by Elle Marr
My skin prickles, imagining him walking through the doorway of a restaurant or brewery like this one. Enjoying fresh air and freedom for the first time in years, while assessing how women have changed over time, no doubt considering what crimes he could get away with in this modern age. What statutes may have been legislated since his incarceration and what loopholes will help secure the careful plans he’s been making all the while.
“Karin Degrassi, his wife, has been giving interviews.” Shia watches me, then writes a note in his book, visible from where I sit—PTSD undiluted. Does trauma ever really heal? Time heals all wounds or some?
I take a breath. Using two fingers, I gouge the fat pad of my palm until tears prick my eyes.
My eyes flick toward one of the four flat-screen televisions in the bar area. “Any other news reported this morning?”
Shia shakes his head. “Not that I know of. Why?”
Before I fell asleep last night, I hit “Refresh” on the Portland Post’s landing page at least thirty times. Waiting. Watching. Knowing that Oz wouldn’t sit on what he learned forever.
After I ran out—ran home and locked my new-and-improved dead bolt—he must have gone down to verify for himself whether there was indeed a new body in the tunnels.
Observing my face, Shia stiffens. “What happened?”
He grabs his phone and opens his search browser, then types something I can’t make out from across the table. His gaze snaps up to mine. “Another body was found in the tunnels of Four Alarm Brewery. While police previously searched the known passageways, the victim appears to have been moved to this location within the last two days. Police have now sealed off all entrances to the so-called Shanghai Tunnels.”
I pull up the same information on my phone, updated this morning at six. All entrances sealed . . . Thinking back on my Saturday night with Oz, the trapdoor entrance to the tunnels was unguarded and accessible to anyone inside Beijing Suzy’s.
The Post article adds that a brewery employee previously questioned about the murders has been detained again in connection with the latest one. My stomach sinks. Topher let me in after I lied to him about being a photographer with the police. And there’s no doubt in my mind he’ll offer up every detail to the detectives who interview him—most importantly, that I asked for a self-guided tour. If Oz didn’t volunteer right away that I’ve got a family history of violence and kidnapping of women, he will after learning Topher was misled into allowing me access below.
The words that I spoke to Oz last night return with a sting: Female serial killers have commonalities with male serial killers. Both of them usually witness violence at a formative age.
“This is crazy,” Shia says, scrolling on his phone. “NWTV suggests they’ve got an additional source saying the killer isn’t the homeless girl but a different woman. Who do you think that is?”
“Who do I think who is? The killer or the source?” I search his face for an accusation.
He peers at me, both eyebrows lifted. “The killer. Women aren’t typically serial killers. It’s hard to imagine someone who’d have a motive to organize multiple murders like this.”
My phone buzzes. Oz’s name trails across the square window.
“Hello?” I answer, my voice shaking. My free hand grips the edge of the table, and Shia notices.
“You should know that I’m recording this call.” His voice is tremulous, as if he, too, is scared. Scared of what?
“I went to the police early this morning and told them everything that’s happened between us. Your photography work for the Post, your presence at each crime scene, your returning to the Four Alarm tunnels, and the photo you took of that dead body. I told them your real name . . . Marissa . . . and the fact that you are Chet Granger’s child and failed to tell anyone. I made everything about your involvement as a freelance photographer clear, so that when the police come for you, you won’t take the Post down with you.”
My mouth falls slack. Oz is scared—of me.
Shia watches my reactions, his eyes unmoving even when a server spills a tray of fries on the floor.
“Oz—I’m not. You’re making a mistake here.”
“The hell I am,” Oz scoffs, and someone makes a hushing sound in the background; he’s not alone. “I went back through my notes at each site. At first, I thought maybe the murderer was a rival dancer at The Stakehouse; then I cross-referenced details from the Post’s coverage of your captivity. I was up all night, hoping to be proven wrong before I went to the police, but everything in the Granger incident report was as I remembered. I even confirmed your first meal post-captivity was croissants, and the third body was found at a French bakery. God knows what the police will find on your laptop, on top of the photos of the latest dead body on your camera.”
I go to speak, but my words fail me. Everything I feared in receiving the anonymous notes, the way they led me to each successive crime scene, required that I use clues from my childhood to identify the next location—obligated me to talk with Shia and recall more—is coming to a head. The killer would have known I’d save each series of photos, maintaining a library of evidence to be used against me, true to Oz’s mocking tone. Even as the Post incentivized me to take more shots, always more images, by paying me my first livable wage in years. The killer must have known about that, too.
“You said it yourself,” Oz breathes into the phone. “Serial killers witness violence at an early age. That’s all you, Missy.”
My mouth goes dry and, instinctively, I search for the nearest exit.
“To think I let you spend the night,” he adds. “Hope you enjoy life in prison.” The line goes dead.
He hung up on me. How long does it take to triangulate someone’s geo-location using cell phone towers? A minute? Longer? Is it longer cell phone to cell phone? Do the police need a warrant to track me?
Practical thoughts torpedo in my brain as I reach across the table and remove a medium-size fry from Shia’s plate.
He stares at me, both eyebrows steepled together. “What just happened?”
I chew the greasy treat, then wipe my hands on a paper napkin. “I—I don’t know exactly. I think . . . the police are coming for me.”
“Are you serious?”
I nod.
“Then you need to leave. Whoever you were speaking with—that Oz guy from the Post?—you need to leave.”
High-pitched, hysterical laughter tumbles from my throat, halfway past my teeth. I run a hand down my face, then continue to laugh into my palm.
“Claire, I’m serious. You need to leave.” Nervous energy rolls off Shia in waves.
“This isn’t happening,” I say, wiping a tear from my eye. “I’m not—this isn’t real.” Another round of giggles bursts from me, and I clutch my side against the sudden pinch. “Holy shit, is this happening?”
“Claire. Outside. Follow me outside now. Come on.” Shia throws a twenty on the table, then directs me through the restaurant by the elbow. When the sun hits us on the sidewalk, the smile wipes from my face. I feel depleted. Empty. Confused. He leads me to his car, and a dull warning within me says I shouldn’t go anywhere with a man I don’t actually know—despite opening wide my secrets to him in interviews. I should stop. Go back to the safety of the restaurant and finish the tots.
“Stop.” I struggle against his grip on my elbow, but he opens his passenger door and throws me inside. He locks the door from the outside, and even though I can unlock it, I don’t. I sit still as he circles the hood and opens the driver’s-side door.
Finally, I’ll get exactly what I deserve.
He reaches across me, and I flinch when he touches my bare knee. Instead of grabbing me by the shoulders, he retrieves a box hidden beneath a black blanket. A radio scanner. He flicks a button, and the machine powers to life, garbled conversations becoming clearer as Shia manipulates the frequency knobs. When he finds the station he wants, he stares straight ahead, listening. I listen, too, but only understand numbers. Street na
mes. And “Ezra’s Brewery and Restaurant.”
“What does that mean?” I turn to Shia, all mirth and amusement sucked from my body. I clutch my messenger bag across my legs.
“There’s a call out for your arrest.” He licks his lips, and a shudder ripples through me before he speaks. “It means you need to run.”
Twenty-Eight
“What do I do? Where do I go?” Frenzy elevates my voice. My cheeks flush as sweat breaks across my neck, and I clutch my bag tighter. My laptop and camera, the chief sources of evidence against me, are inside, but how much can be inferred from the photos that the Post bought?
The Portland Post. The closest bridge to normal I’ve had in over a year—gone. Pauline must know by now.
If the police are on their way to the restaurant, a separate unit must be en route to my apartment.
Shia grips the steering wheel, looking at something in the road. A man in a blazer and jeans, jaywalking. The man’s face drops to his cell phone screen in his hand. My phone pings; Shia’s makes the bell chime sound. We each tap on the news alert that popped up, and a string of text appears:
AP News Alert: Convicted of sexual assault and false imprisonment, Chet Granger has been released on parole from Echo State Prison.
The blood drains from my face. I lift my eyes to Shia’s wary expression. The stupor that bloomed in my chest carries down my arms and nests in my fingertips. “He’s out,” I whisper.
Shia resumes staring forward. He turns the key in the ignition and starts the car. “I’ll drive you wherever you want to go. But after that, I can’t promise anything.”
I nod.
“Lay back.” He reaches across me—this time I don’t flinch—and hits a button on the side of the seat, reclining me click by click.
Leafy green canopies frame my view as Shia drives through downtown, observing every speed limit, stop sign, and traffic signal.
“Where am I going?” he asks after we loop a roundabout for the second time.
I need to regroup. Gather my thoughts and consider next steps. “Drop me off at that coffee shop, Stump City. Your favorite.”
He turns right, and we climb a hill. The foliage above becomes thicker, fanning out, so the sunshine only dapples through. Traffic noise diminishes around us, and instead voices seem to multiply as the road levels out. Pedestrians carry on conversations, audible in these narrow streets, maybe taking early lunches or discussing ways to skip town and never be seen again.
Shia pulls to a stop beneath a sign that reads COBBLE YOU UP: SHOE REPAIR.
“We’re here,” he says, turning to me.
I remain seated, not wanting to move, to be thrust out into a hostile world that’s growing more claustrophobic with every minute. “Sorry about . . . Do you have enough to finish your book?”
Shia answers with a sad smile. “The book will be just fine. Worry about you. Once you figure out next steps, stay off the map. Okay?”
The corners of his eyes appear lined in the bright sunshine in a way that wasn’t evident in the dim brewery. My first impression of him as another self-serving vulture was a knee-jerk reaction—a fair one, given my history with the media, but not fair to him.
“Do you think I did it? That I could be behind all this?” Although I meant the question to come off casual, nonchalant—not desperate for the affirmation I’ve been seeking all my life—I hold my breath.
Dark-brown eyes study me. “No, Claire. I don’t.”
I pull the door handle to exit his car. “Thanks for everything, Shia. I don’t know what I would have—”
Stiff white paper pokes from the door’s pocket. A rectangular piece of card stock, nearly hidden between a folded map and a receipt. With shaking fingers, I bend to pluck it from the compartment.
My breath catches as I retrieve another of my business cards and bring it to eye level.
After not seeing one for years, believing I had retrieved each of the piles I had left at strategic locations two hours from here, I clutch the second one to cross my path in less than a day. “Shia?”
All color leaches from his face. “I told you. I collected items and information on your family for a long time. This is one of those items I found. I’ve been hoping to write a book on you. Your story has always given me hope that we don’t have to be defined by our upbringings.”
Suddenly, my proximity to this man, who has known every part of my childhood, even details previously kept from me, radiates danger. “You set me up,” I whisper. “You placed a copy of this card on the fourth victim last night. You’re the killer.”
“What? Claire, no, I—”
I swing the door open and plant a leg onto the street. I shift my weight to run when Shia grabs me and slams me back into the seat. His grip digs into my arm, his eyes crazed. “Claire, you have to listen to me; I am not a murderer. I only collected the cards for my book, I swear.”
Reaching blindly into my bag, I fumble past my wallet and find my pepper spray. Flipping open the cap, I release a cloud into the cab, then bolt from the car. Shia screams behind me, but I don’t look back. I run, my bag tucked under my arm, and run harder and faster than I ever have. Down the street, around the corner, until I am six blocks away.
Panting in front of a house’s wraparound porch, I slide down between a recycling bin and a garbage can. Try to catch my breath. To digest that I’ve had the murderer in front of me all along.
Fat tears pour down my cheeks, my first sobs since moving here—another mistake.
I fumble in my bag for cigarettes before remembering I don’t have a lighter, don’t even own one. My latest form of self-sabotage. New tears trail down my chin as I cover my face with my hands, dig my nails in above my eyebrows. My fingers tremble, vibrate, as the urge swells in me to drag them down to my jaw, to feel the pain of something I can control.
The lies we tell ourselves during stable hours—like I’m a good person or I don’t deserve this—become the lies we bury deep down, too far to access, in times of pain.
My hands relax, stopping just short of drawing blood. Panic gives way to self-loathing.
I should have known. Should have trusted my instincts instead of being tempted by the prospect of money. Stability. A friend.
I wince, reflecting on how desperate I must have been to miss the signs. Shia is the tunnel murderer, an obsessed fan of Chet’s just like I initially suspected—the author of the note, just like Jenessa thought. According to the prison’s records, he went to visit Chet within the last month, but there’s no telling how frequently he’s gone over the years.
After waiting five minutes for Shia’s silver sedan to pass by searching for me, I stand and return to the boulevard. Shops line the busy street, offering parking at their rears. I find a bench located at the back of a sushi restaurant and open my laptop, hoping for unrestricted Wi-Fi. If there’s a warrant out for my arrest, the police might already be tracking my credit cards. And I need to reserve what little cash I have until I figure out next steps.
The network signal lights up as my computer connects. Jackpot. I open my browser.
How the hell did I end up here? Shia’s unassuming writer persona was always at odds with the dark-web activity, plus the broad shoulders and the strength of his frame that I thought were window dressing. My arm throbs momentarily, recalling the grip he wielded when I tried to exit his car. He could have overpowered his victims using weapons or strength. And the lack of recurring fingerprints at each crime scene doesn’t mean he’s the ringleader of a murderous gang; it shows only that he knows how to wear gloves.
I reach into my bag and withdraw the scone I squirreled away at the bookstore yesterday. Despite being squished, the baked good is energizing, grounding when I feel unmoored. My grateful stomach rumbles, and I realize just how hungry I am. There’s an apple crammed into an inner pocket, beside the orange I took from the Portland Post when I first met with Pauline. I bite into the taut skin with a juicy crunch.
My fingers tremble as I cli
ck my bookmark for the Portland Post website. In a side bar, the Post’s social media accounts offer live commentary on Chet’s release. I scan the various posts and find several photos taken of Chet leaving prison, looking elated before climbing into a pink Corvette with Karin. A scarf is wrapped around her dark hair, and she wears wide pink sunglasses like the latest iteration of Convertible Barbie. My stomach twists as I scroll down to the final update: Chet is headed toward Portland.
Back on the main landing page, a headline reports the most recent casualty of the tunnel murderer. As of an hour ago, police are pursuing several leads while working to identify the body. The photo I took of Petey the Penguin in front of Four Alarm Brewery sits at the top of the page as the banner image—where it all began.
What is your earliest memory?
Unbidden, Shia’s spectral voice fills my ears, pestering me to examine my beginnings. Everything he asked about must have been rooted in framing me. Yet that doesn’t mean I was wrong in examining those memories. Right?
Why does something still feel off about the last week? The timeline doesn’t add up—how could he have known I’d even see Petey outside Four Alarm? And the killer’s notes felt personal, beyond a professional desire on Shia’s part to promote the sale of his books.
On the other side of the sushi restaurant, a car honks; then metal crashes against metal. Young female voices erupt in fierce words, too low for me to grasp but clear enough to register their disagreement over who was at fault. Then their dynamic shifts, lightens. One woman admits she was following too closely.
I was following you . . .
My lungs deflate, sucked dry of air, recalling a different voice that spoke those words to me outside a diner I worked at. Certainty snaps like a rubber band down to each of my toes as one of my oldest and original stalkers sparks to mind: Serena Delle.
In a new browser tab, I search for Serena Delle and Eugene, the college town I moved from and the last city I knew she was living in. A few results from Facebook, dated four years ago, pop up, but when I click the link and access her profile page, it appears they are her most recent posts. Clicking on her “About” section, I’m stopped by one update: