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Momentarily stunned, Dr. Keller stares at the scar, speechless. Then he pulls himself out of his daze and grabs his camera from the tray. He takes a few pictures, very professional. Then: “When did this happen?”
“Almost four years ago,” I answer. “Will that hinder the comparison? Because it’s healed—”
“It shouldn’t. I can make the needed adjustments.” He makes a note on a pad. “Is there a case file?” His deep-set eyes catch mine. “I need the details to make an accurate comparison. Hospital records will work.”
I nod knowingly as I lower my shirt. “Everything about the attack was documented.” I leave out that I have no actual memory of it. He’ll find out the details soon enough.
Before we leave, Rhys shakes Dr. Keller’s hand and thanks him, then we exit the morgue. The coffee I set on the floorboard is still warm. Time passes in its own measure. A torturous lifetime inside the morgue; fifteen minutes to the outside world.
I toss the cup away.
As Rhys and I leave in silence, that one niggling question of motive batters my brain. Why Cam? Why Joanna?
Why me?
I’m the nexus, that much is clear now. The black lines all stem from me to connect the other murders, like the lotus stalks descending down into that dark, underwater world of the unknown.
A look. Bat of the lashes. A smile.
What monster did I lure into our lives?
21
Book of Dreams
Lakin: Then
Aloneness.
Three synonyms: Isolation. Seclusion. Solitude.
Aloneness is not a bad state. For the most part, back then, I was used to being alone. So I didn’t mind, not really. There’s a difference between being alone and being lonely.
There was a before and after to my life.
Before Amber died of osteosarcoma, and after.
Then there was Andrew Abbot.
It makes me sound insanely vapid. As if I was one of those clingy, insecure college girls who changed personalities for their boyfriends. But for me, having been so utterly isolated up until the moment he drew me out of my shell, it was a rebirth. An awakening.
I was a woman. A real woman. And I was in love.
The world was hued in pink promise and rosy adoration.
Hence, I was naively blind to who Drew actually was. After the fallout, I would learn the true definition of loneliness. Two weeks before the attack, symptoms of what was to come were already appearing in a dream. A recurring nightmare spawned out of fear of losing Drew.
Fear can wreck a mind.
The dream started in the middle, like all dreams do. No beginning.
For some reason, as I write this scene, Drew’s lecture on memories is forefront. I’m not sure if this chapter will make it past the editing phase. I’m already tempted to delete the words. As if putting them in print will alter the past.
How do I want to remember the dream?
Was it bright and sunny?
Was it overcast and gloomy?
