Lies We Bury

by Elle Marr

  PRAISE FOR ELLE MARR

  Lies We Bury

  “A twisted mashup of Room and a murder mystery, Marr’s Lies We Bury is a story that creeps into your bones, a sneaky tale about the danger of secrets and the power the past holds to lead us into a deliciously devious present. Say goodbye to sleep and read it like I did, in one breathless sitting.”

  —Kimberly Belle, international bestselling author of Dear Wife and Stranger in the Lake

  “Dark and compelling, Elle Marr has written another atmospheric and twisted thriller that you don’t want to miss. Lies We Bury delves into the darkest of pasts and explores the fascinating tension between moving on and revenge. This is a fly-through-the-pages thriller.”

  —Vanessa Lillie, Amazon bestselling author of Little Voices and For the Best

  “This haunting and emotional thriller will keep you up at night looking for answers.”

  —Dea Poirier, international bestselling author of Next Girl to Die

  “A clever, twisty murder mystery packed full of secrets and lies that will keep you turning the pages way past bedtime. Lies We Bury hooked me from page one and kept me guessing until its dramatic conclusion.”

  —Lisa Gray, bestselling author of Thin Air

  The Missing Sister

  “Marr’s debut novel follows a San Diego medical student to, around, and ultimately beneath Paris in search of the twin sister she’d been drifting away from. Notable for its exploration of the uncanny bonds twins share and the killer’s memorably macabre motive.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “[A] gritty debut . . . the intriguing premise, along with a few twists, lend this psychological thriller some weight.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Elle Marr’s first novel has an intriguing premise . . . The characters are well drawn and complex, and Marr’s prose offers some surprising twists.”

  —New York Journal of Books

  “A promising plotline.”

  —Library Journal

  “The Missing Sister is a very promising debut—atmospheric, gripping, and set in Paris. In other words, the perfect ingredients for a satisfying result.”

  —Criminal Element

  “Brimming with eerie mystery and hair-raising details . . . A chilling read that shows the unique bond of twins.”

  —Woman’s World

  “This thrilling debut novel from Elle Marr is a look into the importance of identity and the strength of sisterhood.”

  —Brooklyn Digest

  “An electrifying thriller. A must read—Karin Slaughter with a touch of international flare. Just when you think you have it all figured out, Marr throws you for another loop and the roller-coaster ride continues!”

  —Matt Farrell, Washington Post bestselling author of What Have You Done

  “A riveting, fast-paced thriller. Elle Marr hooks you from the start, taking you on a dark and twisted journey. Layered beneath the mystery of a twin’s disappearance is a nuanced and at times disturbing exploration of the ties that bind sisters together. With crisp prose, a gripping investigation, and a compelling protagonist, The Missing Sister is not to be missed.”

  —Brianna Labuskes, Washington Post bestselling author of Girls of Glass

  “A gripping thriller. The Missing Sister delivers twists and turns in an exciting, page-turning read that delves into the unique bond that makes—and breaks—siblings.”

  —Mike Chen, author of Here and Now and Then

  OTHER TITLES BY ELLE MARR

  The Missing Sister

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2021 by Elle Marr

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542026192

  ISBN-10: 1542026199

  Cover photograph by Lara Rossignol

  Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant

  For Caden, who took my world from grayscale to color

  Contents

  Start Reading

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Unexpressed emotions will never die.

  They are buried alive and will come forth later in uglier ways.

  —Sigmund Freud

  Row, row, row your boat

  Gently down the stream

  Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily,

  Life is but a dream

  One

  Secrets never stay buried for long. Photography won’t allow it, for one thing. The shutter of a camera captures moments that would have otherwise gone unseen—like that photo of a lone Jewish woman staving off the Israeli Army before they nearly trample her. Or that shot of a man jumping, falling, from the World Trade Center. If a camera snaps long enough and in the right location, anything can be unearthed, documented, and preserved for all time.

  In my case, I needed only seven years before I came to light. Images of me trembling in a torn blanket and too-small shoes were plastered across newspapers, then the internet—hair washed but matted because I had just woken up, eyes wild like the feral animals so many compared us to in the headlines afterward. I had been born in captivity, unbeknownst to our neighbors who, in interviews, said we had the nicest lawn on the street.

  Secrets have a way of breaking free. But when they do, their shame lingers—like the smell of rotten meat sauce. Even some twenty years later.

  I brush back a strand of hair that’s come loose from my messy bun. Green pine trees in the distance sway against the rolling breeze, creating a natural horizon between Portland’s city blocks and the suburbs over the hill. The trees were the first thing I noticed upon moving here two weeks ago from the flat, dry desert of southern Oregon.

  “Claire?” A woman with short, tight curls stands at the double doors of a white brick building, the Portland Post. “Are you Claire Lou?”

  I step forward as though I’ve always answered to this name. Cross my fingers that—this time—my secrets might last a while. “Yes, hi.” Claire is my middle name, and I changed my last name to my grandmother’s maiden name when I was eighteen.

  Self-inflicted cigarette burns—failed adolescent attempts at exerting control—peek from beneath my pushed-up sleeve. I tuck my inner elbow into my left side to avoid the woman’s notice.

  She shakes my hand. Red lipstick amplifies the lines framing her mouth.
“Thanks so much for your quick help, Claire. Our regular photog is out on PTO this weekend, and no one bothered to set up coverage for him. I’m Pauline, editor in chief. We spoke on the phone yesterday.”

  She ushers me past an empty lobby and through another door. Desks with stout cubicles occupy the floor, while two offices and a stairwell line the back wall. Pauline heads into one of the offices. She slides behind a plain beige laminate desk, then motions to the cushioned folding chairs in front.

  “I’ll cut to the chase. We’re swamped with local events coming up, and you’ve got an eye for wide shots. The work you did at Firenze Winery in Newberg was good. Think you can manage this list at the Rose City Parade tomorrow morning?” She hands me a sheet of paper.

  I nod, reviewing the shots they’re looking for. Pauline expands on what journalistic style the editorial team prefers as a cramp forms in my stomach.

  Landing a gig with the Portland Post is a jackpot; I know it. But I’d immediately gotten cold feet after answering their job listing for photographers on a major freelancer website. Pauline must have been desperate, because she emailed me an hour later, ignoring the glaring lack of live-event coverage in my portfolio. A voice inside me insisted that I wasn’t good enough, that I would disappoint this industry professional and burn a potential bridge—but for once I let optimism take over. If I could get in good with a news outlet like the Portland Post and work up a steady income, I might be able to stop sneaking into Costco to fill up on samples with the expired membership card I found behind my apartment.

  Pauline leans back and places her hands flat on the desk. Money details are up next; I always recognize when someone is about to stiff me. “Given your limited experience with this kind of event, I’d be willing to offer you a dollar per photo, however many we decide to buy from you. Does that work?”

  “I . . . my usual freelance sessions are significantly—”

  Pauline clasps her hands together. “That’s the best we can do right now. And I had several photographers respond to my ad. If you want to think about it, I can schedule other appointments—”

  “No, that’s fine. I’ll take it.” I plaster a tight smile on my face, then fold up the shot list. A dollar per is so much less than I was hoping for, especially given the scowl that the property manager lobbed at me when I was leaving the apartment complex today. He’s been trying to get the last $200 of my security deposit. I promised I would pony up after I borrowed money from my sister—unbeknownst to Jenessa. We have a coffee date after this meeting, but she thinks it’s to catch up, since we haven’t seen each other in years.

  Pauline walks me to the front door. On the way out, we pass a dusty bowl of fruit, and I pocket an orange out of pure habit. Heat flushes my neck as a man looks up from a nearby cubicle; his brow scrunches. I hurry to exit the building before anything else goes wrong, like Pauline offering me less money or this guy recognizing me—if anyone would, it would be a reporter.

  I return to my car and begin the slow drive through downtown, considering all the ways in which tomorrow’s photo shoot could go wrong. Rarely do I wake up that early on a Sunday, so I’ll have to set two alarms tonight.

  At a red light, I scan the storefronts along the sidewalk. A chalkboard outside a bar advertises cheap happy hour, and next to it in the alcove of a brewery entrance sits a stuffed animal—a black-and-white penguin that used to star in a children’s animated TV show during the late nineties and early aughts. One arm is missing. A red stain covers its throat.

  I blink, willing my eyes to focus, to make the details that shouldn’t be possible disappear. Is that—

  The car behind me honks. I pull forward through the green light and park at the curb a half block up. Craning my neck to look behind me, I fumble in the well of the back seat until my fingers land on the thick strap of my camera case.

  I walk the hundred feet back to the brewery where the penguin sits propped against the brick wall. The second arm is nowhere in sight, and the red stain looks suspiciously like pasta sauce—exactly like the Petey the Penguin I owned as a child. A chill ripples across the exposed skin of my forearms. Before I think better of it, I reach out to touch the toy. The material is soft yet flat in spots. It’s been used. Loved. Lifting it up, I scan its bottom and spot a name written on the tag in permanent marker: BARRY.

  A wave of illogical relief sluices over me. Not the same plush I asked my mother to grab twenty years ago when she, my sisters, and I escaped Chet’s basement, and which the police probably have stored as evidence in a cardboard box. Something about the penguin, seated outside the glass doors of a brewery, seems poetic—thought provoking. Like innocence contrasting adulthood. Who we were then and who we are now. Who I was then and the functioning ball of self-loathing I am now.

  I step back to the curb’s edge. Raising the Canon I saved up for by working four different jobs concurrently for three years, I angle the lens another fifteen degrees off-center until the light strikes the scene perfectly. The toy occupies the corner of the alcove, beneath writing on the window: LIVE MUSIC STARTING AT 7PM BLUES AND BREWS FOR COOL KIDS ONLY! Switching to a wide shot, I frame the entire entryway, capturing the silhouettes of patrons inside.

  I pull open one of the glass doors, prompting the chime of bells, and step into a slender hallway. Tables and chairs occupy space on each side, and a fireman’s pole descends from the ceiling, adjacent to a winding iron staircase. Air-conditioning ruffles a stack of napkins on the bar counter.

  The bartender looks up. He brushes a floppy curtain of black hair from his eyes. “Welcome to Four Alarm. Get you a table?”

  I shake my head and lift my camera in response. He returns a confused smile before someone calls him from down the bar. I snap a photo of the dining area. The light streaming through the tall bay windows looks better suited to a church—peaceful.

  After a few more clicks, I check my phone. Shit. Jenessa has already texted me twice. Where are you? and Coming? I’m at the coffee shop. Another glance at the penguin outside makes my skin feel grimy, like I’m back in the cramped, musty tomb of my birth and now all I want to do is go home and take a shower. Why does seeing a stuffed toy feel so visceral? This year marks the twentieth anniversary of our escape, and I’m probably on edge because of it.

  I text a reply: Sorry for the late notice, but the interview went well. I need to prep for tomorrow. Can we reschedule? Asking to borrow money from my holier-than-everyone sister can wait for a day when my ghosts aren’t clawing to the surface.

  The door chime sounds as I exit the brewery, while the bartender’s voice trails me onto the sidewalk: “Stay safe out there.”

  The next day, a crowd jostles at the curb to snap photos of the parade on their cell phones. Sunday traffic from my apartment was lighter than yesterday, but I still got lost on downtown’s one-way streets and showed up later than I wanted; the sidewalk real estate I managed to carve out is a fraction of what I normally work with. A man beside me steps into my field of view, again, and I resist the urge to elbow him in the ribs.

  “Go Raptors!” he bellows.

  Raising my camera, I focus on a passing teenage girl. Fat brown curls, tied and separated by two ribbons, flank her jaw; the sweet throwback style juxtaposes her heavy chest and the tight T-shirts the students wear in this April humidity. The man claps extra hard as the girl bends down in a dance move, and I watch him from the corner of my eye; he shifts toward her, turning as she moves five, then ten feet ahead.

  Rows of smiling high school students file forward in matching color-guard outfits. Gymnasts cartwheel diagonally across the cordoned asphalt, while families and adults (some waving red plastic cups even at this early hour) shout encouragement. I step into the street, hiking my backpack higher, and snap photos of the oncoming float. Papier-mâché roses cover its platform, leaving only twelve inches of windshield for the driver of the truck to see through. White flowers clustered together on the side of the float spell out ROSE CITY.

  I check my coun
ter. Three hundred and eighty-six images this morning, and I’ve only been out here since eight. Not bad. Pauline should be pleased I grabbed all the shots on her list, at least a dozen of each.

  I turn, shouldering my way through the crowd’s enthusiasm until I reach an empty bench. Standing on it, I’m heads above the swath of bodies. A gust from the nearby Willamette River swirls my hair in a black cloud at my shoulders, and I lift my camera. Orange shifts through the frame as the man who was beside me walks forward, following the teenage girl’s knee-high march down the street. Zooming in, I can see that she’s no longer smiling. I press the shutter, capturing the dip of the man’s head as he inclines toward her chest for a better view.

  Freelance photography has its pros and cons. Disgusting moments of human nature that people would rather forget become fixed on film, snippets of time that would otherwise disappear from memory. Then again, since I gave up waitressing at run-down diners, headshots and wine-country landscapes have covered my expenses—first in a college town a few hours south, then here for the last two weeks. My camera has always been a safe haven. A way to experience the world from a distance, when so many unwanted admirers were intent on observing my every move. Portland is only the third city I’ve lived in, but I’ve broken a lease more times than I can count.

  I used to get angry when I thought about the residual effects of the horror Chet inflicted on us and how I’m still living out the consequences. Now, a pack of cigarettes inside my backpack reminds me I’m not subject to him or anyone anymore—I’m no longer a teenager, hiding in my locked bedroom from one of my mother’s catatonic spells. I’m in control.

  The storefronts are quiet the farther west I travel, away from the river and the parade. My path doesn’t take me by the brewery where I saw the stuffed animal yesterday, but I don’t need to see it again. I can recall every detail of the penguin’s languid expression and stained fur. I went to bed imagining the last time I held Petey the Penguin in my arms, and I fell asleep crying tears that I didn’t fully understand.

  Police sirens are wailing from somewhere close by when I reach my car. The sound prickles my skin as I hurry to unlock the door. I place my camera in its case in the back seat, then notice the folded piece of paper tucked beneath my windshield wiper. A letter M is scratched out, with Claire scrawled beside it.