Lies We Bury(31)
The second man makes an affirming noise. “I picked up a guy who went to one a few months ago. Buyers come, party, and buy drugs before leaving.”
I pause beside two kegs stacked on their sides, trying not to make it obvious that I’m listening.
“Yeah, well, one of Four Alarm’s employees said she was caught living in the basement underground.”
“Which employee?”
“The bartender. Detectives thought he might have something to do with it, since he found the first body, but now they’re not so sure. He’s still being questioned at the station.”
“Why not?”
“From what they tell me, the guy has been a mess since he was brought in.”
Mess?
“Ready, Portland Post?”
I turn to face Sergeant Peugeot’s stern mien. Fear shoots through me again, wondering how long he was watching me eavesdrop, not taking photos. “Yes, I think I have everything I need.”
As he escorts me back through the club, I wrap my arms around my elbows. I thank Sergeant Peugeot, then head down the street. Oz is nowhere in sight. Traffic should have died down at this point, and an alluring image of an unopened bottle of wine I have at home pops into my head.
“Missy?” A woman’s voice carries from behind. Adrenaline rises, frothing in the back of my throat. I whirl, hoping I misheard, that it’s just nerves getting to me, but a woman with a muscular frame stands ten feet back, wielding a smartphone and a cautious smile directed at me.
Peugeot is still standing outside, speaking to the strip club’s general manager. I can even make out Peugeot’s voice saying, “We’ll need to speak to that person.” We’re not a full block from the latest crime scene—from the earshot of authorities who let me into not one but two, without realizing the liar I am.
I need to get out of here. I start walking, almost jogging, willing the woman’s insistent voice to fade away in the nearby freeway traffic.
“It is you, isn’t it? Missy, please, can we talk? I’m a reporter with Tru Lives. I’d love to know how you’re faring for a Where Are They Now piece. This year is the twentieth anniversary of your escape.”
I reach the corner and realize if she sees my car, my license plate (if she hasn’t already), she’ll probably be able to find me again. Everything Oz already knows about Gia and her high school transcript is an example of the connections reporters have. This woman could learn where I live.
Slowly, I turn and face her. Her hand flinches like she might slide open her camera app and take a photo of me, but she doesn’t. Instead she watches me like I’m a feral animal, unpredictable and potentially hostile.
“How did you find me?”
A crease forms between brown eyebrows tweezed within an inch of their life. “Your friend Serena Delle suggested I could find you here. I wasn’t sure I’d recognize you from those photos years ago, but you’ve grown up beautifully.”
I stare at her. Try to ignore the cold ripple of air that skims my back. This woman doesn’t seem like a psychopath, with her coiffed brown waves and the tattoo of a peace sign on her forearm, but why else would she be in contact with the girl who stalked me during high school and, for a time, followed me to another city? The smell of the roadkill Serena would find and leave me like an offering in Chet’s name is still singed into my nostrils. For a long time, I couldn’t get the heavyset girl’s ghostly blue eyes out of my head, always seeing them in large crowds, whether or not she was present—until the day my restraining order went through. Then she stopped following me in her yellow Mini Coop and disappeared. “How do you know Serena?”
The woman squints, dark eyes disappearing into thick eyeliner, and cocks her head. “I don’t. I received a letter with this address and instructions to come here every day this week. It was signed by a Serena Delle.”
“Signed, like written?”
“Typed.”
Of course it was. Maybe Serena Delle has turned from leaving dead animals for me to leaving dead bodies. She could have killed the person in The Stakehouse, then left a note that she knew would bring me here eventually—and this reporter would be waiting to further torment me.
“Listen,” I begin and take a step toward her. “Why don’t you feature a different subject for your story? You work for Tru Lives? Your show is notorious for always going after celebrities who have lost weight or had a breakdown. Why not focus on something even more interesting?”
Her curiosity piqued, she doesn’t move as I inch forward. “I’m not sure what that might be,” she says. “People have been asking about you for years, wondering how you and your sisters are doing, but mostly you. You seem to be the anomaly—out of the spotlight, relatively okay as far as we can tell. Jenessa, poor thing, in and out of rehab, and Lily, the wild child, never with more than a dime in her pocket thanks to all the surgeries on her foot. Our viewers want the real story, Missy. They want to know who you are. And what you’re feeling right now.”
I shake my head, allow my gaze to fall to the side, lulling her into a false sense of safety. “The story shouldn’t be whether I’m surviving all right. Or maybe . . .”
“Yes . . . ?”
I bite my cheek, now within a solid foot of this woman—this reporter. Unsuspicious in her throwback Care Bears T-shirt and jeans. Blending in like any other Portlander enjoying their weekday.