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“Did you ever consider Chelsea for the author of the note?”
I shake my head. “No. I mean, the very first letter… The first time I read it, I assumed it was from my attacker.”
“Can you remember what it said?”
I can’t forget. I read the sick letter over and over, punishing myself, believing that I somehow deserved my fate. I had escaped death, but the author of the note knew I wasn’t really alive. My attacker stole much more than my security, my right to exert safety. They sucked away precious moments of my life, stole time away from me.
Then with the note…it was a promise to finish what was started.
I recite the letter word for word to Rhys, watching as his face gets that serious expression when he’s deep in thought. “Does that sound like a woman could’ve penned it?”
He flicks wet sand with the tip of the reed. “I’m not sure,” he says. “We’re looking for a nexus with the victims. Chelsea knows you and Cam, and I imagine, from what I recall, that she was into the glamorous scene. She might’ve known Joanna from her modeling days.”
That’s a huge leap. But the only connection to the victims that makes sense so far. But: “You think Chelsea could be good for this?” I had my issues with her—college issues; boyfriend issues—but I never seriously considered her capable of murder.
To me, she was always too vapid.
Never underestimate anyone.
Rhys told me this during our first cold case. And yet, I still can’t reconcile it. Because I’m too close to it. I’m not objective, the way Rhys is.
He drops the reed and dusts off his hands on his slacks. “Remorse,” he answers simply. “Not saying that our perp isn’t psychopathic in nature, but to purposely try not to harm Cam’s baby, there had to be some measure of remorse during the action. As if her murder was out of necessity rather than victim selection. So our perp has a method, and a purpose. None of this is random.” He looks at me. “That is, if the cases are connected.”
There’s one thing missing—one very big void: me. “What necessity would my murder serve?”
He stares at the cresting waves as the tide washes in. “That’s the question.”
“We need to interview Drew.” Logically, this is the next step. Linking the cases. Cam changed her statement, making Drew the only one who can either corroborate or contradict it. He’s the one who supplied Chelsea’s alibi.
When I press Rhys on contacting Drew, he clears his throat and stands. Offers me his hand. “Not yet. I have to think some things through.” I take his hand, and he helps me up beside him. “Why don’t you head back to the hotel. Are you okay to drive?”
I step up on the boardwalk and halt, turning to face him abruptly. “Where are you going?”
“I’m going to lean harder on Rixon. Try to get him talking about where Torrance is, or find out if they had any connection to Chelsea, before Vale catches up with him. Rixon might know more about his brother than he lets on.”
It’s a good plan. Getting to Torrance first with our questions will help our case. Still, there’s a tremor of unease in the salt air.
Rhys is keeping something from me.
He sinks his hands into his pockets. “I think…we should get another writing sample.”
I agree. “We need samples from everyone.”
“No. We need the note, Hale. The one you received before you left Silver Lake.”
“I can’t get it,” I admit. “I destroyed it.” But, just as I seared the words into memory, I know the handwriting is a possible match. “I’m almost certain the author wrote both notes,” I tell Rhys with assurance.
Rhys looks hesitant, but he trusts me. He’s never not trusted me, which makes the fact that I know he’s keeping a piece from me even more painful.
“I’ll meet you at the hotel in a couple of hours,” he says, turning to head back into the Tiki Hive.
“Sounds good.”
He looks uncertain before he makes the final decision to leave, but he does. He gives me the car keys and enough time to launch my own investigation.
Rhys is a protector by nature. He may be only temporarily keeping information back because he believes he can spare me some hurt—but that’s not how partnerships work.
As I approach the sedan, I see a folded slip of paper tucked beneath the windshield wiper. Dread rears; it’s not a parking ticket. I go to snap the band, but stop myself. I face this head-on.
