by Trisha Wolfe
If time would just slow down long enough to let me make a choice…
Before I can will my body to act, he blinks and turns toward the ocean. Drops his hand from my face. He breaks the connection, and a knot tightens in my stomach.
“A reprieve,” he says, picking up the thin shoot again. “Like an intermission.” He draws a diagonal line in the sand.
“What?”
“What is that psychology term you always talk about? When the mind can’t harbor two beliefs at once?”
I blink against the wind, willing my brain to transition. “Cognitive dissonance?”
“Right. What if the killer is experiencing something like that?” He now draws three vertical lines off the main line. “Let’s imagine there are no other victims out there. That our guy isn’t a serial killer. His victimology has purpose. Maybe he’s feeling some form of guilt; that’s why he spared Cam’s baby. You were targeted first—” he breaks off as he scrawls my name along one line “—then Joanna. Then Cameron. If the cases are linked, then Joanna had to have had some connection to the both of you.”
If the cases are linked. With everything we’ve discovered, with all the similarities, we still have to be objective. “I didn’t know her. She was younger than me. We didn’t grow up in the same area or attend the same school.” I contemplate this for a moment. “And I don’t think Cam would’ve known her, either.”
Rhys scores out five more lines. Then, along each writes: Torrance, Mike, Kohen, Drew, Chelsea. He’s created a murder board in the sand.
All suspects, but the last name gives me pause. “How is Chelsea factored in?”
“Did you ever consider Chelsea for the author of the note?”
I shake my head. “No. I mean, the very first letter… The first time I read it, I assumed it was from my attacker.”
“Can you remember what it said?”
I can’t forget. I read the sick letter over and over, punishing myself, believing that I somehow deserved my fate. I had escaped death, but the author of the note knew I wasn’t really alive. My attacker stole much more than my security, my right to exert safety. They sucked away precious moments of my life, stole time away from me.
Then with the note…it was a promise to finish what was started.
I recite the letter word for word to Rhys, watching as his face gets that serious expression when he’s deep in thought. “Does that sound like a woman could’ve penned it?”
He flicks wet sand with the tip of the reed. “I’m not sure,” he says. “We’re looking for a nexus with the victims. Chelsea knows you and Cam, and I imagine, from what I recall, that she was into the glamorous scene. She might’ve known Joanna from her modeling days.”
That’s a huge leap. But the only connection to the victims that makes sense so far. But: “You think Chelsea could be good for this?” I had my issues with her—college issues; boyfriend issues—but I never seriously considered her capable of murder.
To me, she was always too vapid.
Never underestimate anyone.
Rhys told me this during our first cold case. And yet, I still can’t reconcile it. Because I’m too close to it. I’m not objective, the way Rhys is.
He drops the reed and dusts off his hands on his slacks. “Remorse,” he answers simply. “Not saying that our perp isn’t psychopathic in nature, but to purposely try not to harm Cam’s baby, there had to be some measure of remorse during the action. As if her murder was out of necessity rather than victim selection. So our perp has a method, and a purpose. None of this is random.” He looks at me. “That is, if the cases are connected.”
There’s one thing missing—one very big void: me. “What necessity would my murder serve?”
He stares at the cresting waves as the tide washes in. “That’s the question.”
“We need to interview Drew.” Logically, this is the next step. Linking the cases. Cam changed her statement, making Drew the only one who can either corroborate or contradict it. He’s the one who supplied Chelsea’s alibi.
When I press Rhys on contacting Drew, he clears his throat and stands. Offers me his hand. “Not yet. I have to think some things through.” I take his hand, and he helps me up beside him. “Why don’t you head back to the hotel. Are you okay to drive?”
I step up on the boardwalk and halt, turning to face him abruptly. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to lean harder on Rixon. Try to get him talking about where Torrance is, or find out if they had any connection to Chelsea, before Vale catches up with him. Rixon might know more about his brother than he lets on.”
It’s a good plan. Getting to Torrance first with our questions will help our case. Still, there’s a tremor of unease in the salt air.
Rhys is keeping something from me.
He sinks his hands into his pockets. “I think…we should get another writing sample.”
I agree. “We need samples from everyone.”
“No. We need the note, Hale. The one you received before you left Silver Lake.”
“I can’t get it,” I admit. “I destroyed it.” But, just as I seared the words into memory, I know the handwriting is a possible match. “I’m almost certain the author wrote both notes,” I tell Rhys with assurance.
Rhys looks hesitant, but he trusts me. He’s never not trusted me, which makes the fact that I know he’s keeping a piece from me even more painful.
“I’ll meet you at the hotel in a couple of hours,” he says, turning to head back into the Tiki Hive.
“Sounds good.”
He looks uncertain before he makes the final decision to leave, but he does. He gives me the car keys and enough time to launch my own investigation.
Rhys is a protector by nature. He may be only temporarily keeping information back because he believes he can spare me some hurt—but that’s not how partnerships work.
As I approach the sedan, I see a folded slip of paper tucked beneath the windshield wiper. Dread rears; it’s not a parking ticket. I go to snap the band, but stop myself. I face this head-on.
I unfold the letter.
Meet me.
The notes are becoming shorter, more direct. The author is losing patience.
Seated behind the wheel, I think about Rhys’s murder board in the sand. The waves washing it away, out of existence. Locating my own answers is just as time sensitive.
25
Emergence
Lakin: Now
I’m parked across the street from a beautiful Spanish Colonial.
It was always his favorite style.
My sweat-slicked hands feel slippery on the wheel as I stare at the house. Two figures move behind the lattice fencing of the side patio.
I haven’t seen him since…
When was the last time? I’ve seen images of him online, pictures taken by reporters when he was being questioned in connection to the investigation. But when was the last time I really saw him?
The evening of the fight.
The day Chelsea showed up at his door.
Drew didn’t visit me in the hospital. By the time I was coherent, he was a suspect—the prime suspect. Logically, his lawyers didn’t want him near me. Still, I always found that to be one of his harshest treatments of me; I was dead to him.
But does that make him a killer?
In a theoretical, cosmic sense, we are all killers. One could argue the philosophy of the butterfly effect, where every action has a reaction—cause and effect. I could take the wrong turn at a light and inadvertently derail someone, thereby sending some other soul on the wrong course, creating a chain reaction that would cause the death of another person.
In this case, we’re all empiricists, our knowledge of the world gleaned by experience. We’re unaware of our participation in said death. It’s too distant, abstract. Then there is the individual who goes against the natural order and decides to take fate into their own hands by committing the act of murder. This person wants the experience firsthand. They crav
e control, over their life and the lives of others.
And that’s why I’m here. Now.
To take back control.
I need to know just how complicit Drew was in my murder.
Did my illicit affair with my professor initiate a chain reaction that resulted with me at the bottom of a lake—or was it the sole choice of one person?
To know the truth of Drew, I need to look into his eyes—something I’ve avoided these past few years—like I look into the eyes of every suspect in every case, and know that I’m looking into the eyes of a killer.
I remove the keys from the ignition and open the car door. Hand clutched into a fist, I slat each key between my fingers, creating a prong-like weapon. A means of defense should something go awry. Rhys caries a service piece. We’re always in the field together. He’s trained me in self-defense, but venturing into this situation solo, I feel as if I’m walking up to Drew’s house exposed, vulnerable.
As I cross the street, my heart rockets to my throat. I feel each step pulse through my veins, a resounding beat in my ears, muffling the world. I walk up the long driveway, and a wave of déjà vu sweeps over me.
I push the unease away and head around the side of the house. Chelsea sees me first.
She’s still just as stunning as the last time I laid eyes on her. Long blond waves of hair, golden tan. To be honest, I’m a bit surprised they’re still an item. But then they have a child together. No matter Drew’s promiscuity, they’d try to make their relationship work. It’s what his family would expect of him.
Her eyes grow wide as recognition dawns. “Oh my, God, Drew. That psycho is back. Quick, call the cops.”
My steps falter. I grip the keys tighter, shock branching through my stiff limbs. “What?”
Drew is there by her side, taking up all the air as he always did. His presence is consuming, and I’m once again just a pathetic, smitten college girl standing before her professor.
Until he talks.
“Cynthia?”
Incensed at hearing my given name in his snide tone, I snap out of my confused daze. “I’m here to ask some questions,” I say, my gaze flitting from Drew to Chelsea. She’s latched on to his arm, looking shaken.
Drew’s surprise wears off quickly. “What is it now? First that damn FBI agent shows up, now you.”
My eyebrows draw together at this. When would Rhys have time… Then it resonates. Rhys went to Quantico. Alone. No—he came here. To see Drew. Why?
“Agent Nolan?” I ask, to verify my suspicion.
Drew steps in front of Chelsea. “Yeah. He hasn’t left me alone in years. And now I’m going to tell you the same thing I’ve told him.” He takes a step closer. “Leave me the fuck alone.”
The keys jangle loose in my hand. I stare down at the green, spongy grass. Rich grass. The kind you purchase as sod. I can make out the divots where the patches were spliced together.
When I glance around, I realize there’s something missing from their picturesque life. It niggles at the back of my mind. Where are the toys? The trail of chaos that comes from chasing a toddler?
Where is the toddler?
I rein in my errant thoughts. “What did Agent Nolan ask you?”
Drew’s features—that are markedly aged—crease in irritation. He drags a hand through his close-cropped hair, relenting. “Something about another girl that was murdered. Every time there’s anything remotely involving a young girl’s death, Agent Nolan is barking at my door. He’s worse than fucking Dutton was.”
His fury strikes me like a whip. “Did you know the victim?” I press. It’s hard to get a read on someone when they’re angry. It’s such a one-sided emotion. No range. Also, I knew him. Had deep feelings for him. I was easily swayed by his manipulation.
That’s not something that goes away over time.
If his rage is the only emotion I have to go on, then so be it. I’ll make Drew fume until he gives me what I came here for.
The truth.
I used to get under his skin, too.
“I didn’t know her,” he says. “Besides. Like I told that agent, I have an alibi. Case closed.”
I nod a couple of times. “Cases are so easily closed for you. Out of sight, out of mind.”
This seems to dent his armor. “Look, I’m sorry for what happened to you, Cynthia. I really am. But it was a long time ago. You need to move on.” He glances at Chelsea, then says, “You need to let us move on.”
I cock my head. “Where were you yesterday evening?” I demand.
Cam’s murder hasn’t been made public yet. I shift my focus from Drew to Chelsea, analyzing their responses. Chelsea shakes her head unreliably. Drew simply holds up a hand.
“Enough,” he says. “I don’t know why you’re here, but we’re done. With all of this.”
“When was the last time you saw or spoke to Cameron?” I force the conversation. When he remains silent, I add, “She was murdered, Drew.”
Chelsea gasps. “Oh my, God. Get her out of here.”
Arms crossed over his chest, Drew stares at the ground. “Christ,” he breathes. His distressed wife to his right clings to him, demanding I be removed from the premises.
Drew finally concedes. “Look, you’re upsetting her. You have to leave.”
“You slept with Cam.”
Chelsea’s frail state evaporates on impact of this news. “God, Drew. Did you get her pregnant, too?”
“What?” Drew turns toward her. “No! This is bullshit.”
I’m not done. “Where is your child?”
She looks at me as if I’ve asked the most preposterous question. Unease burrows deep inside, beneath my rib cage. The baby was the inciting incident. It was the first domino tipped. Why is it so outlandish that I would insist on proof of the thing that tore my life apart?
I raise my eyebrows at her, and Chelsea’s bravado shifts.
She’s scared of me. What have I ever done to this woman to warrant this level of fear?
“Where is the baby?” I demand.
My white, sleeveless blouse sticks to my back in the humidity. I’m glad I took my suit jacket off in the car. As the moisture thickens the air with the threat of rain, I’m one thundering heat wave away from passing out.
Drew steps forward, but it’s Chelsea who finally answers. “You lost it,” she says. “Remember?”
No… No, I do not remember. What is this devil with a golden halo of hair saying? “What are you talking about? I’m asking where the hell you and Drew’s kid is. The whole reason why we broke up? Fought that day? And I ended up in the path of a killer?”
I know; this logic goes against everything I’ve learned and accepted over the past few years. I can’t point the finger at Chelsea any more than I can point the finger at Drew for the events that led to my death.
Or can I?
A rush of anger assaults me, and suddenly the heat is boiling my blood.
“Just answer me!”
Drew’s features melt into sympathy, and that only makes me seethe more. “I think you’re confused, Cynthia.”
Now Chelsea: “You were the one that came to Drew’s that day,” she says. “You told me you were carrying his baby. You were upset. It caused a huge fight.”
The world is spinning in the wrong direction.
Drew: “You lost the baby,” he says, repeating Chelsea’s words. “I’m sorry, Cynthia.”
I hold out my hand, as if I can stop the barrage. The keys clang together noisily in my ears. A roar floods my head, and pressure builds…
I close my eyes to stop the sway. That day comes back with biting clarity. The emergence of a memory. The driveway. The mahogany door. My Guess Wedges.
No—not mine. I didn’t wear those kinds of shoes. Chelsea wore them.
Like a mirror being flipped, the memory inverts.
Me walking up the driveway, ringing the doorbell. Chelsea answering the door. Drew tracking me down at my apartment. The cops being sent.
The
baby.
My baby.
I was only a few weeks pregnant.
I’d just found out that morning.
You lost the baby.
I didn’t lose the baby; it was taken.
My hands go to my belly. My fingers find the scars. “Oh, God…”
“Drew, she’s crazy. Call someone.”
Chelsea’s voice bombards my eardrums, and yes, I’m crazy. I’m mad. I’m seconds away from losing all touch with reality. My peripheral wavers, blackening at the edges.
I have to leave.
I have to get safe.
My feet are taking me to the car, although I can’t remember moving. Time is skipping. The sordid truth is circling my mind like a murky drain, seeking a way out, an escape.
I ease behind the wheel and, when I calm my erratic breathing, I snap the band around my wrist to center myself. I feel the sting. I blink away the wetness from my eyes. Then I crank the car.
Drew and Chelsea watch me drive away. I glimpse them one last time in the review mirror before I focus on the road ahead.
The first drops of rain plink the windshield.
The rain has finally come.
26
Downpour
Lakin: Now
Silver Lake Memorial is forty-five minutes away from Drew’s new home. I don’t need the sedan’s navigation to direct me there, but I programmed the route anyway. The robotic voice dictating directions is a strange comfort. Keeping me from getting lost in my own thoughts.
Every time I gain a moment of composure, I fall into a memory: Drew’s echoing voice bouncing around the lecture hall. His lecture on false memory.
The phenomenon is more common than most think. Especially for trauma patients. I can recite the textbook definition word for word. I know it’s real…and yet, I’m struggling to accept false memory as what’s happened to me.
I need verifiable proof.