I unfold the letter.
Meet me.
The notes are becoming shorter, more direct. The author is losing patience.
Seated behind the wheel, I think about Rhys’s murder board in the sand. The waves washing it away, out of existence. Locating my own answers is just as time sensitive.
25
Emergence
Lakin: Now
I’m parked across the street from a beautiful Spanish Colonial.
It was always his favorite style.
My sweat-slicked hands feel slippery on the wheel as I stare at the house. Two figures move behind the lattice fencing of the side patio.
I haven’t seen him since…
When was the last time? I’ve seen images of him online, pictures taken by reporters when he was being questioned in connection to the investigation. But when was the last time I really saw him?
The evening of the fight.
The day Chelsea showed up at his door.
Drew didn’t visit me in the hospital. By the time I was coherent, he was a suspect—the prime suspect. Logically, his lawyers didn’t want him near me. Still, I always found that to be one of his harshest treatments of me; I was dead to him.
But does that make him a killer?
In a theoretical, cosmic sense, we are all killers. One could argue the philosophy of the butterfly effect, where every action has a reaction—cause and effect. I could take the wrong turn at a light and inadvertently derail someone, thereby sending some other soul on the wrong course, creating a chain reaction that would cause the death of another person.
In this case, we’re all empiricists, our knowledge of the world gleaned by experience. We’re unaware of our participation in said death. It’s too distant, abstract. Then there is the individual who goes against the natural order and decides to take fate into their own hands by committing the act of murder. This person wants the experience firsthand. They crav
e control, over their life and the lives of others.
And that’s why I’m here. Now.
To take back control.
I need to know just how complicit Drew was in my murder.
Did my illicit affair with my professor initiate a chain reaction that resulted with me at the bottom of a lake—or was it the sole choice of one person?
To know the truth of Drew, I need to look into his eyes—something I’ve avoided these past few years—like I look into the eyes of every suspect in every case, and know that I’m looking into the eyes of a killer.
I remove the keys from the ignition and open the car door. Hand clutched into a fist, I slat each key between my fingers, creating a prong-like weapon. A means of defense should something go awry. Rhys caries a service piece. We’re always in the field together. He’s trained me in self-defense, but venturing into this situation solo, I feel as if I’m walking up to Drew’s house exposed, vulnerable.
As I cross the street, my heart rockets to my throat. I feel each step pulse through my veins, a resounding beat in my ears, muffling the world. I walk up the long driveway, and a wave of déjà vu sweeps over me.
I push the unease away and head around the side of the house. Chelsea sees me first.
She’s still just as stunning as the last time I laid eyes on her. Long blond waves of hair, golden tan. To be honest, I’m a bit surprised they’re still an item. But then they have a child together. No matter Drew’s promiscuity, they’d try to make their relationship work. It’s what his family would expect of him.
Her eyes grow wide as recognition dawns. “Oh my, God, Drew. That psycho is back. Quick, call the cops.”
My steps falter. I grip the keys tighter, shock branching through my stiff limbs. “What?”