Lies We Bury(67)

“No, that’s fine. No need to bother her. There’s desk work waiting for me back at the office. I’ll be quick.” I follow him forward, brainstorming more mundane work phrases to whip out, if needed.

In the cellar, we pass boxes of cutlery, and Topher moves into the opening where the body of the exotic dancer was found. We step over yellow crime scene tape fallen to the ground. The chains have been removed from the wall, and all that remains is a stain on the earth where the victim’s blood likely pooled for hours before she was discovered.

“Is there anything I can help you with?” Topher asks, ever the good citizen. His eyes shift nervously from my face to my camera case like it might contain a gun. Little does he know I got rid of my gun before moving here. I didn’t like the temptation so close and near my open vodka bottles.

I examine the space, as though weighing his offer. The construction lamps are already lit. “If I could just have a few minutes here, I’ll come back up and let you know when I’m through.”

Topher nods, then returns to the cellar opening. If he believes that I’m with the police—and is more compliant as a result—all the better.

Alone with my thoughts, the same creeping fear as the first time spools down my back. Chet’s basement compound was roomy for most of my childhood. It was only when we turned six or seven, when Lily was becoming more active and Rosemary more unstable, kicking things and drifting into hours of listless depression, that the space began to feel confined. After we got out, I realized that the cereal we had eaten for breakfast every morning tasted sweeter than the store brand we bought, and that the store brand gave me a sugar high whenever I consumed it—the opposite of my experience down below. Sometime after high school, I read about lithium and the sedating effects it can have on children in small doses—as well as its possible long-term damaging health effects. I resented that Rosemary had willfully medicated us, may have stunted Lily’s brain development and exacerbated my depression, even knowing it was a preemptive strategy to keep us all sane down there.

Rustling comes from farther in the tunnels. Movement. Footsteps. Shuffling forward. Sweat breaks across my chest. The hair on my forearms rises, and I remember that I’m not a police officer, and I brought only pepper spray. “Who’s there?” I call out. “Portland police!”

The movement stops. Then starts again, shuffling, moving forward, coming closer but still outside the sphere of light emanating from the construction lamp.

A rat emerges, trailing a plastic grocery bag caught on its crooked tail. It makes a wide arc around me before zeroing in on the exit into the restaurant.

I gasp out several expletives and clutch my chest. All this slinking around can’t be good for my health.

Last night, I dreamed of the day Mama Bethel shared that she was going to have a baby—Lily. I was so excited, I remember jumping up and down, despite the looks of anxiety that flashed across all three women’s faces. An early memory, from when I was three or so, it proves that things weren’t completely awful for us. What else does Shia know that I’m unaware of?

Without the rat’s plastic shuffle, the space feels cavernous, empty, and full of secrets. I take a step backward and land in the brown circle of bloodstain. In a snap of memory, I recall a similar dark stain that we all avoided on the mattress—each of us, except for Lily, because it was hers. The only tangible item she had of her mother, the stain containing the fluids that accompanied her birth.

I creep forward, bending my head slightly beneath the low dirt roof, farther than I saw the police standing when I poked my head into this passageway against Sergeant Peugeot’s instructions. The dry-goods cellar and orbs of safety become smaller until my cell phone’s flashlight is the only source of light. I hold my breath. Remind myself that I can get out, back up to fresh air and the surface as soon as I want. My eyes adjust to the semidarkness, and bleary shapes become recognizable.

Once, Rosemary refused to succumb to one of Chet’s visits, and the next day he turned off the electricity to the basement. It was February. We passed the time by singing songs, making up rhymes, and huddling together for warmth until three days later when the heater kicked back on. I remember, when the batteries on our light-up toys gave out, the darkness was all-consuming. Rosemary stopped talking the last day.

The pathways keep going to the right, curving under the portion of Northwest that was forgotten about. Shovels and police tape are piled together to the side, along with handheld machines, maybe depth gauges. A mound of discarded rocks lies farther ahead.

Except they’re too smooth to be rocks. There’s a plastic sheet over them, or a tarp.

Inching closer, I wave my phone across the mass, and a sharp patch of white stands stark against the black earth. A hand protruding from the lump.

I stumble backward, stifling the cry that bursts from my mouth. A body. A fourth one.

But there were no new notes today, none on my car or shoved under my door or written on my bathroom mirror, so how could this be happening? Is the killer nearby, still prepping the scene?

I whirl to shine my phone behind me, back toward the brewery. Nothing but semilit ground.

Slowly, I turn toward the body. And listen. Water drips from somewhere in the distance. I’m at least a city block away from the brewery, underground. The only breathing I can discern is my own.

Before I think better of it, I raise my camera to what I thought was a pile of rocks and hit the shutter button. Twice. Three times. A fourth from a higher angle.