by Elle Marr
I uncross my arms from beneath my chest. The impulse to step away from this conversation, to protect what I know and protect myself from any other surprise attacks, wrestles with my need for answers.
“I would say this person has some kind of obsession with enclosed or underground spaces. He has control issues—”
“Issues?” Oz raises one eyebrow. “Elaborate.”
I think about what Chet said. “I mean, the killer likes to be in control, likes to control all elements pertaining to his captures and, ultimately, kills. He’s probably got a history of—”
“He?” A smile blooms across Oz’s pointed chin. “How do we know it’s a male?”
I raise my brows. Suspect Woman and the notepad from his bedroom were all I thought about on the drive here. Knowing Oz doesn’t think Gia is the murderer, I’m still not sure whether that was a note from his police source or his own personal suspicion. The handwriting in his notepad and the scrawl on the binder paper Jenessa received don’t appear to match. But any interaction I have with Oz should be with this in mind: he could be involved in this as more than an eager reporter.
“We don’t know it’s a male. But without more facts, it’s safest to assume it is.”
“But why, sweet Claire, indeed, would this killer be female? Humor me.” Oz seems downright giddy, clasping his hands together on the bar counter. His fingernails catch the overhead lights and gleam as though recently manicured.
“Don’t you have some source inside the police? What do they think?”
“They’re up to their necks in the same questions.”
“Who’s your source? Is it Peugeot?”
He wags a finger back and forth like a metronome. “I’ll never tell.”
“Fine. Female serial killers have commonalities with male serial killers. Both of them usually witness violence at a formative age. But their motivations are what set them apart. What drives female killers is always psychological.”
Not only have I grown up spending way too much time exploring the internet’s sordid archives; the research I did at the bagel shop after leaving Lily and Bianca added to my arsenal of factoids.
“Always?”
My knee-jerk response—of course, always—stops behind my teeth. Right now, the killer may be leaving details from my childhood to implicate me, and it’s possible I’m playing into their hands. Rosemary’s strained voice booms in my head. Run. You run away from those crime scenes and that case as fast as you can.
“I mean, I don’t know. The police have no idea why the victims seem to have been killed in such different ways, right? Maybe this guy’s got a split personality.”
Oz considers my words. He wipes drops of sweat from the side of his glass.
A woman laughs behind me, and I lean closer to Oz. The scent of his shirt tickles my nose; it’s sweet yet muted, like my laundry detergent. Once Rosemary, Lily, and I acclimated to the outside, wandering down that fragrant aisle of supermarkets was my favorite thing to do. I would sit on the hard white linoleum floor and breathe in the artificial smells—more appealing than the stifled, stale air that would linger for hours after we cooked dinner in the basement—until Rosemary made me get up, saying it was time to finish our shopping. We weren’t ever allowed to wander off by ourselves.
Oz sips his cocktail, maintaining steady eye contact. “So who do you think is the killer?”
I take a drink, too, and buy myself some time to answer. The mule’s ginger flavor coats my tongue and reminds me of a soup Rosemary once made, her grandmother’s recipe. I loved it—begged her to make it again, but she never did. Too painful, she said.
“Whoever chose those tunnels as their headquarters didn’t want to answer to anyone. I’d say they prize autonomy and control above all else. Value continuity in a world that feels ever-evolving.”
A smile spreads across Oz’s clean-shaven mouth. “Sound like anyone you know?”
I stiffen. Has he seen right through my Claire-the-photographer facade? A low thrum of fear purrs in my chest, a feral cat sharpening its claws.
“Sounds like any millennial to my ears.”
He laughs, then lifts a pointed finger. “Yes, exactly. Which is why I asked you here and wanted your opinion. I think our murderer is a woman.”
“Really? That’s so . . . modern of you, Oz.” After watching the way he sizes up each bra that passes, I didn’t expect him to be so egalitarian.
He offers a shrug. “I know, right? Women can slip in and out of places more easily than men. Plus, the police just confirmed that each victim—while outwardly unrelated—has a massive social media following. The stripper had something like a million Snapchat followers, the insurance salesman has eighty thousand followers on Instagram for his artwork, and the third victim—did you hear about him?”
“No, I didn’t know they’d identified him. Only that he’d been burned and died from burns or smoke inhalation.”
Oz shakes his head, enjoying my ignorance. “His body was burned after. He died from a gunshot to the chest. He’s an advocate for refugees in the Pacific Northwest and has about a hundred thousand followers on Facebook. Each victim had a solid online platform.”
“So you’re saying that because these people were active on social media, only a woman would be driven to kill them, out of—what? Jealousy? Obsession? Because a man wouldn’t care about social media?”
Oz leans back in the chair. “You don’t agree?”
I exhale through my nose and look around me. The bar is nearly full of men, but there are two women—the laughing pair—at a table behind us.
“I don’t. The facts continue to point to a male, probably white, midthirties, potentially with a history of violence, if we’re allowing the textbook markers to guide us. Why do you care anyway? Isn’t it all the same to you as a reporter?”
“Didn’t hear that, either, did you?” Oz downs his glass. “Police just announced a reward tonight for information that might lead to the killer—or the ringleader if there’s more than one. Fifteen grand.”
I nod. Seems I’m not the only one in need of extra funds. “That’s a good reason.”
Throwing enough money on the counter to cover my drink, I stand and finish the rest of my mule. “Thanks for the brainstorming session.”
“Where are you going?” His dark eyebrows narrow. “Aren’t we hanging out again tonight? I already reserved a round of darts for us.” He pats a zippered container on the table.
“Probably a bad idea. I’m a terrible shot.”
He removes two darts from the pouch and hands me one. “Humor me.”
Grudgingly, I cross the room to the far wall in between a scroll painting of a peacock and a black-and-white photo of chopsticks. After a look beside me to ensure no foot traffic will get caught in my crosshairs, I raise the dart. Close one eye to help my aim. Then lance the dart at the round red target.
It hits the wall beneath the board, then takes a chunk of wall down to the ground with it.
I turn back to Oz. “See?”
Instead of mocking me as I expect, he hands me another dart with a grin. “That was a warm-up.”
I laugh outright. Oz Trainor may have gotten attached to someone sleeping in his bed. “No, I shouldn’t. I’m going home. See you later.”
He nods, disappointment pursing full lips. “Yeah, see you at the next murder.”
As I walk back through Chinatown, Oz’s logic continues to reverberate in my head. If I incorporate the notes that I’ve been receiving, the directions I’ve been given, and the clues that have been planted relating to my life, I’ve got the following: this murderer, man or woman, is interested in true crimes and, more specifically, my family’s trauma. The killer is an able-bodied resident of Portland, and they’re intrigued by underground spaces. More urgently, this person knows who I am, where I live, and what I’m trying to hide. They know I have photos of each crime scene. And they wanted me to take pictures of two of the bodies before anyone else was aware.
I pause beneath an awning to peer behind me. Check over my shoulder. Tension knots my neck as the full significance of Oz’s good intentions takes shape.
If Oz’s source, or anyone else with the police, shares his theory that the killer could be a woman, I’ll have gone about this night all wrong. The way I left our conversation, all signs point to the most likely suspect: me.
Twenty-Five
THEN
When the Murphy stops making noise I take my hands away from my ears. Twin looks at me with the cover pulled up to her nose but neither of us makes a peep. Her eyes are round and wide like that scared bunny on the Australian Outback cartoon. My heart thumps like the bunny’s feet. We both know Mama Rosemary has something different planned than the usual visit.
Mama appears in the doorway. Her nightgown is unbuttoned at the top. “Sweetheart, I need you to come with me.”
Twin shakes her head and goes lower under the covers.
Mama walks to her side of the bed. Mama’s eyes are big and rounder than I’ve ever seen. She gets down real close to Twin’s ear but I don’t breathe so I can hear. “Trust me, baby. I know it’s hard. But we have to.”
Twin puts her legs out of bed and stands. They walk into the other room and don’t look at me. I am froze.
The man makes a happy noise. Ahhhh. “Hello there.”
“Go ahead, baby.” Mama Rosemary’s voice is weird. Low and slow. There’s a creaking noise from the Murphy and then the man makes another noise a whoooosh then, “You want more Mars Bars, sweetheart? Come sit on Uncle Chet’s lap,” then quiet.
Mama Rosemary shouts, “Now, baby!” Sounds come from the other room.
Quick fast noise and a heavy sound—bang!—the man grunting he yells out “Ah!” and the big heavy sound again like our cooking pan—bang bang! I get nervous wondering what’s happening. A box opens—the storage bin?—and the plastic top goes falling to the ground. Clatter bang. More grunting and something heavy being kicked. Loud noise.
“Look away, baby!”
Then it’s quiet again.
Twin whimpers and Mama Rosemary goes “shhhhh.”
There’s a noise in the doorway, and I lower the covers. It’s Mama. “It’s okay, honey. We have to go.”
I run into the room and see Twin with tears on her face but she looks normal. Empty like when we’re watching television. Like Mama Rosemary when she’s staring at the wall.
Mama Rosemary presses my hand into hers. The first room is a mess. The mattress for the Murphy is almost off. One of the man’s shoes is on and the other is in the sink and our toy crate is fallen over and puzzle pieces are everywhere. Mama’s nightgown is torn on the arm and her skin is all scratched. “Mama Rosemary, you okay?”
She makes a noise in her throat. “Yes, baby.” She’s shaking.
I look at the man and see his chest go up and down. There’s red marks on his neck. “He’s asleep?” I whisper.
His arms and legs are tied together like a piggy and he’s flat on his tummy. Not a good way to sleep. I step closer to see and Mama stops me with a hand on my back. The rope we’ve been making during arts and crafts is wrapped around his hands and feet all zigzag.
“Not asleep,” she says. “How’s your sister?”
“I think she’s up,” I say. “What happened?”
Twin only picks at her shirt with her fingers.
Mama doesn’t answer me. She goes into the second room and her voice is low again. Sweet Lily says something in her baby voice that means she’s tired and not feeling good. The bed squeaks and Mama and Sweet Lily come into the first room. Mama wears a backpack I saw her putting our favorite items in today. Sweet Lily takes Mama’s hand but Mama snatches it back like she got burned. Red is on her hand. Blood.
“Mama, look!” Twin shouts and I spin and look at the man. But he’s still sleeping. I follow Twin’s pointing finger to the middle of the rope where it’s come loose around his feet. Instead of keeping his legs up like a piggy, his feet start to float to the floor.
“He’s coming loose.” Twin’s mouth shakes and she hugs herself to Mama’s leg like she’s Sweet Lily’s age again.
Mama Rosemary smooths her hair. “I know, honey. We’re not going to have as much time as we thought.”
“What do you mean?” I ask. Now my mouth is shaky, too. “Not enough time? What do you mean he’s coming loose?”
“Hush. We need to get going now.”
But Twin pulls away and runs back into the bed room doorway. Her eyes get all big and round and she breathes heavy. “We can’t. He’ll come get us and be meaner than before. He’ll come get us!” Tears wet her face.
I look from Mama Rosemary’s bloody hand to Twin’s shaking shoulders then to Sweet Lily trying not to put any weight on her bad foot. Splotches on Sweet Lily’s cheeks make her paler than usual and her long hair is messed up and knotted.
The rope dangles from the man’s feet too loose. Just like when Petey the Penguin captured Bruno the Polar Bear.
“I think I know a way,” I say in my naptime voice.
Mama’s eyes are soft. Then they get round, too. Then they get skinny and angry. “What way is that exactly?”
I nod. “I can make more rope. Make sure he stays tied up longer and make sure he doesn’t go after you.”
“No.”
“Mama—”
“We’re leaving together.” She looks around all fast. Her eyes get red but there’s no tears. No wetness like my own. Her chin shakes but her face seems hard like when one of us refuses the vitamins she gets for us. She always says, Baby, do you know what I had to do to get those? And we always shake our heads because we don’t. She won’t tell us.
“Mama, Sweet Lily can’t run like all of us! She needs help. And that will mean none of us can run away.”
Sweet Lily begins to cry, too, and only Twin isn’t wiping her cheeks. Instead she’s staring at me like she doesn’t recognize me.
Mama swoops down and lifts Sweet Lily onto her side—her hip—and looks past me. With her good hand she hoists Sweet Lily up higher but Sweet Lily slips slowly slowly slipping down. Mama hoists her up again onto her hip but Sweet Lily keeps sliding with only Mama’s one good hand to hold her in place. She wraps her bad hand around Sweet Lily’s leg and blood smears on her little-baby thigh. Mama’s face scrunches then she releases Sweet Lily so she can cradle her hand.
I nod again and again. “You said we’ll have to run the first few blocks and that the man could be close behind so we had to run fast. We practiced during exercise hour. We practiced our bracelet- and rope-making during arts and crafts to make sure he could be tied up for a while. We practiced geography so we’d know the streets outside and how to get to the big road for help. If someone doesn’t stay . . . make sure the others get away safe . . . you said I make rope as good as you, yes?”
Mama Rosemary goes quiet. “We do still have leftover sheet.”
“I make rope as good as you, right? You said it.”
“I did say that.” Her voice is soft. “So you’d make extra rope from the leftover strips and tie it to the rope already around his feet? You don’t even know how to make a knot.”
“I do too. I knotted all the croissants today.”
“Shhh, keep your voice down. Knotting a bracelet is different from a rope around two human feet.”
“It’s not it’s not.” I shake my head. “It’s the only way! You leave first. I’ll make more rope, make a figure eight over feet and hands, knot it, then run out and meet you.”
She shakes her head. “We can all do it together.”
The man moans. His hands move behind his back grabbing at air and we all freeze.
He stops moving.
“No, Mama,” I whisper. “Now is the chance to go, like Mama Nora.” I love her and my sisters enough and I’m the best at rope-making just like Petey the Penguin. Maybe better than Mama Rosemary.
I push on her arm to get her to move but she shakes her head again. Then Twin blinks
like she just woke up and grabs Mama Rosemary’s arm.
“We have to, we have to go. Now!” Twin whisper-yells.
Mama goes for my hand but I step away and Twin pulls Mama harder toward the stairs. Lily holds on to Mama’s nightgown and goes, too.
Mama Rosemary looks at the man then the door then the man. He smells like the whiskey Mama doesn’t like. She moves faster than I’m ready for and she holds my hand so tight it hurts but I tear away. “No, Mama!”
Twin keeps pulling her up up up the stairs and Sweet Lily follows sucking her thumb. Mama Rosemary’s eyes go big and wide at me. “You come right outside after you’re done tying, understand? We’ll be back to get you with the police. Once you’re out, do not come back in here, do you hear me? Wait out front.”
“I’m gonna miss you,” I whisper. My throat feels like burning and I choke on my cries.
Mama’s face is wet. “We’re going to see you real soon, baby. Then we’ll all go and live together and never worry about bumping into each other again. Okay?”
I pull the sheet from under the storage bin. Sit down against the wall as far away from the man as I can and start tearing more strips.
Mama springs back down and grabs my chin while Twin helps Sweet Lily get up the stairs. She looks me strong in the face and says, “We’ll be right outside, darling.” Then she touches the end of my nose like always and gives me a kiss.
“You stay on the wall until you’re ready to add on to the rope.” Excitement makes her scary and I nod fast.
She goes to the door where my sisters are waiting then reads a paper and pushes the buttons on the keypad in just the right order that we never could do before. Beep beep beep beep beep-beep. The handle makes a sound then Mama grabs down and pulls. Air comes into the basement all light and clean.
The three of them turn and look at me. Mama speaks again and it sounds like a whisper: “I’ll be right back.” Her voice shivers like she’s cold. She lifts a hand to me then walks through the door. The door stays open but their noises disappear.
Sadness makes me heavy all over. Like a big black blanket that Mama always says isn’t real. Worse than I ever felt before. I lean against the wall next to Sweet Lily’s drawing of a cow and pretend it’s a dream and I’ll wake up in between my sisters again.