Lies We Bury(78)

Not Nora and Shia. Nora and Chet.

Chet shakes his head. “I think you’re not feeling well, Marissa. Is this stress related, from your job? For about three years I immersed myself in Buddhist philosophy, and it’s so important to—”

He takes another step closer, and a freeze-frame image of him fills my mind, looming over me as a child with desire in his eyes. Something wild and feral in me rises and shatters my sense of calm, of safety. Being with him in a room again with no prison guards around us—and where is Nora?—saps the bravado that energized my journey from the light-rail station.

“Stay away from me!” I slash at the air with the iron poker, and the asshole actually smiles.

“Marissa, I’m not here to hurt you. I just want to start over with all of you and make amends for what I did.”

“Stop calling me that.” My arm shakes beneath the poker’s weight as I keep it lifted between us. “Make amends? You can never make up for the years of agony you’ve put us all through. For what you’ve driven us to.” Remembering the look in his eye—“You tried to . . . with me, you wanted to . . .”

But the memory shifts and disappears, and I can’t be sure what to say.

“You’re sick. I don’t believe any of this rehabilitated crap. And now you’re here to complete what you began with Nora while still in prison. Where is Karin? Is she hiding somewhere, waiting to jump out, too?”

His eyes narrow to slits. “Karin is making me a welcome-home dinner. I came here alone. What do you mean when you say ‘complete what I began’?”

“Don’t play coy, Chet. You’ve been planning this whole network of violence and pain with Nora. You guided her on how to kidnap people, how to imprison them, probably during visits to you. You are godfather to this latest act of murder in this city.”

“I never killed anyone—”

“You killed Mama Bethel!” I scream. My breathing comes fast and shallow. “You killed her when you left her alone to give birth in an underground hellhole. I remember how small she was, even though I was barely four years old. She was all belly—the rest of her was gaunt from malnutrition. You did that to her.”

He pauses as though actually considering my words. “Hey, you’re right, in that I could have done more for her. In hindsight, I should have done more for her.”

He stands taller as he talks, and I get the impression I’m witnessing some of the speech he gave to the parole examiners.

“But I haven’t done anything to anyone in twenty years, Marissa. Think about it. How could I?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know. But your coming to Nora’s house to see her now is more than telling. Why would you both try to frame me for these murders? Why, when you keep giving me this speech that you want us to be a family?”

Chet hesitates. “Marissa, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not trying to frame you for anything—least of all these tunnel murders that everyone’s upset over. And I didn’t come here to see Nora. I’m not allowed to contact my victims while on parole.”

I pause. The hair on the back of my neck rises, stands on end. “If you’re not here to see Nora, who are you here for?”

Footsteps shuffle toward us from the bedrooms. Long black hair swings forward in the hallway’s dim lighting, a curtain that covers rich, tawny skin and a blue T-shirt. The last time I saw Nora years ago, she’d chopped her straight hair to her jaw, sick to death of shampooing the “thick rug,” as she called it. The wavy curtain sways; then a gloved hand reaches back and tucks the hair behind her ear. Jenessa fills the doorway before lifting a gun.

“Me.” She fires a shot, piercing Chet in the back, and he flies to the floor at my feet.

Wide eyes turn up to my face, pain dilating his pupils into black spheres. With a moan, he drops his head, collapses onto the hardwood.

Trembling, I lift my gaze to my sister’s. “Jenessa?”

She stares at Chet, horror stretching her mouth. We look at each other, neither of us knowing what to say. Then she jerks forward, her expression wild. “Claire, you have to go. The police are looking for you. Here, take the gun for protection.” She raises it flat in her glove. “Take it.”

I reach for it, then pause. The shot continues to ring in my ears. A pool of blood seeps from Chet’s body.

“Take it,” she says again.

I hesitate, conflicted. Adding my prints to a murder weapon would be a mistake on top of everything else. I wouldn’t be able to explain that away. I lift my free hand and find my fingers shaking. “Jenessa. Where is Nora?”

She doesn’t flinch. The terror that made her cheeks taut relaxes. In a smooth, collected gesture, she resumes her grip on the gun’s handle, then points it at my heart. “Well, if you insist on staying.”

“Nora—”

“She’s buried. Beneath the hydrangeas out back. Take a seat, Marissa. We have a lot of ground to cover. And we can add Chet to your killing spree another way.”

My mind races—my heart beats, cracks, whips against my chest—computing what I should have known and recognized all along. I drop the fireplace poker inside the umbrella bucket.

My sister is the murderer. And as she trains the pistol’s barrel on my chest, I realize she’s already chosen her next victim.