Lies We Bury(47)

“I think the Four Alarm killer knows me. Like, knows who I am and my background as Chet’s offspring. Do you think other people may have tracked my steps like you did? Could someone else do the same thing?”

“I mean, it’s possible.” He cringes, as though speaking a truth he’s not sure I’m ready for.

I’m ready. I’ve been aware of the perverts and weirdos since I was thirteen. I’ve always known they’re out there. Just didn’t realize they’d all find me at once or become so frenzied around this particular anniversary. “What are you getting out of this? Besides your publisher’s paycheck.”

Shia crosses his arms and leans backward. “Isn’t it usually my job to ask the questions?”

“Tit for tat today.”

He purses his lips into a thin line. “Okay. Like, did I grow up in a basement also?”

“Let’s start there, sure.”

The thin line breaks into a small smile. “The high-level summary is, I grew up atypically, too. My mother dumped me off at a fire station when I was a year old, and I shuffled through the foster-care system my entire childhood. As a result, I think I’ve always been attracted to stories that demonstrate resilience. That we aren’t defined by our beginnings or by the choices our parents made for us. We can define ourselves. I think that’s what you’ve done, and I want to highlight that.”

“That . . . was not what I was expecting.”

Shia lifts his pint to me before taking a drink. “Happy to surprise you.”

A moment passes between us, the tenuous trust I felt with him growing. He’s got some darkness, too.

“I have a theory,” I resume. “At the first crime scene, there was a stuffed animal outside the entrance. It was the same as my stuffed animal in the basement; at the second crime scene, the body wore a bracelet like I used to make with my sisters. Knowing that, let me rephrase: Do you think the killer knows of me, the way that you do, or does the killer know me personally?”

Thick eyebrows glue together. “Stuffed animal? From your childhood? What one was that?”

“You don’t know?” A sinking sensation floats in my belly.

“Wait. It’s not . . . what was his name . . . Peter the Pelican?” Shia looks at me, his upper lip raised in doubt.

“Petey. He’s called Petey the Penguin.”

“That’s right. You were photographed holding him in the hospital. I remember now.”

Relief swims across my eyes. “Okay. Whoever’s behind this could be a tabloid fan or someone who has a personal connection to me. So that doesn’t narrow down the pool.”

“No, I guess not.”

We’re silent a moment, and the brewery’s patrons, the music, laughter, and clinking glass, seem to rush forward. A clamor incongruent with our discussion, with what is driving each of us to meet.

Shia pays for our meal, insisting that he’ll write off the expense later. We agree to dig into the activity hours that Rosemary established to provide us with routine in our next session.

On the drive home, exhaustion pulls like weights on my eyelids, but Shia’s words rebound in my head. Despite his suggestion that he can use my memories, capitalize on my history just like the other grubby vultures, he is providing context for the many people emerging from the woodwork. And speaking to Shia about meeting Chet gave me the idea for a plan tomorrow.

After stunted, failed attempts as a teenager to gain clarity from Rosemary, to get specifics when I asked questions about my origins, it’s time to try again. This week—this killer—doesn’t really leave me the option.





Twenty

The next day, rolling hills sprawl before my windshield on the winding road to Arch. Spruce firs and pine trees, my friends growing up, line the road as if welcoming me home. There weren’t many trees around where our house was located in the desert of Oregon, but the few there were felt like wise caretakers watching out for us, vigilant throughout time and able to confirm that whatever crisis was occurring, whatever we had already lived through, would pass.

Along the highway, patches of black earth from a recent wildfire interrupt the greenery in sporadic bursts, marking the areas where firefighters were unable to succeed in subduing the flames. Seems I’m not the only one who acquired new scars.

I didn’t want to come home, let alone remove myself so far from Portland, where the Post could call at any minute with a request for coverage. The update this morning on the “tunnel murders”—what the Four Alarm and Stakehouse crimes are now being called—was less than encouraging. Gia Silva continues to be the chief person of interest, while Topher Cho, on the other hand, has been cleared of suspicion. Having taken the liberty of scrolling through Topher’s social media posts, I have to agree. The mix of selfies and inspirational quotes about achieving one’s dreams didn’t strike me as belonging to a killer, even one who’s interested in boosting his acting career.

Meanwhile, Gia’s got a history of living on the street, of drug use, and of ties to local drug lords who’ve committed serious crimes, including murder. But as a nineteen-year-old girl, she’s only ever occupied the periphery of those incidents. Counterintuitively, the police seem to think that’s why she’s the ringleader—the brains behind it all. And at one point, she was found sleeping in the tunnels below Four Alarm—a direct link between Gia and the first victim.