by Trisha Wolfe
Book of Cameron
Lakin: Then
Awakening in a hospital room is like being born a second time, only with complete awareness. Senses are overstimulated. Lights are too bright. Noises are too loud. Smells are overpowering. Starchy sheets rub against skin like saltwater abrading a wound.
Every move triggers discomfort. You have no memory of what hunger feels like.
Only thirst.
My mouth was so parched, I can still recall the scratchy feel of sandpaper on my tongue. Like spider webs at times. I kept trying to pull the webbing out of my mouth, until one of the nurses reduced the morphine drip.
Then…the pain.
My body was a lightning rod for pain.
It took a week for me to remember my name.
It took another two weeks for me to be able to use the bathroom on my own.
The first time I saw the mutilation to my body in the bathroom mirror…
Let’s just say, the physical agony was bearable compared to the psychological trauma.
But the worst part was the isolation. It was worse than what I suffered after Amber. I’d never felt so alone, so cutoff from the world. It was as if my own small world had slammed to a halt, and everyone else kept going without me. I was stuck in limbo.
I spent the first days drifting in and out of sleep, healing, recovering. My body fighting to live. My mind hadn’t yet grasped why I was in the hospital. I was existing on a plane somewhere between consciousness and a nightmare. Struggling to fully wake up, like a perpetual state of sleep paralysis.
When I fought my way to the land of the living, Detective Dutton was the first person my blurry gaze latched on to.
My first impression of Detective Dutton:
Fat and lazy. With a protruding belly that flopped over his black duty belt, he appeared to me the very essence of what was wrong with the world, America in particular. Do just enough to say you’re doing your job, but don’t strive for anything greater.
God forbid he actually listened. I don’t think Dutton believed me, or he didn’t care enough to find my killer. For him, the threat was gone…if it ever existed in the first place. I could tell by the way his watery, cataract eyes scrutinized me; he was from the old boys’ club—the one that thinks women get what’s coming to them if they don’t behave.
Per procedure, Dutton brought in the doctor to check my vitals and run tests before I was permitted to speak with him. Then he dove straight into questioning.
“Do you remember being at the Dock House?”
“Do you recall who was there that night? Who did you talk to…see?”
“Can you remember anything at all?”
My answer to every question: I don’t remember.
This incensed the detective. He was anxious to put the case to bed, and I couldn’t help his case. But I was in disbelief. As he revealed what was known about the night of my attack, it was as if he was relaying a story about someone else.
He rushed through his speculated theory about what happened:
Cameron and I went to the Dock House. Drew, still enraged from our fight, tracked me to the bar and cornered me on the dock after closing. We fought, and he stabbed me ten times, then tried to hide the evidence by disposing of my body in Dead River. The dark irony of the river’s name was not lost on me. Only nothing but alligators move in Dead River (which, according to Dutton, I was lucky ‘not to be eaten by a gator’). So a rare current must have swept me closer to Lake Eustis, where I washed up onto the lake’s shore and, hours later, was discovered by an early morning fisherman. I was nonresponsive by the time paramedics arrived, presumed dead.
But they revived me.
I had a pulse, although faint. I had lost a lot of blood. I was rushed to Silver Lake Memorial.
“It’s been eight days,” Detective Dutton stressed. “It’s critical that you try, Cynthia. Try to remember what happened that night. Do you recall seeing Drew at the bar?”
I had no memory of the things Dutton revealed. My heart rate spiked, the beeping of the heart monitor increased. A deep ache bloomed beneath the sharp, physical pain, and I struggled to breathe. It’s not true. Only somewhere hidden in my subconscious the truth was surfacing. I felt the familiar sickness in my soul; the twisting blade of betrayal.
Chelsea was pregnant.
I fought with Drew.
Cameron and I went to the Dock House.
And then…
I shook my head. “I don’t remember.” Pain lanced my brain; a rift, a fault forming a divide.
Dutton frowned. “According to your friend Cameron, you walked down to the pier. Do you remember who else was there? Did you see Drew?”
The mention of Cam sparked a flicker of memory. For some reason, hearing my best friend’s name triggered anger. I was upset with her…but I didn’t know why.
“I want to see her,” I said, my throat raw.
The detective crossed his arms, moved close to my bedside. “Don’t you want to see your parents first?” he asked. “They’ve been worried sick.”
Right. My parents. “Yes, please send them in,” I said. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
I was fuzzy from the morphine, and generally discombobulated from what my body had suffered, but I could still discern the way Detective Dutton looked at me, the judgmental gleam in his narrowed eyes. He analyzed me like a suspect.
“All right,” he said. “We’ll pick this up again once you’ve had time to recover more. Please reach out to me if you do remember anything at all…no matter how trivial. Maybe you’ll start to get your memory back when the drugs wear off.” He laid his card on the tray and tapped it twice.
We both knew that wasn’t true. The first hours of any investigation were imperative to find the perpetrator. As such, the first recollections from a victim are vital. Chances were, any recovered memories would be suspect to media influence, and what my family and friends revealed to me. The narrative of my attack would be lost until my mind decided otherwise.
I found the strength to push myself up on the bed as my parents entered the room. Seeing my mother’s face in that moment… It was like a blow to my shredded stomach. She had aged ten years since I last saw her, and my father—the ever stubborn, unmovable rock in our small family—was a withered shell of his former self.
I bore the hugs, the touches, the fretting over my comfort, only because they didn’t probe or demand to know what happened. Their relief over their only daughter being brought back from the dead was their sole focus, their moment of rejoice. They didn’t want to taint the reunion. I was grateful.
Once I convinced them I needed rest, stating I was exhausted but wanted to see Cam, they brought her in and reassured me they’d be right across the hallway.
At first, she wouldn’t look at me. Cam cast her gaze at the room floor. “I’m so relieved, Cynth. You have no idea how worried I—”
“What happened?”
She looked at me then. And I could see it in her eyes. Guilt. She moved closer and took a deep breath, bracing herself. “You were so distraught,” she said. “I tried to get you to leave with us…”
“Who is us?” I demanded. I still wasn’t sure why I felt so hostile toward her.
She crossed her arms, defensive. “Torrance. The bartender. Remember? You told me to go home with him. I mean, you practically pimped me out to him.”
I rested my head against the pillow. “I don’t remember, Cam. Shit, I don’t remember anything about that night.”
The expression on her face morphed. It was completely out of place, but for some strange reason, one of Drew’s lectures came back to me. The one where he discussed perception. How there was no way to prove alternate dimensions existed, but that there were alternate worlds, if only because of perception. Seven billion different alternate worlds, to be exact. Because there were seven billion people, all seeing the world through their own eyes.
Cam stared at me through the lens of how she viewed me in her world.
I was some possible complication to her life had I been able to remember. I knew this, because the sudden relief that washed over her face revealed that truth.
She stepped closer and rested her hand on my arm, ignoring the tubes, the tape. The bruises and cuts. “Cynthia, I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry. We got drunk. We were both so wasted. I tried to get you to leave with me, but you were obstinate—you wanted to stay. Nothing I said convinced you otherwise. So I got you an Uber. I knew your ride was only minutes away. I don’t know what happened.”
Her answer felt wrong; it felt rehearsed. I’m sure she’d given Detective Dutton this story over and over. But I was her friend. I had been attacked and left for dead. I had died. Dumped like garbage in a lake.
A blurry image crept over me. The first glimpse of him reaching toward me through the shimmering ripples…
I sealed my eyes closed.
“What was I so angry about, then?” I asked, forcing my eyes open and the image away. “What did I do…what did I say? Tell me, Cam.”
Nervously, she glanced toward the door. Then: “Don’t you remember?”
Looking to the one window in my room, I fought hard to keep the tears of frustration from filling my eyes, but I was frightened. Someone had tried to kill me—that fact was finally sinking in. Up until that moment it felt too surreal, too foreign, to be true.
“How did this happen to me?” My words stuttered out on a weak, shaky breath.
Cam removed her hand from my forearm and clasped my fingers. “You were so upset, Cynth. It scared me,” she said, and I swung my gaze to meet hers. “You were still so upset over Drew and Chelsea, and the baby…” She raised her eyebrows.
I gripped her hand tighter. “Was Drew there?”
Her features fell. “No, he wasn’t, but…” She trailed off, swallowed.
“What, Cam?”
A tear escaped the corner of her eye. “It’s my fault. God, I shouldn’t have left you. It’s all my fault.”
“It’s not your fault.” I tried to console her.
She shook her head. “Yes, it is. I can’t do this. I have to go.”
Cam swiped hard at the tears trailing her cheeks before she turned away, heading toward the door.
“He has to pay…”
Her words floated to my ears, a muffled whisper choked by her sobs.
13
Ghosts
Lakin: Now
My fingers stall over the laptop keyboard. My hands are trembling.
Where did that come from?
I never remembered Cam saying that to me in the hospital before.
He has to pay.
“It’s not real,” I say out loud, so I can reiterate it, so I can believe it.
Memories are tangling. I’m filling in blanks. A writer tends to do that—to create the best story possible in place of fact.
I delete the page and yank the USB drive from my laptop, then clip it to the fob on my key ring. I don’t want to read that passage again.
Then I do something I’m ashamed of, but that I’ve done too many times before. I pull up my Facebook app and type Cam’s name into the search.
The deeply buried psychologist in me detests social media. That’s why I don’t have a personal account. I have one for my pen name that I only use to cross post to my author page when my publisher needs me to update fans.
For thousands of years, people have lived without documenting their daily lives. I wonder how the younger generations will fair later in life with a constant reminder of every single day of their existence. When the pop-up pic displays, showing each day with a happy memory—because most people only post the happy ones. Not the truth.
The pic taken with the bestie in front of a wine bar, all smiles, was also the day that you discovered your boyfriend sleeping with another woman. Or the day your parent died. Or the day you railed on a coworker, saying horrible things. Or the day you did some despicable thing that you’d rather forget…
But your timeline won’t let you.
Humans were designed to forget. Our brains are not meant to retain every day of our lives. It’s the only way we can come to terms with and reconcile our past; accept the life we’ve lived.
The brain as a whole compared to a computer is supposed to have faulty memory chips. That’s how we’re able to move on.
I scroll through the profiles until I find her. I knew Cam moved to West Melbourne a while ago, but…
A breath lodges in my throat, strangled at the base of my neck. I force myself to breathe past the constriction.
Cameron’s most recent post shows her engaged in a loving embrace with her husband, Elton, his arms wrapped around her swollen belly. The post proudly states: We’re pregnant!
I stare at her smile, perfect, bright, and wonder what worries lurk behind her happy image, if it’s a facade. What memory will Cam recall when this pic resurfaces a year from now?
I close the app and set my laptop and phone aside on the sofa. Rhys is still down at the hotel coffee shop, so I indulge in the few minutes I have alone. I head to the bathroom, where I stand before the full-length mirror. I place my hands over my stomach, the pads of my fingers instinctually connecting with the beveled scars beneath my shirt.
Ten stab wounds. One deep laceration. Overkill is the term Detective Dutton used. It only takes one perfectly placed knife to the heart to kill…and yet my attacker didn’t go for the kill.
They went for pain.
Majority of the wounds were inflicted to my abdomen. During the many operations to keep my newly revived life afloat, my uterus and ovaries were removed, along with part of my intestinal track. Damaged beyond repair, is what the surgeon had told me when I became conscious.
I allow myself one moment to feel the pain, then drop my hands.
In college, I had proclaimed that I didn’t want kids. Like many young women, I had no real clue what I wanted. But to have the decision made for me…to be stripped of the chance…the choice…
That’s a wound that will never heal.
The room door opens, and I cross to the sink and turn on the tap. Cold water flows over my heated palms. I splash my face, waking myself from the past, chasing the bitter nausea away.
“You get enough writing in?” Rhys asks from the room.
“I did. Thanks.” I find it difficult to write around others. Rhys knows I’m easily distracted and do my best work alone, and though not easily swayed, he agreed to give me half an hour to myself in compromise to my sharing his room.
I should’ve used that time to work on Joanna’s story. Instead, some needy part of me craved to open my book. Maybe it was the fact that Joanna didn’t have many friends that made me desire to revisit Cam, to dissect that moment between us in my hospital room.
He has to pay.
A chill touches the back of my neck, and I rub it away. I have to stop relating to the victim. Cam was upset. If the memory is real, then of course she was angry with Drew in that moment. I was hurt and angry myself. That’s the reason we went to the Dock House in the first place.
Nothing ever came of Cam’s proclamation.
We all moved on.
I close my eyes, and hear Rhys move closer to the bathroom. “I was thinking about contacting Ms. Delany again to see if the vic kept up with anyone from her previous life.”
When I open my eyes, I see his reflection in the mirror. Shirt rolled up over his forearms, he leans against the doorjamb, paper cup outstretched toward me.
“I was actually just thinking the same thing.” I turn and accept the cup of tea. “Thanks.”
He nods in acknowledgement.
“She tried to sever herself from that lifestyle,” I say, cupping the warmth against my palms. “That meant severing friendships. People who still used drugs. But maybe there was at least one person she kept in contact with, someone she just couldn’t let go of.”
Cam’s happy, smiling face flashes before my vision.
“That’s what I’m hoping for,” h
e says, then takes a sip of his coffee. “We need at least one person who she confided in. Someone who she told her secrets and worries to.”
I slip past him into the room. “Who do you confide in?”
“My cleaning lady,” he quips.
I smile and set my cup on the nightstand beside the bed nearest the window. “You’re not even joking, are you?”
“Not in the least.” He unbuttons his dress shirt. “She’s a great listener.”
I watch Rhys pull off his shirt, revealing a white T-shirt beneath. He’s defined; tight, sinewy muscle makes up his flawlessly formed physique. He folds his dress shirt and lays it and his neatly folded slacks at the end of his bed. He’s the epitome of a federal agent. Organized, well mannered, loyal. And yet the scattering of scars covering his arms hint to the turbulence just beneath that veneer.
He’s a sidelined field agent. Damaged goods. He has the aches and pains that come with the job, but he no longer has the job he was born to do.
I wish I could’ve met him before his injury, before he was sanctioned to the cold case division. Who was Rhys Nolan then? A more vibrant version of the faded and distant man I see now?
We have that in common, too, I guess. We don’t share much, but we have that—that panging, niggling reminder of who we once were. A cruel souvenir with every glimpse in the mirror. It leaves a bitter aftertaste in your mouth.
Rhys and I, we have our bitterness.
He tugs back the blankets, props the pillows against the headboard. “While conducting the rest of the interviews, we can get handwriting samples,” he says.
The mattress beneath me feels wooden, unforgiving. “I’m in your room, and now you want handwriting samples to compare to the note.” I cock my head as I study his backside. His shoulders tense. “Can I ask you something, and you give me an honest answer?”
Once he finally has the bed made to his liking, Rhys climbs in and looks at me. “Yes.”
I nod, inhaling a quick breath. “Are you actually concerned about the author of that note, or is this fishing expedition an excuse to hunt down a suspect in the field?”
