Lies We Bury(38)

It was an abrupt shift after our escape, ceding one of my sisters to a stranger, to the woman I knew as Mama Nora. I once read somewhere that humans can get used to anything.

Well, I never did. I don’t think Lily or Jenessa did, either.



When I look up from my phone, the sun is shining off-center in the sky—finally, a clear blue. I shrug off my jacket into the passenger seat of my car and allow the warm beams to bathe the skin of my forearms. My most recent burn has taken on a dark-red color as the wound heals. Faded scars flank it like grave markers, poised to welcome another to their dead ranks.

I lock my phone, rest my cheek against the glass, and close my eyes. Just for a second.

Poring over bookmarked websites feels redundant, but I don’t know how else to approach this search. I found articles about the other underground incidents that Oz mentioned, but I don’t see a clear link to the current murders or to me.

My eyes snap open. With everything going on, I forgot to ask Jenessa whether she knows about Chet’s release. Crap. I type out a message on my phone.

Hey! Did you know that Chet will be released on parole on Monday? Just wanted to check.

I shake my head. Erase the message, then try again.

I have some bad news. Chet will be released on parole this Monday. Did you know?

Still awkward. Still a terrible text. Although there’s probably no easy way to write this.

Bad news that deserves a 1-hour phone call but I want to ensure you know ASAP: Chet will be released on parole Monday. Did you receive the victim notification?

After dropping in on Jenessa earlier this week with news of a possible murderer and his apparent interest in me, I’ve gone and delivered another bombshell. I should have called her, but I also need to beat the evening dinner rush. And just the idea of discussing Chet’s release shortens my breath. How selfish and self-preserving of me, to choose my own comfort over Jenessa’s.

I purse my lips, noting these instincts, and step out of my car. The three blocks to Four Alarm, to where it all began for me, are clear of foot traffic. Without a sure path forward, I’m crossing my fingers that something will stand out at the brewery, something I may have missed during the last frenzied visit under police supervision.

Door chimes announce my entry. Topher Cho looks up from wiping a glass behind the bar counter.

“Welcome to Four Alarm,” he says. “Table?”

A current of déjà vu sweeps down my back. I shake my head as I cross to him at the bar. Tables that were nearly full last Saturday are now peppered with customers, spread out and speaking quietly.

“When did you guys reopen?” I ask, sliding onto a swivel bar chair. The question I want to ask is, When did the police release you from questioning?

He grabs the handles on either side of a keg and sets it down by the flap doors to the kitchen. It’s impossible not to admire the muscles of his back, evident through the thin cotton of his T-shirt. A man pauses in eating his burger to watch, and a tomato splats onto his plate.

Topher returns to pour me a glass of water. “Yeah, we had a pause of two days. But things are back up and running.”

“You mean, this was a crime scene and you were forced to shut down.”

Dark-brown eyes narrow. “You read the news, huh? We’re all hoping Four Alarm is done being examined now that the police have moved on. Have I seen you before?”

I lean an elbow onto the counter and rest half my face on my palm. Things would go from bad to worse if Topher recognized me from my visit on Saturday, before he discovered the body. “Ah, maybe. I was there—or, here—when police were still investigating in person. I’m the crime photographer. Claire.”

Topher stiffens. His eyes dart past me to the street, probably looking for blue uniforms. If Topher had admitted anything damning to the police, he would have been formally arrested—not back at work. But he might still have insight that could lead to the killer. If I ask the right questions.

I throw him a big smile. “Everything okay?”

His laugh is a machine-gun chortle. “Yeah, yeah. Fine. I just didn’t realize you were with the police. I’ve already told you guys everything I know, about how I found her, and—” He gulps. “How frightening the whole thing was.”

If Topher believes I’m with Portland PD, all the better. I am a crime photographer. Only not for the police. “Of course. I’m just the shutterbug, so I’m not here to interrogate you or anything. I . . . plan on doing some promotional stuff for the department and need models. You’re an actor, right? Do you model, too?”

He relaxes, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve done some print work.”

“Bartending is a side hustle, then?”

I really want to ask Topher all the details of his misdemeanor and what went down between him and his ex. Knowing that won’t happen in the light of day while he’s working, I’ll settle for chatting him up. Form my own conclusions about his personality.

Topher grabs a dish towel and begins cleaning the same pint glass he had when I walked in. “You got it. I moved down from Washington last year because Portland’s film scene was booming. All kinds of great shows were being shot here, but lately auditions have been slower. But hey, you never know what’s around the corner, right?”

He looks up wistfully before resuming eye contact. “I mean, I’m not desperate or anything for things to change. I’m very happy at Four Alarm. It’s a great place to work.”