Lies We Bury(43)

“The victims are an exotic dancer and an insurance salesman.”

“Interesting pairing. What links the victims together?”

“The police don’t know yet.”

“Ah. They’re working on that part while you’re profiling the killer?” A smile forms on Chet’s mouth—hinting at pride or mocking me, I can’t tell.

I purse my lips and glance at the guard behind Chet. He’s preoccupied with another inmate who’s getting riled up at the far end of the room. “That’s all you’ve got? Nothing about you sharing obvious psychology with this killer, since you both kept your victims underground?”

The smile drops like a mask. “I’m not a killer, Marissa.” His voice is stern, as if he’s doing an impression of an angry father.

“You let Bethel die.”

Shia’s eager face at the coffee shop flashes to mind, recounting his research of the toy company listed on the cardboard found beneath our bed. “Who else knew about us? Who else knew you were keeping us imprisoned, our mothers imprisoned, for years?”

Chet stammers, opens his mouth, then closes it. He tries again. “What makes you think anyone else knew?”

I stare at him, will my eyes to bore holes into his head and force some kind of pain to travel through these six inches of barrier. “Jameson. Your father. He knew about us.” Chet begins to speak again, but I talk over him into the phone. “He knew, and yet he did nothing, too.”

I spit the words, and I wonder why I bothered to come here. What the hell I expected to unearth by confronting this man for the first time. How desperate I was to believe something productive might come from this visit.

As I stand, Chet lifts his palms, pleading for me to stay and listen. I grudgingly bring the phone back up to my ear.

“Marissa, there’s nothing I can say . . . that might undo what I’ve done. I’ll grant you that. But I’ve spent twenty years thinking about my actions. About the sickness that told me to keep you all to myself. Your killer would be hurting people—keeping them underground—for the power of it, too. He’d enjoy flexing that control over his victims. Maybe as a punishment? If I had to guess, I’d say it comes down to whatever the victims have in common. That’s where you’ll find your killer.”

I allow myself to consider his words and sit back down. Despite wanting to chalk up everything he says to a waste of air—he could be right.

“Why should I listen to you? You’re not a psychologist.”

“No, but this is a state prison. I’ve been surrounded by the worst of the worst for two decades. Believe me when I say I know more than I’d like.”

I fix him with a blank expression and watch for any tic that might give him away. “Are you involved in these murders?”

What if Chet is partnering with someone? What if, driven by some personal stake, he’s the one leaving clues from my childhood around Portland? If I could prove his involvement in these deaths, Chet would be locked up forever. I’d never have to see him or worry about my sisters seeing him again. The thought brings a smile to my face, and Chet mirrors my expression, encouraged.

“No, Marissa. I am not.”

I stand again, done with this conversation.

He lifts another hand. “Please,” he says. “I’ll be released on parole Monday. Once that happens, I’d like to see you. And your sisters. I know Jenessa is in town, but does Lily live nearby—”

“What makes you think I live in Portland?” I snap, racking my brain trying to recall whether I let that information slip.

Chet fixes me with a stare. “Do you?” I don’t answer. “You do, don’t you? You wouldn’t have driven all the way up from southern Oregon or anywhere else for this conversation. You live in Portland, because it’s only two hours away and the risk of wasting your time and energy is small compared to the possible benefits.”

Dumbfounded, I stutter, “Wh-why . . . what—what makes you think that?”

He’s perfectly at ease on his side of the room. “Because it’s how I would assess whether or not to come here.”

Disgust burns through my limbs, outrage at his suggestion we’re so alike. “I don’t care what your plans were, don’t come near us,” I hiss into the speaker.

My anger balloons at the thought of him loose—tracking me down like that Tru Lives reporter, bothering Lily when she’s eight months pregnant.

Speaking into the phone and towering over his hunched shoulders, I seethe—feel myself coming unglued. “Stay away from us.”

“Marissa.” His voice is calm. The exact opposite of my shaking frame. “I loved you girls in my own—”

I slam the phone down. Marching to the door, I bang my fist against it. The guard on the other side opens it and lets me pass, her arm poised on her firearm. I stalk back down the long hall, no longer bothered by the noise of male inmates shouting somewhere in the building, and retrieve my two forms of ID and pepper spray from the lobby clerk.

“Can I help you with anything else?” the man asks. His clip-on tie skews off-center.

“Nope, all set. Thanks,” I say, still fuming. Then my eyes land on the sign-in sheet and my messy signature. “Hey, could you tell me who has been to visit an inmate? It’s my . . . father.”