Rhys picks up on his thread as we approach the bar top. “We have a few more questions for Torrance.”
“He’s not here,” Mike answers simply. “But when I see him, I’ll let him know to contact you.”
“Thanks,” Rhys says. “We also have another question for you, regarding Kohen Hayes.”
On our drive here, I examined the handwriting analysis report. These reports read kind of like throwing a dart at a moving target…while amid a tornado. Strong winds send that dart somewhere in the vicinity of the target, but you have to include many other factors in order for it to be useful.
They’re best used for ruling people out. Mike Rixon, for example, was ruled out as the author of the note by 94%. His half-brother, Torrance, scored 33%. Considering that’s below fifty percent, we can’t entirely rule him out, but we can’t confirm with one hundred percent accuracy that he did write the note.
Math makes my head hurt.
All we know for sure is that Torrance scored lower than his brother, and Torrance is the only one of our persons of interest who has a connection linking him to all three women.
That makes Torrance our prime suspect for the time being, and the local authorities—particularly Detective Vale—are already interested in him. Once major crimes gets him into an interrogation box, our cold case will be sidelined.
My case will be sidelined.
And Cam…
I try to keep perspective, but as I stand here, anxiously twirling the band around my wrist, watching Rhys suss out the truth from Mike about why Kohen was fired, I feel as if the walls are starting to close in.
“I need some air,” I say to Rhys, as I’m already bolting for the open doors of the bar.
Rhys cuts his conversation short and follows me outside.
The sprawling beach deck is teeming with beach goers as they crowd in for the lunchtime rush. The crashing waves of the ocean sound too loud in my ears, all other noise muffled and distant against the battering wind.
“Hale, wait.”
It’s Rhys’s voice that finds me, and I brace my back against one of the beams.
“Just breathe,” he says.
He lets me get through the sudden anxiety attack on my own, giving the adrenaline time to work its way out of my system. A person can only panic for so long. After about ten minutes, the mind and body regulates. You just have to keep your composure until the attack passes.
Rhys moves in closer, blocking most of the people from my view. “Better?”
I nod. “It’s just…all catching up. Or hitting too fast at once.” I’m embarrassed. I don’t suffer panic attacks. This isn’t common.
However, when it comes to Rhys, I don’t need to elaborate. The concern etched in hard creases on his face softens with his understanding. “You haven’t had time to process Cam,” he says knowingly. “Or mourn her.”
It’s only been hours, but it feels longer, much longer since I saw her body on the slab. I cringe at my internal thoughts. I’m not even sentimental in the privacy of my mind.
“Process,” I repeat as the events catch up. “Like the fact that my partner is apparently a lawyer.”
Rhys sighs. “Come on.” He attempts to guide me to the boardwalk without touching my arm.
He leads me toward the shore, where low tide leaves a crescent of paved sand. Without a word, he plunks down a few feet away from the cresting waves, a silent request for me to do the same.
I seat myself beside him, trying to ignore the feel of wet sand as saltwater seeps into my slacks.
“Truth has a way of coming out,” he says. He stares out over the ocean; won’t meet my eyes. I wonder if he’s thinking about the note I kept from him in that statement. “I should’ve handled that better.”
A sudden surge of guilt steals over me. We all have secrets. “It’s not really any of my business. I was just…surprised. You never mentioned it.”
Rhys picks up a lone sea oat shoot and scrapes the hard-packed sand. “No, it’s fair. I’ve plundered through your life, asking the hard questions. Least I could do was tell you a piece of mine.”
To be really fair, I came to him asking for help on my case. I invited him to plunder into my life. “Parents?” I ask generally.