Lies We Bury(6)

Mama Rosemary puts Sweet Lily back on the ground then touches her finger to Sweet Lily’s nose. “Escape, my love, means we’re going to be free.”





Four

As I pull into the boxy parking lot of my apartment complex, a car zips past me to exit, narrowly missing my side-view mirror. When I lock eyes with the driver, he gives me a dirty look like I’ve done something wrong.

I park in one of the uncovered—free of charge—spots, then watch the entrance for any other aggressive drivers barreling through the narrow opening. Someone else might be in a hurry to take out the plot of peonies growing on the corner, or someone may be more focused on slipping unseen into my neighborhood. Watching. Waiting for me to feel comfortable and safe again. Before they note exactly where I live and how to get inside while I’m sleeping.

Stop it. No one is coming to get you. The note suggested a location in Portland, and no one is driving out to the ’burbs to give me a scare.

Paranoia has been a constant since my twentieth birthday, when I turned the same age as Rosemary when she was abducted. But while Rosemary was carefree before that day in 1989, I had my first stalker at age fifteen. Someone keen on revisiting Chet’s legacy, according to the notes they tucked into my school locker.

Grabbing my backpack, laptop bag, and camera case, I shimmy out of my car, being careful not to ding the sleek, freshly washed sedan beside it. As I near my first-floor apartment, footsteps approach from behind, and I whirl to face my attacker.

“Claire. So glad I could catch you.” The property manager, Derry Landry, stares at me with a self-satisfied grin. His blond buzz cut gives him the illusion of a halo against the morning sun. “You left in such a hurry yesterday, I couldn’t ask you about the final deposit amount.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.” I sling the camera strap around my neck. “Once I cash a check tomorrow, I’ll have a hundred and fifty. I should have the last fifty dollars soon.”

If the Portland Post sends more work my way, I won’t have to borrow money from Jenessa.

“Hundred dollars. The corporate office tacked on a fifty-dollar late fee,” he says.

“Wow. That’s, like . . . a thirty-three percent increase.”

Derry maintains a stoic mien, as if I withheld the cash from his grandmother. “Not my problem.”

He steps toward me, and his hand grazes my elbow. “You know, I was excited when you moved in, Claire. Thought it would be nice to inject some young blood into the neighborhood.” Gray eyes the shade of the community garbage bin seem to drink me in. He leans forward, using the extra six inches he has on me to block out the sun. The shadow on his face makes him appear more aggressive, and I briefly wonder whether he has the spare key to my apartment or the corporate office does.

I step away into the carpeted hallway. “I’ll make sure I get that hundred dollars to you.”

“When?” he asks, closing the distance between us again. His breath smells of milk, like he just finished eating cereal. I turn away and grapple for my key.

“Very soon. Thanks for the heads-up on the late fee.” After closing the door behind me and locking the dead bolt, I watch him through the peephole. He lingers a moment longer, swearing something inaudible. He runs a hand over his head, hesitates, and actually lifts his fist to knock on my door. Then he walks toward the parking lot, out of sight.

I turn and lean against the cool wood. Across the room, the digital clock of the kitchen oven glares the time: barely eleven. I peel myself from the door and place my stuff onto the love seat. The laptop bag is old, with cracks in its leather, but an aluminum plate beneath the handle shines with my initials like Rosemary had it engraved yesterday—MCM. The Sweet Sixteen gift was meant to see me through college, but that plan (and those initials) didn’t last.

A quick glance confirms the studio is exactly as I left it: a bowl rests on the tile countertop of the kitchen nook, stale toast peeking from beside it; the sheets of my full-size bed, rumpled in a ball, are nearly off the mattress in the corner; and a broad coffee table, rescued from a classifieds website, serves as the room’s centerpiece. The flat-screen television—my one splurge, bought with the money I saved from a lucrative senior-portrait season a few years ago—enjoys the place of honor on a grocery crate.

I grab a glass of water from the faucet, then survey the room; it’s better than the last shoebox I lived in. Its main redeeming quality is the view, ironically hidden by the blinds. Anyone could see inside without them. Beyond the parking lot, an open field leads into the thick forest of a nature preserve—a view of uninhibited space that’s the perfect way to end any day. Access to photographic, idyllic scenery is a major reason why I stayed in Oregon and moved to Portland. When foot traffic dies down for the night, and there are fewer ins and outs through the parking lot, I’ll turn off my lamps, raise the blinds, and gaze out on the trees, illuminated only by moonlight.

Voices pass outside the window, and I stiffen by instinct. The note folded in my pocket resumes pulsing, announcing my brief reprieve is over. I take it out.

Four alarms have been shot.

I retrieve my laptop from my bag, then begin a flurry of internet searches. Portland news brings up an article about the top five best places to live in the country. Portland murder results are dominated by updates on a domestic shooting. The Portland Post is the only website that’s reported on the suspected murder at Four Alarm Brewery. The photos I took yesterday are featured throughout the story.