Lies We Bury(22)

I only nod. Sweat breaks across my chest at the thought of that monster being out in the world, trying to contact me.

Lily and Jenessa will be distraught. What about my mother? How will Rosemary react to seeing her captor grabbing groceries in the same city as me?

“Claire?” Shia says in a low voice.

A thousand dollars right now. I could use the money. And it seems I still have some issues to work through, if the bitter taste of anxiety I felt in the brewery cellar is any indication. More importantly, if the note I found on my windshield is linked to the twentieth anniversary, answering Shia’s questions may offer information—some details of my childhood that I’ve admittedly never explored as an adult. Working through those issues could lead me to the next body indicated in the anonymous note, and maybe someone else won’t have to die.

If I learn the killer’s identity before anyone else and before Chet exposes who I am, Pauline will have to keep me. My past will be an advantage.

“So I could be a ‘source’? I wouldn’t go on record. And you wouldn’t reveal anything about my location or jeopardize my privacy in any way.”

Shia regards me with hopeful, droopy eyes and something else. A spark. A flicker of excitement before it dies like an ember I’m not sure I saw. “Sure. What do you say, Claire?”

We agree to meet tomorrow at the city library for our first session. I leave the coffee shop feeling hopeful for the first time in days—resolute that this is a way forward, even as my stomach clenches, ties itself into a series of loops.

Leaving downtown, I brake my car to a hard stop as a man jaywalks across the street. A blanket covers the shopping cart he pushes, so I can’t tell what it carries, but he sees me looking. He lifts a hand wrapped in a scarf and points to me over one—two—three seconds, proud aggression tightening his features. Curiosity makes me lean over the steering wheel and watch him complete the path to the sidewalk.

Four alarms have been shot. Twenty years. Twenty beers. All named for leaders. Find the name I most admire and you’ll find the next one first.

Leaders. Who would the note’s author most admire? What would he protect? The first victim was a woman, a stripper, restrained and held underground for several days from what the news reports. She likely died from bludgeoning, according to the medical examiner I overheard with Peugeot.

I tried to look up local Portland leaders related to breweries and didn’t get anywhere. The killer wouldn’t admire law enforcement or politicians.

Pulling over at the next stop sign, I park at the curb. A quick search on my phone of killers + beer sends me to a concert listing.

Twenty beers. All named for leaders. I search the phrase leader brewery, but the results return another series of top-ten lists. Four Alarm turns up, along with an announcement that the victim is named Eloise Harris.

I try again. Serial killer + twenty beers provides a dozen links to irrelevant websites, but the third page down, I find one that fits: The Stakehouse Brewery and Gentlemen’s Club. A strip club serving beers named after homicidal men.

Tapping on my passenger window tears my attention from my phone. The homeless man has pushed his cart up the street to where I parked. He points to the steel signpost beside me and says, “No parking,” the admonishment audible through the window.

I nod and shift my car into drive. It’s past time I got moving.





Eleven





THEN


Ranger Mo scans the horizon searching for children and injured animals who need her help. She raises a hand to her eyes to protect from the high-noon sun.

A little animal—a Lily frog—ribbits across the desert town with a limp! Poor little Lily frog, with no crackers to eat or spaghetti to slurp—

“Wait a minute. Frogs don’t live in the desert.” Twin stands pouting against the far wall of the bed room. She didn’t want to play a few minutes ago when Sweet Lily and I started.

“Why not?” I ask. Frogs live in a lot of places on television. Land and water. “Horses live in the desert . . . and . . . and snakes?”

Sweet Lily gives a fast nod. “Turtles.”

“And turtles! They live on land and water, right?” I look from Twin to Sweet Lily but only Sweet Lily smiles. Red sauce from our pasta lunch still covers her chin.

Twin scoffs and throws her hands up as if I’ve just said the dumbest thing. “Yes, they all live in the desert, but not frogs. Frogs need water. What you’re playing doesn’t make sense. Sweet Lily can’t be a Lily frog in the desert.” She rolls brown eyes like two poops up toward the ceiling.

Sweet Lily looks like she might cry, lower lip shaking and blues getting all shiny. A fat tear rolls down her cheek.

“Hey that’s okay. Why don’t we play Lily turtle in the desert? I’ll be Ranger Mo still, and I’ll find you all tired from your long journey from a mountain—”

“Turtles don’t live in the mountains!”

“How do you know?”

Mama Rosemary pops into the doorway. “Girls, what is going on here?” Her hair sits on her head. Like a black hat. A turban. “You’re supposed to be doing arts-and-crafts hour. Where are your bracelets?”

We hold up the one we did together.

“You’ve been in here for forty-five minutes and that’s all you’ve made?”