Lies We Bury

by Elle Marr

  Time to come clean.

  My breath catches in my throat, and I can’t speak, can’t move or tear my eyes from the box letters. “Where did you . . . what is . . . ?”

  “I found it this morning on my car windshield. What do you think it means? I’ve been consumed with it since then, and lunch is the first time I’ve had a break. Freaking weekend rush has been crazy.”

  The memory of my fogged-over bathroom mirror fills my mind. “Someone knows where you live.”

  “I know. It’s pretty scary, right? What do you think it means?” she asks again in a small voice. When I meet her tight gaze, I see the sister I’ve hurdled through life’s obstacles with, whose triumphs and defeats I’ve witnessed; I see the little girl I was imprisoned with and the woman who struggled to leave the consequences of that beginning behind.

  “No idea. I received the same message—in my apartment.”

  Jenessa’s eyes widen. “Like, in . . . ? Where? How?”

  I shrug, then lean against a row of nonfiction. A man yells from several aisles over that he found the book he needs. “Don’t know. I have to believe I forgot to lock the dead bolt that morning and only locked the doorknob, which would be easier to pick. A locksmith is coming today.”

  Jenessa crosses her arms, then stares down at the tile floor. “This is crazy. This is unlike anything I’ve experienced before. I mean, during my second rehab, I had a guy follow me everywhere for a month once I was discharged. He was determined to catch me falling off the wagon, I guess. What are we going to do?”

  The fear in her eyes pains me, makes me rack my brain for something to make her feel better. It’s the least I can do; the killer seems to be interested in me specifically. Why would he loop in Jenessa, if not to make it clear he can reach past me to people I love?

  I point to the paper and hold up my phone. “Can I?” She nods, and I take a photo. Now that I think about it, the box letters—so different from the typed notes I’ve received before—seem roughly similar to Oz’s messy script. Maybe they’re shorter, a little neater. Still, I’ll zoom in and compare the two later.

  “We aren’t going to do anything. You are going to stick to your normal routine and job. Have you connected with Lily yet?” We exchange a glance. “She’s home. I hope this guy hasn’t reached out to her, too.”

  Tailored black eyebrows knit together. “No, I haven’t. She called me, though. I just haven’t had time to call her back. It’s been months since she returned my texts or calls, and now that she’s home, she’s desperate to see me and tell me something.”

  I check my watch. Twelve thirty. “Listen, I’ve got to get going. I’m actually going to see her now. Do you want to come?”

  “I have work. I only ran over here to show you the note.”

  “That’s right. Sorry. But you should call her. She’s got big news.”

  The corner of Jenessa’s mouth twitches. “She already told you?”

  I nod. “Just call her, okay? I’ll walk out with you.”

  “Actually, I’ll stay here. Give her a ring before I get distracted again.”

  “Sure.”

  She pulls me in for a hug. Her nails dig into the skin at my elbows, and I flinch. “Thanks for always being such a good sister,” she whispers.

  I give her a pat on the back. “Hey, you got it.” Taking a last look at Jenessa among the rows of books, I feel a pang of nerves strike my chest—for leaving her here alone, for not telling her about Lily’s pregnancy, and for inadvertently involving her by not solving the third clue fast enough to satisfy its author.

  Lily’s red-splotched face and watery eyes make her appear younger than her twenty-three years. I clear my throat, then pat my sister’s hand. Her massive belly looks out of place beneath her smooth, round face, virtually unlined and unchanged since before she moved abroad.

  When she called me after my first cup of coffee, I scrambled to silence my phone before the other bookstore patrons kicked me out of the building. I answered with a breathless, “Hey.” Lily had smiled through the phone and explained that she wanted to chat in person. This afternoon. Knowing the locksmith had agreed to arrive after three, I said that worked, but was there anything I should know before then? The tone of her quivering voice suggested there was.

  Bianca had left her—high and dry and eight months pregnant, Lily, my stoic emotional tank of a sister, had calmly explained. Bianca didn’t want to be back in Portland or the United States; she had purchased a ticket to return to Geneva and flown out on this morning’s first flight. She had said she wasn’t ready to be a mother.

  Although I had offered to come over right then and there, Lily insisted she needed the morning to get some affairs in order—pack up more of Bianca’s things and also set up the baby’s crib. When the elevator doors opened onto the fourth floor of Lily’s apartment building, she was waiting for me with muffins she’d purchased, this time from around the corner.

  After an hour of analyzing where she went wrong with her partner of four years, Lily stacks her hands across her swollen belly. “Well, I guess that’s life, isn’t it? Or my life, at least. People fail you, and the only choice you have is to move on.”

  A better, cheerier person might have scoffed at the cynical statement, but I know better. “Move on or wait for them to come back around when you least expect it.”

  Her hands clasp tighter. Light-blue eyes become pinpricks. “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Right.” Her smile fades. “No, really. What is it?”

  I scan my sister’s high forehead and plump cheeks, wishing I had more of a filter when I’m stressed. “Do you know what is happening tomorrow?”

  She returns a blank stare. Her shoulders creep up to her ears. “Should I?”

  She had no idea about Chet—about any of it. In all Lily’s worrying about her relationship and its effect on the baby, the issues of Chet’s parole tomorrow or this year being the twentieth anniversary of our escape were the last two things on her mind; she didn’t sign up for the victim notification. When I finish explaining my new freelance gig for the Portland Post and the notes that I’ve received relating to the crime scenes, Lily, to her credit, doesn’t become hysterical. Instead, she rubs her stomach in a circular motion.

  “Can I see them?” she asks. “The notes.”

  “I . . . I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?” The rubbing stops.

  Shame presses in on my frame. “It’s not a good idea.”

  She laughs, the same wind-chime peal as always. “You don’t trust me?”

  I hesitate—a moment too long—and her smile drops. “Honestly,” I say, “I think the less you know, the better.”

  “Well, did you show Jenessa?”

  “Yes—”

  “Of course you did.” She sighs.

  I sit up straight and turn around to face her. “What does that mean?”

  She shakes her head. “Maybe it’s because you spent more time together in the basement than I did. I always felt like you had some bond that I could never quite access. Some shared secret.”

  “Lily, that’s not—”

  “No, it’s fine. Whoever you choose to tell about the notes is your business. I understand, really.” She adopts a thin-lipped smile. Her hand resumes its circular pattern on her belly.

  We sit silently. Music swells from a nearby apartment, opera, as I try to find the words to reassure my little sister. “It’s really not about trusting Jenessa so much as I needed a sounding board—one of you—before I knew you came home.”

  She dips her head, not fully believing me. “All right. Well, you don’t have to show me the notes. Can I help you figure this out another way? What theories do you have so far?”

  Behind her and through the window, rain begins to patter against the glass. There are less than twenty-four hours before Chet is unleashed. Somewhere within me, I know the killer’s plan will shift into its next phase then, as well—whether orchestrated by C
het or someone else I have yet to meet.

  I search for my wallet behind a couch pillow. “I’d love to stay and get your thoughts on this stuff because I really haven’t made progress alone. But the locksmith should be at my place any minute. Sorry to spring even more bad news on you, with everything you’re handling at the moment.”

  She stands with difficulty, then wraps her arms around me. “I’m glad you told me about Chet. And I’m so thankful you came over. I really needed this.”

  She pulls back to release me from the hug, but I tighten my grasp at her shoulder blades. “Me too, Lil.” I speak into her hair, meaning the words more than I think she knows.

  “Marissa.”

  I turn, expecting to see Lily. But the woman standing on the sidewalk outside Lily’s apartment—the one who just spoke my name as though we know each other—brushes long, dark hair back from her face with her index finger. Sheets of red at the tips fade closer to her roots, an ombré design.

  “Marissa, you are a vision, aren’t you?”

  My stomach knots as I check my surroundings. The patio of the Italian restaurant next door is filled with patrons—witnesses. In case something happens. In case this woman tries something.

  “Do I know you?” I ask.

  She lifts a hand to my face, although she’s still six feet away. Her hair shimmers like something out of a shampoo commercial, grazing her hips. “You have his eyes.”

  Her voice sounds like a five-year-old’s, contrasting the loose skin of her neck. She slides her hands into the pockets of low-rise jeans that fit tight across wide hips. “I’m sorry to bother you. I wasn’t following you, exactly; I was trying—”

  I sidestep her and continue toward my car. The heels she wears click-clack behind me.

  “Marissa, please.”

  “Leave me alone!” I whirl on her. “I don’t care what you want or why my story resonated with you. Got it?”

  Instead of walking away, this woman gasps, appreciatively. “You even sound like him.”

  I look around for a weapon, a way out, but my car is too far. Running back to Lily’s isn’t an option. I reach into my bag for my pepper spray and find the slender tube.

  “Marissa.” She touches my elbow, and I jerk away. “Marissa, we’re family. I married Chet in prison after years of letters.” She laughs fondly. “So many letters. I’m Karin.”

  Her words rake across my body. Karin Degrassi. Chet’s other visitor this month. “What?”

  “I just want to get to know you.” She withdraws a photo from the small purse dangling by her side. In it, she and Chet stand face-to-face, holding hands before a man in a black suit. Whereas Chet wore an orange jumper when I met him, in this picture he wears a black T-shirt and jeans with ECHO STATE PRISON stamped on them. This woman, this Karin, wears a formfitting dress. They beam at each other.

  The words and sentiments she wields, that she cares for the fiend who imprisoned my family and has the balls to call himself my father, are just as dangerous as a serrated knife. Large gray eyes, unnaturally round, like they might fall out of her skull, watch my reaction.

  She sighs. “It was the happiest day of my life. He shared that you went to visit him last week.”

  Pitiful. Embarrassment for her and disgust war within me. I resume walking, cursing myself for using free street parking today instead of paying for a garage nearby.

  “Chet is getting out tomorrow, you know,” she calls in a singsongy voice. “He wants to see you.”

  My teeth grind, molar to molar.

  “Maybe we could get dinner? The three of us,” she adds.

  I pause midstep. Take two long strides back toward her that put me within a foot of her deep-V blouse. Cloying perfume engulfs me. “You tell Chet to stay the hell away from me. And my family.”

  I snatch the photo from her and rip it in two—tear it lengthwise, then turn it over and do it again. She screams, horrified, as I throw the shredded bits in the air; they flutter into the street and slap against the windshield of a passing truck that will carry them somewhere far, far away from me.

  Without waiting for a response, I jog in the opposite direction. Restaurant patrons all peer at us. Two people stood up from their tables for a better view.

  Not much farther now. A half block.

  “He cares for you, you know!” she shouts after me, her voice strained.

  I pass a young man with round headphones, bouncing to a beat, oblivious.

  “He cares for all of you! And when he gets out, he’s coming to be the real father he should have always been. He’s a good man!”

  A breeze picks up, and I lean into the cool air. I place one foot in front of the other to avoid running back and tearing that woman’s throat out. Fury continues to pump through me, and I breathe deeply, try to remind myself that the fight is over and I’ve already taken flight. I feel much the same way I did after chucking the Tru Lives reporter’s phone, but this time the remorse is nonexistent. Any person stupid enough to marry Chet, to love a predator she’s spent time with only during visiting hours, then to shove it in my face on a downtown street, deserves my outburst and more.

  Even if I did just add another public incident to the Missy Mo: Pissed and All Grown Up file. Impulsive. Stupid.

  For her to presume she’ll act as the mediator between Chet and his offspring indicates serious lunacy. Why do some women become infatuated with incarcerated men, let alone those convicted of violent crimes? I’ve heard it happens, but I never thought Chet could be the object of anyone’s affections after what he did to my mothers.

  I walk for another minute, then loop back to the front of Lily’s building. When I peek around the corner, the brick entry is clear. Did Karin know I was visiting Lily?

  What else does she—does Chet—know about us?

  A thought surges forward that makes me search the restaurant crowd for that long ombré hair: Could she have left me the Four Alarm note on Chet’s behalf? Is Chet reinventing himself, a modern murderer from behind bars, thanks to this woman acting as his proxy?

  It’s possible her motivation in approaching me was true family togetherness. Or she could simply be a distraction. Deliberately misleading me.

  Twenty-Four

  “I think that should do it.” The locksmith slides a narrow pair of pliers back into his belt loop. He wipes his wrist across his forehead, then pats the name tag sewn into his vest. ERROL.

  “Someone did a real number on your doorknob,” he continues, jiggling the handle on the open door. Behind him, I see Derry Landry pass in the hall for the fourth time. I wonder how long I can avoid giving him the new key. “These housing mass manufacturers always choose the cheapest model,” Errol is saying. “But with this new one, you’ll be in a better spot.”

  I wave goodbye to Errol, then shut the door behind me. Safely tucked behind three inches of wood and metal, I survey my apartment in the light of day. The green-and-yellow armchair I bought from a yard sale, the only patterned item I own, catches me as I slip into its worn fabric basin.

  My ringtone erupts from on top of the cardboard box—its default trill. I stretch forward to grab it and feel just how tired I am after sleeping in an unfamiliar place last night. And the residual dehydration.

  Shia Tua scrolls across the screen. New embarrassment heats my neck, recalling how I barreled into the coffee shop, accusing him of conspiring with the reporter. And we already have a session scheduled for tomorrow. I let the call go to voice mail.

  My bed seems to beckon from the floor in the corner of my studio. The idea of taking a sleeping pill and quitting while I’m marginally ahead—thanks, Errol—is tempting.

  But my phone rings again, vibrating across the cardboard cube. “Wow, Shia.” I reach for it and flip it over, only to see a different contact calling—Oz.

  “Hi,” I answer, my tone wary. If he wants to strike up another night of romance, I’ll need to decline without severing the bridge between us.

  “Claire, hey. You hungry?” Noi
se emanates from the background. He must be in another bar.

  “I’m hanging at home tonight. Thanks for calling.”

  “Claire,” he begins, and I can hear his smirk through the phone. “We both know what last night was. You were finally ready to unwind, and I was happy to host. Let’s not make this weird.”

  I roll my eyes, wishing he had video called me to see it. “Sure. Agreed.”

  “I have some more news on the tunnel murderer. I think you should hear it.”

  The clock on the kitchen stove reads close to six, as Errol got held up at his last appointment and showed up much later than planned. I’ve been alone for only a few minutes. The last thing I want to do is venture out again for more shenanigans with Oz, but with less than a day before my two worlds come to a head, I don’t see another way. If the Time to come clean message means someone else’s life may end soon if I don’t continue searching, I need to keep going.

  Laughter in the background swells as I slowly inhale. “Where are you?”

  The Sunday crowd is less drunk than last night. I find Oz at the same spot at the bar, Beijing Suzy’s, where we cheersed shot glasses beneath the mounted televisions. Casting a glance toward where the trapdoor sits innocently beneath the dartboard, I weave between tables to him. We exchange awkward pleasantries, and I get the feeling that Oz doesn’t usually see a woman again after she spends the night.

  I slide into a bar chair. “All right. What is this news?”

  Oz flags down the bartender. “Another mule?”

  The man nods, cleaning out a glass with a towel, then looks at me.

  “Same.”

  Oz throws me a smile. “Let’s take a step back. You’ve been at several crime scenes in the last week.”

  “Yeah,” I reply. “What about it?”

  “You’re a smart person. You’ve managed to sneak your way into the right places to get photos for Pauline and get her to pay out more money than she gave our last photographer.” The bartender drops off our mugs, and Oz raises his. “What do you think about the killer? I mean, what can we reasonably infer here?”