Lies We Bury

by Elle Marr

  “Interesting.”

  “Yeah, I don’t understand it, either. But we’re just the news team, right, Claire? They’ve gotta keep the wheels of government moving.”

  “What are you saying? Have they both been arrested? That seems preemptive.”

  Oz smirks. “Officially, Silva and Cho are still only persons of interest, but I’ll bet the cops are getting serious pressure from the upper brass to publicly name suspects. I haven’t seen them this worked up since I’ve been at the Post, or the Gazette before this.” He nods toward the groups of officers and concerned employees.

  Candy, the dancer I saw earlier, left about five minutes after I arrived, and the bartender I spoke with is gone, too.

  “A lot of angst seems to be going around, not the least of which is Chet Granger’s parole next week. Tell me you know about that guy, at least.” His gaze narrows to examine me, likely evaluating my worthiness of being on the “news team.”

  I shift my weight onto my heels. “Yeah, he imprisoned women and children underground.”

  Oz scoffs. “More than that. The Post archives show that only four underground incidents occurred in the state over the last thirty years. One, an oddball case of a woman attempting to create herself a crypt for beloved pets; another, a man dug himself a bomb shelter in the event of nuclear war; creepier, a mother and father kept their child, a deformed twin brother, belowground in an extended wine cellar while the other twin was raised aboveground as an only child. You’d think that would be the winner for the most messed-up cases, but no. There’s the Granger case. The guy kept amassing women, forced them to dig out his basement and expand it, to have children by him; then he kept his own kids there until they were, like, ten.”

  “Seven. They—the oldest were seven and the youngest three.”

  Oz smirks again, sugary-sweet. “Aw, you do know more than the average photographer.”

  I swallow the pooling saliva in my mouth. Force a smile. “I stay up to date.”

  “Anyway, nerves are running high. The timing of these deaths so close to Granger’s parole is not great for morale. Mayor’s up for reelection this year, and detectives are being pushed for progress—plus the discovery that the basement passageway at the brewery and the one here at The Stakehouse could be connected to the Shanghai Tunnels. All of that amounts to a very on-edge police force, and they are dying—pardon the pun—to make an arrest.”

  Someone calls for Oz, and he tucks his notepad in his pants pocket. “I’m on. We should get a drink afterward. Since we’re colleagues and all.”

  I shake my head, trying to organize the information Oz so easily rattled off. “How do you know all this?”

  “Like any good reporter, Claire, I have a source.” He turns his face away, a teasing grin just evident. “Why? What does a photographer care about solving a case?”

  If I had access to records, archives, and police hearsay, I might get ahead of the author of the windshield note. Could Oz be my source? Or better yet, I could figure out the identity of Oz’s source and go directly to that person.

  He watches me, alert green eyes admiring my mouth. A shiver skates across my arms as I try to remember how to flirt.

  “I’ve always thought crime reporting is an exciting career.” Tentative smile. “Maybe I could intern with you, in a way?”

  Delight mixes with pride as he runs a hand behind his neck. “Might be fun. See you at the next crime scene, shutterbug.” He winks, then crosses the street and joins a woman in a starched blazer with rolled-up sleeves. She begins speaking while Oz withdraws a handheld recorder and holds it between them. Something he says makes her erupt into giggles.

  If I weren’t already suspicious of men, I would be after seeing this police official lap up Oz’s charm. He wields it like a weapon to get what he wants. I could learn more than crime scene details from him.

  “Lou!” Sergeant Peugeot waves at me from the front entry, his red hair a beacon. The wrinkles on his forehead appear deeper than when we met yesterday. A man stands beside him wearing a yellow press pass and holding a camera nicer than mine. “Media has five minutes, and then the crime scene is police only.”

  “Sergeant, I know the Gazette is just finishing up at a municipal campaign around the corner,” the man says. “Do you want to wait for their photographer?” Next to his press pass is a second lanyard with the logo of the Oregon Times, the biggest newspaper in the region.

  “Nope. You snooze, you lose around here. Clock’s ticking.”

  The two of us follow Peugeot inside. Overhead lights are turned on, removing any mystique or sexy ambience from earlier today. Without cover of darkness, the bar top, tables, and stage seem worn and depressed instead of sexually liberated. I click through a dozen frames, taking a few more of the beer taps for my own records, then follow Peugeot through the kitchen. The puddle of bloody steaks has been cleaned up. As we traverse the spotless tile, fear spikes through me: I could have stepped in it with my shoe, tracked blood to the cooler, and left some evidence of my foreknowledge of the body.

  I look up toward each corner of the ceiling as I trail the pair of men. No security cameras. Some of the tension leaches from my arms, but not by much. It was foolish traipsing back here alone earlier—no hat, no disguise. Idiot move. Impulsive, per usual.

  In the storage area, two men in matching black shirts with the word POLICE across the shoulders stand beside a hole in the wall that wasn’t visible when I was here before. Large plastic tubs of rotini seem to have been covering it. Peugeot approaches the men as I snap photos of the pasta. One of them explains how The Stakehouse has one of the oldest foundations on this block and was rebuilt twice in the last century. I reach for the handle of the walk-in cooler.

  Peugeot turns. “Not in there,” he barks. He strides over to stand between the entry and me.

  The Oregon Times photographer stops what he’s doing to watch us.

  “Isn’t that where—”

  “Police only. Media isn’t allowed.” He crosses his arms as if to punctuate the point. A woman in all-white coveralls exits the cooler carrying a yellow, opaque plastic bag.

  “Okay. Sure. No problem.” I move to take photos of the potato sacks and try to put some space between us.

  “. . . string of social workers tried to get her into a halfway house, but she never stayed sober and never held down a job. She disappeared about a year ago, off our dashboard at least, then shows up about six months back. This time Silva’s throwing lavish get-togethers in a warehouse by the river and hosting line parties.”

  The second man makes an affirming noise. “I picked up a guy who went to one a few months ago. Buyers come, party, and buy drugs before leaving.”

  I pause beside two kegs stacked on their sides, trying not to make it obvious that I’m listening.

  “Yeah, well, one of Four Alarm’s employees said she was caught living in the basement underground.”

  “Which employee?”

  “The bartender. Detectives thought he might have something to do with it, since he found the first body, but now they’re not so sure. He’s still being questioned at the station.”

  “Why not?”

  “From what they tell me, the guy has been a mess since he was brought in.”

  Mess?

  “Ready, Portland Post?”

  I turn to face Sergeant Peugeot’s stern mien. Fear shoots through me again, wondering how long he was watching me eavesdrop, not taking photos. “Yes, I think I have everything I need.”

  As he escorts me back through the club, I wrap my arms around my elbows. I thank Sergeant Peugeot, then head down the street. Oz is nowhere in sight. Traffic should have died down at this point, and an alluring image of an unopened bottle of wine I have at home pops into my head.

  “Missy?” A woman’s voice carries from behind. Adrenaline rises, frothing in the back of my throat. I whirl, hoping I misheard, that it’s just nerves getting to me, but a woman with a muscular frame stands ten feet back, wieldin
g a smartphone and a cautious smile directed at me.

  Peugeot is still standing outside, speaking to the strip club’s general manager. I can even make out Peugeot’s voice saying, “We’ll need to speak to that person.” We’re not a full block from the latest crime scene—from the earshot of authorities who let me into not one but two, without realizing the liar I am.

  I need to get out of here. I start walking, almost jogging, willing the woman’s insistent voice to fade away in the nearby freeway traffic.

  “It is you, isn’t it? Missy, please, can we talk? I’m a reporter with Tru Lives. I’d love to know how you’re faring for a Where Are They Now piece. This year is the twentieth anniversary of your escape.”

  I reach the corner and realize if she sees my car, my license plate (if she hasn’t already), she’ll probably be able to find me again. Everything Oz already knows about Gia and her high school transcript is an example of the connections reporters have. This woman could learn where I live.

  Slowly, I turn and face her. Her hand flinches like she might slide open her camera app and take a photo of me, but she doesn’t. Instead she watches me like I’m a feral animal, unpredictable and potentially hostile.

  “How did you find me?”

  A crease forms between brown eyebrows tweezed within an inch of their life. “Your friend Serena Delle suggested I could find you here. I wasn’t sure I’d recognize you from those photos years ago, but you’ve grown up beautifully.”

  I stare at her. Try to ignore the cold ripple of air that skims my back. This woman doesn’t seem like a psychopath, with her coiffed brown waves and the tattoo of a peace sign on her forearm, but why else would she be in contact with the girl who stalked me during high school and, for a time, followed me to another city? The smell of the roadkill Serena would find and leave me like an offering in Chet’s name is still singed into my nostrils. For a long time, I couldn’t get the heavyset girl’s ghostly blue eyes out of my head, always seeing them in large crowds, whether or not she was present—until the day my restraining order went through. Then she stopped following me in her yellow Mini Coop and disappeared. “How do you know Serena?”

  The woman squints, dark eyes disappearing into thick eyeliner, and cocks her head. “I don’t. I received a letter with this address and instructions to come here every day this week. It was signed by a Serena Delle.”

  “Signed, like written?”

  “Typed.”

  Of course it was. Maybe Serena Delle has turned from leaving dead animals for me to leaving dead bodies. She could have killed the person in The Stakehouse, then left a note that she knew would bring me here eventually—and this reporter would be waiting to further torment me.

  “Listen,” I begin and take a step toward her. “Why don’t you feature a different subject for your story? You work for Tru Lives? Your show is notorious for always going after celebrities who have lost weight or had a breakdown. Why not focus on something even more interesting?”

  Her curiosity piqued, she doesn’t move as I inch forward. “I’m not sure what that might be,” she says. “People have been asking about you for years, wondering how you and your sisters are doing, but mostly you. You seem to be the anomaly—out of the spotlight, relatively okay as far as we can tell. Jenessa, poor thing, in and out of rehab, and Lily, the wild child, never with more than a dime in her pocket thanks to all the surgeries on her foot. Our viewers want the real story, Missy. They want to know who you are. And what you’re feeling right now.”

  I shake my head, allow my gaze to fall to the side, lulling her into a false sense of safety. “The story shouldn’t be whether I’m surviving all right. Or maybe . . .”

  “Yes . . . ?”

  I bite my cheek, now within a solid foot of this woman—this reporter. Unsuspicious in her throwback Care Bears T-shirt and jeans. Blending in like any other Portlander enjoying their weekday.

  “Maybe the story should be about something more exciting. Something relevant and universal.” Within this woman’s personal bubble, bravery stark across her excited expression, the smell of onions is thick on her breath. In my peripheral vision, I see her thumb drag along her screen, then press. Recording me.

  “What do you suggest?”

  “How about . . . a woman fighting for her privacy?”

  I grab her phone and throw it as hard as I can across the road, over the chain-link fence and onto the freeway below.

  She stares in the direction her phone flew, then snaps back to me. “Do you have any idea how many notes, what kind of files, I had on that? That’s destruction of private property.”

  I meet her furious glare with a cool shrug. “Which is about the equivalent of stalking and harassment. Next time, leave me alone.”

  Without looking behind me, I walk toward the corner at an easy pace, then turn right and jog to my car, my heart pounding in my ears so thick and fast, I can barely breathe.

  I check the rearview, half expecting to see Peugeot running toward me, open handcuffs in his grip, or Serena Delle herself marching closer. Instead, an empty road stares back at me. Hollow relief spreads across my chest, though I know that might change at any second. As I merge onto the freeway, the gloomy cloud coverage rolling in mirrors my unease.

  Fourteen

  THEN

  Twin didn’t sleep the whole hour. She got up and stumbled into the front room and complained that me and Mama Rosemary were doing something important without her. We were but that was beside the point.

  But Sweet Lily did—she slept the hour and then some. While we helped Mama Rosemary sort through our things and pack an item for each of us Sweet Lily kept right on in bed barely moving. When I went to check on her she was hot like a fever. I ran and told Mama Rosemary. She said “Shit” and then ran and got a washcloth and wet it under the sink and pressed it to Sweet Lily’s head. She looked so small and just like a doll curled up in the very middle of the bed on the brown spot. The place she came into our family.

  Mama Rosemary was upset. She sat by Sweet Lily and started to cry. Big tears fell on her face, made her skin all pink. When she saw me and Twin watching from the doorway she sat up straight. She gasped and ran into the kitchen tripping over the old rug she made from a towel that got blood on it when Twin cut herself falling down the stairs. Noise came from the bin next to the sink that we use as a chair sometimes. Mama Rosemary held up pillboxes and medicine jangling them like toys then throwing them back in the bin.

  “Mama, is everything all right?” I asked in a whisper.

  She threw both hands down and leaned forward like she might be sick. Her whole body shook and she was crying again. “We were so close. So close,” she kept saying.

  I went and put a hand on her back and she didn’t move. “Is Sweet Lily gonna be okay?”

  Mama Rosemary turned around. Her face was still wet but she wiped her nose then rubbed her hand on her sleepy pants. The loose ones that are her favorite. She pulled me into a hug on her lap. Twin came over and squeezed in, too.

  “Your sister is going to be just fine, girls. It’s her little toe again. Without treatment, her whole body starts to feel sick sometimes. You remember what having an extra toe is called?”

  “A congent . . . ?” Twin mumbled.

  “Congenital . . . birth defect,” I finished for her.

  “Very good. You girls really are like twins sometimes. Not just Irish twins.” Mama Rosemary’s head was above ours and I couldn’t see her but I heard her smile.

  We were quiet a long while.

  “Mama Rosemary?” I asked. “Are we still doing escape today?”

  She sighed and didn’t answer so long I almost asked again. Then she said: “I’m not sure, darling. With your sister sick, it’s going to be much harder to maneuver everyone out safely. I was counting on you all being able to run.”

  Twin stood up. She looked at the bed room then back to us and said, “When I’m not feeling good a hug always makes me feel better. Maybe we should go hug Sweet
Lily?”

  Mama Rosemary’s voice got all heavy again. Like she was sick, too, and I got scared for a second. What if Mama Rosemary got sick and left us? Just like Mama Nora and Mama Bethel? What would we do for food? We couldn’t eat cereal all day. The stuff the man gave us always made me sleepy and happy but gross afterward. But I eat it anyway because it’s sugary and yummy before it makes me feel gross. I eat it and Mama Rosemary says it’s good for us and will make us relax. She calls it Lith-yum. She asked the man for it one day to help us all be calm together.

  “I think that’s a wonderful idea,” she said. We stood up and all crawled into the bed around Sweet Lily. I didn’t want to touch the brown spot but then there was no more room and I did. I didn’t like it but I wanted to be near Sweet Lily. She was hot like she just took a bath and sweating like she just finished exercise hour.

  Twin fell back asleep first and her breathing got all patterned and quiet. Then Mama Rosemary fell asleep. Her breath was the same only deeper.

  I stayed awake.

  I’m still awake.

  Everyone has fallen asleep and left me alone and awake. The only one. All by herself.

  For a second my toes curl up and I get scared again. What would happen if I was all alone and no one in my family was here with me—if I was in this bed and had both rooms to myself? I wouldn’t like it. I would be so lonely.

  The thought makes me cry but Mama Rosemary doesn’t wake up. Twin neither.

  I poke Twin with my finger. Poke poke. Poke. She doesn’t move still sleeping.

  There’s a brown-green-yellow spot on her arm. I poke that and she jumps like my finger was a needle. It’s a bruise.

  I sit upright fast rocking the bed and Mama groans but keeps sleeping.

  Someone has been hurting Twin.

  Fifteen

  My phone occupies the countertop of my kitchen—the only item on the counter after a morning of stress-cleaning, dusting, and doing dishes I haven’t touched in days. With each plate I towel-dried, I thought about recent events, and my two visits to The Stakehouse yesterday. Reflected on all the surprises that have jumped out of the ether in less than a week. Each of them meant to capitalize on our story or force me to do something I may regret.