That moment in time was a black hole.
But I had brought something back with me.
Hope.
And depending on your mental state, hope can either be a blessed thing or a curse.
Right then, my newfound hope was a mix of both. But it was a nice departure from helplessness. While I was working my case with Rhys, I wasn’t fixated on the fear. I wasn’t paralyzed.
Once home, I scoured the Internet and pod casts for cold cases. I had become addicted to them. The moment I found the one, I sent Rhys the information. I put together a starting point, a theory, and investigative notes from the case. My journalism classes were finally coming in handy.
The agent probably won’t admit it, but he needed that new case just as badly as I did. His failure to solve my case threatened him; he needed to believe, to hope, that his career as an FBI agent wasn’t over. I believe that’s the only reason he conceded to let me “tag along.” Soon, I became a consultant for the FBI’s cold case division. An unofficial team member with a very unimpressive hourly pay rate for my time.
The FBI also won’t a
cknowledge this, but the positive publicity they got from a solved cold case turned NYT Bestseller is what keeps Agent Nolan’s small team above reproach within the department.
We solved the Patterson case within two months. And it felt good. Addictive.
I wrote and completed my first novel. Sold the rights. Another written book later, the special agent and I have solved six unsolvable cases.
Neither one of us has looked at my case since.
I crack the car window, then immediately regret doing so. The humid Florida air is congested with the marshy scent of the east coast. You can throw a stone in any direction and hit a body of water. Lakes, ponds, rivers. Florida is one long peninsula slowly sinking into the ocean.
Unbidden, a wave of melancholy washes over me, and the compulsion to snap the rubber band takes hold. I scratch my wrist, antsy. A memory of Drew and I on the beach stirs, and I quickly suppress it. I hit the control to roll up the window.
As if he’s reading my mind, Rhys says, “You miss it.”
I change the car A/C from vent to circulate to stop the outside from seeping in. “Is that a question or an accusation?”
He doesn’t laugh. Rhys rarely laughs. I spot the slight curve of his lips, though.
“Do I miss the smell?” I ask. “The muggy humidity that clings to your skin and makes you feel dirty with grime and sweat even after you’ve just showered?” I look out the window, at the flatness of Highway 1. “Not a chance.”
I don’t have to glance his way to know the grin he wears.
“I think we should hit the apartment complex first,” he says, and I’m thankful for the topic change. “Canvass the neighborhood and get fresh statements.”
Relieved, I agree. “First thing in the morning. Where are we staying?”
I packed quickly and jumped on a plane, knowing Rhys would handle the details of our stay. He says it’s easier for him to work out the reimbursement from the bureau.
He flips the blinker and merges onto the onramp. “Holiday Inn. Between Melbourne and West Melbourne. Not too far from the crime scene, and near enough to other locations we’ll need to look at.”
Rhys checks us in at the front desk while I wait in the lobby, luggage and bag seated around my Converse-clad feet. When not traveling, I typically dress more professional; people have a preconceived expectation of how agents and their cohorts working an investigation should dress. If they’re not distracted by your clothes—trying to figure out if you’re qualified—then they can concentrate on the facts.
Special Agent Rhys Nolan, on the other hand, always looks the part in his standard black suit and tidy, light-brown hair. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him with facial scruff; always clean-shaven.
He likes to say: “I am the job.”
I’m the job, too, but I guess writers get a little more flexibility with their wardrobe. At least I leave the pajamas at home when I’m on a case.
I bite my lip to keep from frowning. At one point in my life, on a very different course, I’d have been expected to dress the professional part. Psychologist Dr. Marks has a more professional ring to it than Lakin Hale, true crime writer. Although I suppose both avenues led me to a place where I explore the mind and behavior of criminals.
Semantics.
“All set.” Rhys hands me a room card, interrupting my thoughts.