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Rhys concedes. “Might take a week, tops.” A flash of commiseration, then he says what’s really bothering him about this field trip. “It’s Florida, Hale. Are you all right with that?”
The bobbing lotuses rise up, and I tamp them down. Back into the murky depth where they have resided.
“I’ll be fine. Besides, Florida is a big state. West Melbourne is like, a hundred miles away from all that.”
All that.
My murder. My death.
Killer never caught.
Rhys nods uneasily. “All right, then. See you tonight. Be safe.”
I pack quickly. I book a flight, order an Uber, and call my elderly neighbor to inquire if she can cat sit. She can, and so I give Lilly a thorough brush down before I leave, the sun just dipping behind the tree-lined horizon.
At the airport, I fiddle with my keys as I await the boarding of my flight. Twirling the gray fob around the key ring, I stare at the USB drive I keep clipped to my key chain. The unfinished manuscript—the book—resides within the digital code. It goes with me everywhere. After my case officially went cold, I thought that, if I couldn’t solve my murder, then I could at least tell my story. I would purge it from my system. Cleanse my leaves like the lotus.
But as I delved into that night, I realized I had very few facts. Worse, my memories never fully recovered. They’re a patched quilt of the sad and macabre moments that led up to the event.
The event.
My editor is right. I even distance myself from myself, referring to the brutal attack that took my life for sixty-seven seconds in an obscure way.
Regardless, I couldn’t complete my story because I had no idea why I was targeted, and no clues as to whom the perpetrator was. So instead, I dove into true crime novels and read others’ stories. Getting small, gratifying glimpses of other victims and their closed cases.
Closure. I was starved for it.
That spurred me to start my own investigation into other unsolved cases, and the numbers were staggering. Statistically, one-third of murder cases go unsolved. Television and movies would have the public believe otherwise.
And maybe that’s not such a bad thing, making would-be murderers think twice before committing the act if he or she believes they won’t get away with it.
That was not the case for my attacker, however.
That person found me at my most vulnerable and struck.
A familiar ache blooms beneath my breastplate. Muscle memory, sparked by thought, of slashed ligaments and bone. The wounds healed, but my mind won’t let me forget. The phantom pain triggered by anxiety, stress. Anger.
Likely the most significant reason as to why I’m unable to solve my own case. I’m too psychologically connected. In the time that Rhys and I have worked together, I’ve helped solve six cold cases. One becoming a best-selling novel. With a second book slated to release in six months. But the emotional blinders go on when I stare into my past.
The closer I get to Florida, the more alive the pain becomes. A greeting from my former life.
Welcome home.
3
Book of Chelsea
Lakin: Then
He wanted her the way I wanted to be her.
Envy is a powerful and debilitating emotion. Stunting, all consuming. Jealousy can twist you into a gnarled creature, bent on self-destruction. Though at the time I felt powerless, as if the tighter I held on, the quicker the wispy tendrils slipped through my fingers.
I was losing Drew.
I saw it in his eyes. When he looked at her, called her name. He coveted her.
I coveted her life. Sitting three rows behind Chelsea, I positioned myself so I could see the way she tossed her blond hair, the wa
