Lies We Bury(44)

The clerk raises an eyebrow.

“I’d like to make sure my grandmother has been in to see him over the last month. She’s got Alzheimer’s, and her recall is spotty.”

The eyebrow lowers. He taps a few keys on his keyboard, then clicks with his mouse. “Over the last month, he’s had Karin Degrassi and Shia Tua come to visit. Are either of those your grandma?”

My face goes slack. “No. Nana must be confusing things again.”

Outside the prison, fresh air swirls my hair, loose at my shoulders, while my stomach tightens in knots. I raise my camera to eye level and snap a photo of the concrete entrance. All the better to compare to the nightmares sure to come later tonight.

Climbing the steps of the shuttle bus back to visitors’ parking, I look down as a sharp pain registers. “Miss? You all right?” the bus driver asks.

Blood dots from my palm as I uncurl my fist and release the aching flesh. “Just fine,” I reply.

The driver sees what I’ve done, and she hands me a tissue that feels like sandpaper. “Family can be complicated, miss. I promise you ain’t the only one that feels that way.”

I take a seat in the first empty row I see and keep my gaze straight ahead. The gray mass of the prison slides by my peripheral vision.

Shia lied to me. Or rather, he didn’t have to—he omitted the fact that he’d paid Chet a visit.

Once in my car, I navigate eastern Oregon’s major freeway on autopilot; the drive home passes without conscious effort. Seeing my exit at the last minute, I cut hard across a lane of traffic.

When I finally trudge up to my doorway, my eyes feel heavy beneath the weight of my afternoon and more revelations than I care to remember. The flower bed below my window is in need of watering, and beside it, bird poop is caked on the concrete edge of the walkway. A stick from a discarded lollipop lies a foot into my hallway.

I stop dead. A white piece of paper peeks from the corner of my doormat.

The hall is empty. Scanning behind me, there’s only a neighbor across the parking lot unloading mulch from his truck.

Clutching my keys like a weapon—pointed ends first—I bend down and grab the square. The message reads:

Lucky number three

Depends on you.

Find and photograph the location

Before I get tired of waiting.

THREE MORE DAYS, MISSY.

I unlock the door, maintaining a white-knuckle grip on the note, and head straight for the kitchen. After uncorking a bottle of wine, I pour myself a pint glass, then lay the note on the kitchen counter.

Three more days, Missy. Chet will be released in three days. That fact, paired with this author’s use of “Missy” leaves little doubt: whatever his reason for killing these people, it’s related to my family.

The red liquid hits the back of my throat with a satisfying twinge, the black-cherry currants rolling along my tongue. The beginning of a haze settles over me, along with a thin film of clarity.

Although I’ve avoided my past—thinking about it, coming to terms with it—for as long as life would allow me, I can’t stick my head in the sand anymore. For some perverse reason I don’t yet grasp, this person has fixated on me more so than a fan might, and in order to solve this next riddle before someone else dies, I have to start exploring my memories instead of suppressing them.

I need to be honest with myself—about everything.





Nineteen

Drunk patrons dance and sing along to a retro jukebox occupying the corner of Ezra’s Brewery and Restaurant. Shia waves his hand in front of my face. “Claire? Should we go over this again?”

I shake my head. “No. I mean, yes. Yeah, say it again.”

I spent the rest of the afternoon in a daze after seeing Chet, then reading another threatening message, this one delivered right to my door. I sat on my couch and began searching listings online for any brewery location associated with luck, lucky number three, or the number three. Or bracelets. Jewelry shops selling items made by children.

Nothing made sense. I began reviewing the photographs that I took at Four Alarm and The Stakehouse, rereading this second message again and again, its meaning becoming increasingly potent with each review: someone else may die depending on how fast I solve this clue. Someone has already been chosen as the next victim.

This was different than the first note. At Four Alarm and The Stakehouse, the victims were already dead, decaying to some degree when they were found. The realization that the killer has linked me to the fate of this third person seized my chest and made me sit forward on the couch cushions to hyperventilate between my knees. When I was able to catch my breath, I downed the rest of my pint glass.

Shia called me, asking to meet up for one of his sessions, and suggested Ezra’s. I wanted to hang up on him right then and there, but the envelope of cash hidden beneath my mattress and his promise of another, much larger paycheck kept me from being rude. Instead, I showed up thirty minutes late.

He takes a deep swig of his stout ale, then plucks a thick-cut french fry from our basket. Our new meeting point definitely has advantages over the library’s community room.

“Okay. We’re trying to determine what did Marissa, the child born in captivity, experience that no one knows about, what wasn’t reported on the news or already beaten to death by human-interest pieces over the years?”

Excellent question. Others might be: what does the killer think he knows about me, and why does he keep looping in details from my early years? Why did Shia go to visit Chet but not tell me about it? My initial fear that Shia is the note writer returns. Scanning the wall behind him, I locate the glowing green letters of the emergency exit sign. Just in case.