Lies We Bury(57)
Shia scowls as he leans over his laptop. “I did not collaborate with anyone, least of all some scummy reporter who surprised you somewhere. I haven’t seen a video, and I’m not sure it would help my book if you’re painted as an unhinged person, destroying private property.”
Outside, through the window, someone stares at us across the street beneath a leafy tree. The man walks closer, and I prepare to stand and run when he pauses at the entry. He points a finger at the wall and examines the menu posted on the brick. I inhale a shaky breath.
“You have motive. You have a reason to get all that you can out of our interaction and my presence in this city.”
Shia shakes his head side to side, and the outrage dissipates from my frame, leaving me feeling weak and foolish.
“You’re paranoid. You know that? All I’ve ever desired to do is help you. Yes, that leads to a profit for me—both financially and in my career—but they’re not mutually exclusive. I can help you and myself at the same time. It’s what I’ve tried to make clear since first meeting you. Seems I’ve failed there.”
“Look, someone is following me. I can’t explain it, but it’s true, and I have to look for who would have an obvious reason to do that, don’t I?”
He slides his laptop into his gray backpack, then stands. “I’ll see you Monday if you’re still up for it. I hope you get some rest, Claire. It must be exhausting assuming everyone is out to get you.”
Clouds roll in, replacing the tentative sunshine of the morning. On the drive back home, Shia’s words replay in my head over and over: You’re paranoid. The assertion rankles me, grates at my pride and the certainty that I’ve succeeded in dodging the prescribed fallout of my origins—what the professionals all suggest I should spiral toward. The certainty that I’ve avoided going down the same path as Jenessa—drug addiction, dead-end relationships, and a few nights in jail after an alcohol binge during which she broke a storefront window—or, in a lesser form, the apathetic attitude of Lily, who’s never seen value in pursuing a career, savings, or a stable address. Although maybe that will change now that she’s about to have a child.
If I’m being fair, Shia’s not wrong. I never keep male friends; I don’t trust men. Rosemary never dated or married after we joined the rest of the world, and her visceral anxiety whenever a man approached our brood in a supermarket, the bank, or our elementary school wriggled its way into my chest, shooting stabs of fear to my stomach. I thought I outgrew that instinct.
If Shia is right—and I do have some paranoia, toward all men, not just Chet—I may have been wearing blinders to certain facts, and it’s possible I missed something in my analysis of the killer’s profile. I’m no closer to identifying this person than when I first started. Chet’s parole and the end of the life I’ve built for myself crawl closer every second—while another innocent person has died.
My apartment smells different when I walk in the door. Not musty. Not stifled because the humidity seeped through the window when I neglected to lower the blinds this morning.
Fresh. Clean, like the scent that lingers ten minutes after a shower. Some instinct makes me pause on the threshold and flick on the light switch before entering. Everything looks normal. The cardboard box I use as an end table is exactly where I left it. The half-finished cup of coffee on the counter sits in the same dark ring stain I keep meaning to wipe away.
I exhale a breath. Throwing my messenger bag on the couch, I head to the fridge and retrieve the bottle of vodka I added to the freezer last night. The clock above the two-burner stove says I have another hour before good breeding deems liquor acceptable. Not falling into that category, I withdraw a tumbler from the cabinet. The label covering the side suggests IT’S 5 O’CLOCK SOMEWHERE.
I pour myself a half glass, neat. I never understood ice in a drink. Since I was a teenager, I’ve been taking mine straight—albeit the kind with which you could probably remove nail polish. Rocks only dilute a drink’s true purpose: numbness. I lift the drink to my mouth, then taste that fresh, thick scent again.
I stop moving. Stop breathing. I wasn’t imagining the smell.
Setting my drink on the counter, I grab the knife from my cutting board and walk to the bathroom. The floorboards creak beneath me. The bathroom door is slightly ajar, the bathroom itself dark. Nudging it open with a toe, I hit the light switch with my free hand. As I step inside the cramped space, the air is dense, like I forgot to turn on the dehumidifier after I showered this morning and the door was stuck closed all day, trapping the moisture inside.
But I showered last night.
My heart pounds against my ribs, and I yank back the shower curtain to reveal the empty square basin with only enough room for someone to stand. My gaze swings to the right, to the benign wooden cabinet. Slowly, I raise my eyes to the mirror above the sink, and my hand flies to my throat. The message written on the steamed glass has almost faded to nothing, but it cuts into me like the knife I drop to the floor:
TIME TO COME CLEAN, MISSY
I grab the knife and run back to the front entry, tear open the side closet door. I thrust my hands among my coats, looking for someone hiding and waiting for strong arms to jerk out and pull me in.
Panting heavily, I survey the apartment. The studio I tolerated but which felt like mine now seems to vibrate like a living animal, having been violated by an intruder. I return to the bathroom and take a photo of the message with my phone. Evidence.