It’s still a stretch to try to link him to the case now, the connection circumstantial, but it’s a real thread. The first lead we’ve ever had in my case.
“Shit,” I mutter. Stop it.
This is not about me.
I turn away and stare at the beach, repeating that tune: It’s not about me. I recite it until Rhys is standing in front of me. “Did he recognize you?” I ask.
Suit jacket slung over his shoulder, Rhys rolls up the sleeves of his white dress shirt. “Yeah. I guess most people don’t forget being questioned by an FBI agent.”
No, most people wouldn’t forget that. I shift in place, antsy. Wanting the answers to my questions all at once.
Rhys tics his chin toward the parking lot. Once we’re a good distance away from the Tiki Hive, he finally says, “We can’t assume anything yet.”
Slow breath. “I realize that.”
“I’ll start by contacting the team at Quantico. We’ll get a thorough background check on Mike Rixon and Torrance Carver. Who, apparently, are half siblings, by the way. Let’s see where the pieces overlap…if they do at all.” He glances my way. “Could be a coincidence.”
“There’s no such thing.”
He huffs a terse breath. “You going to psych one-oh-one me?”
I shrug. “Not psychology, just reason. The very definition of coincidence is two or more events coming together unexpectedly without an obvious explanation.” I stop walking so I can face him. “The fact that my case may connect in some way to Joanna’s…that’s not coincidence. We have two persons of interest linked to two cases. That’s fact.”
He considers this a moment. “All right. Walk me through a theory.”
I look away, past him. “Rhys… I don’t have one. I just feel we should investigate—”
“No. You’re already hopping to conclusions. I can see it in your eyes. That distant, hopeful look. So let’s do this.”
I cross my arms. “I take offense to that.”
“I don’t care. No matter how many cases we work, how many we solve, you’re still a victim, Hale. That is fact.”
His words lance right through me, wounding deep.
He releases a long breath, his features losing their edge. His voice drops to a softer cadence. “I didn’t mean it that way.” He steps closer, crowding the air with his scent of aquatic cologne. “I just meant that, you come at cases from a victim’s point of view. You know what they felt. You can relate to them. That’s insight the best case detectives and agents don’t have.”
“But…?” I provide.
“But, it’s not about getting inside the victim’s head. We’ve talked about this. That can be dangerous. You have to know where to draw the line. You have to put hard and cold distance between you and the vic. And I don’t think you’re going to be able to do that with this particular case.”
Stubbornness rears inside me, and I want to scream at him to look at the facts. How can he dismiss such an obvious connection? But he’s right. God, I hate to admit that, but he is. I’m taking this personally. I’m already too close to it.
From the second I heard Torrance’s name mentioned, my mind was already decided. This was about my case, about me. Silver Lake isn’t but a hundred miles away. Logically, logistically, it’s not out of the realm of possibility that the bartender and his brother could be associated with two similar attacks.
It’s unfortunate, but not impossible. Statistically, the brothers are probably associated with other attacks on women in some mundane way. That fact is a terrible reality, though a true one. They work in an environment where alcohol is a factor. That’s the cold, hard thinking which will distance me from Joanna’s case.
“We’re going to look into this,” Rhys says, drawing my attention fully on him. “I promise. We’re going to investigate every angle and theory, and if—”
“Don’t say it.” I close my eyes for a beat. “Just don’t. I know I leaped. I saw the lotuses at the crime scene…and I was primed to overreact.” I swallow hard. “I got this. I’m good.”
He nods slowly. “I need you to be objective until it’s time not to be.”
“All right.”
Once we’re in the rental car, Rhys hands me my phone. I left it on the bar. “We’ll play the interview back at the hotel. I think Rixon might have given us a new lead.”
My head buzzes at the news. I’m unsure where I want this new lead to take me—whether it could draw me closer to my killer or not—but at least we haven’t hit a dead end yet in the victim’s case.
When I dove headfirst into true crime writing, I wanted to be exactly like Rhys. Someone who could think like a criminal, like a killer. Someone who could get inside the perpetrator’s head.
I have to be that person now.
We stop for lunch at a burger joint near the hotel, since my dash away from Torrance resulted in no food. In the hotel lobby, I tell Rhys I’m going to my room to freshen up, then I’ll meet him at his. I ride the elevator up in a strange kind of trance. Not allowing myself to fully evaluate the events so far.
Once inside my room, I take a quick shower, my thoughts on autopilot. I wrap my hair with a towel and head to my luggage on the bed, noting a folded slip of paper shoved under the door. Assuming it’s a bill, I scoop it up and carry it to the room desk, where I can call reception to let them know they made a mistake. I’m not checking out today.
“Hello, yes. I received an invoice—” My words break off as I scan the note.
A roar floods my ears. I can barely hear the woman on the other end of the line trying to get my attention. “Ma’am?”
“Sorry.” My voice is unsteady. “I made a mistake.” I hang up the receiver. “Oh, God.”
I drop the note on the desk, then rush to my bag. I dig out a pair of latex gloves and a forensic baggie. I need to call Rhys.
I stop in the middle of the room. Stalling. Just staring at the letter.
Rhys might not want this case to involve me, but someone else does.
11
Notes of the Past
Lakin: Now
I found you.
How can three simple words incite so much fear?
Out of context, they mean nothing. Like a line from a song. A text message. I found you could have infinite meanings.
Amid this cold case, desperately trying to sever myself from the past, these words elicit an image of a man—a memory of a dark silhouette buried in my subconscious. A hand reaching toward the water…
Has he been searching for me the way I’ve been searching my memories for him?
I’ve spent the past few years believing this person was my rescuer. But as I stare at the note, unease slips inside me. I recognize the handwriting.
A question I’ve tried not to ask:
What if the man who snatched me from death is the killer himself?
Cases have been documented. An action taken to end a life, and seconds later, remorse. But that doesn’t fit the narrative of the brutal crime. It’s hard to paint a scene where a murderer stabs a woman ten times, dumps her in a lake, then returns to save her.