We Lie Here: A Thriller, page 16
I pluck the card from my purse and show it to her.
She reads it, then shrugs. “Okay.”
“You don’t seem worried.”
“You are?”
I laugh. “Dude. Yes. Run bitch, run?”
She holds out her arms and makes a 360-degree turn. “But you’re sitting out in the open. I just walked up on the porch, and you didn’t try to shoot me cuz you thought I was an intruder.”
I blink at her. “So . . . I can’t be worried, then?”
“You tend to be naturally anxious. Just remember that and take a breath.” She grins, waggles her eyebrows, and hands back the postcard. “Seriously, you can always call me if you’re being threatened, okay?” She pauses, then adds, “I drove to 1224 Stardust Way. Found your fingerprints inside the cabin.”
I sneeze into the crook of my elbow. “I was supposed to meet Felicia there. I told you.”
“Supposed to.” Kayla slides the tissue pack closer to me. “Since she obviously wasn’t there, how did your fingerprints get inside the cabin?”
I blow my nose. “Don’t know why, but she gave me a key to the place. I went inside, to see something, anything that would tell me the reason I was there. Nothing stuck out. I stayed for about an hour, took a nap, and then I came out to see my slashed tires.”
Kayla scribbles into her little notepad.
“Maybe she’d planned to give me high school mementos or family pictures,” I say.
“I don’t understand,” Kayla says. “Why would she have mementos?”
I throw up my hands. “No idea, Kayla. The woman died before she could tell me why she’d come. I’ve had all kinds of random family members reaching out to me lately. Everybody either wants to come to this party or has an idea for a TV show.” I pause, then add, “Speaking of family, they’re supposed to be coming up soon for her body.”
“Umhmm.”
“Does that mean the autopsy is done?”
Kayla flips a page in her notebook. “That’s the medical examiner’s call.”
“We’re just trying to figure out funeral stuff and . . .” I let my voice trail. We’re not figuring out jack when it comes to Felicia. At least not in this house.
“Has your mother visited the cabin?” Kayla asks. “Does she know what Felicia meant? Why she came to Palmdale?”
I return to stuffing goody bags. “Other than Felicia getting revenge after Mom disinvited her to a big party back in the twelfth grade? Nope. Cousin Felicia was ultracompetitive. Also, remember that she had three husbands, two of whom are still alive.”
Kayla says, “Other than learning that Darius What’s His Face broke his collarbone in Sarasota, I haven’t done a deep dive on the husbands yet.”
“And Felicia got fired from her job not too long ago, according to my father’s cousin. Oh—Will Harraway, husband number three? The widower posting thirst trap pictures on socials? I sent him a friend request on Facebook, and he’s been sliding into my DMs ever since.” I show her the Join me beautiful string.
“Send me that?” Kayla then writes in the pad for a long time. “Sounds like you’re saying that anybody could’ve killed her. Or . . . she had plenty of reasons to walk into Lake Palmdale and end it all.”
I give a one-shouldered shrug. “I’m just saying that she seemed troubled, and that anything’s possible.” I sneeze again and blow my nose.
Kayla winces. “You look and sound like crap.”
I pluck my inhaler from my pocket and take a hit.
Ninety-nine puffs left.
“Just like when we were kids,” Kayla says. “You’re allergic to this house.”
My eyebrows lift. “You think?”
“One more thing,” she says. “Those fingerprints . . .”
I dab at my eyes with tissue. “I touched some things as I roamed around.”
Kayla consults her steno pad. “A lamp. A lighthouse. A Lego block. A jewelry box.”
Mom’s Cherokee pulls into the driveway. Music from Jill Scott pounds past the windows.
Kayla and I watch my mother grab her track bag from the back seat. The muscles in her bare, long legs flex as she slips the strap of the heavy bag onto her shoulder.
Mom smiles. Beneath the sheen of sweat, the freckles across the bridge of her nose have muddied. “Didn’t I just see you, Kayla K.?”
Kayla flushes and closes the steno pad, then stands tall and straight. “Yes, Mrs. G. Gotta get in all my time with Yara before she jets back to her fabulous life in LA.” She grabs a bottle stopper from the pile. “I’m excited. We get to dress up and be deluxe.”
“Right?” Mom swivels to me. “Did you reseat Sharla?”
I nod and waggle my phone. “How was practice?”
“Didn’t have them do much since the meet was yesterday.” Mom peers at Kayla like a lioness watching a lost baby elephant. “You need help with something, Kayla K.?”
Kayla smiles, shakes her head. “Nope.” To me, she says, “Oh! My parents said brunch tomorrow morning works. Mom’s trying out a few new recipes.”
A thumbs-up from me.
Kayla says her goodbyes, then climbs back into the Ford. The car’s engine rumbles, and Kayla pulls away from the curb.
Mom keeps her eyes on the retreating car. “She trying to stir up shit?”
My breath locks in my chest. I don’t know what to say because stir up shit?
And a jewelry box?
A Lego block?
I don’t remember touching either of those objects at the cabin.
29.
Maybe during my visit to the cabin, I tossed aside a random Lego that had been stuck in the chaise longue out on the deck. I must have, since my prints were found on those things. And why were Kayla and crew searching the cabin anyway? Felicia didn’t die at that lake.
“You’re not eating.”
Mom’s voice is pointy, hard, and it pulls me out of my hazy head cloud. I’m back in our dining room with its round glass table and comfy chairs. Gipsy Kings plays softly on the stereo. I’ve moved spinach lasagna from a place on my plate to another place on my plate. I’ve nibbled roasted broccoli and I’ve nibbled salad.
“I can’t taste—” I turn away from the table to sneeze—choo-choo-choo—then to blow my nose. My lungs creak as though someone’s stepping on tired wooden planks.
Dad says, “I’ll find the humidifier.”
Mom drops her fork. “Welcome back to Earth, Robert. The humidifier’s already in the room.” She turns to me. “Yara, did you take your allergy meds?”
I wipe my nose and sip from my cup of tea. “Not the nighttime doses. It’s too early.”
“Try to eat a little something.”
“Bee, she’s triggered,” Dad says.
“While you were down in LA, Robert,” Mom growls, “I cooked all of this for her while dealing with my crazy-ass family. She can eat at least half.”
“You’re forcing her to—”
I pick up my fork. “It’s okay. I’m eating.”
Mom and Dad glare at each other.
I make a show of shoveling a lasagna noodle into my mouth. It tastes like slick nothing, but I nod anyway. “Tastes good, Mom.”
Dad squeezes the bridge of his nose. “Yara, don’t force yourself to—”
Mom leans forward, her eyes dangerous slits. “You know what, Robert?”
“So now I can’t even talk to my daughter?” Dad asks.
“Please don’t,” I say. “I’m eating, okay? And I’ll stop when I can’t, all right?” My voice sounds craggy and hoarse.
Mom winces hearing me speak and sits back in her chair. “You need food to absorb the pills. They don’t work well on an empty stomach. That’s why I want you to eat.” She taps her small hoop earring and squints at Dad. “Or am I wrong in my thinking, Dr. Gibson?”
Dad’s clenched jaw twitches. “No one has the right to force people to do what they don’t wanna do,” he mutters. Then he picks up his knife and fork and saws at the food.
Mom simply stares at him and sips wine.
I really do need to include a few of his favorite things in the anniversary goody bags.
The kitchen door opens and slams shut. Dominique pops in the doorway. “Sorry I’m late.” She grabs a plate from the kitchen cabinet and loads it with lasagna and broccoli. Before plopping into her seat, she gazes at Mom and Dad, then gives me a cocked brow.
I offer her the tiniest headshake and return to chewing lasagna.
“Did you pick up the exercise bands?” Mom asks my sister. “I texted you, and you said, ‘okay,’ that you’d be passing the store anyway.”
Dominique freezes.
The charged air makes me dizzy. I focus on the broccoli florets that haven’t moved from their spot on my plate.
“That’s a ‘no,’ then?” Mom says.
Dad closes his eyes, then leans back in his chair. He drapes an arm over his head.
“She had a school thing,” I say, weighing each word. “We can pick them up tomorrow. All good.”
Mom rests her chin in her palm. “I thought you were helping out at the shelter?”
Dominique drops her brown eyes to the table and places her hands in her lap. Even when terrified, she’s a Vogue model with those cheekbones and that perfect lip color.
Mom frowns. “Let me guess: You were hanging out with Ransom?”
Dominique glares at her.
“You can mad dog me all you want,” Mom says sourly, “but you’re the one not handling business. You’re the one messing up.” She pauses. “I know you better get your face straight, or I’ll straighten it for you.”
Dominique’s shoulders sag.
My heart deflates before it pops.
“Buy the bands tomorrow,” Dad says to my sister. To Mom, he says, “I have a few you can use tonight.”
With blood pushing to her face, Dominique picks up her fork.
“Don’t you know some nice boys she can date?” Mom asks me, her eyes bright, shiny. “Guys who don’t know what the inside of a prison cell looks like?”
Ouch.
After dinner, I retreat to the attic. Dust floats in the shafts of light, but in this quiet, I can think and hear my pulse pounding in the confines of my stuffy head. My parents’ wedding certificate should be in one of these tubs since it’s not in the home office filing cabinet. Now that LaRain’s here, Mom won’t pull herself away to help me look for it.
Her exact words: I’m not your file clerk right now.
A pink blanket with a pink monogrammed YMG and frayed satin edges sits atop a box that holds old life insurance policies, bank statements, and job orientation folders. A battered manila envelope bulges with postcards, greeting cards, and letters.
Black-ink handwriting fills the back of a GREETINGS FROM ARIZONA postcard addressed to Barbara McGuire.
You will never find peace and happiness. You betrayed me and I will never forgive you.
Whoa. I scan the card for a signer.
No name.
A postcard of the Saint Peter’s Basilica dome isn’t any nicer.
If only you knew how much I hate you right now. If I had a knife, I would drive it through your eyes.
This one had been sent to Bobby Gibson.
Again, no signer.
These words sound like they were written by the same pissed-off woman who keyed my car.
I stick the postcards back into the envelope and drop it back in the plastic tub. Not that I plan to display hate mail at the party. I just want to read more later.
An accordion file holds daycare applications and college transcripts.
WE HAVE IT ALL . . . 1987–1988 GREEN AND WHITE INGLEWOOD HIGH SCHOOL
Mom’s twelfth grade yearbook!
The pages smell like smoke and Starbursts. The boys wear black tuxedos, and the girls wear those traditional black drapes. Ha! Look at all the teenage awkwardness that surpasses race and class. Zits, braces, tiny heads, and Coke-bottle glasses. Lots of weird hair.
There’s Barbara McGuire, her hair flawlessly feathered. Cheekbones bronzed. Lip gloss popping. Who can look this fly in a floofy black drape?
I turn the pages to find Senior Favorites.
There’s Mom again. Voted Ms. Loudmouth.
Favorite quote: The first thing I do in the morning is brush my teeth and sharpen my tongue. Dorothy Parker.
In a flashback scene of Queen of Palmdale, high school senior Barbie McGuire, mischief twinkling in her eyes, sits in the middle of her clique rating students as they pass. She would’ve made fun of me, the scrawny girl heavy breathing and crying as she tries to open her jammed locker. An earlier scene would’ve shown me envying perfect Barbie running on the track—so pretty, so popular, so outspoken. So . . . mean.
Several rows above my mother’s, a picture has been scratched out, the entire box colored in with black marker. The name has also been crossed out.
I flip back a few pages to students whose last names start with C. It’s not Felicia because she’s right there. Senior class president and valedictorian. Most Likely to Succeed. Her favorite quote: Great spirits have always encountered violent opposition from mediocre minds. Albert Einstein.
“Oh, Felicia,” I say, “why couldn’t you just shut up, sometimes?”
I return to the M page, but I can’t see past that black ink.
Whoever this is, they’re a high enemy of Barbara McGuire.
Next, candid shots. There’s Mom at a debate meet. There’s Mom on her racing block, ready to run, ready to win. There’s Mom, Winter Court Queen clutching a bouquet of flowers.
A slip of notebook paper lives between the staff photos and the page that introduces the class of 1989. Handwriting fills the page, and I can’t make it out . . .
Someone—Mom?—has written a name over and over again, like they’re trying out the name of the person they’re crushing on. There’s a Q or an E or . . . All swoops and flourishes.
I sneeze—choo-choo-choo—and my head rings. “I can’t . . .” I stick the note back into the yearbook, grab my baby blanket, and close all the boxes.
Dad sits beneath the tree again with that legal pad still in his lap. LaRain is here, and she’s with Mom in the backyard doing training exercises that Mom wants her team to do. Since high school, LaRain has acted as Mom’s squire, and I wonder how she feels about obeying Queen Bee’s every command, always coming in second. She’s not as fast, not as smart, not as pretty. She didn’t date the handsome football captain. She didn’t give birth to a kid she could brag about.
But!
LaRain benefits from holding Mom’s shield, from landing jobs to being invited to join community groups. She isn’t lacking in respect or regard . . . or suspicion, thanks to Ransom.
I slip my baby blanket into one of the dresser drawers, then grab my IDEAS journal to capture the high school flashbacks. After dropping the journal back into my bag, I retreat to the bathroom I share with my sister to take a shower. Dominique’s cosmetics cram the counter, and I can fit only my toothbrush in the soap dish. Her dirty clothes pile on top of the hamper, and thousands of towels of every size drape over the shower rod. I curl my lip and dump my clothes atop the closed toilet lid.
The steam from the hot water opens my lungs and nasal passages, and my mind drifts back to the attic and to that yearbook. Then my thoughts turn to Cayden Decker and my first kiss and how the sun shone on my face all afternoon because I thought I was about to have my first boyfriend and—
The shower curtain darkens and rustles.
I snap back into the present. “Somebody here?” I call out.
The water pounds against the porcelain and my body. Steam billows all around me.
“Hello?”
No answer.
I push aside the shower curtain.
No one. I’m alone. Just me and the steam.
I duck my head beneath the hot spray of the shower and let my mind wander again.
That Virgin Islands postcard is now stuck between the pages of my IDEAS-QUEEN OF PALMDALE journal. Kayla didn’t seem too concerned about it. But I’ve never received an anonymous card before coming back home, before Felicia’s death. Who would send me . . . ?
I’m back. From outer space.
Run bitch, run!
And Mom’s high school yearbook . . .
Who did she scratch out so violently that pen impressions had been left behind on the next page? Not even Cousin Felicia the Betrayer had been relegated to a black box.
I shut off the water and grab two towels—one to wrap around my wet hair, the other to dry off. My head feels clear. All the medications I’ve taken today now have room to work.
Can I stay in a steamy shower for the next week? I sure as hell will try.
I push aside the shower curtain and step onto the bath rug. The fan is already sucking away the steam and—
My eyes land on the mirror. I blink, squeeze my eyes shut, then open them.
Steam has completely fogged over the mirror except for the single word written on its silver surface.
SURRENDER.
I clutch the towel wrapped tight around me and gape at that one word. I hurry into Dominique’s bedroom.
Clothes in tiny piles everywhere. Makeup bags where there aren’t clothes. Shopping bags from our trip earlier today shoved in between the piles. No Dominique.
No one’s here.
In the backyard, Mom and LaRain train with resistance bands. Dominique and her girlfriends sit in patio chairs, phones to their faces. Dad washes his truck in the driveway.
I open the kitchen door and call Dominique.
My sister gapes at the towel on her way to the door. “Why you walkin’ around naked?”
Her two friends snicker.
My temper flares and heat washes up my throat. “Are you playing some kind of joke? Cuz it’s not funny.”
Her eyebrows furrow. “What kind of crack did you just smoke?”
“The message on the mirror,” I say. “Ha ha, very funny.”
A smile plays at the edge of her mouth. “Yara, homie, speak-a de English.”
I grab her hand and pull her up the stairs.
“Can you tell me what’s going on?” she says.
The steam from my shower has evaporated.
So has the message on the mirror.
Dominique’s reflection gapes at mine. “What am I supposed to be seeing right now?”
