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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?
