Lies We Bury(64)

“No, I didn’t know they’d identified him. Only that he’d been burned and died from burns or smoke inhalation.”

Oz shakes his head, enjoying my ignorance. “His body was burned after. He died from a gunshot to the chest. He’s an advocate for refugees in the Pacific Northwest and has about a hundred thousand followers on Facebook. Each victim had a solid online platform.”

“So you’re saying that because these people were active on social media, only a woman would be driven to kill them, out of—what? Jealousy? Obsession? Because a man wouldn’t care about social media?”

Oz leans back in the chair. “You don’t agree?”

I exhale through my nose and look around me. The bar is nearly full of men, but there are two women—the laughing pair—at a table behind us.

“I don’t. The facts continue to point to a male, probably white, midthirties, potentially with a history of violence, if we’re allowing the textbook markers to guide us. Why do you care anyway? Isn’t it all the same to you as a reporter?”

“Didn’t hear that, either, did you?” Oz downs his glass. “Police just announced a reward tonight for information that might lead to the killer—or the ringleader if there’s more than one. Fifteen grand.”

I nod. Seems I’m not the only one in need of extra funds. “That’s a good reason.”

Throwing enough money on the counter to cover my drink, I stand and finish the rest of my mule. “Thanks for the brainstorming session.”

“Where are you going?” His dark eyebrows narrow. “Aren’t we hanging out again tonight? I already reserved a round of darts for us.” He pats a zippered container on the table.

“Probably a bad idea. I’m a terrible shot.”

He removes two darts from the pouch and hands me one. “Humor me.”

Grudgingly, I cross the room to the far wall in between a scroll painting of a peacock and a black-and-white photo of chopsticks. After a look beside me to ensure no foot traffic will get caught in my crosshairs, I raise the dart. Close one eye to help my aim. Then lance the dart at the round red target.

It hits the wall beneath the board, then takes a chunk of wall down to the ground with it.

I turn back to Oz. “See?”

Instead of mocking me as I expect, he hands me another dart with a grin. “That was a warm-up.”

I laugh outright. Oz Trainor may have gotten attached to someone sleeping in his bed. “No, I shouldn’t. I’m going home. See you later.”

He nods, disappointment pursing full lips. “Yeah, see you at the next murder.”

As I walk back through Chinatown, Oz’s logic continues to reverberate in my head. If I incorporate the notes that I’ve been receiving, the directions I’ve been given, and the clues that have been planted relating to my life, I’ve got the following: this murderer, man or woman, is interested in true crimes and, more specifically, my family’s trauma. The killer is an able-bodied resident of Portland, and they’re intrigued by underground spaces. More urgently, this person knows who I am, where I live, and what I’m trying to hide. They know I have photos of each crime scene. And they wanted me to take pictures of two of the bodies before anyone else was aware.

I pause beneath an awning to peer behind me. Check over my shoulder. Tension knots my neck as the full significance of Oz’s good intentions takes shape.

If Oz’s source, or anyone else with the police, shares his theory that the killer could be a woman, I’ll have gone about this night all wrong. The way I left our conversation, all signs point to the most likely suspect: me.





Twenty-Five





THEN


When the Murphy stops making noise I take my hands away from my ears. Twin looks at me with the cover pulled up to her nose but neither of us makes a peep. Her eyes are round and wide like that scared bunny on the Australian Outback cartoon. My heart thumps like the bunny’s feet. We both know Mama Rosemary has something different planned than the usual visit.

Mama appears in the doorway. Her nightgown is unbuttoned at the top. “Sweetheart, I need you to come with me.”

Twin shakes her head and goes lower under the covers.

Mama walks to her side of the bed. Mama’s eyes are big and rounder than I’ve ever seen. She gets down real close to Twin’s ear but I don’t breathe so I can hear. “Trust me, baby. I know it’s hard. But we have to.”

Twin puts her legs out of bed and stands. They walk into the other room and don’t look at me. I am froze.

The man makes a happy noise. Ahhhh. “Hello there.”

“Go ahead, baby.” Mama Rosemary’s voice is weird. Low and slow. There’s a creaking noise from the Murphy and then the man makes another noise a whoooosh then, “You want more Mars Bars, sweetheart? Come sit on Uncle Chet’s lap,” then quiet.

Mama Rosemary shouts, “Now, baby!” Sounds come from the other room.

Quick fast noise and a heavy sound—bang!—the man grunting he yells out “Ah!” and the big heavy sound again like our cooking pan—bang bang! I get nervous wondering what’s happening. A box opens—the storage bin?—and the plastic top goes falling to the ground. Clatter bang. More grunting and something heavy being kicked. Loud noise.