Lies We Bury(59)

Opposite the bed, paperwork is stacked on a dresser. What else is Oz meticulous about? Does he bring his work home with him?

Creeping from the bed in case he’s still lurking somewhere or has a roommate, I tiptoe to the pile. A manila folder contains bills from Portland General Electric. Loose papers beneath seem to be old concert tickets printed at home. A magazine on the Portland real estate market rests atop a small spiral notebook, and I pause. The notebook is like the one I saw Oz writing in outside Four Alarm and The Stakehouse. I flip it open.

Slanted box letters take up two rows on each page, with sporadic dates marking every few pages. It’s hard to know where one entry begins and another ends, but it seems this notepad was first put to use back in February. A March protest staged at the Portland Art Museum consumes twenty pages, so I flip to the end and search for the latest date. April 4. One week ago.

At the top of the final page are the words F.A. Brew. I hold my breath as I scan Oz’s notes from the day we met. His writing is hard to decipher in the dim light, but the words Suspect Woman are underlined.

Someone laughs nearby, in this apartment or the apartment complex, snapping me out of my daze. Using my phone, I take photos of the last several pages, front and back, then take a picture of the closed notepad. Two can be meticulous here.

In a box on the floor beside the dresser sit a dozen identical black notepads, each individually wrapped in plastic.

I grab my wallet, pocket my phone, and slip on my shoes. The walls of Oz’s short hallway are empty, while the front room contains a leather couch, a glass table, and a nice television displayed on an entertainment center I recognize from IKEA. A nanny cam below the television offers a complete one-eighty view of the apartment. Not a leaf of greenery in the place. Very bachelor chic.

Glorious coffee aroma fills the open-kitchen floor plan, but I shouldn’t dawdle when I’ve got stolen intel on my phone to analyze. I leave the apartment and walk down the carpeted hall toward where hazy memories recall climbing the stairwell.



Working from Powell’s, Portland’s largest bookstore, allows me to get lost in the white noise of people coming and going. I still have a massive headache, despite my breakfast of pain blockers.

Most of Oz’s notes confirm what I already knew: the Four Alarm victim was thought to be killed sometime Saturday afternoon or evening after being held in the underground tunnel for an undetermined amount of time; Chief Bradley was looking into all brewery employees; Topher Cho, bartender/actor, discovered the body and was being questioned. No mention of any specific woman, aside from Chief Bradley. Suspect Woman doesn’t make any more sense than it did in Oz’s apartment. However, next to notes about Topher are tiny box letters: YT.

While these notes aren’t a map to the killer, I don’t regret spending the night. I’d presumed, accurately as it turned out, that once drunk, Oz would want to discuss the murders. Topher is still his chief suspect. But, regarding the identity of his source among the police, he turned out to be a locked safe. I kept pressing, but he stood firm.

A stabbing fear suddenly grips me. Did I say something to him as we were drinking last night? Did I use my real name or let it slip that I’m one of the freak-show Granger kids?

“Hey.” Jenessa stands beside the line of people waiting to order coffee from the café.

“Hey.” I rise, pushing my chair back. “What are you doing here?”

She gestures away from the crowded space, down an aisle of books. I follow her, confused. I had texted Jenessa my location when she asked for it, but I didn’t realize she was coming to meet me.

“Are you okay? What’s wrong? Did something happen at the doughnut shop? Aren’t you working right now?”

She shakes her head, then turns to me, her face serious beneath the ceiling-height shelves. “Someone left me a note.” She withdraws a wad of paper from her pocket and hands it to me. I smooth it out and read:

Time to come clean.

My breath catches in my throat, and I can’t speak, can’t move or tear my eyes from the box letters. “Where did you . . . what is . . . ?”

“I found it this morning on my car windshield. What do you think it means? I’ve been consumed with it since then, and lunch is the first time I’ve had a break. Freaking weekend rush has been crazy.”

The memory of my fogged-over bathroom mirror fills my mind. “Someone knows where you live.”

“I know. It’s pretty scary, right? What do you think it means?” she asks again in a small voice. When I meet her tight gaze, I see the sister I’ve hurdled through life’s obstacles with, whose triumphs and defeats I’ve witnessed; I see the little girl I was imprisoned with and the woman who struggled to leave the consequences of that beginning behind.

“No idea. I received the same message—in my apartment.”

Jenessa’s eyes widen. “Like, in . . . ? Where? How?”

I shrug, then lean against a row of nonfiction. A man yells from several aisles over that he found the book he needs. “Don’t know. I have to believe I forgot to lock the dead bolt that morning and only locked the doorknob, which would be easier to pick. A locksmith is coming today.”

Jenessa crosses her arms, then stares down at the tile floor. “This is crazy. This is unlike anything I’ve experienced before. I mean, during my second rehab, I had a guy follow me everywhere for a month once I was discharged. He was determined to catch me falling off the wagon, I guess. What are we going to do?”