Lies We Bury(53)

“A third body. I’ll text you the address, but the place is called Trois Croissants.”

“Trois . . . ?”

“Yeah, trois means three in French. It’s some family-owned bakery, and it’s being swarmed by police and our competitor outlets as we speak. Get there as soon as you can.”

She hangs up, and I dive to my bed, where I stacked the notes I’ve received, and Shia’s business card, in a pile. The most recent one, which had been wedged under my doormat, is on top.

Lucky number three depends on you.

Horror mounts in my chest as I realize my error. While I went traipsing down to Arch to gain some form of insight from Rosemary—and what did I leave with exactly?—I missed the deadline. It hasn’t even been two days since this note appeared, but the killer took action. Someone else is dead because of me.



Crowds pile onto the sidewalks of Northwest Fir Street for Saturday morning brunch. A line winds out the front door of a glass-walled restaurant, forcing me to dodge bodies and weave between emphatic gestures. I sidestep a laughing woman despite the impulse to freeze and take her backhand against my head.

I’m responsible for this. I’m to blame.

After the six hours of driving yesterday and the abrasive ringtone of my phone so early this morning, my whole body is achy. I crack my neck to release the dull pain. Music blasts from a passing car stereo, and I step into the crosswalk before the red hand symbol changes to white.

Behind the officers standing guard at the perimeter, a green-trimmed window advertises fresh baked goods daily. Police are visible through the glass, taking notes, speaking to witnesses, examining the site for evidence.

Lucky number three depends on you.

As I stand beneath the sign TROIS CROISSANTS, another memory surges forward: The baker goes for flour. He’s gone for an hour. He makes what he wants. A big, fat croissant. Rosemary made us do arts and crafts for an hour the day of our escape, and we made braided bracelets using that rhyme as directions.

We made three bracelets that day, one for each of us. “Three croissants,” I whisper, remembering.

The image of the second body in the cooler and the bracelet he wore flashes to mind. It was a clue meant to lead me to this bakery and the dead body waiting inside.

Black hair comes into focus from around the corner. Shia.

“Hey, Claire.” He lifts a hand in hello.

I cast an eye for Oz or anyone else I know from the Post and see only nondescript police officers whom I haven’t met yet. “Hey. What are you doing here?”

Shia shifts his weight and looks down at the sidewalk. A spray-painted stencil filling one square of concrete says KEEP PORTLAND WEIRD!

“I was in the area, and I saw all the excitement. I thought it might have something to do with . . .” His voice trails off as my expression hardens.

“You were in the area?”

He shuffles his feet. “Nearby, yeah.”

“You’re here way too promptly. You have a radio scanner, don’t you?” I shake my head. “One that monitors police communications, so you know when and where a crime has occurred. Is that right?”

I stare at Shia with a mix of surprise and resignation. For some reason, I believed he was a purist when it came to journalism or writing or whatever he does—I thought he genuinely wanted to share the facts, versus being the first one to share them. Disappointment number two, counting his visit to Chet. He’s like the rest of them, desiring to report on the most blood and gain the most profit from a tragedy. Teenage recollections of reporters waiting outside my high school jolt forward and fuel my distaste now.

Shia, for his part, looks embarrassed. “Isn’t that what you’re doing here? As a freelance photographer for the crime beat?”

“It’s different.” I sneer before I remember I’m supposed to be simply Claire in this space—sweet, hardworking photographer with nothing to hide.

“Look, I thought maybe this murder had something to do with your fa—with Chet. Do you think it does?” He drops the remorse and peers over my shoulder to the scene behind me.

I shake my head again. “I don’t know. I have work to do.”

“See you Monday?” Shia’s voice trails me as I step around someone shouting into a loudspeaker—Move back, respect the police tape—and slide beneath the yellow barrier. I flash my press badge to a cop, then slip into the bakery’s interior.

Pauline made me take a photo for the badge after I finished the marketing team’s headshots. With wide eyes and tense cheeks, my portrait looks every bit as uncomfortable as I feel now.

“Hey, it’s my favorite intern,” Oz says to me. “Good of you to join. You’re late.” Bright-green eyes flick below my collarbone in an appreciative glance.

A few heads turn at the scolding, but I ignore them. “What happened here?”

“The owner went downstairs this morning looking for his grandson’s baseball mitt. He got more than he bargained for when he went poking around the boxes in the basement.”

“Ms. Lou. Ready? The Oregonian is already below.” Sergeant Peugeot appears from a narrow hall, clutching an extra-large paper coffee cup. Without waiting for an answer, he turns on his heel.

“Be right back,” I say to Oz. A few men pass Peugeot, carrying clear plastic bags containing fabric. Beside a cramped counter, a display case presents rows of neatly arranged golden croissants, chocolate croissants, tarts, other pastries I don’t know the names of, and sandwiches. My belly grumbles.