I sketch an outline of the flower, its stalk descending into the depths like a wiry tentacle. I recall, in that fleeting moment, thinking how rare it was to see a red lotus. It wasn’t red, of course. White tinged with my blood, a death filter, the inky color clouding the water.
My hand stills over the outline of a man, his features blank. A throb pulses at my temples as I strain to recall…
Nothing.
Sometimes, when this moment surfaces in a dream, the face is of Officer Dutton. The first person I recall seeing afterward, when I awoke in the hospital room. Other times it’s Drew, my college professor and ex-boyfriend. The face takes on different features, different people from my life, always elusive.
I curse and set the pencil down.
Today is no different.
“Just another day,” I say aloud, to the only other being in my small house.
Lilly wraps her slender cat body along the glider footstool, her long tail coiling around the leg. She’s all black with a little pink nose. During the first year after, I found the silence the most unbearable part. As a kitten, Lilly chased away the quiet, brought life to my very dead existence.
Following my physical recovery, I did seek mental help. Another way to free the trapped memory of that night, but it proved useless. All the psychologist wanted to talk about was my feelings and coping mechanisms. Utterly useless to my case.
Yet, Dr. Lauren did say one thing that resonated with me: We’re all connected.
Because of this, I often envision the submerged, wiry stalks and vines all entwined at the bottom of the lake as everyone from my past. All linked in that dark, underwater world. Secrets trapped.
Where I left them.
I glance up, sneaking a glimpse of the murder board. A neurotic action from when I was obsessed with solving my case. A while ago, I draped a sheet over the whiteboard to hide the names and curb the compulsion.
I’ve related to people differently my whole life. This, along with my failed memory, was an obstacle. An exploration into the human condition started me on a quest to uncover people and their connections to me before the event. That’s why I started the book.
At first, I worked diligently on my case to find the truth.
I thought a lot about Drew. How his actions led to that night. Was my young, naïve love for my psych professor the catalyst, or was he more centric?
Or maybe Chelsea was the first tipped domino. Showing up at his door to announce her pregnancy catapulted me right into the arms of a killer.
After nearly four years, I’m not any closer to narrowing it down than the case detectives were then.
I have come to only one conclusion. Life is a twisted web of people and their actions.
And we’re all at fault.
My laptop sounds with the Skype jingle. I twirl my hair into a bun at my nape as I head to the glider, then plant my Mac on my lap. Rhys’s image fills the app screen.
I accept the call. “Hale, what’s the progress on the Delany case?”
No greeting. No formalities. I appreciate this about the agent.
“Uh, witness accounts are sketchy at best.” I set the laptop on the footstool and grab a binder from the floor, leafing through the pages. “They were sketchy a year ago, to be honest. Of course, I did question the dog walker and the neighbor couple from the complex over the phone as an ‘investigative journalist’, so they may need a more authoritative voice in law enforcement to interview them for new leads.”
“All right. Agreed,” Rhys says. “Have you contacted the mother yet?”
I glance up from the reports. No use making excuses; I’m an open book to Rhys. “No. I’d rather you do so.”
He brings the phone screen closer so I can see him clearly. “I want you to get comfortable talking to family members,” he says. “You have to get over your aversion.”
“It’s not an aversion, per se.” Out of his view, I snap the band at my wrist. “I know my limitations. Family interviews are too important.”
“Yeah, you’re right. That awkward throat clearing thing you do really grates on people’s nerves.”
I twist my mouth sardonically. “Thanks.”
His mouth tips into a smile. “You’re the one who values honesty. I’m happy to feed you flattering lies, instead.”
I shake my head, moving on. “Could they have overlooked anyone?” By this, I’m referring to the assigned homicide detectives on the Delany case a year ago.
He quirks an eyebrow. He’s attractive in that brutally cliché FBI agent way. If he didn’t care so much about solving cases and righting wrongs, he could star in his very own criminal justice TV show.
“It’s always possible,” he confirms. “I’d have to canvass the neighborhood and place of employment myself, go door-to-door.” He releases a lengthy breath. “Lot of man hours.”
Too quick for him to notice, hopefully, I glance around my empty house—empty all except for Lilly. “I can be there by tonight. My man hours are cheap.”
He pulls his most contemptuous look. The Federal Bureau of Investigation comps the travel fair, but it’s Rhys who has to suffer the ungodly stack of paperwork. “I can’t do much more from Missouri,” I add. “We really need to question everyone again, and find out if the locals missed anything the first time around.” Which, not to rag on small-town cops, but they usually do. It’s politics. Not enough men, not enough pay, to work a murder case like this.
Rhys concedes. “Might take a week, tops.” A flash of commiseration, then he says what’s really bothering him about this field trip. “It’s Florida, Hale. Are you all right with that?”
The bobbing lotuses rise up, and I tamp them down. Back into the murky depth where they have resided.
“I’ll be fine. Besides, Florida is a big state. West Melbourne is like, a hundred miles away from all that.”
All that.
My murder. My death.
Killer never caught.
Rhys nods uneasily. “All right, then. See you tonight. Be safe.”
I pack quickly. I book a flight, order an Uber, and call my elderly neighbor to inquire if she can cat sit. She can, and so I give Lilly a thorough brush down before I leave, the sun just dipping behind the tree-lined horizon.
At the airport, I fiddle with my keys as I await the boarding of my flight. Twirling the gray fob around the key ring, I stare at the USB drive I keep clipped to my key chain. The unfinished manuscript—the book—resides within the digital code. It goes with me everywhere. After my case officially went cold, I thought that, if I couldn’t solve my murder, then I could at least tell my story. I would purge it from my system. Cleanse my leaves like the lotus.
But as I delved into that night, I realized I had very few facts. Worse, my memories never fully recovered. They’re a patched quilt of the sad and macabre moments that led up to the event.
The event.
My editor is right. I even distance myself from myself, referring to the brutal attack that took my life for sixty-seven seconds in an obscure way.
Regardless, I couldn’t complete my story because I had no idea why I was targeted, and no clues as to whom the perpetrator was. So instead, I dove into true crime novels and read others’ stories. Getting small, gratifying glimpses of other victims and their closed cases.
Closure. I was starved for it.