by Trisha Wolfe
That’s why he sent me away. I think about that for a second, trying to string together Rhys’s logic on the two cases now knowing what he does about me: the baby, and Drew. “But you’re still looking at Drew.”
He squeezes my hand reassuringly. “Torrance can confirm what Cameron told you, giving us an opening to question Drew’s alibi. Was he with Cam the whole time during your attack?” He shakes his head against the pillow. “I wish we could question Cameron.”
“That’s precisely the reason why we can’t,” I say, letting the sick realization take root. “Someone followed me to her, and that same person wants both cases to go away.”
Rhys turns to look at me. “How did Chelsea respond to you when you confronted Drew?”
I wish I could void that one memory. “She was frightened of me.” But was it an act?
Cam admitted she was with Drew that night after she left the Dock House, which means Chelsea has no alibi. Drew used Chelsea as his alibi to keep his and Cam’s relationship a secret. But if all parties were clandestinely together…where was Chelsea during the attack?
I sit up in bed. The note.
With the events of the day, I forgot about the newest letter. I climb out of bed and dig it out from my pants pocket. The folded page is wet, the paper is welded together. “Shit.”
“What is it?” Rhys asks, now alert.
I fill him in on where I located the note and what it said. I lay it on the table to dry, hoping it’s salvageable. “The author thinks it’s time for us to meet,” I say.
“That would not be good, Lakin. Putting you on their terms.”
I nod. “I know this. I honestly thought it was another attempt to scare me away.” But the timing. Who followed us to the Tiki Hive? “Chelsea would’ve had just enough time to deliver the note and rush home before I showed up there.” It’s plausible, but… “Is the author of the note the killer?”
Rhys runs a hand through his disheveled hair. “Not to sound sexist, but I never looked too hard at Chelsea, because that level of sadistic revenge falls too outside the profile of a woman murderer. To kill a mother and her unborn baby…that’s highly atypical.”
Atypical or not, it gives her motive. How badly did she want me out of Drew’s life?
“But if Chelsea sent the first note, it could be theorized that, after a failed attempt to get rid of you and the pregnancy, she wanted to scare you away.”
I crawl into bed and lay next to Rhys. I rest my hand on his bare chest. “We’ll look into her harder. Tomorrow.”
He kisses the top of my head, and it feels so natural. This new ease between us, as if there was never any reason to fear us losing what we built together.
“One last thing,” he says. “Did you listen to any of my messages?” He realizes my answer before I can respond. “Right. I don’t blame you. Detective Vale has issued a DNA seizure warrant for you. To compare to the crime scene and trace found on the victim. I mean, Cameron.”
This makes sense. I was at her home. I may have been the last person, besides the killer, to see her alive.
“It’s nothing to worry about,” Rhys assures. “It will rule you out as a suspect.”
“You’re still acting as my attorney?”
“If you’ll have me.”
His response echos a promise far more committed than just acting in my defense. “Then we’ll handle that, too, tomorrow.”
“All right.”
As we settle beneath the covers, the droning of the air-conditioner lulls me into a sense of calm. Rhys’s body heat against my side is a comfort.
Still, my subconscious begs to be heard, my mind churning as I will my eyes closed. So for once, I don’t bury my voice. As we lie here, Rhys’s arm linking me close, I tell him why the first note shamed me into running and never talking about it.
How I believed the sender of that note may have had reason to want me dead. The awful person I was painted to be: the degraded college student who slept with her professor. The scandal lurking right around the corner.
I was the mud.
I admit that I wanted the man to be real—that I wanted to believe he wrote the letter to send me away, to save me again. I know it’s a ridiculous theory, childlike and naive, but I needed to believe in…something. Otherwise I was just a scared victim running from her life.
We whisper into the night, sharing our secrets. He tells me about the case he was assigned to before we met, where he suspected an agent manufactured evidence. This led to the bullet he took in the field. Our fears and allegiance to those we loved and trusted kept us from speaking out. Another thing we share.
Secrets are only able to haunt when they stay buried. Like a ghost crossing over into the light, once they’re exposed, all that’s left is peace.
28
You
Lakin: Now
3:00 a.m. is known as the witching hour. It’s said that evil spirits and ghosts are most active and powerful at this time of night. Nearly a couple hundred years ago, the church believed it was due to lack of prayers during this hour.
That’s a good theory. The last thing I want to do as I stir awake is pray, my body aching from muscle exertion—both good and bad. But maybe I should. Send some entreaty up into the clouds, seeking an answer.
I’ve tried everything else to recover the memory of my attack.
Mind too restless to fall back asleep, I ease out of bed, trying not to disturb Rhys.
A light illuminates from the table near the window. A notification on my phone. I set the device to silent, but the light is bright enough to make me alert. As I pad closer, I grab my key ring from my bag.
The USB drive dangles there, a mockery of the story of my life. The memories recorded in my book aren’t real. At least, not all of them. This makes me question what else is false.
The recurring dream I experienced leading up to my attack. The one I thought was, somehow, a warning, a premonition. The actual dream most likely never happened. Repressed memories have a way of relocating, transplanting themselves in other areas of the mind.
The truth is, it’s far more likely there was never a dream at all. After the trauma I suffered, my mind may have rebuilt the memories, installing bits of the attack into a dreamlike sequence. Distorted glimpses of that night, rearranging the moments before my death in a way I could accept, by remembering the attack as a dream when I tried to recall the event.
I touch my belly, lightly tracing the scar tissue beneath Rhys’s shirt.
I should write it all down. Now. While the recovered memories are fresh. I can compare them to the dream to determine what is fact and what is false.
Reaching for the notepad and pen on the table, I knock the curtain aside. A splinter of moonlight dances over the table and my phone. Now fully awake, I pick up the phone and illuminate the screen.
A text message appears: I’m here. It’s time we meet. Come down alone.
I stare at the message, my heart rate climbing. I glance at Rhys, then back at the screen. The number is unknown. Of course, it is. Most likely a burner.
I push the curtain back and peek out the window. The rain has stopped, and it’s eerily still outside. Then movement catches my eye.
A figure travels through the parking lot.
Dread coils in my stomach as I push the curtain farther aside. The person below stops near the rental sedan and looks up. A tremor of fear skitters down my back as they appear to be looking directly at me. They can’t see me… But still, I step away.
Meet me.
The words written in the note from yesterday flare to life, as if they’ve been whispered in my ear.
The devil’s hour. It would be decidedly stupid for me to meet this person now, alone. I know this, and yet the urgent press to dart to the parking lot and catch them before they can escape thrums through me.
Who’s down there hidden behind the shadows? Who’s waiting for me to come?
Rationally, Rhys and I should investigate together. My anxiety is cli
mbing. What if this is my only chance to confront my killer? Cam’s killer? What if I can end this before anyone else gets hurt?
Yes, that’s what I want—but I’m not a saint.
I whisper the word, and my soul feels as light as air. “Revenge.”
Not justice. Not closure.
Retribution.
Right now, feeling the aching void of what was stolen from me anew…that person doesn’t get to have justice.
I’m the nexus. This started with me—and it needs to end with me.
The decision was made before I closed the text message. I slip on a pair of jeans and tuck in Rhys’s shirt. His scent envelops me, comforting, lending me his strength. I want to keep him close, even though I have to leave him behind.
I eye his service weapon on the nightstand table.
I’ve never shot a gun before. It seems likely that the perpetrator could turn it around on me, so I decide against taking the weapon and instead snag the metal handcuffs from his belt.
One last glance behind as Rhys slumbers in bed, then I slip out of the room.
The air outside the hotel is humid despite the early hour. The mugginess thickens my throat as I hastily maneuver through the parking lot. I weave around cars with purpose toward the sedan. If that person is still out here, if they’re watching, waiting, I don’t want them to think I’m aware.
I click the key fob, and the sedan’s lights blink a couple of times. I wait a moment longer, pretending to check my phone, giving them time to approach me, before I settle behind the wheel.
My heart gallops audibly in my ears.
What am I doing?
I’m crazy.
I look through the windshield, not spotting any notes. Maybe I imagined them, the wires in my brain still crossed, faulty. I breathe a curse and rest my forehead against the wheel.
An engine cranks, light beams into the car’s interior.
Slowly, I look up.
For a moment, I’m blinded by the headlights of the car directly across the lot. Then, as the car backs out of the parking spot, my eyes adjust. I can make out the profile of a woman in the driver’s seat. It’s the hair; I recognize the long waves. The light shade.
Chelsea.
My mind springs to this conclusion before I can rationalize another logical reason as to why some random woman would be hovering around a car at three in the morning.
The car idles in the parking lot, and pressure beats at my temples.
She’s waiting for me.
I key the ignition with a shaky hand and crank the car. Once I’m backed out, the other car—a sleek, black Toyota—pulls ahead, turning right out of the hotel. Steeling my nerves, I follow the car onto the main road.
We coast on the highway like this for an hour, me muttering to myself, scolding myself for my lunacy—which I can only blame the witching hour for my rash choice—when I realize where the woman is leading me.
My head beams illuminate the road sign for Silver Lake.
An oily film coats my stomach. I glance at the passenger seat, at my phone. Steering one-handed, I grab the device and type out a quick but detailed text to Rhys. My thumb hovers over the Send button…
The black car flips on the blinker.
I set the phone on the seat. I leave the message app open, just in case I need Rhys to know. I made a note of the car, the license plate, and a vague description of the woman driving.
Even though I didn’t name her specifically, he’ll come to the same conclusion; Chelsea. It was Rhys’s theory, after all. Regardless of his reluctance to profile a woman killer, Chelsea had motive.
Piece it together:
My pregnancy stood in the way of her marrying Drew.
The first note was meant to scare me away when I survived the attack.
We will have to find a connection to investigate—but Drew may have known Joanna Delany intimately. Another possible threat to Chelsea, or simple jealousy.
The newest notes: the author didn’t want us investigating Joanna’s cold case.
Cam’s confession, once confirmed, would have revealed that Chelsea was not Drew’s alibi, therefore Chelsea is now without one for the night of my attack.
The method in Cam’s murder was different; the perpetrator purposely spared her unborn baby. A show of remorse.
Which goes back to: who pulled me from the lake? Only a killer, who suffers a conflicting bout of guilt, would rescue their victim. And the evidence states that there was no one else there that night. Just me and my killer.
All the pieces are there…they just have to be linked.
So whatever this woman has to say to me now, I’m ready—I’m ready to face my killer.
Following two car-lengths behind, I make the turn into the Dock House parking lot.
I hang back, my hands gripped to the wheel, as the Toyota parks in the spot nearest the water. My breathing is too loud in the silence of the car. My chest prickles as adrenaline crashes my system.
I go for the band around my wrist, needing the sharp bite of pain to ground me, and find my wrist bare. “Dammit.” Okay. Think. I dip sideways, losing sight of the car for only a few seconds, as I search the glove box.
Rhys is always prepared. For anything. I riffle through the items until I find the roll of coins and tape. As I situate myself in the driver’s seat, I eye the car as I grip the roll and wrap my hand with the bandage tape.
The car door swings open, she exits, and I quickly pull my hair back into a low bun, feeding a strand through the knot to hold it in place. If this comes down to a scuffle, I want to at least be prepared to fight. I watch her walk toward the dock. I slip my phone into my back pocket and check the handcuffs I stuffed in my front pocket.
I open the door.
It’s been years since I was last here, when Rhys brought me back, and nothing has changed. The Dock House is a wormhole in time. Untouched. String lights canopy the outside deck. A makeshift tiki hut stands center, sporting a wraparound bar. A plank stage two feet off the deck floor makes up the backside, where bands play live music. The same jukebox still separates the outside bar from the inside seating area.
Nausea engulfs my senses, and I fight down the bile trying to choke me. Last time, I was stronger. Last time, I had Rhys by my side. I wasn’t facing this dread alone.
I’m seconds away from giving in to the fear when I spot her on the pier. Hands tucked into a gray trench coat, her back to me, she looks out over the lake, her countenance just as serene as the still water.
My blood ignites.
This woman who has taken so much from me…
I let the anger take root, chasing back the tremors of fear. Gripping the coin roll in a tight fist, I head toward her, not softening my footfalls. I stop in the middle of the dock, inhale a fortifying breath.
I’ve stepped into my dream.
“I’m here.”
She doesn’t move. As I study her profile, my brows knit together. This woman is taller than Chelsea, and something seems…off.
She removes a hand from her pocket and tugs off her hair. The blond wig drops to the wooden planks.
My heart seizes inside my chest cavity. Before the realization is confirmed, the cruel veracity is already hitting.
And when they turn around, the world shifts.
“You.”
29
Body of Water
Lakin: Now and Then
Andrew Abbot was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen.
He was intelligent. Refined. Passionate.
He was a teacher of the mind, but also my first lesson in life and love.
And he saw me.
When he looked at me that first day in his lecture hall, all the world and its melancholy fell away, and I was seen.
Drew stands at the end of the pier now, so altered from the man that was the sun I used to orbit around. What I see is the truth that my young and vulnerable self couldn’t discern back then. The selfish, narcissistic manipulator that used people for his own g
ratification as he maneuvered them like puppets.
He removes the coat. Drops it next to the wig. “Was she followed?”
My brows draw together in confusion, my mouth parting to ask a question, until I’m silenced by the cold touch of a blade to my back.
“No,” Torrance says. I recognize his deep voice. I hold still as his large hands skim my body, patting me down. He chuckles at the bandage wrapping my hand for self-defense, then removes my phone from my back pocket. My eyes seal closed.
I hear the phone hit the dock, and the resounding crunch as Torrance smashes it beneath his foot. Making me untraceable. “And she won’t be,” he confirms.
Torrance nudges my shoulders roughly, forcing me to walk up the dock.
So many theories… I had so many on my murder board. But never, not once, did this scenario present. “How?” I ask this of Drew, gaze trained hard on him. “The both of you?”
Drew crosses his arms over his broad chest. “I want to be here just about as much as you do,” he answers me.
Torrance tugs me to a stop. “Oh, come on now. Life is all about the memories. Reliving our most important experiences. This was a defining one right here. For the both of you.”
I shake my head, clutch the coin roll bound in my hand. I whip around to face Torrance. “Did you kill me, or save me?” I demand. “Did you pull me from the lake for some kind of twisted game? I want answers!”
“Save you?” Torrance tilts his head, his eyes too open, too intense. I back up a step. “Tell her what she wants to know, Andrew. Every victim should have a final request.”
A shiver slithers over my skin, and I sneak a glance at the car. Then out over the lake. At the white lotuses bathed in moonlight. The water too still. That grave of tangled stalks waiting, beckoning me home.
No.
Fight.
The hollow footsteps rebound off the dock, the water a perfect conductor to send an electric jolt of awareness through me as Drew closes in. I turn so that I’m between them, trapped. “Why?” It leaves my mouth as a whispered plea.