even sentimental in the privacy of my mind.

  “Process,” I repeat as the events catch up. “Like the fact that my partner is apparently a lawyer.”

  Rhys sighs. “Come on.” He attempts to guide me to the boardwalk without touching my arm.

  He leads me toward the shore, where low tide leaves a crescent of paved sand. Without a word, he plunks down a few feet away from the cresting waves, a silent request for me to do the same.

  I seat myself beside him, trying to ignore the feel of wet sand as saltwater seeps into my slacks.

  “Truth has a way of coming out,” he says. He stares out over the ocean; won’t meet my eyes. I wonder if he’s thinking about the note I kept from him in that statement. “I should’ve handled that better.”

  A sudden surge of guilt steals over me. We all have secrets. “It’s not really any of my business. I was just…surprised. You never mentioned it.”

  Rhys picks up a lone sea oat shoot and scrapes the hard-packed sand. “No, it’s fair. I’ve plundered through your life, asking the hard questions. Least I could do was tell you a piece of mine.”

  To be really fair, I came to him asking for help on my case. I invited him to plunder into my life. “Parents?” I ask generally.

  His tight smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “You’d make a good profiler. Yeah, my dad. I come from a family of lawyers. I’m the middle son, and when I changed course to the FBI, my dad wasn’t too thrilled.”

  “You have to be in the field.” I can’t picture Rhys in a courtroom.

  “The getting shot part didn’t go over too well with him, either. It was like I proved him right; that I wouldn’t make it as a field agent. I even thought about returning to the law during my rehabilitation leave.”

  I rest my hand on his forearm. A foreign show of emotion, of empathy, but with Rhys, it feels natural. I want to offer him comfort.

  “Why didn’t you?”

  He looks at me, covers my hand with his. “You.”

  A gust of wind steals my breath. I inhale deeply, filling my lungs. “Rhys…”

  “You wouldn’t leave me alone,” he says with a curt laugh. “So I told myself I’d take one more case, then retire. But we know how that actually turned out.”

  I recall how moody he was when I
first spoke with him. At times, I still see a glimpse of the sullen anger that lurks within him over his injury, over being taken out of the field. But… “I needed you. I couldn’t have gotten this far without you,” I say honestly.

  There is no hesitancy in his gaze as he searches my face. Whether it’s my admission of needing him that’s shocked him silent, or something else…

  He glances down at our hands, still touching. Then he turns mine over, exposing the rubber band. His thumb probes the delicate skin beneath the band, the rough pad of his thumb an arousing friction against the red, sensitized skin.

  “I wish you wouldn’t cause yourself pain,” he says.

  The urge to pull my wrist away thrums through me with violent need, but I don’t move. “It was part of my therapy,” I admit. “I just became conditioned to it, I guess.”

  “Dr. Lauren?” he asks. He had to interview her while he was in Silver Lake working my cold case. She couldn’t divulge anything that would break patient-doctor confidentiality, but she confirmed my memory loss, my battle with physical recovery.

  I nod in confirmation. “It distracted me from the pain. Whenever the rehabilitation therapy would become too much, she said to snap the band. My mind would focus on that sudden, sharp pain, giving my body a reprieve. If only for a moment.”

  Something flashes in his eyes; a realization. Maybe Rhys understands more than most about needing an interruption from the pain.

  He’s still holding my hand, his thumb absently tracing my wrist. Another blast of wind sends my hair across my face and, as I pull away to clear it from my eyes, he reaches up and tucks the strands behind my ear.

  His hand lingers there, the tips of his fingers lightly touching my jaw. I think again of that moment at the lake, when he kissed my forehead. And of last night, when the question of us charged the air—when all I had to do was move closer.

  His tie flaps against his arm in the breeze, and I imagine a braver version of myself grabbing hold of it and bringing his mouth crashing against mine. As his gaze settles on my lips, I part my mouth in anticipation, wondering if he’s envisioning the same.