Lies We Bury(62)

Without waiting for a response, I jog in the opposite direction. Restaurant patrons all peer at us. Two people stood up from their tables for a better view.

Not much farther now. A half block.

“He cares for you, you know!” she shouts after me, her voice strained.

I pass a young man with round headphones, bouncing to a beat, oblivious.

“He cares for all of you! And when he gets out, he’s coming to be the real father he should have always been. He’s a good man!”

A breeze picks up, and I lean into the cool air. I place one foot in front of the other to avoid running back and tearing that woman’s throat out. Fury continues to pump through me, and I breathe deeply, try to remind myself that the fight is over and I’ve already taken flight. I feel much the same way I did after chucking the Tru Lives reporter’s phone, but this time the remorse is nonexistent. Any person stupid enough to marry Chet, to love a predator she’s spent time with only during visiting hours, then to shove it in my face on a downtown street, deserves my outburst and more.

Even if I did just add another public incident to the Missy Mo: Pissed and All Grown Up file. Impulsive. Stupid.

For her to presume she’ll act as the mediator between Chet and his offspring indicates serious lunacy. Why do some women become infatuated with incarcerated men, let alone those convicted of violent crimes? I’ve heard it happens, but I never thought Chet could be the object of anyone’s affections after what he did to my mothers.

I walk for another minute, then loop back to the front of Lily’s building. When I peek around the corner, the brick entry is clear. Did Karin know I was visiting Lily?

What else does she—does Chet—know about us?

A thought surges forward that makes me search the restaurant crowd for that long ombré hair: Could she have left me the Four Alarm note on Chet’s behalf? Is Chet reinventing himself, a modern murderer from behind bars, thanks to this woman acting as his proxy?

It’s possible her motivation in approaching me was true family togetherness. Or she could simply be a distraction. Deliberately misleading me.





Twenty-Four

“I think that should do it.” The locksmith slides a narrow pair of pliers back into his belt loop. He wipes his wrist across his forehead, then pats the name tag sewn into his vest. ERROL.

“Someone did a real number on your doorknob,” he continues, jiggling the handle on the open door. Behind him, I see Derry Landry pass in the hall for the fourth time. I wonder how long I can avoid giving him the new key. “These housing mass manufacturers always choose the cheapest model,” Errol is saying. “But with this new one, you’ll be in a better spot.”

I wave goodbye to Errol, then shut the door behind me. Safely tucked behind three inches of wood and metal, I survey my apartment in the light of day. The green-and-yellow armchair I bought from a yard sale, the only patterned item I own, catches me as I slip into its worn fabric basin.

My ringtone erupts from on top of the cardboard box—its default trill. I stretch forward to grab it and feel just how tired I am after sleeping in an unfamiliar place last night. And the residual dehydration.

Shia Tua scrolls across the screen. New embarrassment heats my neck, recalling how I barreled into the coffee shop, accusing him of conspiring with the reporter. And we already have a session scheduled for tomorrow. I let the call go to voice mail.

My bed seems to beckon from the floor in the corner of my studio. The idea of taking a sleeping pill and quitting while I’m marginally ahead—thanks, Errol—is tempting.

But my phone rings again, vibrating across the cardboard cube. “Wow, Shia.” I reach for it and flip it over, only to see a different contact calling—Oz.

“Hi,” I answer, my tone wary. If he wants to strike up another night of romance, I’ll need to decline without severing the bridge between us.

“Claire, hey. You hungry?” Noise emanates from the background. He must be in another bar.

“I’m hanging at home tonight. Thanks for calling.”

“Claire,” he begins, and I can hear his smirk through the phone. “We both know what last night was. You were finally ready to unwind, and I was happy to host. Let’s not make this weird.”

I roll my eyes, wishing he had video called me to see it. “Sure. Agreed.”

“I have some more news on the tunnel murderer. I think you should hear it.”

The clock on the kitchen stove reads close to six, as Errol got held up at his last appointment and showed up much later than planned. I’ve been alone for only a few minutes. The last thing I want to do is venture out again for more shenanigans with Oz, but with less than a day before my two worlds come to a head, I don’t see another way. If the Time to come clean message means someone else’s life may end soon if I don’t continue searching, I need to keep going.

Laughter in the background swells as I slowly inhale. “Where are you?”



The Sunday crowd is less drunk than last night. I find Oz at the same spot at the bar, Beijing Suzy’s, where we cheersed shot glasses beneath the mounted televisions. Casting a glance toward where the trapdoor sits innocently beneath the dartboard, I weave between tables to him. We exchange awkward pleasantries, and I get the feeling that Oz doesn’t usually see a woman again after she spends the night.