Lies We Bury(71)

“Are you serious?”

I nod.

“Then you need to leave. Whoever you were speaking with—that Oz guy from the Post?—you need to leave.”

High-pitched, hysterical laughter tumbles from my throat, halfway past my teeth. I run a hand down my face, then continue to laugh into my palm.

“Claire, I’m serious. You need to leave.” Nervous energy rolls off Shia in waves.

“This isn’t happening,” I say, wiping a tear from my eye. “I’m not—this isn’t real.” Another round of giggles bursts from me, and I clutch my side against the sudden pinch. “Holy shit, is this happening?”

“Claire. Outside. Follow me outside now. Come on.” Shia throws a twenty on the table, then directs me through the restaurant by the elbow. When the sun hits us on the sidewalk, the smile wipes from my face. I feel depleted. Empty. Confused. He leads me to his car, and a dull warning within me says I shouldn’t go anywhere with a man I don’t actually know—despite opening wide my secrets to him in interviews. I should stop. Go back to the safety of the restaurant and finish the tots.

“Stop.” I struggle against his grip on my elbow, but he opens his passenger door and throws me inside. He locks the door from the outside, and even though I can unlock it, I don’t. I sit still as he circles the hood and opens the driver’s-side door.

Finally, I’ll get exactly what I deserve.

He reaches across me, and I flinch when he touches my bare knee. Instead of grabbing me by the shoulders, he retrieves a box hidden beneath a black blanket. A radio scanner. He flicks a button, and the machine powers to life, garbled conversations becoming clearer as Shia manipulates the frequency knobs. When he finds the station he wants, he stares straight ahead, listening. I listen, too, but only understand numbers. Street names. And “Ezra’s Brewery and Restaurant.”

“What does that mean?” I turn to Shia, all mirth and amusement sucked from my body. I clutch my messenger bag across my legs.

“There’s a call out for your arrest.” He licks his lips, and a shudder ripples through me before he speaks. “It means you need to run.”





Twenty-Eight

“What do I do? Where do I go?” Frenzy elevates my voice. My cheeks flush as sweat breaks across my neck, and I clutch my bag tighter. My laptop and camera, the chief sources of evidence against me, are inside, but how much can be inferred from the photos that the Post bought?

The Portland Post. The closest bridge to normal I’ve had in over a year—gone. Pauline must know by now.

If the police are on their way to the restaurant, a separate unit must be en route to my apartment.

Shia grips the steering wheel, looking at something in the road. A man in a blazer and jeans, jaywalking. The man’s face drops to his cell phone screen in his hand. My phone pings; Shia’s makes the bell chime sound. We each tap on the news alert that popped up, and a string of text appears:

AP News Alert: Convicted of sexual assault and false imprisonment, Chet Granger has been released on parole from Echo State Prison.

The blood drains from my face. I lift my eyes to Shia’s wary expression. The stupor that bloomed in my chest carries down my arms and nests in my fingertips. “He’s out,” I whisper.

Shia resumes staring forward. He turns the key in the ignition and starts the car. “I’ll drive you wherever you want to go. But after that, I can’t promise anything.”

I nod.

“Lay back.” He reaches across me—this time I don’t flinch—and hits a button on the side of the seat, reclining me click by click.

Leafy green canopies frame my view as Shia drives through downtown, observing every speed limit, stop sign, and traffic signal.

“Where am I going?” he asks after we loop a roundabout for the second time.

I need to regroup. Gather my thoughts and consider next steps. “Drop me off at that coffee shop, Stump City. Your favorite.”

He turns right, and we climb a hill. The foliage above becomes thicker, fanning out, so the sunshine only dapples through. Traffic noise diminishes around us, and instead voices seem to multiply as the road levels out. Pedestrians carry on conversations, audible in these narrow streets, maybe taking early lunches or discussing ways to skip town and never be seen again.

Shia pulls to a stop beneath a sign that reads COBBLE YOU UP: SHOE REPAIR.

“We’re here,” he says, turning to me.

I remain seated, not wanting to move, to be thrust out into a hostile world that’s growing more claustrophobic with every minute. “Sorry about . . . Do you have enough to finish your book?”

Shia answers with a sad smile. “The book will be just fine. Worry about you. Once you figure out next steps, stay off the map. Okay?”

The corners of his eyes appear lined in the bright sunshine in a way that wasn’t evident in the dim brewery. My first impression of him as another self-serving vulture was a knee-jerk reaction—a fair one, given my history with the media, but not fair to him.

“Do you think I did it? That I could be behind all this?” Although I meant the question to come off casual, nonchalant—not desperate for the affirmation I’ve been seeking all my life—I hold my breath.

Dark-brown eyes study me. “No, Claire. I don’t.”

I pull the door handle to exit his car. “Thanks for everything, Shia. I don’t know what I would have—”