Lotus Effect

“Are you worried because you fear I had something to do with her death?”

His gaze hardens. He takes my wrist and leads me toward a bank of seats, where it’s more private. “Did you really just ask me that?”

A pang of guilt stabs my chest. I cross my arms. “I did,” I say. “I don’t know what any of it means. But I do know the only connection is me. You have to see that.”

A muscle jumps along his jaw, gaze trained hard on me. “Joanna Delany isn’t connected.”

“At a glance, it appears that way. But what if we’re wrong? We have to keep looking, even if that means implicating me.”

He doesn’t like this answer, but it’s what we do.

“Rhys, Cam was murdered because of me. Because I went to see her. Because—” I lower my voice “—whoever is behind the notes doesn’t want me dredging up the past. Cam must’ve known…”

What?

She admitted that she went to Drew that night. Which means, for some reason, Torrance the bartender lied to the police about being intimate with her. Because of his ego? Because she asked him to? That doesn’t make sense; she’d only just met him. He had no reason to cover for her.

Everyone lies. This is the only truth that I know for sure. Everyone lies, and they do so, typically, for their own selfish purpose.

What else did Cam know? Who else could she implicate? And what does any of it have to do with Joanna Delany?

“Notes?”

Rhys cuts into my thoughts, and I blink up at him. “What?”

“You said ‘notes’. What other note?”

Damn. I rub my forehead, stalling. I never told him about the anonymous letter I received before I left Silver Lake. When we reopened my case, I didn’t think it was relevant—but it was relevant when another letter showed up in the hotel room.

“I should’ve told you,” I say.

His expression morphs from confusion to anger. I’ve only seen him angry—truly angry—once before, when the belligerently drunk brother of a victim tried to impede our investigation. The brother had accepted money from a tabloid press, making false statements against his deceased sister to drum up more interest in her murder. Rhys shoved him up against a wall, his fist nearly making contact with his face.

We were both rightfully disgusted.

But Rhys was furious.

Having his fury directed on me feels like a knife to the gut. A comparison I can accurately make. “Let’s go,” he says, voice level.

“We can’t leave…”

“We are leaving. You’re going to tell me everything about the notes before you make a statement.”

I allow Rhys to guide me toward the exit.

“Lakin Hale?”

On reflex, I start to turn, but Rhys intercepts me and keeps us on course. “Keep walking.”

“Ms. Hale? Wait—”

We’re stopped right before the double-doors. A detective catches up with us and blocks our path. I know who he is by the cheap blazer and cop belt before he flashes his badge.

“Detective Vale with the WMPD,” he says. “I believe you spoke with my partner not long ago. Funny. I didn’t expect to see you so soon, or here.”

Rhys straightens his back. “How can we help you, detective?”

The detective’s thick face blanches, flustered from either the heat or Rhys’s dismissive tone. He looks to me instead of replying to Rhys. “You wouldn’t be trying to avoid me, would you, Ms. Hale?”