Lies We Bury(76)



A train approaches with the chime of a bell. Using the framed map of the waiting area, I find the most direct route to my next stop, knowing the only way forward is to confront Nora. Pose her these questions directly and—if needed—ensure she goes to prison for all the pain she’s caused.



Across the street from a tucked-away road, a trio of boutique shops advertises their wares. Sweat moistens the skin beneath my arms and under my breasts, but the four-block walk in light rain was otherwise subdued. Two unknown numbers called me. Several cars passed me on the side streets I took. No one stopped to arrest me.

The storefronts have changed over time, but Nora’s flower shop has always occupied the middle of the three. An OPEN sign hangs in the glass door, while Mrs. Hernandez, the longtime manager who does everything short of owning the place, fixes a bouquet on the counter. Although the area has become more industrial and the foliage thinner, I had to ask directions to this main road only once.

The small home Nora bought with her portion of the settlement sits opposite the shops. White paint on the cottage-style house contrasts the bright blue of the front door. I duck beneath the awning of a cannabis shop and withdraw my camera from my bag. Using my zoom, I search the windowpanes for signs of movement.

The steady flow of traffic breaks, and I jog across the street. At the steps of the front porch, I turn and take a poplar-lined sidewalk to the row of houses behind. Nora’s red roof is visible despite a tree with thick branches in a bordering yard, and I sneak up the alleyway, keeping close to the fence. A security camera attached above the next house’s gutter is angled toward the front driveway, but I duck down and keep going.

A double layer of tall cedar fencing marks Nora’s yard. I hop over it, bracing myself against the flat top. I land between hydrangea bushes, then pause to catch my breath. Listen. Figure out what the hell I do next.

Approaching from the front seemed like an idiot move, but I’m not sure what I planned, sneaking in the back. My fists clench the closer I slink, from flower bed to flower bed. Cramps form in my feet, gripping the soles of my sneakers as I try not to slip on the wet grass. I take the steps up to the back porch, exhaling when the new wooden boards don’t creak under my weight.

I press on the handle of the screen door, and it gives without so much as a whine. My mouth waters from dehydration and the tension that flexes every muscle in my body. I wipe my face, try to gather my thoughts.

Someone moves from where I remember the bedrooms are to the right. A bird caws in the neighborhood, louder in its staccato cadence than the low hum of street traffic. No knickknacks or dirty dishes line the kitchen counters, and the circular breakfast table beneath the window is set for two. Tile shines beneath me, the scent of bleach lingering in the air; even the grout has been scrubbed white. Harassment and murder must bring out Nora’s homemaking skills.

I move through a narrow hallway to pass a butler’s pantry filled with bottles of wine and hard liquor. The sitting room mirrors the kitchen, with everything in order. Above a fireplace—itself clean of soot or wood tinder—sits a mounted flat-screen television, while magazines rest in a stack on a lacquered coffee table. A glass of water occupies a marble coaster. Condensation drips from the glass in the afternoon humidity, a twin to the bead of sweat gliding down my back. A glistening umbrella sits in a bucket beside the front door. She must have just returned home.

Water rushes from down the hall as a toilet flushes. I whirl toward the sound, toward the rooms, and cast around for something sharp. The fireplace poker. I seize it, gearing myself up to confront Nora, to question her. To reveal I know she’s tried to frame me for murders she’s orchestrated, or committed with Shia, as payback for my role in how her life with Jenessa turned out. I’ll demand she turn herself in.

I whip out my phone and prepare to call the cops when a door opens.

Chet steps from the hallway bathroom. He wipes his hands on his jeans, then notices me standing frozen in the front room. A smile spreads across his wrinkled features, revealing yellow teeth.

“Marissa. Just the person I wanted to see next.”





Thirty





THEN


The man’s hair is thin up close. It’s straight and brown but shorter on the top of his head. I’ve never seen the top of his head before. Little black circles stick out of his face, his eyeballs. They remind me of a doll’s because they roll back then forward then back. He’s quiet for a minute. His cheek was red earlier but now it’s purply. I go to work.

I creep up from the wall with my new braided rope wrapped around my arm. Grab the bit of rope that hangs from his feet. He’s still tied up like a piggy but his feet and hands are farther apart. I take the dangly rope and my new rope and tie them together in a triple knot. The best kind. Then make a figure eight, over one foot then the other foot, one foot then the other foot. Then I go hands. One hand then the other hand. Over under.

Then I crisscross back again, making sure to wrap around Mama Rosemary’s rope for extra Bruno the Polar Bear strength. I sit down on the floor and pull tight.

When I’m all done feet and hands are touching and I’m all hot. My nightgown makes my underarms sticky.

I stand up proud of myself and think how proud Mama Rosemary will be.

My Petey the Penguin toy sits in my corner. Can’t leave Petey. I grab his arm—the pasta-stained one—and hug him tight then start toward the stairs. I stay away from the stairs ever since Twin fell and hurt her knee but this time I’m going up up up them.

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