by Elle Marr
Looking back, I was fascinated with fire as a child. The first time I saw a live, flickering candle, I was almost eight. A flame seemed so powerful, potent in its capacity to destroy. Which is exactly how I viewed myself.
“What do you think?” Rosemary beams at me from the doorway. I touch the desk with a finger and it comes up clean.
“What am I looking at, exactly?”
She makes a face. “There are no boxes? Hello? I cleared them out for you so you could stay the night. What do you think?” she says again.
That’s why there’s no dust. The desk used to be a holding pad for whatever supplies she carried for baby announcement T-shirts or embroidery items reading HOME SWEET [Insert City]. “That’s very nice, Mom. Where’d you put all of it?”
“Oh, I know you’ll say I should put things away more fully and organize them properly and all that, but I just threw them on my bed for now. I’ll sleep around them.”
Her bedroom door is the only closed door that we passed. No doubt steeped in towering boxes, just like the front room. Years ago, I tried to convince her to throw out the comic books that I collected as a kid—none of them valuable—and blankets stained from a failed science experiment, but she’s held on to them.
“Actually, I have to get going after this. I told you about doing photos for the Portland Post, right? That’s why I came down here.”
Disappointment lengthens her narrow features, and my chest pinches with that persistent pitying feeling. And guilt that I know I shouldn’t allow in.
“But I haven’t seen you . . . in ages. Not since last June.”
When I don’t answer, she hugs both her elbows tight.
Restricting our time to an annual visit is hurtful, I know. Especially considering I’ve been only two hours away for much of the last year. But I also know what I missed out on all that time: watching Rosemary bury her life in scraps of fabric from clothing we outgrew and expired packages of macaroni and cheese, because it was a favorite of hers as a teenager and she never wants to go without it again.
In my head, I understand her compulsion to amass possessions after everything was taken from her during a morning run when she was twenty; I get it. But watching her wither away to a woman who scurries past her own front door to avoid the neighbors or any other sign of life that might take away her mac and cheese again—that has been painful to watch. Once Rosemary had made some friends online and joined some virtual book clubs, I told myself I didn’t have to maintain regular visits anymore.
“I know it’s been a while. I’m sorry about that, but we call each other on the phone, right? We video chat? I do need your help,” I add. “Can we talk on the couch?”
Her face brightens a little. “Okay.”
We settle back into our respective spaces among the memory-laden containers. Rain taps against the front windows. It makes the inside of the house feel even stuffier, but I know better than to ask to turn on the air conditioner.
“Remember how I said I’m freelancing at crime scenes? Well, it’s complicated. It seems like someone involved in the crimes knows about me. About us.”
Rosemary’s eyes widen. “Is that so?”
“More than that. I think they’re leaving me notes to . . . to threaten me. To goad me.”
“I don’t like this.”
“So I did something else. Something drastic.”
I don’t know if Rosemary is aware of the anniversary or that Chet will be released on parole soon—mostly, she focuses on getting through the day and on to the next. “I went to see Chet in prison. To see if he could help me profile this killer, whose mode of operation seems very similar to his.”
Rosemary’s mouth opens, then closes. She spies her glass of lemonade and drinks half of it in one gulp. She stares across the room a moment, then sets the cup back down. “You know he’s getting out on parole Monday. Did you get the victim notification?”
I shake my head. “I think my mail is delayed while it’s being forwarded from my last address.”
“Well, I don’t think you should be working on anything crime related, Marissa. It’s too close to home. Promise me you’ll ask to be reassigned somewhere else.”
“I can’t do that. I’m brand-new to the Post, and I need this steady income.”
She shakes her head again. Her eyes drift to my shoulder, glazing over; I wonder what she’s seeing.
“Mom?”
“All your life,” she whispers, “you handled it differently from Lily or me, and I think better than Jenessa and Nora, too. Nora, she’s . . . she’s had some trouble. Bad stuff. When she emailed me at Christmas, she was switching to new antipsychotics. I’ve struggled with depression; we all know that. But when Nora escaped, she went to her family and was shunned. They said she allowed herself to be kidnapped and then assaulted. She hadn’t even told them about Jenessa being born. At least I didn’t have any family to break my heart once we were free.”
I take in Rosemary’s wide eyes and the crease that sits between them. She was the only child of two immigrants from southern China, who died from carbon monoxide poisoning while Rosemary was spending the night at a friend’s.
“You’ve never told me that about Nora before.”
She shrugs. “It wasn’t mine to share. However, if you think working on this murder plot is a good idea, I’ll tell you everything I know. It hasn’t been easy for you, and I don’t want you to get caught up in this. To live out more pain.”
“What do you mean? What ‘it’? Our captivity? I’m past that. I’ve done the work; we all have; we should all be past it.” Panic whose source I can’t identify surges in my throat.
“Babies, you know? They come into this world, and no matter where life takes them, they always exhibit some personality at birth. They take that spark of themselves throughout life, and it grows and evolves, assuming different shapes. But it’s always there.”
“Mom. What are you talking about? You sound like a fortune cookie.”
She sits forward and clasps my hands in hers. Long fingernails I hadn’t noticed before cut into my skin while she looks me in the eye. “I want you to get as far away from this case as possible, Marissa. You handled our family’s origins . . . differently from the rest of us. You’ve been angry, rightfully so. And there is documentation of that anger. Most of it we know is sealed in school records, but I have pink slips from principals here in these boxes, too. God only knows what you got into off the record. But if anyone is trying to implicate you in a case that’s similar to ours, to make it look like you’re repeating something that Chet did—”
Her hands move to cup my face. Her skin is cold against mine, and the shock of her body temperature in this heat steals my words. “Run. You run away from those crime scenes and that case as fast as you can. Do you hear me? Take up a job as a checkout clerk—do whatever you have to, run away. Promise me you’ll stay far from this case. Promise.”
I slowly pull her hands back. I had hoped Rosemary would impart some obscure fact about my upbringing to direct my next steps. Instead, she’s given voice to the same fear that’s been tingling at the back of my mind—that the killer may be setting me up. “I hear you. I’ll . . . I’ll find something else to do at the Post.”
Rosemary exhales, then sinks back into the couch cushions. “Good.”
I sip my lemonade, grateful for something to focus on. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch her. She stares straight ahead, as though exhausted.
When I hug her goodbye, she feels limp in my arms. “You’ll come visit again soon?” she asks.
I want to know when was the last time she left the house—whether all her food is delivered by drone or delivery service as I suspect it is—but I can glean the answer by the darty way she peeks through the curtains before unlocking the front door.
The drive is much longer on the way home.
When I was fourteen, I went digging in one of the boxes Rosemary had only begun to accumulate. Photos of a young woman with thick black sid
e-swept bangs were protected in a shoebox; she was sunning herself on the beach while surrounded by friends and admirers.
That woman was kidnapped by Chet. Her carefree spirit died in his basement compound.
The courts said that Bethel was the only one who died there—only one woman, the male defense attorney said, as if that demonstrated care on Chet’s behalf and deserved leniency. But I knew better. Rosemary left whatever shred of herself that remained below when she climbed the eight steps up to the main floor of Chet’s house—with not simply the daughter she birthed but three girls in tow.
Twenty-One
THEN
Mama Rosemary rushes around pulling out books and medicines and forks and spoons I haven’t seen in years and years. She opens all drawers looking through everything again and again. She turns and sees me watching her instead of Arctic Adventures with Twin.
Lily is still lying in bed but she’s not sleeping anymore. She’s humming a song now but I don’t know what it is. “Row Row Row Your Boat”? No more like “Can You Feel the Love Tonight” from The Lion King maybe. That movie is the best. I’m like Simba the leader of the kids. Twin thinks she’s Simba but she’s wrong. She barely does her chores and instead lies around all depressive. Just like Mama Rosemary sometimes.
“Have you girls seen my necklace?” Mama Rosemary looks at us.
I nudge Twin in the elbow and she looks at me all sharp. “Hey!”
“Girls,” Mama says again and her voice is mad. “My necklace?”
Twin picks at the hole in her sock. “Maybe Mama Nora took it with her.”
My eyes are still on the TV. Petey the Penguin slides down a snowy mountain on his belly and I lay down on my belly, too. His friends Sasha the Sea Lion and Heathrow the Husky are missing and he knows it’s his responsibility to find them—even if it’s dangerous. It’s our duty to the people we love. To help. Especially when we’re scared.
“Or Mama Bethel?” Twin asks.
“No, honey, Mama Bethel didn’t take it. Mama Nora, though. There’s a thought.” Mama goes into the bed room and a drawer opens, then closes. Another one opens and closes.
“Dude. You guys!” Her voice is long and whiny like Lily’s when she’s cranky. “Who taped my necklace to the side of the nightstand? Jesus.” Mama makes a frustrated noise—like Auuuughhhhh.
A loud noise from the bed room. Crash! I look to see if Mama needs me if she’s upset and crying again but it’s quiet. Then the mattress squeaks and Mama’s gotten on the bed to check on Lily. Soft voices talk.
I don’t answer Mama because I saw Twin tape the necklace last week after playing in the Before Clothes. She said she wanted to keep it for her own because she has to share everything here. Mama keeps all her Before Clothes in the bottom drawer the biggest one because she says it makes her sad to see them. All our clothes are in the top two drawers and a plastic tub by the kitchen sink and we can go in there and see them all the time if we want. But Mama Rosemary says her Before Clothes we’re not allowed to touch. Twin went in and played while Mama was resting the way she does with her eyes open for hours staring at the wall. Sometimes when I stare at the wall I try to make shapes in the dirt with my mind and see a hidden dog or a cat.
Twin put on the necklace and the stretchy pants that made her legs look even littler. And the stretchy top over her head. And the headphones Mama says play music if you have a battery in the little square plastic player. Twin put Mama’s running shoes on her feet and those were too big, too. Then she danced around like a dummy pretending to be Whitney Houston the woman in the tape inside the plastic player. We both sang without singing out loud. Ohhhhh I wanna dance with somebody! I wanna feel the heat with somebod-AY!
Twin asked for a little dog once—another word though—a puppy—and Mama said there was no room. Which I thought was wrong because Mama Nora left already a year ago then.
There’s barely room for the four of us! Mama said in her high voice. Twin mumbled But it could protect us and Mama just said It’s time for geography lessons.
“Girls.” Mama Rosemary stands in the doorway without a door. “I need you to choose one toy to take with you. Can you do that, please?”
When we were five years old Twin asked Mama Rosemary How come we call that doorway between this room and the bed room “a doorway”? There’s no door. The only real door is the front door above the stairs that the man always uses and we’re not allowed to use. So why is that a door-way? She looked at her and said Be quiet please.
Both me and Twin get up and go to our toy crate. Mama calls it a toy box but it’s not a box. There’s no lid. We each pick out a toy and hand it to Mama. I choose Petey the Penguin my Christmas gift two years ago.
“Thank you, girls. Now hurry up and get dressed for bed,” she says.
“But whyyyy?” Twin asks.
“Because I said so, please.”
I run and put on the long-sleeve nightgown Mama made from one of Mama Nora’s old T-shirts. The nightstand is moved against the wall because Mama kicked it. Twin comes in the bed room and tugs the nightgown off my shoulder. “I was gonna wear that!” she whisper-yells. It sounds like a whisper but her face is yelling.
“Well, I got here first,” I whisper back. I push her hand off me and finish buttoning up to my neck. The nightgown hangs all the way down to my knees and I feel like I’m in a big bag of cozy.
Something heavy knocks my head and I see white spots. I look around for a brick but only see the words book that Mama Rosemary makes us memorize sometimes. I touch where it hurts and my skin goes bump bump like the clock’s little hand. Twin stands away from me her face all angry.
“Mama Rosemary,” I yell. “Twin threw the . . . the dictionary at me again!”
“Hey.” Mama Rosemary pokes her head in. “I need you two to behave. Now and after we leave here if we want to stay together. Do you want that?”
“Yes. But I didn’t do anything!” I say.
“Then hush now.” Mama Rosemary disappears.
Twin only makes a face like she might cry. Her eyes get all big then they snatch around the room looking for something. She goes to the top drawer of the nightstand but Mama hasn’t made us all nightgowns yet. Twin pulls out a regular shirt and loose shorts that we have to tie with a rope that Mama Rosemary taught us how to braid. She fiddles with the rope then climbs into bed. I climb in beside her careful not to touch the brown stain that peeks through a hole in the sheet.
Footsteps come from overhead near what I know is the front door. The real doorway. Then the door song begins and I realize that’s what Lily was humming earlier—the up and down sounds of buttons being pushed from outside and upstairs. Mushed together they sound like a song. Beep beep beep beep beep-beep. I hum it back to myself. Hum hum hum hum hum-hum. Twin kicks me beneath the covers and my head goes bump bump again.
Voices come from the front room. Mama Rosemary says something in a low tone.
“We’ll get to that. I want to see them,” the man says.
The man breathes through his mouth when he steps into the fake doorway. He smells like the whiskey Mama says makes people not themselves. I don’t understand that. And he smells like the time Mama Rosemary forgot about our toast and the bread burned in the pan and smoke filled the front room. Both rooms smelled awful for days.
My heart beats in my chest like a scared bunny and I shut my eyes tight.
“Sleeping already?” he says.
He never comes into our room. When we do inspections it’s always in the other room.
When he comes to visit we stay asleep or pretending to be in bed while he and Mama Rosemary pull down the Murphy in the other room. The Murphy squeaks and makes groaning sounds like when I jump on the mattress. Then the man leaves. Why is the man not leaving? Why is he standing over us? He’s closest to me and my stomach squeezes. My heart is so loud I think it might wake Lily who’s lying between me and Twin.
Footsteps move. The man walks to the other side of the bed. To stand over T
win. I open my eyes just a little.
His face is covered in gray hairs—like old people I’ve seen on the television. His head hair is cut like Barbie’s boyfriend Ken and his eyes are brown like mine. He reaches out and pulls the blanket from Twin’s shoulder. I stop breathing. His fingers hover over Twin’s arm uncovered in her T-shirt and move down her skin like he’s painting. She shivers and we don’t have to be real twins for me to know what she’s feeling. I look at his face again then my stomach twists and I feel sick.
“Ready?” Mama Rosemary’s voice comes from nearby and it sounds mean. Not her voice she uses with us. I shut my eyes again.
No one talks. No one moves. Then the footsteps walk back slowly toward the doorway. The Murphy creaks down. And it begins to squeak.
Twenty-Two
My phone vibrates, clatters, dances from the surface of the moving box I’m still using as an end table and falls to the floor with a bang. I move from my kitchen, coffee in hand, and scoop up my phone just in time to swipe right. “Pauline, hi.”
“Claire? We need you down in Northwest as soon as possible.”
Instinctively, I look through the blinds of my window to my car. The windshield is free of any threatening notes. “Sure, I can do that. What happened?”
“A third body. I’ll text you the address, but the place is called Trois Croissants.”
“Trois . . . ?”
“Yeah, trois means three in French. It’s some family-owned bakery, and it’s being swarmed by police and our competitor outlets as we speak. Get there as soon as you can.”
She hangs up, and I dive to my bed, where I stacked the notes I’ve received, and Shia’s business card, in a pile. The most recent one, which had been wedged under my doormat, is on top.
Lucky number three depends on you.
Horror mounts in my chest as I realize my error. While I went traipsing down to Arch to gain some form of insight from Rosemary—and what did I leave with exactly?—I missed the deadline. It hasn’t even been two days since this note appeared, but the killer took action. Someone else is dead because of me.