Lies We Bury(21)

The fine lines on Shia’s forehead, around his mouth, and the scruff that caps his square jaw—even the long, unruly hair—seem familiar. Like the type of predatory men I’ve tried to avoid my whole life.

“How did you find me?”

Pink colors his cheeks, and he takes a moment to chew his lower lip. “I found your sister first. Jenessa. She refused my offer over the phone, so I was . . .” He takes another sip of coffee, as if gathering his will to confess.

Understanding dawns on me. “You were out front. Of her house. You followed me.” It’s not hard to find a person online using basic information. Jenessa has lived in that house for the last three years; she’s had the same cell phone number since she was seventeen.

Shia sucks his teeth as though caught in a lie. “I followed Jenessa to the brewery where she met you; then I followed you home. I was getting ready to knock on your door when you left again and went downtown. I followed you, then approached you outside Four Alarm. Now I’m just pleased you decided to join me today.” He spreads his hands in a deflated ta-da gesture.

“I don’t understand. How did you know it was me?”

“Ah. I hate to break it to you, but there are whole websites devoted to speculating on what you look like as an adult. Here.” Shia types something in his phone’s browser, then slides the screen around so I can read. A dozen different sites claim to offer images of me—What Missy Looks Like Now.

Childhood photos of me have been manipulated to age the little girl in the pictures into a woman who isn’t far off from my actual appearance: medium-length black hair, light-brown eyes that tip upward at the outer crease, and a round nose that—shudder—I think Chet and I have in common. The main differences seem to be that my eyebrows are actually thicker than the theorized version, my face is thinner overall, and I have a dimple in my chin. A few other pictures show up toward the bottom of the results page, which I remember were snapped outside a grocery store when I was twenty-two, five years ago, and wearing sunglasses. These websites seem to use the same technology that the adoption angel described when he tracked me down at the diner.

“So you see, Claire. I got very lucky in finding you, but the internet has been tracking you for some time.”

His words fly like casual bullets, puncturing the anonymity I had aspired to. My name is Claire—a trite story line.

I was naive. So dumb to think I was being covert. That I would ever be able to fully leave behind what I never chose to begin with. It’s only a matter of time before the rest of this city finds out, and they’ll look at me as strangely as my grade school classmates. Pauline will write stories on me, featuring updates on what sandwich shop I frequented this week. Refuse to pay me, because as she said, victims are unpredictable. Fear and ogle me, knowing what darkness my genes contain. Jenessa’s story about my guinea pig will be only the beginning of what surfaces.

This Shia person clutches his coffee, awaiting my reply. Full eyebrows form a steeple between strained brown irises. A writer who enjoys research. No doubt, meticulous. Ambitious.

I tap the side of my cup, then take a deep gulp. Too much sugar. “So what is your goal here? Are you saying you’ll expose me if I don’t help with your book?”

“Not at all.” He leans forward. “I only want to make sure the truest story is recorded. If you agree to a few interviews, I’ll share the advance with you.”

“Define ‘share.’”

“A hundred thousand would be yours. I’d get it as soon as the manuscript is accepted.” Shia sucks in a breath. “And I’ll wire you a thousand of my own money now if you agree, as a show of good faith.”

One hundred thousand dollars. That’s way more money than my settlement portion. I could live on that for years.

I could put a down payment on a house with that.

I could buy a whole new identity with that.

The last thing I want is to expose myself to further poking and speculation, but a sum of that size would buy me stability. Allow me to navigate building a solid photography portfolio. Give me my first bridge to ordinary in ages. Hell, even $1,000 up front is a dream come true.

After Chet was sentenced to life in prison, an attorney approached Rosemary and offered to file a separate lawsuit, pro bono. Said he’d work to ensure we received adequate recompense for our pain and suffering. Since Chet abused company funds to build out his compound—our living quarters—in the basement, the civil suit would name both Chet and his employer as codefendants. Six months later, we received a settlement—money to cover our initial medical bills, relocation costs, whatever we needed to move on.

Rosemary’s settlement money went mainly to housing, as she held only sporadic jobs afterward and permitted a few paid interviews. My share was depleted five years ago—the price of pursuing normalcy without a steady income proving higher than I planned. I did my best to replace it with wages from restaurant jobs, online proofreading gigs, and easy nannying that didn’t require more than a driver’s license. Before I turned to photography, the topless tabloid offer from when I was eighteen crossed my mind more times than I’m proud of.

Jenessa’s disapproving scowl flickers to mind, reminding me that she didn’t even return Shia’s call when he reached out to her. She wouldn’t like me accepting now.

“The publisher is keen for a draft as soon as possible, given that this year is the twentieth anniversary of your escape, and Chet’s parole is next week. The market is dying for details.”