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Rhys nods once. “Go.”
I head to the outside deck, my feet heavy, the world at a tilt. My mind is already leaping from connection to connection, linking the two cases together. That’s not a good thing. We have to keep them separate to investigate Joanna’s murder; it would be a disservice to her to muddy the water before we’ve even started.
I press my back to a beam underneath the deck canopy, making sure I’m out of eyeshot. Taking even breaths, I slow my heart rate, letting the salty ocean air cleanse my lungs.
I rub the band, twisting it against my skin.
Torrance had a solid alibi for the night of my attack.
Cameron.
But his brother…
I turn and peer around the beam. The kitchen door swings open, and Mike leads his brother toward Rhys. It’s him. My chest flutters as adrenaline climbs over my nerves.
No one questioned the bartender’s brother about the night of my attack. Why would they look at Mike Rixon? There was no feasible reason to interview him, to look at people connected to Torrance.
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.”
