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This makes sense. I was at her home. I may have been the last person, besides the killer, to see her alive.
“It’s nothing to worry about,” Rhys assures. “It will rule you out as a suspect.”
“You’re still acting as my attorney?”
“If you’ll have me.”
His response echos a promise far more committed than just acting in my defense. “Then we’ll handle that, too, tomorrow.”
“All right.”
As we settle beneath the covers, the droning of the air-conditioner lulls me into a sense of calm. Rhys’s body heat against my side is a comfort.
Still, my subconscious begs to be heard, my mind churning as I will my eyes closed. So for once, I don’t bury my voice. As we lie here, Rhys’s arm linking me close, I tell him why the first note shamed me into running and never talking about it.
How I believed the sender of that note may have had reason to want me dead. The awful person I was painted to be: the degraded college student who slept with her professor. The scandal lurking right around the corner.
I was the mud.
I admit that I wanted the man to be real—that I wanted to believe he wrote the letter to send me away, to save me again. I know it’s a ridiculous theory, childlike and naive, but I needed to believe in…something. Otherwise I was just a scared victim running from her life.
We whisper into the night, sharing our secrets. He tells me about the case he was assigned to before we met, where he suspected an agent manufactured evidence. This led to the bullet he took in the field. Our fears and allegiance to those we loved and trusted kept us from speaking out. Another thing we share.
Secrets are only able to haunt when they stay buried. Like a ghost crossing over into the light, once they’re exposed, all that’s left is peace.
28
You
Lakin: Now
3:00 a.m. is known as the witching hour. It’s said that evil spirits and ghosts are most active and powerful at this time of night. Nearly a couple hundred years ago, the church believed it was due to lack of prayers during this hour.
That’s a good theory. The last thing I want to do as I stir awake is pray, my body aching from muscle exertion—both good and bad. But maybe I should. Send some entreaty up into the clouds, seeking an answer.
I’ve tried everything else to recover the memory of my attack.
Mind too restless to fall back asleep, I ease out of bed, trying not to disturb Rhys.
A light illuminates from the table near the window. A notification on my phone. I set the device to silent, but the light is bright enough to make me alert. As I pad closer, I grab my key ring from my bag.
The USB drive dangles there, a mockery of the story of my life. The memories recorded in my book aren’t real. At least, not all of them. This makes me question what else is false.
The recurring dream I experienced leading up to my attack. The one I thought was, somehow, a warning, a premonition. The actual dream most likely never happened. Repressed memories have a way of relocating, transplanting themselves in other areas of the mind.
The truth is, it’s far more likely there was never a dream at all. After the trauma I suffered, my mind may have rebuilt the memories, installing bits of the attack into a dreamlike sequence. Distorted glimpses of that night, rearranging the moments before my death in a way I could accept, by remembering the attack as a dream when I tried to recall the event.
I touch my belly, lightly tracing the scar tissue beneath Rhys’s shirt.
I should write it all down. Now. While the recovered memories are fresh. I can compare them to the dream to determine what is fact and what is false.
Reaching for the notepad and pen on the table, I knock the curtain aside. A splinter of moonlight dances over the table and my phone. Now fully awake, I pick up the phone and illuminate the screen.
A text message appears: I’m here. It’s time we meet. Come down alone.
I stare at the message, my heart rate climbing. I glance at Rhys, then back at the screen. The number is unknown. Of course, it is. Most likely a burner.
I push the curtain back and peek out the window. The rain has stopped, and it’s eerily still outside. Then movement catches my eye.
