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“There are going to be similarities between this case and yours,” he says. “Certain familiarities that are going to make you uncomfortable, to react. No one will judge you if you can’t handle this case.” He swallows, and I watch the dip along his throat. “I won’t judge you.”
Pressure builds at my temples. I scratch my wrist. “I can handle it.”
He releases a heavy breath. “We should’ve gone over the case together before we hit the crime scene.”
“I?
??m fine, Rhys.” I catch my lip between my teeth, and his gaze lowers, sending a jolt of awareness through me. We’re too close.
As always, he’s able to sense my unease. He steps back, giving me space. He nods once, like he’s answering some unspoken question within himself. Then: “First thing I did was cover every similarity and search out every disparity. I made sure. Similar, but not our guy. If I thought, even for a second, that it could be related—”
“I know,” I say, forcing his words to stop. I drag my fingers through my hair as I look up at him. “Similar. But not a match to the MO.” Joanna’s clothes were removed. A very distinct difference for the perpetrator. “This isn’t about me or my case.”
“Do you believe that?”
“The victim suffered eight stab wounds to the torso focused on the abdomen, all in varying degrees of depth.” As I say this, his gaze flicks to my chest, and I feel as if he can see right through the sheer material, see the scars. I cross my arms. “The fatal wound was a stab delivered to the left side of the chest that severed her pulmonary artery and lung. Cause of death, drowning.”
I break it down, reciting the report like a pathologist; clinical, detached. This puts the case into perspective, separating facts from sentiment.
I suffered ten stab wounds. One profound laceration to my sternum. I died from trauma resulting in pulmonary edema. The most likely reason for my inability to recall the attack.
Rhys studies me closely. “This isn’t like you.”
I swipe at the loose wisps of hair battering my face. “I know.”
It’s been proven; I’m not an emotional person by nature. Even after my attack, I couldn’t be brought to tears. I wasn’t choked up by violence on TV. The news didn’t make me lose my faith in humanity. Rhys knows this about me, and he knows this outburst of…whatever it is, is out of character.
I haven’t cried since Amber.
I drag in a breath. “The crime scene image jarred me. That’s all.” It’s all I can admit.
He appears unsure at first, but then he accepts my excuse. “We can still go back.”
“No. I want to work this case. Joanna deserves to have us both on it.”
From my periphery, I watch Rhys lift and drop his hand. Maybe a moment where he thought about touching me, comforting me. He curls it into a fist by his side. “All right.” He glances around. “Looks like the third floor of the middle building, and the third and fourth of the last building could have a good viewpoint. We have some ground to cover.”
And like that, the discussion is dropped. Unless I push the topic, Rhys will end it right here.
As we navigate the shore, I snap pictures of the buildings. I tag any apartments in view of the crime scene with notes to further look into. Later, when I’m writing this scene, I’ll omit the conversation with Rhys. No one knows Cynthia or what happened to her. Lakin writes from a place of passion to uncover the truth. That’s her story.
We round the bend, the reeds overgrown and the marshy smell overpowering, and that’s when I see them.
Lotuses.
White and floating atop the gray lake. The flowers bob in the wake like a rolling satin sheet.
Oh, God.
Rhys is already rushing to me. I’m not expressive, but Rhys is even less so—he doesn’t touch; he respects boundaries. But his hands are on me, making a physical, grounding connection.
“Let’s go,” he says, his voice guttural, urgent. “Don’t look.”
I can’t stop staring at the white petals. “They weren’t here before.”
He doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t need to. The crime scene images taken at the time had no flowers. The reports made no mention. The lotuses are new—someone planted them here. Someone placed those awful flowers right over the place where the victim drowned.
9
