Lies We Bury(4)

She shakes her head. “I only need a handful for the Local Happenings section. Fifty photos means fifty dollars—per our conversation yesterday,” she adds when I balk.

“Okay.” Not seeing another way, I try to get a grip, to resume an impassive face. I want to escape, to run screaming from this town, but I also need the Post as a client.

“Okay,” I repeat, focusing on Pauline’s white nail polish. “Thanks for your time. Where do I pick up the check?”

Pauline doesn’t say anything. She looks at my laptop, pausing on the chipped corner, before heavily mascaraed eyes flit to my face. “What else do you have?”

I hesitate, knowing that the rest of my Recents folder contains senior portraits from high school students. Navigating to a different folder, I double-click and pull up the brewery and Petey photos—images that, in hindsight, given the note I found on my windshield, might be more than my PTSD fixating on a stuffed toy.

In a wide shot at the beginning of the series, the brewery’s name, Four Alarm, is clearly stamped on the glass door. The note’s typed phrase surges to mind: four alarms have been shot.

I bite my cheek, watching Pauline as she scrolls through the exterior, then interior galleries. Landing a consistent client would allow me to save up another nest egg. Get enough money to start over. Just go. Move up to Seattle or maybe Vancouver. Canadians are supposed to be nice.

“Those are from yesterday, that brewery on Fourth,” I say. “I don’t know what you could use these photos for, but if you’re doing a feature on local businesses, they might—”

Pauline holds up a hand. “Hey, Elliot, get in here!” she shouts out the door.

A man runs in, older, midfifties, svelte around the middle of his blue cotton shirt and jeans. He pushes wire-framed glasses higher onto a prominent nose.

“Four Alarm Brewery is the one you just heard about on the radio, right?” she asks.

As a child, I was surrounded by women who all shrank before the single man I encountered—they never gave orders, only accepted Chet’s with downcast gazes. My mother whispered into my ear on a daily basis, Good little girls do as they’re told by the man. They stay alive.

Elliot nods. “Yeah. You hear anything else?”

Pauline licks her lips. “This photographer—Claire—was there yesterday. She took photos of the entryway, inside the foyer, and all the patrons having their afternoon stout.”

Elliot’s mouth falls open. He turns to me. “The police called in cars to that address about ten minutes ago. A body was found there. Probable homicide last night or late afternoon.”

Pauline leans in, a wild sparkle in her eye. “I’ll buy all the images you took at this location.”

“All of them? That’s around one hundred.”

“You got it. We’ll use some in tomorrow’s physical publication and our online channel. I’ll contact you if we need extra photographers again.”

“I . . . okay.” As we both stand, I nod again because I’m stifling a happy scream.

Outside the building, a freshly written check from the Post in hand, I withdraw the anonymous windshield note from my pocket. Petey the Penguin, a well-known part of my childhood, was sitting out front of a brewery where a murder was committed. The note mentioned that four alarms had been shot. “Shot” could be a reference to my photos, but maybe it means “shot with a gun.” Was Petey meant to grab my attention, to draw me to that building?

My eyes catch on the second-to-last line: Find the name I most admire and you’ll find the next one first. Phrasing that I thought was nonsensical gains context to become coherent instructions and stops my breath.

Find the next one first.

This note’s author wanted me to take photos of that crime scene. Then provided a clue to the next location. Was I just handed a riddle to a murder?

“Claire? Everything okay?” Pauline pauses beside the solid double doors.

My heart is clanging against my bones. Claire would nod. Claire would smile and thank this woman again for buying her photos, not start babbling that a killer might be following her, laying a twisted scavenger hunt at her sandaled feet. And this isn’t my first stalker.

I slip the folded square into my back pocket. “Everything’s fine,” I say. “Is there a place I can grab a croissant nearby?”

Pauline directs me to a bakery around the corner, where a line stretches ten feet down the sidewalk across the street. I sigh, letting my shoulders drop. I really wanted a place to sit a moment, eat something buttery, to still the ping-ponging of my thoughts. Maybe spend more than a dollar on breakfast, knowing I can cash the Post check tomorrow.

“Hey.”

I turn toward the assertive voice. A young woman leans against the wall of an adjacent clothing consignment shop. Farther down the block, teenagers are seated against the brick, wrapped in dirty blankets and ponchos. Plastic bags cover shopping carts beside them. One of the boys hunches over a stout camping grill, plumes of smoke curling skyward.

“You looking for something?” the woman asks. She eyes the still-fresh burn on my inner elbow, and I wonder whether Pauline noticed, too. Brittle, white-blonde hair with dark roots touches her shoulders. Her round face appears flushed and clear of makeup. The only details that suggest she’s homeless are the numerous holes in her sneakers. Red socks poke through in a macabre pattern.