Lies We Bury(19)

“Right. So gunshot to the head. But Lew said possible fatal force. Was there bludgeoning before the gunshot?”

“Looks like it. Pretty sloppy. I’ll keep your guys posted on any new conclusions we come to.”

While Peugeot gives her his full attention, I snap one, two, three photos of the cones, the metal hooks, before I turn and slide back through the wall. The dry goods appear as I left them. The door to the restaurant opens with a flush of warm air, and I casually lean against a sack of flour. A man descends the stairs.

Peugeot reenters the cellar through the hole in the wall. “Get what you needed?”

I lift my camera in response. “Yup.”

“Good. Pauline Adebayo better stop bothering me now.”

“Hey, Sergeant.” The man who just arrived jerks his thumb toward the restaurant hallway. “Chief is looking for you.”

My guide rubs his chin. “Looks like we’re going to cut your visit short, Portland Post.”

We head back upstairs. A serving tray of cups filled with steaming coffee is out on the bar counter beside a plate of pretzels. I wrap three of them, freshly baked and still warm, in a dinner napkin and stuff it in my coat pocket. I’m a nervous eater; I can never help the urge to squirrel away food in case bad times hit.

Outside the brewery, back in the afternoon rain, Peugeot turns to me. “Good to meet you, Lou. I guess we’ll be seeing more of you around here.”

My stomach clenches. “Why would that be?”

Peugeot narrows blue-green irises. “Because you’re the new crime photographer for the Post. Right?”

“Oh. Yeah, I’ll be seeing you.”

He glances at me from the side of his eye, then approaches a woman in an orange poncho.

I walk down the street to where I parked, goose bumps percolating along my skin. As if someone’s gaze traces my form, settling on the shoulders I always thought were too narrow, inherited from Chet.

“Excuse me,” a male voice calls out.

I turn. Behind me, a man in a leather jacket and glasses smiles. My muscles instantly tense. We’re the only ones on this side road, and some instinct tells me to keep walking.

“Hey, excuse me,” the man says as I resume a quick pace. “Missy, I just want to talk.”

I stop dead. A knot of anger forms in my belly. Climbs my chest and swells into rage.

It’s the person who left me the note. Hearing that nickname for the first time in Portland reinforces my desire to run, but not before I kick this man in the groin and make him sorry he stopped and spoke my secret aloud. Even as my self-preservation instincts wonder whether he could be the killer.

“What do you want?” I ask.

He steps backward, taking in my expression. Slowly, he retrieves a business card from his jacket pocket and offers it to me. “Ms. Mo. Or do you prefer Ms. Lou? I’m sorry to sneak up on you like this, but I didn’t think you’d appreciate me approaching you at the brewery. I’m a journalist.”

Shit. “You say that like you’re proud.”

Brown eyes so dark they could be black widen behind thin frames. “Ah, more importantly, I thought you might need someone to talk to.”

I scan his tentative mien, the square temples that loosely resemble a LEGO, and can’t help thinking it’s not fair. I’ve worked hard to establish a normal life. I just moved to start fresh again. Who is this guy that he’s found me so quickly? My fingernails curl into my palms, piercing the thick pads of my skin, and I focus on the sweet bite of pain.

“Not interested.” I turn on my heel. I’d love it if he followed me just past the stop sign and down the hill to the secluded copse of trees I parked beside, where I can test my bottle of pepper spray.

“Missy, you’ve got a lot to consider with this year being the twentieth anniversary of your escape, and—”

His footsteps nip at my heels, and I reach into my shoulder bag, my fingers fumbling for the aluminum tube. “Leave me alone!”

“I just thought, with Chet’s release next week, you might be interested in sharing your feelings.”

I freeze. Shift my feet in a circle until I face the man again. “What?”

“You didn’t know? This year was also the first time Chet was eligible for parole. The parole board granted it.”

I stare at him. His off-center nose, the thick eyebrows, and the mouth that keeps moving, making words I don’t quite grasp. The traffic on the main thoroughfare a block away dulls to a murmur.

“If you change your mind, here’s my card.” Handwritten on the back is an address and a time. “I wasn’t sure whether to leave this on your car, so I wrote down a meetup location for tomorrow. If there’s another one that suits you better, I’m flexible.”

I gape at him, not knowing what words to speak, what phrase would be appropriate upon learning my captor-father will be released in mere days. Terror slides across my mouth in a metallic film. Chet was sentenced to life in prison with the possibility of parole after twenty years; I didn’t connect that the twentieth anniversary also meant his potential release.

When we turned eighteen, Jenessa and I signed up for the victim notifications from the court system. Did Lily? I haven’t received anything, but I also just moved here, and mail is still being forwarded from my last city.

Does Rosemary know?