Lies We Bury(60)

The fear in her eyes pains me, makes me rack my brain for something to make her feel better. It’s the least I can do; the killer seems to be interested in me specifically. Why would he loop in Jenessa, if not to make it clear he can reach past me to people I love?

I point to the paper and hold up my phone. “Can I?” She nods, and I take a photo. Now that I think about it, the box letters—so different from the typed notes I’ve received before—seem roughly similar to Oz’s messy script. Maybe they’re shorter, a little neater. Still, I’ll zoom in and compare the two later.

“We aren’t going to do anything. You are going to stick to your normal routine and job. Have you connected with Lily yet?” We exchange a glance. “She’s home. I hope this guy hasn’t reached out to her, too.”

Tailored black eyebrows knit together. “No, I haven’t. She called me, though. I just haven’t had time to call her back. It’s been months since she returned my texts or calls, and now that she’s home, she’s desperate to see me and tell me something.”

I check my watch. Twelve thirty. “Listen, I’ve got to get going. I’m actually going to see her now. Do you want to come?”

“I have work. I only ran over here to show you the note.”

“That’s right. Sorry. But you should call her. She’s got big news.”

The corner of Jenessa’s mouth twitches. “She already told you?”

I nod. “Just call her, okay? I’ll walk out with you.”

“Actually, I’ll stay here. Give her a ring before I get distracted again.”

“Sure.”

She pulls me in for a hug. Her nails dig into the skin at my elbows, and I flinch. “Thanks for always being such a good sister,” she whispers.

I give her a pat on the back. “Hey, you got it.” Taking a last look at Jenessa among the rows of books, I feel a pang of nerves strike my chest—for leaving her here alone, for not telling her about Lily’s pregnancy, and for inadvertently involving her by not solving the third clue fast enough to satisfy its author.



Lily’s red-splotched face and watery eyes make her appear younger than her twenty-three years. I clear my throat, then pat my sister’s hand. Her massive belly looks out of place beneath her smooth, round face, virtually unlined and unchanged since before she moved abroad.

When she called me after my first cup of coffee, I scrambled to silence my phone before the other bookstore patrons kicked me out of the building. I answered with a breathless, “Hey.” Lily had smiled through the phone and explained that she wanted to chat in person. This afternoon. Knowing the locksmith had agreed to arrive after three, I said that worked, but was there anything I should know before then? The tone of her quivering voice suggested there was.

Bianca had left her—high and dry and eight months pregnant, Lily, my stoic emotional tank of a sister, had calmly explained. Bianca didn’t want to be back in Portland or the United States; she had purchased a ticket to return to Geneva and flown out on this morning’s first flight. She had said she wasn’t ready to be a mother.

Although I had offered to come over right then and there, Lily insisted she needed the morning to get some affairs in order—pack up more of Bianca’s things and also set up the baby’s crib. When the elevator doors opened onto the fourth floor of Lily’s apartment building, she was waiting for me with muffins she’d purchased, this time from around the corner.

After an hour of analyzing where she went wrong with her partner of four years, Lily stacks her hands across her swollen belly. “Well, I guess that’s life, isn’t it? Or my life, at least. People fail you, and the only choice you have is to move on.”

A better, cheerier person might have scoffed at the cynical statement, but I know better. “Move on or wait for them to come back around when you least expect it.”

Her hands clasp tighter. Light-blue eyes become pinpricks. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Right.” Her smile fades. “No, really. What is it?”

I scan my sister’s high forehead and plump cheeks, wishing I had more of a filter when I’m stressed. “Do you know what is happening tomorrow?”

She returns a blank stare. Her shoulders creep up to her ears. “Should I?”

She had no idea about Chet—about any of it. In all Lily’s worrying about her relationship and its effect on the baby, the issues of Chet’s parole tomorrow or this year being the twentieth anniversary of our escape were the last two things on her mind; she didn’t sign up for the victim notification. When I finish explaining my new freelance gig for the Portland Post and the notes that I’ve received relating to the crime scenes, Lily, to her credit, doesn’t become hysterical. Instead, she rubs her stomach in a circular motion.

“Can I see them?” she asks. “The notes.”

“I . . . I don’t think so.”

“Why not?” The rubbing stops.

Shame presses in on my frame. “It’s not a good idea.”

She laughs, the same wind-chime peal as always. “You don’t trust me?”

I hesitate—a moment too long—and her smile drops. “Honestly,” I say, “I think the less you know, the better.”