Lies We Bury

by Elle Marr

  If Petey the Penguin was actually code for Pierre Arktiq, mass murderer, what does the braided bracelet mean? I haven’t received a new message from the killer since leaving The Stakehouse, unless I count that reporter’s sneak attack.

  Immediately after I drove away, I felt a wave of regret at throwing her phone onto the freeway. Not only because the phone may have landed on a moving car and hurt someone but because I just proved them all right. I’m no better than Chet when he would snap and begin beating Rosemary. The anger issues I’ve worked haphazardly to subdue, the rage that percolates beneath my skin and marks me as Chet’s perverse offspring, align exactly with what people think of me—that I’m damaged. A wild animal. Not to be trusted. I proved them all correct in that moment.

  What else would this killer do? What will his next action be? Is he going to attack someone at an arts-and-crafts store, where people engage in activities like the bracelet- or rug-making Rosemary made us do our last day? The connection between flimsy thread jewelry we braided and this latest dead body should be clearer, but I can’t recall why a bracelet might be important. I need to understand him better. His choices. His victims.

  I remember the shoes on the most recent body—loafers whose soles were worn smooth. The ghost of the cooler’s chilled temperature burns my nostrils, and my stomach clenches against a sudden urge to vomit. Accessing my camera’s recent photos on my cloud server, I pull up images of the victim’s face. In the moment, I couldn’t bring myself to examine him without the protection of my camera lens. Now, and in the safety of the bagel shop’s warmth, I can fully confront the details.

  A naturally long face appears rounded at a slackened jaw. Pale pink lips are open, revealing the tip of a dark-red tongue within. Reddish-brown whiskers dot his mouth and chin in uneven patches sprinkled with gray. This man was likely in his midforties, maybe early fifties.

  A rush of cool air enters the bagel shop as a woman opens the door and crosses to the counter. A child, somewhere behind me, asks her parent for more schmear, and I hunch over my screen, keenly aware I’m gazing at a cadaver in public. I type reverse image search into a new browser tab, then upload a photo of the man.

  The results are all insurance related. This victim, Gavin Nilsson, was an insurance agent, and pretty successful, earning a Salesperson of the Year award last year. The prize was a trip to London. Happy images of him in front of Buckingham Palace cover the insurance company’s “Events” page. I return to the search results and click on an art website. He also painted landscapes of the Pacific Northwest. From the looks of his tableau of the Columbia River Gorge, he was talented. I scroll through lush green mountaintops and towering waterfalls, wishing I could draw more than stick figures.

  Do the police know all of this about him? What does he have in common with the stripper found in Four Alarm’s basement? I search Eloise Harris art, but the web results lead to an octogenarian living in Berlin. How does any of this relate to me?

  Shia’s words from the coffee shop return to mind. People want to know what happened from a firsthand perspective. Hell, I want to know. So much of what I’ve recalled since he proposed interviewing me have been details without any apparent significance. Freezer-burned vegetables. Games that Jenessa and I used to play together. The scratchy feeling of the blanket I liked to wear as a cape.

  I map directions to the location where Shia and I agreed to meet, and find I’m already running behind.

  The city library appears ominous under the afternoon’s gray skies. Zigzags made by last night’s rainstorm streak the stone face. The neoclassic design common to so many buildings around here reminds me that these neighborhoods are old by West Coast standards.

  Across the street, a tent town that sprouted up on the greenway bustles with activity. A few men and women shake out blankets and cook food over an open flame rising from a metal trash barrel. I skim over the burning yellow and orange ribbons, never allowing myself to focus too much on them.

  Inside, in a spacious atrium, readers sprawl in plush armchairs near bookshelves along the perimeter. Shia is seated at a table. He withdraws his phone and a journal from his backpack, then places them carefully at nine and three. He looks around him as though energized by the locale, lamplight reflecting on his glasses. Seeing me, he breaks into a lopsided grin.

  “We gotta stop meeting like this.” He rises from one of a dozen tables on the ground floor. “How was traffic?”

  “Fine, I was in the area. Are we allowed to talk in here?” I take a seat and try to ignore his stare, the feeling that the seven other people scattered among the neighboring tables are listening. Although I’m sure this is the right way forward, all things considered, it still feels dangerous confiding in a stranger.

  Shia’s pen is poised over a yellow-paged journal. He taps a button on his phone to record, and a wavelength undulates across the screen. “Yes, but only in the community room. As I said yesterday, my publisher is anxious for a draft, given Chet’s release on Monday. I’ve been up all night outlining chapters and possible subjects that I’d like to get your thoughts on.” I nod, and he winces. “I’m sorry, but could you try and speak your answers or comments aloud?” He glances down at the phone.

  “Oh. Yes. Sorry. Yeah, I’m . . . ready to give my thoughts.”

  “Good.” He smiles and flips to another page filled with writing. “Let’s start from the beginning. Please state your name.”

  Although I knew this would likely be part of giving interviews, I balk. “Why? I mean, I thought I was going to be an anonymous source. Why would I be recorded saying my name?”

  Shia flushes, then clears his throat. “Okay, you don’t have to state your name. This recording is only to facilitate my note-taking so I don’t miss anything. Let’s try another question. What is your earliest memory?”

  Lily. My first memory is about Lily, and suddenly the impact of what I’m about to do—share intimate details to every hungry rubbernecker in the country—feels wrong, and not at all my story to tell. She’s barely returned home, pregnant and dealing with problems in her relationship.

  Then there’s Jenessa. How would she react if she knew I was itemizing our past for this person? Especially after she turned down his money.

  Instead of my first memory, I recall watching my sisters huddled together beneath a blanket on a hospital bed as we waited to be examined by a nurse the night that we escaped. Shame roils through me.

  I stand and sling my messenger bag across my chest. “I can’t do this today. I’m sorry.”

  Shia’s mouth falls open. He pushes his glasses higher onto his nose. “What? We just started. You’re not doing anything wrong here, and I already gave you cash. You agreed,” he adds in a low voice.

  “No, I know. I’m just . . . I’m not feeling well. And we already had a mini session yesterday, right? Let’s try again tomorrow. Or the day after.”

  “Claire.” Shia drags the word out through gritted teeth. “How can you know where you’re going unless you examine where you’ve been?”

  I grab my sunglasses and haul ass out of there. The woman at the welcome desk looks up when I burst through the doors of the lobby, but I don’t pause. Today, after a failed call to the police and a failed visit to warn my little sister about Chet, the last thing I need is to inflict more damage.

  Sixteen

  As a child, I always felt an obligation to make sure the others were okay. I knew the cadence of Rosemary’s antidepressants the first several years post-captivity, and I kept an eye on her outgoing mail to confirm utilities wouldn’t be shut off. I kept a stash of Spam and rice in the bottom corner of the kitchen pantry, and the number for the church food bank was on speed dial, just in case. Down in Chet’s basement, it was a regular thing to see Rosemary slide into a catatonic state, but I never wanted to be at the mercy of her emotional voids again.

  As the oldest of my sisters—albeit with a head start on Jenessa of seven months—I felt responsible for them, worried about them, as much a
s a nine-year-old could. I tried to take good physical care of Lily by ensuring her hair was shampooed and she bathed every few days, whenever Rosemary became too distracted, as she put it, and needed to change her dosage. It was harder with Jenessa three hours away in Portland, but I wrote her letters, knowing that Nora was not as consistent as Rosemary in paying utilities like the telephone. I don’t know if Jenessa received every letter, and I never held it against her when her reply wasn’t prompt. She’d write back sooner or later.

  It was an abrupt shift after our escape, ceding one of my sisters to a stranger, to the woman I knew as Mama Nora. I once read somewhere that humans can get used to anything.

  Well, I never did. I don’t think Lily or Jenessa did, either.

  When I look up from my phone, the sun is shining off-center in the sky—finally, a clear blue. I shrug off my jacket into the passenger seat of my car and allow the warm beams to bathe the skin of my forearms. My most recent burn has taken on a dark-red color as the wound heals. Faded scars flank it like grave markers, poised to welcome another to their dead ranks.

  I lock my phone, rest my cheek against the glass, and close my eyes. Just for a second.

  Poring over bookmarked websites feels redundant, but I don’t know how else to approach this search. I found articles about the other underground incidents that Oz mentioned, but I don’t see a clear link to the current murders or to me.

  My eyes snap open. With everything going on, I forgot to ask Jenessa whether she knows about Chet’s release. Crap. I type out a message on my phone.

  Hey! Did you know that Chet will be released on parole on Monday? Just wanted to check.

  I shake my head. Erase the message, then try again.

  I have some bad news. Chet will be released on parole this Monday. Did you know?

  Still awkward. Still a terrible text. Although there’s probably no easy way to write this.

  Bad news that deserves a 1-hour phone call but I want to ensure you know ASAP: Chet will be released on parole Monday. Did you receive the victim notification?

  After dropping in on Jenessa earlier this week with news of a possible murderer and his apparent interest in me, I’ve gone and delivered another bombshell. I should have called her, but I also need to beat the evening dinner rush. And just the idea of discussing Chet’s release shortens my breath. How selfish and self-preserving of me, to choose my own comfort over Jenessa’s.

  I purse my lips, noting these instincts, and step out of my car. The three blocks to Four Alarm, to where it all began for me, are clear of foot traffic. Without a sure path forward, I’m crossing my fingers that something will stand out at the brewery, something I may have missed during the last frenzied visit under police supervision.

  Door chimes announce my entry. Topher Cho looks up from wiping a glass behind the bar counter.

  “Welcome to Four Alarm,” he says. “Table?”

  A current of déjà vu sweeps down my back. I shake my head as I cross to him at the bar. Tables that were nearly full last Saturday are now peppered with customers, spread out and speaking quietly.

  “When did you guys reopen?” I ask, sliding onto a swivel bar chair. The question I want to ask is, When did the police release you from questioning?

  He grabs the handles on either side of a keg and sets it down by the flap doors to the kitchen. It’s impossible not to admire the muscles of his back, evident through the thin cotton of his T-shirt. A man pauses in eating his burger to watch, and a tomato splats onto his plate.

  Topher returns to pour me a glass of water. “Yeah, we had a pause of two days. But things are back up and running.”

  “You mean, this was a crime scene and you were forced to shut down.”

  Dark-brown eyes narrow. “You read the news, huh? We’re all hoping Four Alarm is done being examined now that the police have moved on. Have I seen you before?”

  I lean an elbow onto the counter and rest half my face on my palm. Things would go from bad to worse if Topher recognized me from my visit on Saturday, before he discovered the body. “Ah, maybe. I was there—or, here—when police were still investigating in person. I’m the crime photographer. Claire.”

  Topher stiffens. His eyes dart past me to the street, probably looking for blue uniforms. If Topher had admitted anything damning to the police, he would have been formally arrested—not back at work. But he might still have insight that could lead to the killer. If I ask the right questions.

  I throw him a big smile. “Everything okay?”

  His laugh is a machine-gun chortle. “Yeah, yeah. Fine. I just didn’t realize you were with the police. I’ve already told you guys everything I know, about how I found her, and—” He gulps. “How frightening the whole thing was.”

  If Topher believes I’m with Portland PD, all the better. I am a crime photographer. Only not for the police. “Of course. I’m just the shutterbug, so I’m not here to interrogate you or anything. I . . . plan on doing some promotional stuff for the department and need models. You’re an actor, right? Do you model, too?”

  He relaxes, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve done some print work.”

  “Bartending is a side hustle, then?”

  I really want to ask Topher all the details of his misdemeanor and what went down between him and his ex. Knowing that won’t happen in the light of day while he’s working, I’ll settle for chatting him up. Form my own conclusions about his personality.

  Topher grabs a dish towel and begins cleaning the same pint glass he had when I walked in. “You got it. I moved down from Washington last year because Portland’s film scene was booming. All kinds of great shows were being shot here, but lately auditions have been slower. But hey, you never know what’s around the corner, right?”

  He looks up wistfully before resuming eye contact. “I mean, I’m not desperate or anything for things to change. I’m very happy at Four Alarm. It’s a great place to work.”

  “It seems like it.” Remembering my conversation with Oz, I say, “You been signed by an agency yet?”

  Topher shrugs. “Nah, not yet. I’d like to be.”

  “You’ve got a great look; I’m sure it’ll happen.”

  He beams.

  “How’d you decide you want to be an actor?” I ask.

  The smile makes his brooding features magnetic. “I guess I’ve always thought that relationships are what’s most interesting in this world, you know? It’s not exactly who you know—more like how you make people feel. And acting is all about tapping into emotion like that.”

  I nod. “Seems like you know your stuff. Any agency is wrong not to give you a chance.”

  He shakes his head, floppy hair falling artistically across his face. “Man, I keep sending my headshot and YouTube reel, trying to get their attention. I think my stuff gets lost in their inbox.”

  “Wow, you have a reel?”

  The pint glass sparkles in the sunshine slanting through the bay windows. The woman next to me licks her finger, having finished her burger and fries.

  Topher places the glass on the bar. He withdraws his wallet from his back pocket, then removes a card. “Yeah, I mean, if you want, you can check it out here.”

  “Thanks.” I take the square. “Hey, random question for you. Are there any good strip clubs close by?”

  He lifts both eyebrows.

  I shrug up to my ears and throw him another smile. “Strippers are great background in any law enforcement shoot.”

  He grabs the dish towel again. “I mean, we know the victim was a stripper, if that’s what you’re getting at . . .”

  “Do we? I’m not following the investigation right now. I get in, take pictures, and get out. But hey, if you don’t feel comfortable answering, I get it. I’ll keep you in mind for our next photo shoot.” I rise to stand, and he rushes to speak.

  “No, I’m not—yeah, I mean, I’ve been to a few. The Drive-In is a fun spot.”

  “And El Cody’s?”

  He shakes his h
ead, and more black hair flops. “Never been. I’ve heard it’s fun, though. That’s the vegan strip club.”

  “Thanks. And thanks again for the card.”

  He straightens, like I’m departing military. “Thank you . . . uh . . . Officer.”

  I lift a hand in a wave, then hightail it onto the sidewalk before any real uniforms arrive.

  My phone buzzes, and I realize I missed three text messages from Jenessa. The first one contains only “mind blown” emojis, but she says she did know about Chet’s parole:

  Victim notification arrived two weeks ago, yes. Did you get yours? I’ve been trying not to think about it, honestly. You?

  I exhale the breath I’d been holding, my whole body deflating. Relief and annoyance mix together—annoyance that Jenessa didn’t tell me about the notification but mostly relief that I didn’t just deliver another bombshell of unwanted news. At least she will be prepared for whatever happens come Monday.

  Sweat forms underneath my arms and the backs of my legs as I walk the blocks to where I parked. My interaction with Topher went better than expected, even earning me a card with his contact information. He didn’t seem to recognize me—not the response I would expect if the murderer was the same person who left me the anonymous note—but I can’t help feeling the police aren’t wrong to identify Topher Cho as a person of interest. A desire for fame, for notoriety, for extra followers—those are motives for murder. John Wilkes Booth was a respected theater actor before offing Lincoln. Now he’s a household name.

  When I arrive at my driver’s side door, I startle at coming face-to-face with two sculpted dogs I hadn’t noticed in my hurry earlier. No, not dogs—Chinese dragons. Stone jowls part midway in a roar or as if readying to eat me. I step back, one foot in the street to fully absorb the scene.

  They’re guard dragons, protecting Portland’s Chinatown district. Crouching on either side of the road, they flank an ornate archway painted red and gold—colors meant to bring good luck, and which I recognize from when Rosemary first tried to teach us girls about our respective heritages.