Lies We Bury

by Elle Marr

  Shia taps away on his laptop in the window of his favorite coffee shop, Stump City, the one he first suggested we meet at, where he shared he always comes to write. I park across the street, then march up the walkway. Flinging open the door earns me a hard look from the cashier. People texting on their phones—or maybe watching a certain viral video—look up at the brash jangle of the entryway’s bells. Shia remains engrossed in his screen.

  Get a grip. Relax. Skewer him with words, not fists. Don’t prove the video right.

  “Shia,” I say, standing over him.

  He tears his head from his laptop with a start. His face melts into a smile, and he tucks hair out of his face. “Hey. We should have carpooled from Trois Croissants.”

  I slide into the empty seat at his table and close his laptop. “Why did you do it?”

  His eyes narrow. “Do what?”

  “Record me with the reporter. Upload the video to YouTube.” I dart a glance around us to make sure no one is listening. One man catches my eye. I lean closer to Shia. “I don’t know why you used a high school classmate’s name to sign your letter, but you would have known all about Serena Delle and thought she was a good cover. You told that reporter where to find me, and who I am, so she could antagonize me. Then you recorded me smashing her phone.”

  “What?” He scoffs; then the humor fades from his expression. “You think I would sell your location to someone? Why? What’s in that scenario for me—a more guarded and closed-off Claire?”

  Two men enter the coffee shop, initiating the jangle of the door handle’s bells. More people to take note of our terse conversation. People who may be following me, hoping for another round of internet fodder. Coffee brews from behind the counter, and the smell is heady, filling the air, giving me the illusion of a caffeine contact high, adding to my adrenaline and nerves.

  “Because it’ll help your book. Because if you drum up more interest from the public, your book will sell better when it’s released and your publisher will be even happier with you. It’s the same reason you use a police scanner to show up at crime scenes you think are relevant to my story.”

  Shia stares at me without speaking. Sudden doubt punts my anger and replaces it with the feeling that I’m wrong and I am making a jackass of myself.

  “You think that of me?” he asks in a low voice.

  “I don’t know you,” I reply. We’ve only had four meetings so far, all of them around or under an hour and within the last week.

  On a basic level, I know he tips the server 20 percent because he says he remembers how challenging the service industry can be; he stops recording our conversations whenever I want to speak off the record; he’s shared insight on my family, details I never knew; he’s shared that he grew up in the foster system and had an awful start, too. All these facts, while endearing maybe, don’t explain what truly drives him—why he’s obsessed with my story the way that he is and why he’s better than any of the other bottom dwellers out there seeking to exploit my life for their amusement.

  Shia scowls as he leans over his laptop. “I did not collaborate with anyone, least of all some scummy reporter who surprised you somewhere. I haven’t seen a video, and I’m not sure it would help my book if you’re painted as an unhinged person, destroying private property.”

  Outside, through the window, someone stares at us across the street beneath a leafy tree. The man walks closer, and I prepare to stand and run when he pauses at the entry. He points a finger at the wall and examines the menu posted on the brick. I inhale a shaky breath.

  “You have motive. You have a reason to get all that you can out of our interaction and my presence in this city.”

  Shia shakes his head side to side, and the outrage dissipates from my frame, leaving me feeling weak and foolish.

  “You’re paranoid. You know that? All I’ve ever desired to do is help you. Yes, that leads to a profit for me—both financially and in my career—but they’re not mutually exclusive. I can help you and myself at the same time. It’s what I’ve tried to make clear since first meeting you. Seems I’ve failed there.”

  “Look, someone is following me. I can’t explain it, but it’s true, and I have to look for who would have an obvious reason to do that, don’t I?”

  He slides his laptop into his gray backpack, then stands. “I’ll see you Monday if you’re still up for it. I hope you get some rest, Claire. It must be exhausting assuming everyone is out to get you.”

  Clouds roll in, replacing the tentative sunshine of the morning. On the drive back home, Shia’s words replay in my head over and over: You’re paranoid. The assertion rankles me, grates at my pride and the certainty that I’ve succeeded in dodging the prescribed fallout of my origins—what the professionals all suggest I should spiral toward. The certainty that I’ve avoided going down the same path as Jenessa—drug addiction, dead-end relationships, and a few nights in jail after an alcohol binge during which she broke a storefront window—or, in a lesser form, the apathetic attitude of Lily, who’s never seen value in pursuing a career, savings, or a stable address. Although maybe that will change now that she’s about to have a child.

  If I’m being fair, Shia’s not wrong. I never keep male friends; I don’t trust men. Rosemary never dated or married after we joined the rest of the world, and her visceral anxiety whenever a man approached our brood in a supermarket, the bank, or our elementary school wriggled its way into my chest, shooting stabs of fear to my stomach. I thought I outgrew that instinct.

  If Shia is right—and I do have some paranoia, toward all men, not just Chet—I may have been wearing blinders to certain facts, and it’s possible I missed something in my analysis of the killer’s profile. I’m no closer to identifying this person than when I first started. Chet’s parole and the end of the life I’ve built for myself crawl closer every second—while another innocent person has died.

  My apartment smells different when I walk in the door. Not musty. Not stifled because the humidity seeped through the window when I neglected to lower the blinds this morning.

  Fresh. Clean, like the scent that lingers ten minutes after a shower. Some instinct makes me pause on the threshold and flick on the light switch before entering. Everything looks normal. The cardboard box I use as an end table is exactly where I left it. The half-finished cup of coffee on the counter sits in the same dark ring stain I keep meaning to wipe away.

  I exhale a breath. Throwing my messenger bag on the couch, I head to the fridge and retrieve the bottle of vodka I added to the freezer last night. The clock above the two-burner stove says I have another hour before good breeding deems liquor acceptable. Not falling into that category, I withdraw a tumbler from the cabinet. The label covering the side suggests IT’S 5 O’CLOCK SOMEWHERE.

  I pour myself a half glass, neat. I never understood ice in a drink. Since I was a teenager, I’ve been taking mine straight—albeit the kind with which you could probably remove nail polish. Rocks only dilute a drink’s true purpose: numbness. I lift the drink to my mouth, then taste that fresh, thick scent again.

  I stop moving. Stop breathing. I wasn’t imagining the smell.

  Setting my drink on the counter, I grab the knife from my cutting board and walk to the bathroom. The floorboards creak beneath me. The bathroom door is slightly ajar, the bathroom itself dark. Nudging it open with a toe, I hit the light switch with my free hand. As I step inside the cramped space, the air is dense, like I forgot to turn on the dehumidifier after I showered this morning and the door was stuck closed all day, trapping the moisture inside.

  But I showered last night.

  My heart pounds against my ribs, and I yank back the shower curtain to reveal the empty square basin with only enough room for someone to stand. My gaze swings to the right, to the benign wooden cabinet. Slowly, I raise my eyes to the mirror above the sink, and my hand flies to my throat. The message written on the steamed glass has almost faded to nothing, but it cuts into me like the knife I drop to the floor:
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  TIME TO COME CLEAN, MISSY

  I grab the knife and run back to the front entry, tear open the side closet door. I thrust my hands among my coats, looking for someone hiding and waiting for strong arms to jerk out and pull me in.

  Panting heavily, I survey the apartment. The studio I tolerated but which felt like mine now seems to vibrate like a living animal, having been violated by an intruder. I return to the bathroom and take a photo of the message with my phone. Evidence.

  My contacts list is relatively small at this point. It takes only two swipes to find the number I want. Loud music and laughter reach through the phone before Oz’s voice of surprise registers against the din. “Claire? You coming to Suzy’s?”

  Downing my vodka, then grabbing my keys, I allow a full shudder to ripple across my back. Someone gained access to my home and might return while I’m sleeping, to plant items from my past here as they continue to do at the crime scenes. Or simply to gut me from clavicle to navel. I fumble in my backpack until I find the pack of cigarettes.

  “Obviously,” I say, angry at everything. Then I remember I’ve been avoiding men and assuming the worst of them without looking at all the facts, and check my tone.

  I wipe my mouth with a shaking hand. Try for a smile that he can hear through the speaker. “I could use a night out.”

  We hang up, and I cross to the kitchen stove. My shoulders tense, passing the bathroom.

  The front burner ignites, and the cigarette pressed between my thumb and forefinger follows suit. Sharp, acrid tendrils rise to the smoke alarm. The sour smell curls my toes as I quickly lower the lit end to a new circle of flesh.

  Twenty-Three

  Anger pulses beneath my skin most days. I used to take note of it and attempt to talk myself down, to diminish the fury, as if my internal thermostat had broken and all I needed was an adjustment down a few degrees. But I was a lost cause, as I was told by my tenth-grade school counselor after a boy I knew fell down the stairs and broke his leg.

  No matter that the boy had cornered me in the girls’ restroom and tried to stick his hand down my pants. I’d punched him in the nose then, which resulted in his family bringing assault charges against me. A month later, after I was allowed back at school, the boy broke his leg, and I happened to be nearby. No one, not even Rosemary, I think, ever believed that he slipped on his own. Physical violence breeds physical violence, the entire town seemed to whisper.

  Though I may appear outwardly calm now, the thrum of rage continues to boil on low. A childhood therapist I saw—before Rosemary’s money ran out—suggested that anger was a secondary emotion to fear, that I was, underneath it all, afraid of something. I didn’t know what to make of that at the age of ten. But I knew at sixteen, when that boy cornered me, that I was afraid of being touched in an unwanted way.

  It’s why I feel an effortless peace only when I’m behind the camera, snapping photos of the world from a safe distance that no one can cross without my notice.

  Drums beat on the inside of my skull, pounding away at my feeble, remorseful, regretful brain.

  No, not drums. My pulse. My own bewildered and disoriented heartbeat. I reach out from underneath flannel sheets and press both palms to my temples. Jesus. Flannel sheets?

  Why did I have that fifth bourbon shot? Why didn’t I go home last night after meeting Oz for one drink and working through my next steps in the safety of a very crowded, public bar?

  I open my eyes. Blackout curtains reveal little in this bedroom, but the outline of a stout, cheaply built dresser and an unframed poster of the movie Police Academy 4 on the wall tell me enough. Sitting up in Oz’s bed drains the blood from my head and brings on a new wave of dizziness and images from last night: that final shot of whiskey, kissing Oz on the mouth, leaning on him as we walked to his car, clumsy hands as he tried to take off my shirt on his couch, then me growling at him to leave me alone because I was tired. Although I committed a little too hard with the excessive drinking, my plan worked: I didn’t sleep at home last night.

  I roll onto my side, and a square of paper greets me at eye level.

  Morning! Went into the office.

  Coffee is brewing on automatic setting.

  Thx for a fun night.

  —Oz

  So he’s a morning person. And extremely trusting to leave me alone in his apartment.

  Bumbling on the ground for my phone, I note the fresh scab newly formed on my arm. Did Oz see this last night? It throbs a yes in response.

  I search the web for local locksmiths and find pages of options. Derry Landry said he’d handle anything needing fixing in my apartment; then we’d negotiate the division of financial responsibility. In this situation, I don’t care how much it costs, and if it requires the rest of Shia’s $1,000, I’ll pay it. I can’t go back to my studio knowing someone has a key or can pick the lock. I call the only company that’s open at 7:00 a.m. on a Sunday and make arrangements to meet the locksmith at my apartment this afternoon.

  An electric coffeepot finishes sputtering somewhere in another room. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, bringing myself to a seated position. The room sways.

  Yesterday, someone was in my home encouraging me to confess, as if I’m the murderer. Navigating to the photos app on my phone, I absorb the image of my fogged-up mirror. Time to come clean, Missy. In preserving the evidence of harassment and stalking, am I doing the killer’s work for him? Did I just record another implication of my guilt, one that otherwise would have faded with better ventilation and disappeared from my future court transcript?

  I press the back of my hand to my forehead, willing my hangover to go away like that mirror message likely has. Prior to seeing it, part of me was still debating whether the anonymous author could simply be an obsessed fan, killing as a tribute to Chet and wanting me to embrace my identity. And now?

  Using the nightstand for balance, I almost knock over a red cup filled with water, two aspirin beside it. Oz is more considerate than I gave his grabby hands credit for.

  Opposite the bed, paperwork is stacked on a dresser. What else is Oz meticulous about? Does he bring his work home with him?

  Creeping from the bed in case he’s still lurking somewhere or has a roommate, I tiptoe to the pile. A manila folder contains bills from Portland General Electric. Loose papers beneath seem to be old concert tickets printed at home. A magazine on the Portland real estate market rests atop a small spiral notebook, and I pause. The notebook is like the one I saw Oz writing in outside Four Alarm and The Stakehouse. I flip it open.

  Slanted box letters take up two rows on each page, with sporadic dates marking every few pages. It’s hard to know where one entry begins and another ends, but it seems this notepad was first put to use back in February. A March protest staged at the Portland Art Museum consumes twenty pages, so I flip to the end and search for the latest date. April 4. One week ago.

  At the top of the final page are the words F.A. Brew. I hold my breath as I scan Oz’s notes from the day we met. His writing is hard to decipher in the dim light, but the words Suspect Woman are underlined.

  Someone laughs nearby, in this apartment or the apartment complex, snapping me out of my daze. Using my phone, I take photos of the last several pages, front and back, then take a picture of the closed notepad. Two can be meticulous here.

  In a box on the floor beside the dresser sit a dozen identical black notepads, each individually wrapped in plastic.

  I grab my wallet, pocket my phone, and slip on my shoes. The walls of Oz’s short hallway are empty, while the front room contains a leather couch, a glass table, and a nice television displayed on an entertainment center I recognize from IKEA. A nanny cam below the television offers a complete one-eighty view of the apartment. Not a leaf of greenery in the place. Very bachelor chic.

  Glorious coffee aroma fills the open-kitchen floor plan, but I shouldn’t dawdle when I’ve got stolen intel on my phone to analyze. I leave the apartment and walk down the carpeted h
all toward where hazy memories recall climbing the stairwell.

  Working from Powell’s, Portland’s largest bookstore, allows me to get lost in the white noise of people coming and going. I still have a massive headache, despite my breakfast of pain blockers.

  Most of Oz’s notes confirm what I already knew: the Four Alarm victim was thought to be killed sometime Saturday afternoon or evening after being held in the underground tunnel for an undetermined amount of time; Chief Bradley was looking into all brewery employees; Topher Cho, bartender/actor, discovered the body and was being questioned. No mention of any specific woman, aside from Chief Bradley. Suspect Woman doesn’t make any more sense than it did in Oz’s apartment. However, next to notes about Topher are tiny box letters: YT.

  While these notes aren’t a map to the killer, I don’t regret spending the night. I’d presumed, accurately as it turned out, that once drunk, Oz would want to discuss the murders. Topher is still his chief suspect. But, regarding the identity of his source among the police, he turned out to be a locked safe. I kept pressing, but he stood firm.

  A stabbing fear suddenly grips me. Did I say something to him as we were drinking last night? Did I use my real name or let it slip that I’m one of the freak-show Granger kids?

  “Hey.” Jenessa stands beside the line of people waiting to order coffee from the café.

  “Hey.” I rise, pushing my chair back. “What are you doing here?”

  She gestures away from the crowded space, down an aisle of books. I follow her, confused. I had texted Jenessa my location when she asked for it, but I didn’t realize she was coming to meet me.

  “Are you okay? What’s wrong? Did something happen at the doughnut shop? Aren’t you working right now?”

  She shakes her head, then turns to me, her face serious beneath the ceiling-height shelves. “Someone left me a note.” She withdraws a wad of paper from her pocket and hands it to me. I smooth it out and read: