Lotus Effect

Cases have been documented. An action taken to end a life, and seconds later, remorse. But that doesn’t fit the narrative of the brutal crime. It’s hard to paint a scene where a murderer stabs a woman ten times, dumps her in a lake, then returns to save her.

My psychologist said it’s likely I conjured this image, this fictitious memory, the same way I imagined the bright, shimmering light.

Chances are, I have no real memory from the time of my death. My mind orchestrated a story to fit the narrative of what I’d been told happened.

Morosely, there is only dark surrounding my death.

But it’s in that period of darkness where I find myself lingering. The answer is there…if I can just challenge the fear. Because it’s often t

he unknown people fear the most. When what we dread finally happens, there’s nothing to be done but accept the reality of our situation.

That’s my utterly logical brain at work. People are remarkably resilient. We recover. Triumph, even. Then wonder why we were scared in the first place.

The impending doom is where fear lives. It thrives in that dark place, like how moss grows on the shaded side of a tree. All that we fear harbors in the shadows. A nameless, faceless monster. That’s why, this time, the message has to be brought into the light.

Rhys places the bagged note on the room table. He dusted for prints, but only recovered mine. “The handwriting is characteristically male.”

I agree with his analysis. I thought the same. The person who wrote the letter didn’t try to hide. Not really—they just didn’t give me much else to go on.

Rhys called hotel security to inquire about recorded hallway footage. The hallway outside my room does have a camera, but the system is down due to security updates.

Perfect timing, or dumb luck?

“If I wanted to frighten someone,” Rhys says, “I’d write the most cryptic thing possible. The more information you give a person, the more power you hand them. This note gives nothing away. I think it’s meant to scare you.”

I lace my fingers together at the base of my neck, elbows resting on my knees. Thinking. “Knowledge is power,” I say in agreement. “But then why send a message at all? If I only wanted to frighten someone off a case, there are far more effective ways to do so.”

This is the initial theory we’ve entertained. The author of the note wants us to stop digging into the Delany murder.

The why seems obvious enough: the murderer doesn’t want to be caught.

The method, on the other hand, is a bit more murky.

“Why target me?” I ask the more apparent question. “If this has nothing to do with before—” before feels less threatening than my murder “—then why not send you the message? You’re the federal agent. It’s your call to close the investigation.”

I want Rhys to read between the lines. I want him to make the connection.

“I think it’s obvious,” he says. At my confused expression, he sighs. “Anyone observing us closely—you and me; our team dynamic—can deduce that you’re the tool.”

“Again,” I say, the annoyance tingeing my voice only partially in jest. “So many compliments from you today.”

He drives a hand through his hair, looking as agitatedly disheveled as I feel. “Tool as in means to control me.”

“Oh.” I ponder his theory for a moment, then: “That’s rather sexist. You don’t believe that, do you?”

Rhys relaxes against the sofa. He swipes his palms along his slacks, smoothing out crease marks. When his gaze lifts to meet mine, I glimpse the faintly concealed worry beneath his guarded eyes.

We’ve had people try to stymie investigations before. Old, hardboiled detectives who don’t want to be proven wrong. Family members suffering guilt, who believe their actions led to the death of their loved ones.

But this is different. This feels sinister.

“I believe that to anyone looking in from the outside, you’re a writer on the FBI’s payroll. Which means you’re important enough to the division to bypass training and lengthy procedures most have to endure to get there. Important means you probably have sway.” He shrugs against the couch. “Just like Ms. Delany. She looked to you for reassurance. She read your book. She wanted your word that we would solve her daughter’s murder.”

Fair enough. “That could also make me a target to someone on the inside.”

“Like an agent?” he asks, doubt resonating in his tone.

“Why not? If someone got bypassed for a promotion, or didn’t make the team… They might blame me for circumventing protocol.”