It didn’t matter if he believed me or not. Whether I had imagined it or not.
I was alive.
Man or animal, ghost or angel—whatever fished me from the lake—I had not drowned.
It was time to live.
The roll of the car engine awakens me from my post-flight trance. Inside Rhys’s rented sedan, I reach for my seatbelt and buckle in, pushing the heaviness from my chest.
“Ready?” he asks.
Deep breath. I twist the band around my wrist. “I am.”
5
Book of Cameron
Lakin: Then
I recall the way the room pulsed with light and color. Vibrating waves of red and blue.
I had Cameron’s leather jacket draped over my shoulders. It was a humid eighty-something degrees even in the spring evening, but the biting chill of the situation was making me shiver.
“I dreamed this would happen.” A mantra I kept repeating.
Chelsea’s visit that day had triggered the reminder of the dream. But there was more… More twisted visions inside the dream, beckoning me closer.
A knife slashing. Red streaming. A scream wrenched from the abyss of pain.
An officer glanced my way. I couldn’t focus on details—my mind unable to absorb the scene. But I remember the officer’s tight frown, the way it made him appear older than he probably was. This man who had seen so little was judging my life, disapproval crawling down his features like a surly grub.
“She needs help.” I heard another officer say.
Cameron was nodding, agreeing, giving her statement. My roommate just wanted the two cops out of our apartment. She hated scenes, drama. She hated eavesdropping neighbors.
It had been an eavesdropping neighbor that called the police on me and Drew.
Our fight had escalated quickly.
Heart thudding heavily in my ears, I squeezed my eyes closed. Pressure built at the back of my sockets. A threat to crack my skull.
The flashing brought on a strobe light effect of the dream. Chelsea and a scream…dark water… The past and present were merging into some horrid nightmare that I couldn’t shake, that I couldn’t wake from. I was detached, wandering through a fog.
“What the hell happened?”
Cameron knelt before me. The warmth of her hand on my knee.
She’d gotten rid of the cops. Finally, I opened my eyes, able to take a breath. I shook my head, not knowing where to start, how to explain to my friend.
Shouts. Breaking glass. Threats.
In the end, Cameron didn’t need me to tell her what happened. Rumors were already circulating campus. Social media was abuzz with posts reveling in a tawdry affair between teacher and student.
Once she saw the first thread on her phone, she cursed.
“He’s a dick.” A disgusted noise escaped. “No, dicks are at least useful. He’s a douchebag.” Her eyes turned soft. “Oh, Cynth. I’m so sorry.”
Me too.
But not as sorry as Drew would soon be.
Should’ve locked him away.
When Drew became the prime suspect in my case, that’s what the detective had said, though he thought I couldn’t comprehend from my drug-induced state on the hospital bed.
They should’ve locked them both away.
6
Rivulets
Lakin: Now
Rhys and I, we needed a win.
After our failed trip to Silver Lake, I returned to Missouri, still fleeing a faceless, nameless killer, and I could’ve given up. There was nowhere to go from there. No new leads. And my brave attempt to confront my fear by visiting the scene had failed.
That moment in time was a black hole.
But I had brought something back with me.
Hope.
And depending on your mental state, hope can either be a blessed thing or a curse.
Right then, my newfound hope was a mix of both. But it was a nice departure from helplessness. While I was working my case with Rhys, I wasn’t fixated on the fear. I wasn’t paralyzed.
Once home, I scoured the Internet and pod casts for cold cases. I had become addicted to them. The moment I found the one, I sent Rhys the information. I put together a starting point, a theory, and investigative notes from the case. My journalism classes were finally coming in handy.
The agent probably won’t admit it, but he needed that new case just as badly as I did. His failure to solve my case threatened him; he needed to believe, to hope, that his career as an FBI agent wasn’t over. I believe that’s the only reason he conceded to let me “tag along.” Soon, I became a consultant for the FBI’s cold case division. An unofficial team member with a very unimpressive hourly pay rate for my time.
The FBI also won’t acknowledge this, but the positive publicity they got from a solved cold case turned NYT Bestseller is what keeps Agent Nolan’s small team above reproach within the department.
We solved the Patterson case within two months. And it felt good. Addictive.
I wrote and completed my first novel. Sold the rights. Another written book later, the special agent and I have solved six unsolvable cases.
Neither one of us has looked at my case since.
I crack the car window, then immediately regret doing so. The humid Florida air is congested with the marshy scent of the east coast. You can throw a stone in any direction and hit a body of water. Lakes, ponds, rivers. Florida is one long peninsula slowly sinking into the ocean.
Unbidden, a wave of melancholy washes over me, and the compulsion to snap the rubber band takes hold. I scratch my wrist, antsy. A memory of Drew and I on the beach stirs, and I quickly suppress it. I hit the control to roll up the window.
As if he’s reading my mind, Rhys says, “You miss it.”
I change the car A/C from vent to circulate to stop the outside from seeping in. “Is that a question or an accusation?”
He doesn’t laugh. Rhys rarely laughs. I spot the slight curve of his lips, though.
“Do I miss the smell?” I ask. “The muggy humidity that clings to your skin and makes you feel dirty with grime and sweat even after you’ve just showered?” I look out the window, at the flatness of Highway 1. “Not a chance.”
I don’t have to glance his way to know the grin he wears.
“I think we should hit the apartment complex first,” he says, and I’m thankful for the topic change. “Canvass the neighborhood and get fresh statements.”
Relieved, I agree. “First thing in the morning. Where are we staying?”
I packed quickly and jumped on a plane, knowing Rhys would handle the details of our stay. He says it’s easier for him to work out the reimbursement from the bureau.
He flips the blinker and merges onto the onramp. “Holiday Inn. Between Melbourne and West Melbourne. Not too far from the crime scene, and near enough to other locations we’ll need to look at.”
Rhys checks us in at the front desk while I wait in the lobby, luggage and bag seated around my Converse-clad feet. When not traveling, I typically dress more professional; people have a preconceived expectation of how agents and their cohorts working an investigation should dress. If they’re not distracted by your clothes—trying to figure out if you’re qualified—then they can concentrate on the facts.