Lies We Bury(70)

Shia shakes his head. “Not that I know of. Why?”

Before I fell asleep last night, I hit “Refresh” on the Portland Post’s landing page at least thirty times. Waiting. Watching. Knowing that Oz wouldn’t sit on what he learned forever.

After I ran out—ran home and locked my new-and-improved dead bolt—he must have gone down to verify for himself whether there was indeed a new body in the tunnels.

Observing my face, Shia stiffens. “What happened?”

He grabs his phone and opens his search browser, then types something I can’t make out from across the table. His gaze snaps up to mine. “Another body was found in the tunnels of Four Alarm Brewery. While police previously searched the known passageways, the victim appears to have been moved to this location within the last two days. Police have now sealed off all entrances to the so-called Shanghai Tunnels.”

I pull up the same information on my phone, updated this morning at six. All entrances sealed . . . Thinking back on my Saturday night with Oz, the trapdoor entrance to the tunnels was unguarded and accessible to anyone inside Beijing Suzy’s.

The Post article adds that a brewery employee previously questioned about the murders has been detained again in connection with the latest one. My stomach sinks. Topher let me in after I lied to him about being a photographer with the police. And there’s no doubt in my mind he’ll offer up every detail to the detectives who interview him—most importantly, that I asked for a self-guided tour. If Oz didn’t volunteer right away that I’ve got a family history of violence and kidnapping of women, he will after learning Topher was misled into allowing me access below.

The words that I spoke to Oz last night return with a sting: Female serial killers have commonalities with male serial killers. Both of them usually witness violence at a formative age.

“This is crazy,” Shia says, scrolling on his phone. “NWTV suggests they’ve got an additional source saying the killer isn’t the homeless girl but a different woman. Who do you think that is?”

“Who do I think who is? The killer or the source?” I search his face for an accusation.

He peers at me, both eyebrows lifted. “The killer. Women aren’t typically serial killers. It’s hard to imagine someone who’d have a motive to organize multiple murders like this.”

My phone buzzes. Oz’s name trails across the square window.

“Hello?” I answer, my voice shaking. My free hand grips the edge of the table, and Shia notices.

“You should know that I’m recording this call.” His voice is tremulous, as if he, too, is scared. Scared of what?

“I went to the police early this morning and told them everything that’s happened between us. Your photography work for the Post, your presence at each crime scene, your returning to the Four Alarm tunnels, and the photo you took of that dead body. I told them your real name . . . Marissa . . . and the fact that you are Chet Granger’s child and failed to tell anyone. I made everything about your involvement as a freelance photographer clear, so that when the police come for you, you won’t take the Post down with you.”

My mouth falls slack. Oz is scared—of me.

Shia watches my reactions, his eyes unmoving even when a server spills a tray of fries on the floor.

“Oz—I’m not. You’re making a mistake here.”

“The hell I am,” Oz scoffs, and someone makes a hushing sound in the background; he’s not alone. “I went back through my notes at each site. At first, I thought maybe the murderer was a rival dancer at The Stakehouse; then I cross-referenced details from the Post’s coverage of your captivity. I was up all night, hoping to be proven wrong before I went to the police, but everything in the Granger incident report was as I remembered. I even confirmed your first meal post-captivity was croissants, and the third body was found at a French bakery. God knows what the police will find on your laptop, on top of the photos of the latest dead body on your camera.”

I go to speak, but my words fail me. Everything I feared in receiving the anonymous notes, the way they led me to each successive crime scene, required that I use clues from my childhood to identify the next location—obligated me to talk with Shia and recall more—is coming to a head. The killer would have known I’d save each series of photos, maintaining a library of evidence to be used against me, true to Oz’s mocking tone. Even as the Post incentivized me to take more shots, always more images, by paying me my first livable wage in years. The killer must have known about that, too.

“You said it yourself,” Oz breathes into the phone. “Serial killers witness violence at an early age. That’s all you, Missy.”

My mouth goes dry and, instinctively, I search for the nearest exit.

“To think I let you spend the night,” he adds. “Hope you enjoy life in prison.” The line goes dead.

He hung up on me. How long does it take to triangulate someone’s geo-location using cell phone towers? A minute? Longer? Is it longer cell phone to cell phone? Do the police need a warrant to track me?

Practical thoughts torpedo in my brain as I reach across the table and remove a medium-size fry from Shia’s plate.

He stares at me, both eyebrows steepled together. “What just happened?”

I chew the greasy treat, then wipe my hands on a paper napkin. “I—I don’t know exactly. I think . . . the police are coming for me.”