Prologue
Rebirth
Lakin
I remember the way the water rippled from above. The silver light of the moon cast the waves in shimmering motion, as if staring at a theater screen, the movie reel jammed. The projection lamp melting the film.
A life paused, halted. The fabric of time rippling around the seams.
Later, a neurologist would tell me my nervous system was shutting down. My mind, deprived of oxygen, caused bursts of light to flicker across my vision, like one experiences right at the moment of death.
There was no moon that night.
There was only the lake, the vegetation, and my body.
And him.
Through rapidly firing synapses, as the Grim Reaper gripped my soul, I glimpsed his dark silhouette amid the shimmering waves. He drove a hand through the water surface and pulled me from the murky depth.
A phantom. A figment of my imagination.
There was no man.
Only the lotus flowers floating above, their stalks tangling my hair and limbs at the bottom of the lake.
There was only my death.
1
Book of Chelsea
Lakin: Then
I dreamed of my death before it happened.
Between cramming for final exams and packing for spring break, I’d get momentary glimpses. Fleeting wisps, broken fragments of the dream that felt so surreal. I’d shove the abstract images away just as quickly as they came.
It was only a dream.
Then one day, when our Louis Vuitton bags were parked near the mahogany door, my passport in hand—because I just knew I’d forget it otherwise—it happened.
I died.
Right there in the entryway of the beautiful Spanish colonial.
I still remember the sickening acid roiling my stomach. The noxious taste in my mouth as oily vomit clawed up my throat.
I couldn’t stop looking at her hair. Like an angel’s, her platinum-blond locks were spun like white gold, wrapping her tan shoulders in a sun-kissed halo around her perfect figure.
“I’m pregnant.”
Two words imploded my world. Two little words that, when strung together, changed the course of my life.
I could only stare at her. I’d dreamt this…
“I just thought you should know.” She crossed her arms, pushing her ample cleavage near her slim throat.
That night, during the fight that would lead to my meltdown, I would unleash every venomous slur and purge every question from my mouth that I should’ve raised there, but right then, I could only stare vacantly, the earth beneath my Guess wedges shifting me off kilter.
I watched her walk away, down the driveway, her hips swaying.
A sense of déjà vu snatched me. The edges of the dream bleeding in through my stupor.
I knew this was going to happen.
It wasn’t a prophecy, of course. Maybe a self-fulfilling one in a sense. The subconscious tickling the conscious, planting hints. Trying its damndest to reveal the truth that our waking minds are too stubborn to accept.
Drew, my psych professor, the only man I had ever loved, had gotten one of his students pregnant.
I crumpled to the marble foyer.
I’d never felt so close to death as I did in that moment. Wanting the world to open up and swallow me—to end my humiliation and misery.
I should’ve known. I heard it all the time…
Be careful what you wish for.
2
In Her Wake
Lakin: Now
New chapter:
It’s said the lotus represents purity. In Buddhism, the lotus flower is revered, its value to the human condition a staple in many proverbs and metaphors. Gautama Buddha often spoke of how the lotus came from the muddy sludge, and rose above to spring through the water surface unsoiled.
Botanist and lotus expert Thomas Ryker explains the lotus effect more scientifically, describing the self-cleaning properties. As the lotus unfolds each morning, it cleanses itself of dirt and debris, the filth collecting in the dew and rolling off its leaves. The texture of the lotus leaf produces a hydrophobic ability: repelling water.
I could go into further detail, expounding on the years of research I’ve devoted to this remarkable flower. I could also illustrate what I personally know from my own experience: the silky feel of the petals when submerged, the way the stalks cling to hair. How, despite the beauty on the water surface above, just below is a dark, desolate world—a shadow world—void of life. Where the stalks twine and trap like a spider’s legs, and no matter how hard you fight to escape, you’re forever entombed.
A shiver crawls along my skin, and I hit Enter to start a new line.
It’s a warped piece of irony, for such beauty on the surface is terrifying beneath.
You can love and fear a thing all at once.
I stop rocking and swipe the mouse pad, toggling the computer screen from one document page to the other. I do it again. Back and forth.
Two documents are open on my Mac. Two incomplete novels. One has been incomplete for years. The other is a shiny new, blank page.
My fingers probe for the rubber band around my wrist. I roll the pads of my fingers over the band as I think, then I flip back to the previous document and continue.
I read a proverb—though I can’t recall by whom—that states knowledge dispels fear. Trepidation only exists because we do not understand what we fear. That, by uncovering the mystery, we slay our demons.
This is my only hope as I endeavor to be as pure as the beautiful lotus that haunts me.
That’s about as poetic as I’ll get on the subject. I’ve made many attempts to describe the lotus, what it signifies to me, since nothing scientific does it justice. I fail every time. And truthfully, my inability to describe what the lotus means to me goes much deeper than mere word choice.
There’s a boiler of shame holding me back.
Truth is, I’m not a botanist. I’m not a scientist. And after failing to complete my major, sadly, I’m not a psychologist, either.
I’m a true crime writer.
And as a writer, I’m allowed to take certain creative liberties. Transforming people’s very real lives, their experiences, their pain and sorrow—that which I sharpen myself against—into a story. Readers want the truth. But they also want the fiction.
That’s what sells books.
My publisher sells a lot of books.
The word deadline has become one I loathe.
I tell myself the deadlines are what keep me from completing my own story, uncovering my own mystery…but after all this time, it’s getting harder to swallow that lie.
Deep breath, and I flip over to the newest document.
The Delany murder. What is the mystery? I ask the blank page.
I push back in my glider, stare at the screen. The white page with the little blinking curser, a taunt. Writer’s block, I don’t believe in it. It’s a lame excuse we writers rely on when the simple truth is we’ve lost the imagination.
No, I’m not blocked—I’m sidetracked.
This is not my story.
In order to weave a tale around the Delany murder, one needs all the pieces. I don’t have them. Not yet. For now, there’s a human element missing. Some facet of the victim or even the killer that is required to reveal the humanity.