Lies We Bury(72)
Stiff white paper pokes from the door’s pocket. A rectangular piece of card stock, nearly hidden between a folded map and a receipt. With shaking fingers, I bend to pluck it from the compartment.
My breath catches as I retrieve another of my business cards and bring it to eye level.
After not seeing one for years, believing I had retrieved each of the piles I had left at strategic locations two hours from here, I clutch the second one to cross my path in less than a day. “Shia?”
All color leaches from his face. “I told you. I collected items and information on your family for a long time. This is one of those items I found. I’ve been hoping to write a book on you. Your story has always given me hope that we don’t have to be defined by our upbringings.”
Suddenly, my proximity to this man, who has known every part of my childhood, even details previously kept from me, radiates danger. “You set me up,” I whisper. “You placed a copy of this card on the fourth victim last night. You’re the killer.”
“What? Claire, no, I—”
I swing the door open and plant a leg onto the street. I shift my weight to run when Shia grabs me and slams me back into the seat. His grip digs into my arm, his eyes crazed. “Claire, you have to listen to me; I am not a murderer. I only collected the cards for my book, I swear.”
Reaching blindly into my bag, I fumble past my wallet and find my pepper spray. Flipping open the cap, I release a cloud into the cab, then bolt from the car. Shia screams behind me, but I don’t look back. I run, my bag tucked under my arm, and run harder and faster than I ever have. Down the street, around the corner, until I am six blocks away.
Panting in front of a house’s wraparound porch, I slide down between a recycling bin and a garbage can. Try to catch my breath. To digest that I’ve had the murderer in front of me all along.
Fat tears pour down my cheeks, my first sobs since moving here—another mistake.
I fumble in my bag for cigarettes before remembering I don’t have a lighter, don’t even own one. My latest form of self-sabotage. New tears trail down my chin as I cover my face with my hands, dig my nails in above my eyebrows. My fingers tremble, vibrate, as the urge swells in me to drag them down to my jaw, to feel the pain of something I can control.
The lies we tell ourselves during stable hours—like I’m a good person or I don’t deserve this—become the lies we bury deep down, too far to access, in times of pain.
My hands relax, stopping just short of drawing blood. Panic gives way to self-loathing.
I should have known. Should have trusted my instincts instead of being tempted by the prospect of money. Stability. A friend.
I wince, reflecting on how desperate I must have been to miss the signs. Shia is the tunnel murderer, an obsessed fan of Chet’s just like I initially suspected—the author of the note, just like Jenessa thought. According to the prison’s records, he went to visit Chet within the last month, but there’s no telling how frequently he’s gone over the years.
After waiting five minutes for Shia’s silver sedan to pass by searching for me, I stand and return to the boulevard. Shops line the busy street, offering parking at their rears. I find a bench located at the back of a sushi restaurant and open my laptop, hoping for unrestricted Wi-Fi. If there’s a warrant out for my arrest, the police might already be tracking my credit cards. And I need to reserve what little cash I have until I figure out next steps.
The network signal lights up as my computer connects. Jackpot. I open my browser.
How the hell did I end up here? Shia’s unassuming writer persona was always at odds with the dark-web activity, plus the broad shoulders and the strength of his frame that I thought were window dressing. My arm throbs momentarily, recalling the grip he wielded when I tried to exit his car. He could have overpowered his victims using weapons or strength. And the lack of recurring fingerprints at each crime scene doesn’t mean he’s the ringleader of a murderous gang; it shows only that he knows how to wear gloves.
I reach into my bag and withdraw the scone I squirreled away at the bookstore yesterday. Despite being squished, the baked good is energizing, grounding when I feel unmoored. My grateful stomach rumbles, and I realize just how hungry I am. There’s an apple crammed into an inner pocket, beside the orange I took from the Portland Post when I first met with Pauline. I bite into the taut skin with a juicy crunch.
My fingers tremble as I click my bookmark for the Portland Post website. In a side bar, the Post’s social media accounts offer live commentary on Chet’s release. I scan the various posts and find several photos taken of Chet leaving prison, looking elated before climbing into a pink Corvette with Karin. A scarf is wrapped around her dark hair, and she wears wide pink sunglasses like the latest iteration of Convertible Barbie. My stomach twists as I scroll down to the final update: Chet is headed toward Portland.
Back on the main landing page, a headline reports the most recent casualty of the tunnel murderer. As of an hour ago, police are pursuing several leads while working to identify the body. The photo I took of Petey the Penguin in front of Four Alarm Brewery sits at the top of the page as the banner image—where it all began.
What is your earliest memory?
Unbidden, Shia’s spectral voice fills my ears, pestering me to examine my beginnings. Everything he asked about must have been rooted in framing me. Yet that doesn’t mean I was wrong in examining those memories. Right?