Lies We Bury(61)

“Well, did you show Jenessa?”

“Yes—”

“Of course you did.” She sighs.

I sit up straight and turn around to face her. “What does that mean?”

She shakes her head. “Maybe it’s because you spent more time together in the basement than I did. I always felt like you had some bond that I could never quite access. Some shared secret.”

“Lily, that’s not—”

“No, it’s fine. Whoever you choose to tell about the notes is your business. I understand, really.” She adopts a thin-lipped smile. Her hand resumes its circular pattern on her belly.

We sit silently. Music swells from a nearby apartment, opera, as I try to find the words to reassure my little sister. “It’s really not about trusting Jenessa so much as I needed a sounding board—one of you—before I knew you came home.”

She dips her head, not fully believing me. “All right. Well, you don’t have to show me the notes. Can I help you figure this out another way? What theories do you have so far?”

Behind her and through the window, rain begins to patter against the glass. There are less than twenty-four hours before Chet is unleashed. Somewhere within me, I know the killer’s plan will shift into its next phase then, as well—whether orchestrated by Chet or someone else I have yet to meet.

I search for my wallet behind a couch pillow. “I’d love to stay and get your thoughts on this stuff because I really haven’t made progress alone. But the locksmith should be at my place any minute. Sorry to spring even more bad news on you, with everything you’re handling at the moment.”

She stands with difficulty, then wraps her arms around me. “I’m glad you told me about Chet. And I’m so thankful you came over. I really needed this.”

She pulls back to release me from the hug, but I tighten my grasp at her shoulder blades. “Me too, Lil.” I speak into her hair, meaning the words more than I think she knows.



“Marissa.”

I turn, expecting to see Lily. But the woman standing on the sidewalk outside Lily’s apartment—the one who just spoke my name as though we know each other—brushes long, dark hair back from her face with her index finger. Sheets of red at the tips fade closer to her roots, an ombré design.

“Marissa, you are a vision, aren’t you?”

My stomach knots as I check my surroundings. The patio of the Italian restaurant next door is filled with patrons—witnesses. In case something happens. In case this woman tries something.

“Do I know you?” I ask.

She lifts a hand to my face, although she’s still six feet away. Her hair shimmers like something out of a shampoo commercial, grazing her hips. “You have his eyes.”

Her voice sounds like a five-year-old’s, contrasting the loose skin of her neck. She slides her hands into the pockets of low-rise jeans that fit tight across wide hips. “I’m sorry to bother you. I wasn’t following you, exactly; I was trying—”

I sidestep her and continue toward my car. The heels she wears click-clack behind me.

“Marissa, please.”

“Leave me alone!” I whirl on her. “I don’t care what you want or why my story resonated with you. Got it?”

Instead of walking away, this woman gasps, appreciatively. “You even sound like him.”

I look around for a weapon, a way out, but my car is too far. Running back to Lily’s isn’t an option. I reach into my bag for my pepper spray and find the slender tube.

“Marissa.” She touches my elbow, and I jerk away. “Marissa, we’re family. I married Chet in prison after years of letters.” She laughs fondly. “So many letters. I’m Karin.”

Her words rake across my body. Karin Degrassi. Chet’s other visitor this month. “What?”

“I just want to get to know you.” She withdraws a photo from the small purse dangling by her side. In it, she and Chet stand face-to-face, holding hands before a man in a black suit. Whereas Chet wore an orange jumper when I met him, in this picture he wears a black T-shirt and jeans with ECHO STATE PRISON stamped on them. This woman, this Karin, wears a formfitting dress. They beam at each other.

The words and sentiments she wields, that she cares for the fiend who imprisoned my family and has the balls to call himself my father, are just as dangerous as a serrated knife. Large gray eyes, unnaturally round, like they might fall out of her skull, watch my reaction.

She sighs. “It was the happiest day of my life. He shared that you went to visit him last week.”

Pitiful. Embarrassment for her and disgust war within me. I resume walking, cursing myself for using free street parking today instead of paying for a garage nearby.

“Chet is getting out tomorrow, you know,” she calls in a singsongy voice. “He wants to see you.”

My teeth grind, molar to molar.

“Maybe we could get dinner? The three of us,” she adds.

I pause midstep. Take two long strides back toward her that put me within a foot of her deep-V blouse. Cloying perfume engulfs me. “You tell Chet to stay the hell away from me. And my family.”

I snatch the photo from her and rip it in two—tear it lengthwise, then turn it over and do it again. She screams, horrified, as I throw the shredded bits in the air; they flutter into the street and slap against the windshield of a passing truck that will carry them somewhere far, far away from me.