by Trisha Wolfe
I begin to drift upward, my gaze latched on to Drew’s fight at the bottom of the lake, as he sucks in water, trapped in the wiry grave. I don’t look away. I keep watching until his movements stop.
Every wound makes itself known as the adrenaline ebbs. I’ve been stabbed. Strangled. Lack of oxygen caves my chest. I’ve lost sight of Drew, the darkness becoming complete. I desperately kick my feet and peddle to reach the top, but my discombobulated state has lost the way to the surface.
The clotting dark consumes me. I recall the moment I decided to die nearly four years ago, accepting my place among the lotuses…then the fight as I refused to surrender. The memory surrounds me; pervading the lake and opening up a window into the past.
My body was numb of any pain. My condition too far gone. I felt nothing but the water in my lungs and the lotus stems leaching life from my body. Fight or flight was all I knew. I clawed my way through the web of vines until I reached the surface. I floated there, blood emptying from my veins, the black night shrouding me in an abyss.
Until I heard the frogs and crickets, and I realized I was nearing the shore. A second, last wind to save myself…and I dragged my body through the vegetation. I only rested once I felt earth beneath my feet. I let my body wash up onto the shore.
I’m floating somewhere between the bottom and the surface of the lake now, lost in that tranquility of acceptance. I don’t have to fear, to hide, anymore. I’m resigned to let go…
The shimmering waves appear.
They flicker above me in a crown of light.
The moon, rippling on the water surface, showing me the way.
I reach, and reach, my muscles on fire, my lungs concaved. Pain is good. It means I’m alive. I hold on to this hope as I fight to gain an inch toward the surface.
It’s too far away…
A silhouette of a man materializes amid the halo of light.
Past and present collide. Time suspends, folding in on itself, like the leaf of a lotus as it touches at the seams. I’m frightened of my mind. Terrified of what I know is happening. How many neurons fire at the moment of death? Have I been trapped inside a Jacob’s Ladder, my death stretched out endlessly, living and dying in a loop?
Blackness dims my sight around the edges, my vision tunnels. All I see is him.
A hand crashes through the water surface. He touches me. I feel him. He’s real. He drags me to the surface. The flashlight in his hand is forgotten, the halo of light drifting past me, as he hauls me over the edge of a boat.
“I’ve got you.”
Rhys’s voice is ethereal and home all at once. He’s the fusion between then and now—illusion and reality. He’s always been with me.
“She’s not breathing,” he says. I don’t know who he’s talking to.
I’m not breathing.
His mouth touches mine. His hands pump my chest. Air blasts my airway over and over.
I purge water from my lungs in a violent cough. My own voice touches my ears, and I’m shaken, but alive. I blink several times until his face becomes clear.
“Lakin…” He says my name like a question, his voice a shiver against the morning.
“I’m here,” I say.
His arms surround me, he pulls me to his chest. We hold onto each other.
Daybreak crests the sky, the fragile light revealing I’m not that far from shore. Men in uniform are in the fishing boat with us. I remember the sirens I heard on the dock.
“How?” I ask.
He brushes my wet hair from my face as he inspects me, not content until he’s searched every inch of my body. “You’re bleeding.”
“I was stabbed.”
“Hand me the emergency kit,” he demands. He peels my soaked clothes from my body as gently as possible. The pain is starting to resurface. “Stomach wound.”
I let him bandage my stomach and arm, and as the local police steer us toward the shore, Rhys applies pressure to my stomach. A person can suffer a gut wound for days; but I’m scared to ask how bad it is; I don’t want to shatter the hope of this moment.
“I tracked your phone to the last pinged location,” Rhys finally answers. “I’d have come here anyway if I couldn’t do a trace. Detective Dutton responded.”
I glance over. The old detective from my case is in the boat with us.
“It was you,” I say to Rhys.
“What are you talking about?” He’s looking ahead, destination in sight. He’s fighting to get me to a hospital. “Radio the EMT truck,” he orders the cop at the helm. “Have them ready.”
“You’re him,” I say, my voice strained. “You rescued me from the lake.”
Rhys looks down, into my eyes. Awareness crashes through him. He presses his lips to my forehead, a kiss so tender it aches through me.
As we dock, I hear the search, flashlights slash the dawn, as uniforms hunt for the unknown assailant who evaded arrest.
Rhys carries me to the ambulance and demands to ride with me to Silver Lake Memorial. He grasps my hand, not letting go, even as the EMT covers my mouth and nose with an oxygen mask and dresses the stab wound.
His hand pulses mine. “You rescued yourself,” he says. “But I’ll be the man of your dreams, Lakin. I can be him.”
I let the dark press of sleep claim me then. Holding on to Rhys. Holding on to the hope of us.
Epilogue
We are all connected. Through time and space, atoms and neurons. Villains and heroes. We’re all linked in a cosmic web, fighting to live. Fighting for truth.
The last words of the book. The End.
A lethargic purge, the truest crime story I’ve ever penned. The one I lived through. The story of two women and their crimes solved together. The title of the manuscript for In Her Wake proved to be a genuine representation of our story. I was in Joanna’s wake. Her murder led me to our killers.
Once I completed the book, I sent an early proof copy to Ms. Delany for approval—to make sure my story would not detract from Joanna’s, and that I had honored her daughter’s memory properly. Our book is slated to release to the world next year.
I thanked Bethany Delany in the acknowledgments for more than just her participation; her maternal instinct pointed us to Mike Rixon. Our first lead.
During his questioning, Mike admitted to local authorities that he had always harbored a fear about his half-brother, about what he was. A social media post captured him saying: “At times, I wondered if there was something wrong with him, something off. I had my suspicions, but I wasn’t sure.”
Mike saw the way Torrance looked at Joanna—that’s why Mike was protective over her at the Tiki Hive. What Bethany had noticed during her visit one evening to the restaurant before her daughter was discovered in a lake.
When Rhys and I showed up at the Tiki Hive to question Mike, he could’ve revealed his suspicions then. But he was also quoted saying: “He’s still family.”
I suppose that’s the reason why Mike didn’t correct Torrance when he pointed us toward Kohen. Mike wasn’t charged with hindering an investigation, however. Suspicion doesn’t equate to factual knowledge of a crime.
No, the evidence was there this time. Torrance, under pressure from the FBI’s investigation, made mistakes during Cam’s murder. Dr. Keller, the medical examiner, found trace DNA on the dress Cam was wearing at the time.
I recall how Torrance claimed he and Drew had “practiced” on Cam. How Torrance had held my arms behind my head, his excitement pressed hard against my back. The dark spark that was planted in him all those years ago, aroused by my murder, was what told the story of his involvement.
I’m glad that, even if events hadn’t unfolded as they did, Cam would’ve been the one to close the cases—that she’d avenge her death in the end.
Detective Vale made the match to the pre-ejaculate on Cam’s dress to Torrance.
There is no such thing as a perfect murder.
Torrance Carver was apprehended at the Dock House the morning of his and Drew’
s attack on me. While I was being rushed to Silver Lake Memorial, Detective Dutton and the Leesburg PD discovered Torrance hiding in the kitchen cooler of the Dock House.
It’s far less dramatic than I imagined for his ending.
But it’s realistic, and now Torrance is incarcerated and awaiting trial, to be judged by a jury. With definitive proof of his crimes, Rhys and I are sure the state of Florida will get the maximum for his sentence.
As for Drew, one bit of evidence was able to tie him to the crimes. The picture the ME took of my scars. Dr. Keller matched those images to the other murders. Same murder weapon. Drew had carelessly dropped the knife in the lake, and Torrance had retrieved it. Using the same weapon to brutally murder Joanna Delany, to replicate the first murder he witnessed.
Then, of course, there was my statement.
Andrew Abbot was dredged from the lake, pronounced dead at Silver Lake Memorial…just a few rooms down from where I was being operated on.
When I think about Drew, I don’t envision him on a gurney, or in a casket. I see him floating in dark water, lotus stalks encasing his body.
An eerie role reversal for victim and killer. Instead of me—my death—at the bottom of the lake, my killer found his fate. It’s the kind of macabre irony that leaves me feeling numb.
Even now, I’m not entirely sure how I feel about Drew. What he stole from me. The level of vindictive selfishness that turned a college professor into a killer.
But I have come to a point of acceptance. I had thought that, when I left Silver Lake the first time, I was saving myself, starting over. I believed I had accepted my circumstances—that I could endeavor to be like the leaves of the lotus and cleanse myself of the filth from my past.
The truth is, I was trapped. It might have been Drew that put me in the lake, and Torrance’s pathology played a part, but it was my fear, my shame, that kept me at the bottom.
The lies we tell ourselves are the hardest to see.
Although Rhys always suspected Drew of my attempted murder, there was never any hard evidence. The timeline didn’t match up, and the circumstantial evidence wasn’t strong enough. When people deem to keep secrets, the truth is difficult to uncover. That is, until one peg is jarred loose.
All it takes is one person to speak out, and the house of lies crumbles.
Cam’s admission may have come too late for her, but by finally admitting the truth, all the other puzzle pieces started to align.
I did attend her funeral. I did meet her husband and their infant baby girl. Her name is Calliope.
Every person played a part in my crime. Whether they were an active participant, or simply selfish, or passive, like Chelsea, who is now a victim in her own right, left behind to carry the weight of Drew’s shameful legacy.
Every person from my past did, somehow, play a part—and if they were judged deserving of a punishment from a higher power, they’ve now answered for their sins.
The murder board has been erased. The book is finished.
Newest case file in hand, I pad to where Rhys is transcribing an interview. His laptop rests on his lap as he pecks at the keyboard, his socked feet propped on the table.
I sit beside him and open the file. After my case was closed, Rhys wondered if I was done with my hunt for justice within the cold case division. And I’ll be honest, I did take a moment of pause. I could go back to school, complete my degree. Become a psychologist.
My answer to him: I reached into my box of files and plucked out the Lowenstein case.
Rhys’s response: the rare gift of his smile that I savor just for myself.
Soon after we took on the case, I left Missouri, which wasn’t too difficult a choice. I had never created a life for myself there. So I packed Lilly and my belongings and flew to Arlington to be with the man who pulled me from the water.
Rhys is my home.
He halts typing mid-sentence and removes his earbuds, a serious expression etching his face. “Did you throw it away?”
I inhale a deep breath, nod. “Didn’t even open it.”
“All right.” He grasps my hand, laces our fingers together. His thumb traces my wrist, free of the band. “Good. You want to read the husband’s interview so far?”
Just like that, we move forward.
A letter came in the mail today. It had traveled around the country, bouncing from mailboxes, until it finally found its destination. It was addressed from a Florida correctional penitentiary. From Torrance. A part of me—that part that still ceases to breathe when the memory of that night stirs—wanted to tear the letter open. To read the words and torture myself with trepidation.
We are human. We are flawed. We gravitate to the worst possible outcome because we are designed to expect this, to anticipate the bottom falling out.
Knowledge dispels fear.
Since uncovering the mystery of my fear, I have slain my demons. Whenever doubt creeps into my thoughts, all I have to do is remind myself of this.
So instead, I placed the letter on the kitchen counter and made Rhys aware. He’s a part of my story. We face these challenges together.
Victims do not have to suffer alone.
Victims do not have to be victims.
I am a survivor.
I escaped death not once but twice. The first time the Grim Reaper touched my life, I left myself buried in a grave of lotuses. I clung to that death, I ran, afraid of a faceless killer.
Drew did kill me that night—not for just those sixty-seven seconds—he ended my life…because I allowed him to, because I was too ashamed to live. When I finally returned home to my parents, I ultimately learned that, in order to conquer my fear, I had to accept all of my choices, all of my hurt.
We cannot carve our lives into sections. The good and the bad, the beautiful and the ugly moments; one cannot exist without the other. This is the design.
I am not like the leaves of the lotus; I am its petals. Soft and pliable, but also sharp and deadly, like the blade that carved my body. I do not suffer my scars. They’re a testament of my strength and will to survive.
I am not unsoiled—but I am not the mud.
I’m free of the mud that held me bound at the bottom for so long.
People much wiser than I have studied and praised the lotus, have written proverbs and songs dedicated to its remarkability. I can only testify as to how it has affected my life.
Buddha may disagree, but for me, the lotus effect represents more than a mere second chance. It’s a chance to relive a moment in time; a chance to correct the imbalance.
After I was released from the hospital, Rhys asked me—only once—about what I confessed on the boat.
Was it a premonition? At my moment of death, was I given a glimpse of the future? Did time and space bend and touch at two profound moments of my life?
I don’t know the answer. I have no explanation. All I know is that, to only rely on logical explanations can be a desolate existence. If the most intelligent minds in the world knew with absolute surety that there was no other reason beyond what we can see and touch, they would not have devoted their life to the study of time; the quest to explore beyond our tangible reach.
All I know for certain is that we are all searching.
I was searching.
And this time around, I found hope was not a curse.
Rhys and I… We are the beauty that grew out of the mud.
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Cruel: A Necrosis of the Mind Duet
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Also by Trisha Wolfe
Broken Bonds Series
With Visions of Red
With Ties that Bind
Derision
Darkly, Madly Duet
Born, Darkly
Born, Madly
Living Heartwood Novels
The Darkest P
art
Losing Track
Fading Out
Cellar Door: Standalone
Five of Cups: Standalone
Lotus Effect: Standalone
A Necrosis of the Mind Duet
Cruel
Malady
Acknowledgments
Thank you to:
My amazingly talented critique partner and friend, P.T. Michelle, for reading so quickly, giving me much needed pep talks and advice, wonderful notes, and for your friendship.
My super human beta readers, who read on the fly and offer so much encouragement. I could not write books without your brilliance. Honestly, you are my girls! Melissa & Michell (My M&M’s), and Debbie Higgins for reading quickly to give me helpful insight as always.
To the amazing gals in The Lair! I adore you so hard. You keep me sane, where it’s perfectly acceptable to be anything but ;) Thank you for all that you do for me, my books. Thank you, girls.
To all the authors out there who share and give shouts outs. You know who you are, and you are amazing.
To my family. My son, Blue, who is my inspiration, thank you for being you. I love you. And my husband, Daniel (my turtle), for your support and owning your title as “the husband” at every book event. To my parents, Debbie and Al, for the emotional support, chocolate, and unconditional love.
Najla Qamber of Najla Qamber Designs, thank you so much for not just creating stunning, take-my-breath-away covers, but for also rocking so hard! You are so much fun to worth with; you take the stress right out of the very stressful task of series cover creation, and I always look forward to working with you on the next project.
There are many, oh, so many people who I have to thank, who have been right beside me during this journey, and who will continue to be there, but I know I can’t thank everyone here, the list would go on and on! So just know that I love you dearly. You know who you are, and I wouldn’t be here without your support. Thank you so much.
