We Lie Here: A Thriller, page 15
We pinkie-shake.
I blow my nose into a tissue.
“Ohmigod, you are so extra.” She waggles my hand. “Stop getting all emo.”
“My point is, you like his ratchet ways,” I say, dabbing at my eyes. “And he’s gonna catch you up in some chaos, but guess what? He’ll slip away because he’s done this before, and you . . . your life will be destroyed, and you’ll be screwed. People will talk about how he has this memory like LeBron, and if they remember you, they’ll say that you were nothing but a ho with a baby and that you’re bilking the system.
“Will they remember the way you wore the hell out of a T-shirt? Or that you were the captain of the volleyball team? No. But that asshole . . . Ugh.” I shake my head. “You’re more than his girl, Dom. You’re more than Bee’s daughter.” I take a deep breath, an underwater cave dive breath, then say, “Please don’t move in with Ransom. That’s certain doom.”
Dominique smirks. “Is that your PCP talking?”
“If you mean ESP and not drugs,” I say, grinning, “then, yes, it’s my ESP working.”
Dominique hides her face in her lap, then rubs her chin against her knees. “I’m tired of living here. I want a grown-up life with my own space, with my own dishes.”
“You can still go to Cal Arts and live closer there. Or you can transfer down to Cal State Northridge or Long Beach and live down in LA.”
She curls her arm over her head. “Would you talk to Mom?”
I snort. “Only if you do what you’re supposed to do. I will not bare my neck to Barb Wire for the hell of it.”
Dominique opens the top letter from the Felicia cache Mom gave me and reads aloud.
Bee, since you won’t pick up the phone when I call now, I thought it best to write you.
This has gone on too far. You’ve always been stubborn, but now you’re being stupid. I thought better of you, always gave you the benefit of the doubt, but now? If she destroys you, it’s your own fault. Just because you’re right doesn’t mean she’s wrong. You ARE a bitch, and I will join her in making you pay. You will NEVER sleep sound again. You should question everything you eat and drink. Your neck will cramp from looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life.
What goes around comes around, and this is one party you are not invited to.
With all my hate and the illest of wills,
Felicia
My eyes bug. “Whoa. Cousin Felicia was straight triggered.”
Dominique gapes at me and then the letter. “You find this in the attic?”
I shake my head. “Mom gave them to me. She wanted me to see for myself why she’s not a weepy wreck over Felicia’s death.”
“Felicia was cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs,” Dominique says, then opens another letter.
We’re not stupid. You can make all the cupcakes you want, be the best coach in the world, but we will never forget. I wouldn’t leave your cigarettes just sitting out like that. You never know where they’ve been.
And another letter.
Gained weight, huh? Moo, heifer. Riding a broomstick doesn’t burn as many calories as you think. And put down the whistle and run with your girls sometimes. We eagerly look forward to your future heart attack.
Dominique’s jaw tightens. She’s ready to beat down a bitch, but one of them is already dead. “Who is ‘we’?”
“No idea, although . . .” I turn my laptop so that she can see the screen.
“Who’s Irina?”
I point to her. “You cannot say anything.”
Dominique’s eyebrows furrow as she plops back into the pillows.
I fish the gold chain from my pocket and let it dangle between us.
She taps the nameplate. “Again with Irina. Who dat?”
“Dunno. Found it in the Camaro.”
She blinks. “Okay. So?”
“I’m seeing if there’s an Irina around Palmdale or Lancaster, and if she knows Daddy. Or if she’s a friend of Felicia’s. Maybe she’s a part of the ‘we,’ the author of this one?” I hold up the note I found in the Camaro.
Dominique plucks the letter from my fingers and reads. “Is this Felicia or someone else?”
“Someone else.”
Dominique snickers. “Bee would kill Daddy if he cheated again, first of all.”
“Again? So there was someone? I just wasn’t imagining it?”
My sister shakes her head. “Nope.”
“When was the first time?”
She shrugs. “I just heard them arguing about some chick. You were at school.”
“Name?”
She shrugs again. “But he’s not dumb enough to screw around with chicks in the AV.”
“So why was this”—I let the nameplate dangle again—“in the car, then?”
“Because you’re seeing drama where there is none. Yara, that’s Mom’s car, not Dad’s. It could’ve belonged to one of her friends from college. Or, knowing Mom, she probably snatched it off some girl’s neck.”
I blink, then nod. “Say less.”
Dominique is right: the Camaro is Mom’s car, and I’ve never seen Daddy drive it. I can’t even picture him behind the wheel. I can’t picture him hugged up with some bitch at a random La Quinta Inn . . . Well, I can but I don’t want to. I needed him to prove me wrong, that my weird hunches had simply been that. But no . . .
My head hurts from this bowling-ball dump of information.
Dominique seizes my computer and places it on the nightstand. “Ugh. The vein in the middle of your forehead is freaking me out. No more Sherlock Holmes-ing. We’re watching stupid Terminator and finally eating that damn shark-coochie board she’s been working on all day. BTW, you’re taking me shopping tomorrow.”
I rub my temples and squeeze shut my eyes. “I am?”
“I need an outfit for the party, remember? And you explicitly told me to spend more than thirty dollars on it.”
“How about thirty-one?”
“I’m back,” Mom shouts from downstairs.
Dominique says, “Are we asking her about the Irina necklace? I say no.”
I say, “Okay,” then drop the necklace in my purse.
We tromp down the stairs. The house is cool and smells of wine, cured meats, and now Creole food. In the kitchen, Dad hugs Mom from behind as she unpacks dinner. She giggles.
Bee would kill Daddy if he cheated again . . .
Are you happy, Daddy?
He’s not, and this slapdash display of affection is a trick.
With my mouth dry, I turn away from the gambit of affection and notice a postcard sitting beneath the front door’s mail slot. There’s a stock photo of a Strawberry Daiquiri and a Bahama Mama perched on two wooden posts. The blue printed words say US VIRGIN ISLANDS.
Who’s the lucky person on vacation?
I turn the card over. It’s addressed to me. No return address. No signer. Just words.
I’m back. From outer space. Run bitch, run!
STRANGE LADY
27.
Edgewater Court
9:09 p.m.
And now, the siphon doesn’t smell so bad. Not with the rain drifting from the clouds.
The houses glow in the dark, and windows shine like eyes with different shades of light—from canary-yellow lamplight and atomic-blue television light to arctic-white garage door light. There’s no one wandering Edgewater Court except for the Gibson family.
Yara stands on the porch with her hands clasped around her elbows. She looks up the street and across the cul-de-sac. Her worry shines as bright as those lights around her.
Yeah, she should be worried. Felicia should’ve worried a little more, too, but she let her obsessions grow Godzilla-size. Coming to warn Yara . . . big mistake. Well, she should’ve kept that crazy down in El Segundo. No one ever believed Felicia back then, so why did she think this kid would? Felicia died thinking the rules had changed. Since the beginning of time, liars have won the flock.
Rob, all-American-wide-receiver tall, towers over Yara. He places his hands on her shoulder, then joins her in looking up and down the dead-end street. His search stops.
Feels like he’s looking right at me.
But then his roving gaze continues.
He and Yara study the postcard she holds. She flaps the card, then says something that makes him shake his head and pat her shoulder. He’s always been the one who says, It’s gonna be okay. It’s gonna work itself out. Standing there like a big dog, like he’s in charge.
He hasn’t protected anybody. Not really. No, not at all.
Dominique slips her arms around Yara’s waist, then cranes her neck to read the postcard. She steps to the edge of the porch and shouts, “Say that to my face.”
Yara yanks Dominique’s arm and retreats into the house. Rob continues to gaze south. But he won’t see a thing. He’s been blind or stupid—or both—all this time.
And one day, I will say that to their faces. And oh, what a joyful day that will be.
28.
Overnight, rain fell, and now the world smells new and crisp. Some of the dust has washed off my car, and the black paint looks fashionably matte instead of flat-out filthy. Dominique slides into the front passenger seat of Mom’s Cherokee, and I pop into the back seat with my purse and foil-wrapped bacon-and-egg breakfast sandwich. Like the Camaro, the SUV’s interior smells of cigarettes smoked yesterday and one hundred years before, and instead of Clinique’s Happy, there’s a hint of rose and jasmine from Mom’s current perfume as well as heavier notes of running shoes, discarded athletic tape, and sweat.
Dominique drops her traveling mug into a cup holder, then pops down the visor mirror to add more shine to her bright-red lips and tighten her two french braids. Mom looks like our older sister in her black Vans and Thrasher tank top. I wish I could’ve kept on my pajama bottoms and hoodie and stayed in bed.
My eyes skip around our neighborhood. Who could’ve sent that postcard? Where is the man in the green Mazda? Has this Nissan Pathfinder parked here before? Who’s hiding behind that hedge?
Mom doesn’t believe the sender is a rando with a grudge. “Only because you’re always pissing someone off, intentionally or not.”
I take a big bite out of my sandwich and say, “I don’t move around the state trying to become the object of someone’s scorn. I haven’t transgressed enough to receive a hate card. I haven’t killed off a beloved character. I haven’t stolen a boyfriend.” Shane’s last girlfriend is now living happily in Washington, DC, with her lobbyist husband.
I pull that hate card from my purse. So innocent and fun loving on the front with those frozen cocktails, and so whacked-out and creepy on the flip side. I’m back. From outer space. Run bitch, run!
If it hadn’t been addressed to me, I would appreciate the tribute to Gloria Gaynor and “I Will Survive.”
But no. Not cool.
Mom backs out of the garage, and for a moment, she meets my eyes. “Who have you talked to recently that may not appreciate your vibe?”
I chew bacon, and I’m sad that I can’t even taste the smoky richness of my favorite meat. “Umm . . . There was Felicia, of course . . . and there’s Alicia now.”
“Alicia?” Mom’s head tilts, and she watches my reflection in the rearview mirror.
I nod. “I told you that she called me yesterday. Well, I ended up talking to her. If you wanna talk about someone not appreciating vibes . . . She tried to blame you—”
“Me? For what?”
“For being awful to Felicia. I didn’t let her talk about you like that, and it kinda pissed her off. But if she’s sending an out-of-pocket postcard, it would be to you, not me.”
Dominique sips her tea, then adds, “It’s gotta be her.”
I stare at the postcard’s message. “Alicia lives in Vegas.”
“So?”
“There’s no postmark. See?” My hands shake as I show my sister and mother the blank space where a postmark would be. “This card wasn’t mailed,” I say. “Whoever wrote it slipped it into our mail slot in the front door.”
“Ohmigod,” Dominique says.
Mom rubs her jaw. “We all need to watch our backs, okay? Always let someone know where you are. Understand?” She squeezes Dominique’s hand, then pushes out a breath. “Al and Cece are taking Felicia back to LA, but I don’t know if the medical examiner here is ready to release the body. Guess I’m saying . . . it still could be Alicia. She’s coming to town. She may already be here and just hasn’t told anyone yet.”
I take another bite of my breakfast sandwich. Hard to enjoy bacon when you’re the pig in the poke. As I eat, I search for more information about Alicia Campbell on the internet. Physically, she looks just like Felicia—the same big cow eyes and broad forehead. But instead of dusters and clunky jewelry, Alicia prefers jeggings and crop tops, low-cut tops, any kind of top that shows off her cleavage and curves. She has four kids—my cousins Zachariah, Lucas, Blake, and Kenzie. If she could wear jeggings and a halter top emblazoned with a sparkly US Postal Service logo, Alicia would be the hottest, on fleek mail carrier in the country.
So I need to look out for a woman who looks just like a woman I’ve met only once and who’s now also dead.
No, not creepy at all.
Dad (who allegedly drove down to Los Angeles to see his friend’s son play baseball) calls to check in on us. Is he really planning to watch a USC game, or is he at some Malibu love shack with some trick named Irina?
At the hobby store, we grab frames of different shapes. We grab purple tulle and white ribbon for the anniversary favors and two bubble machines to add to the ballroom magic. Mom and Dominique laugh about Mom’s track team parents as I hang back and keep my eyes on the other shoppers. Dominique pushes the cart like she’s on the runway while I stare at a curly-haired man who would look like the man in the green Mazda if he were Black and not Latinx. My head feels trapped in air bubble cushioning wrap and disconnected from the rest of me. But my family—they’re singing along to Muzak “Dancing Queen” as though no one died, as though no one’s left a mean postcard and our patriarch isn’t nearly one hundred miles south with another woman.
As the day passes, Mom, Dominique, and I dip into air-conditioned spaces and return to dry, dusty winds. My allergies worsen, and soon I’m constantly blowing my nose. Mom watches me in the rearview mirror and sighs every time I fluff out a tissue or slip the inhaler between my lips. Miserable, I apologize for the racket and sink into the seat.
Finally, Mom drops Dominique and me off at home before she heads to school for track practice. I check the floor beneath the mail slot. No postcards.
“Where you headed?” I ask my sister, who’s now walking over to her Jeep.
“School. Thanks for the outfit.”
I pop antihistamines, then retreat to the porch with shopping bags filled with party favors. I scan the neighborhood, looking for someone now looking at me. But nothing moves, not even the leaves of our silver maple. The newness of last night’s rain has faded; the siphon stinks again, and the sun leaches any lingering moisture.
My nose is raw and my eyes burn, but I need to work. These goody bags won’t stuff themselves. Sure: my inhaler has lost its effectiveness against the constant barrage of irritants, and I’m now down to one hundred puffs, but who will stuff gold heart wine bottle stoppers, monogrammed packets of cocktail mixes, Hershey’s Kisses, and custom matchbooks into pockets of purple tulle and ribbon? Dominique?
Kayla’s blue Crown Vic rolls into our cul-de-sac and parks in front of our house. Today, her badge is clipped tight to her belt, and her red hair is gelled down to her skull. “Oh, wow,” she says, eyes big as she climbs the porch steps. “What’s all this?”
I lift a Rob and Bee matchbook and sing, “These are a few of Mom’s favorite things.”
“What about your dad?” Kayla asks. “The man who doesn’t smoke.”
“Umm . . .” Tulle and ribbon, chocolate candies and drink mixes. “Guess I forgot.”
She clucks her tongue. “Must be nice to spend money on . . . bottle stoppers?”
“Keeps wine fresh.”
“Who cares? It’s a three-dollar bottle.”
“Sometimes you want more than Two-Buck Chuck.”
“You so fancy now,” Kayla says, smirking.
Can I enjoy a ten-dollar bottle of wine and not be called “fancy”?
Whatever. Kayla’s right about one thing, though. Dad isn’t in these goody bags. He likes Skittles, football, hiking, and Doritos. Nothing on this porch reflects that.
Guilt weighs down my heart. I never think of things Dad likes. Christmas gifts, yeah, but everyday thinking about making him happy? Guess that’s why he couldn’t answer my very simple question, Are you happy, Daddy? He wouldn’t be, seeing these Bee-themed goody bags. Guess that’s just another reason why he’s always sitting beneath the tree with an empty notepad in his lap.
And maybe having another affair.
Kayla leans against the banister. “Cayden Decker asked about you.”
The first boy who kissed me.
I snort as I stuff. “He’s still alive?”
I know he’s still alive.
Kayla says, “Yeah. He manages the Fish and Fly.”
The city’s members-only fishing and hunting club. Its members are also the only ones allowed to put a boat onto Lake Palmdale.
“He went from being a runner to a hunter,” I say. “The story of America right now.”
“When your dad’s the president of the club . . .” Kayla shrugs. “And he’s not as bad as our other classmates. And it’s not like we all have millions of men to choose from up here. Your standards are too high. He’s a ten in Palmdale. There’s still good corn in dented cans.”
Cayden has more than dents in his can. The one social media search I did on him . . . Yeah, he was as bad as our other classmates with the questionable patches on his field coat and the worrisome slogans cut and pasted into his profile. The vast collection of guns doesn’t bother me as much as the company he keeps.
Kayla takes a steno pad from her jacket pocket.
“I got a strange postcard last night,” I say.
“Strange how?”
