Lies We Bury(33)

The thought makes me cry but Mama Rosemary doesn’t wake up. Twin neither.

I poke Twin with my finger. Poke poke. Poke. She doesn’t move still sleeping.

There’s a brown-green-yellow spot on her arm. I poke that and she jumps like my finger was a needle. It’s a bruise.

I sit upright fast rocking the bed and Mama groans but keeps sleeping.

Someone has been hurting Twin.





Fifteen

My phone occupies the countertop of my kitchen—the only item on the counter after a morning of stress-cleaning, dusting, and doing dishes I haven’t touched in days. With each plate I towel-dried, I thought about recent events, and my two visits to The Stakehouse yesterday. Reflected on all the surprises that have jumped out of the ether in less than a week. Each of them meant to capitalize on our story or force me to do something I may regret.

The handheld device appears hostile. Capable of blowing up the apartment complex if I input the wrong combination of numbers. I unlock my phone, clearing the image I took of the adjacent forest of trees, and dial.

“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”

My tongue feels thick in my mouth. “I—not an emergency, exactly, but—I have something to tell the police.”

It takes emergency dispatchers less than a minute to pinpoint a caller’s city and street, down to the exact location within a few square feet. In the event that the call is disconnected, the police can go to that address and verify the caller is safe. According to my phone, I’ve already been on the line for sixteen seconds.

“The Four Alarm murder is linked to the Stakehouse murder. The killer admires leaders relating to—” I scan the words I wrote on a pad of sticky notes. Saying the next phrase, The killer admires leaders relating to Chet Granger, feels more incriminating than it did an hour ago when I crafted my five-sentence anonymous message to the police. I was hoping that by offering up what clues I have, I could wash my hands of the information and let the police do their job—step back and stop involving myself, despite the killer’s interest in me. But staring at the words in front of me, I realize the only fact I’ve supplied points directly back to Chet—and to me.

What else can I say exactly? The killer left me a note outside of Four Alarm, baiting me with a stuffed animal from my past, which led me to The Stakehouse, where a body was wearing a bracelet like one I used to make with my sisters? Sharing those specifics would only lead the police to add me to a list of possible suspects. Why else would I have that information unless I know the person behind this—or worse, am committing the murders myself?

“Ma’am? Are you still there?”

Thirty-seven seconds have elapsed. My fingers grip the phone as I debate my reply.

Forty-one seconds. “Yes, I—I’m sorry to waste your time; I have to go.”

Panic jolts through me and I hang up. I shouldn’t have called. Calling was a mistake. Why didn’t I think that through better?

My phone rings—an unknown number. Do the police automatically call back?

My hand shakes as I slide the answer bar right. “Hello?”

“Marissa!” a woman squeals into the receiver.

“. . . Lily?”

“Yes!” The word dissolves into a throaty laugh. “I’m back from Switzerland, and I’m dying to share some news with you in person. Are you free now?”

“What? Like, right now? When did you get back?” My kitchen clock says eleven thirty, and I scheduled another interview session with Shia for the afternoon. “Yeah, I’m free for a few hours. Holy crap, Lil, are you actually home? What happened? Is everything okay?”

“Fantastic. Everything’s great. Do you still have the Find-My-Family app we downloaded on our phones before I moved?”

“Oh, yeah. I guess. I didn’t remove it, at least.” She was so insistent she wanted to be able to visualize where Jenessa and I were while she was abroad. Said it’d help her feel more connected.

“Perfect. You can navigate to my apartment with it. See you soon!”

I hang up in a daze. The police haven’t called by the time I grab my keys and unlock the door. Before I turn the handle, I check the peephole. No uniforms waiting in the hall.



A woman sits on the curb when I arrive at a modern apartment building in the middle of downtown. Petite and towheaded, she taps some game on her phone. Narrow shoulders hunch forward, and her feet point together in ballerina flats. Hearing my approach, she lifts her head, and a smile breaks across her heart-shaped face. Lily stands, opens her arms, and reveals a bulging belly in a high-waist dress.

“Happy to see me?” The bright-blue eyes that always made her seem so innocent as a kid now seem to glint with mischief.

“You’re pregnant?”

Disregarding the question, my little sister crosses to me and wraps me in a hug. I shift my hips backward to make room.

“I’m so happy to see you. But what are you doing here?” I laugh into her hair. “You didn’t want to share you were moving home, and with an extra human?”

She pulls back to look at me as a cloud of hurt passes down her face, ending in a pout. “Once we decided to move home, I thought it would be a fun surprise. And I didn’t want to promise anything, in case plans changed.”

Free-spirited Lily went rogue after deciding college wasn’t for her. She and her then-brand-new girlfriend, Bianca, decided to move to Europe. Lily has been quiet these last few months, replying to my texts with stunted answers, and she stopped accepting my video calls. I thought she was going through a phase, or maybe that she and Bianca had broken up, as relationships during your early twenties often do. I guess I was half-right; the phase should last about nine months.