Lies We Bury(3)

Freelance photography has its pros and cons. Disgusting moments of human nature that people would rather forget become fixed on film, snippets of time that would otherwise disappear from memory. Then again, since I gave up waitressing at run-down diners, headshots and wine-country landscapes have covered my expenses—first in a college town a few hours south, then here for the last two weeks. My camera has always been a safe haven. A way to experience the world from a distance, when so many unwanted admirers were intent on observing my every move. Portland is only the third city I’ve lived in, but I’ve broken a lease more times than I can count.

I used to get angry when I thought about the residual effects of the horror Chet inflicted on us and how I’m still living out the consequences. Now, a pack of cigarettes inside my backpack reminds me I’m not subject to him or anyone anymore—I’m no longer a teenager, hiding in my locked bedroom from one of my mother’s catatonic spells. I’m in control.

The storefronts are quiet the farther west I travel, away from the river and the parade. My path doesn’t take me by the brewery where I saw the stuffed animal yesterday, but I don’t need to see it again. I can recall every detail of the penguin’s languid expression and stained fur. I went to bed imagining the last time I held Petey the Penguin in my arms, and I fell asleep crying tears that I didn’t fully understand.

Police sirens are wailing from somewhere close by when I reach my car. The sound prickles my skin as I hurry to unlock the door. I place my camera in its case in the back seat, then notice the folded piece of paper tucked beneath my windshield wiper. A letter M is scratched out, with Claire scrawled beside it.

Suddenly, I’m conscious of how blithely I walked through a crowd of people today, then left without once checking over my shoulder to see if someone was taking an interest in me—simply because it was Sunday morning.

Sunshine doesn’t mean protection. The worst crimes can happen in the daylight.

I remove the paper from beneath the wiper. With shaky hands, I unfold it. The sirens are louder now, a tense soundtrack. A dog barks nearby. Sweat gathers beneath my arms as I hold the page at eye level.

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.

SEE YOU SOON, MISSY.

My hand claps to my mouth, a strangled cry muffled against my palm. I snap my gaze to the bus stop across the way, but it’s empty of anyone watching, threatening me. The words—typed out on computer paper—sink through my skin and root around my guts. The burn scars on my inner elbow tingle.

I scan the page for any markings, smudges that might contain fingerprints, a signature to tell me who this note is from. My first initial—my real first initial, M—glares from the reverse side.

Someone knows who I am. Where to find me.

They know the twentieth anniversary of our escape is this year.

My eyes skitter away. Fear licks down my calves. Portland was supposed to be a fresh start. A place where I could stay awhile—remain hidden in the biggest city in Oregon.

Opening my backpack, I fumble until my fingers grasp the plastic wrap of the emergency cigarettes. I get in the car, then jam the key in the ignition. With a jerk of my thumb, the round lighter in the center console engages.

I push my sleeve up to my bicep and wait for the coil to glow red.





Two

Outside the Portland Post, I park my car and look across the street to the food trucks. The windows of both vehicles are still dark. I head inside the building. My inner elbow throbs from the cigarette burn, but it restored my sense of reality and control in a way I used to seek out regularly, and which I’ve managed to cling to for a year or so now. Well, managed. Past tense.

As I walk through the first floor of the office, a radio on a desk sputters with the garbled jargon of police dispatchers. Pauline’s door swings open. She throws me a smile before her brown eyes widen. “Everything all right, Claire?”

No, nothing is all right. Nothing is fair or makes sense, and I have no good response to give. “Yes, fine,” I manage to say, willing my face into a neutral expression. I withdraw my camera from its case, and the strap trembles against the shaking of my hand.

Pauline watches it, then raises an eyebrow. “Well, let’s see what you got,” she says and steps back inside her office. I take a seat as she rounds the square table to a mesh chair. She holds out a palm.

I stare at her—not only because residual shock is slowing every movement I make but because when I was first beginning photography, I might have simply ejected the camera’s memory card and dropped it into her hand. Eager to please, I wouldn’t have realized that she could copy all its contents to her desktop in three clicks.

Instead, I remove my laptop from my messenger bag. It’s even older than my car, with scratches along the gray shell, stickers from an attempt to blend into a college town, and a chipped corner where hardware is visible. I pop the memory card into the slot. A grid of excited faces appears on the screen.

“These are great,” Pauline says. “May I?” She lifts a finger to the touch pad, and I nod. She scrolls through, making little affirming noises. Mm-hmm. Mm. “I’ll take the first fifty. Nice work.”

“Only fifty? I took over three hundred. You don’t want to see the rest?”