We Lie Here: A Thriller, page 19
Mom chuckles. “Once was enough.” She freezes, holds out her hand. The nerve above her eye twitches. “I don’t mean that in the negative sense. I’m glad Wolcott can do it, though. He can add a new blessing. Give your dad and me even more years on the books.”
“Yep.”
She settles back into the chaise with her puzzle and squints at the last unsolved clue. “Eight letters. Bird’s egg-producing plant.”
“No idea.”
Mom studies the ceiling, then nods. “Larkspur.”
LaRain calls, and Mom answers, and that’s my cue. Instead of returning to the attic, I retreat to the tree in the front yard. Gasoline fumes hang thick in the air. Mr. Abernathy is fixing either his ATV or his truck. Mom’s voice is a dull murmur until she gets up from the chaise and retreats to another place in the house.
Two weeks—Mom left us for two weeks.
Where did she go?
What sent her fleeing to her quiet place?
Ask Bobby about Liz. WHERE IS LIZ???
34.
Out here in the Antelope Valley, temperatures rise around three o’clock in the afternoon. The shadows offer no succor, and neither do porches or pergolas. The sky gleams but drains, and the dust kicks up with late-day wind. Heat and sun find their way beneath the brims of baseball caps, and like my neighbors right now, the top third of their faces pale and become three shades lighter than the sunburned part.
Truth hides in spaces like that swatch of pale skin beneath Derrick Abernathy’s Green Bay Packers cap. It lives low in swampy places that need light for all things to find balance.
I sit, thinking about that and watching my neighbor work on his father’s truck as I also think about my mother leaving, about Felicia dying, about Liz—who’s Liz?—and my father. Mom knows the person beneath that ink. She just doesn’t want to say her name. And it is a her. If I were a betting woman, I’d say that blacked-out box is Liz, the lady in the lakeside picture and Dad’s ex-girlfriend. (I’m certain that she is Daddy’s ex-girlfriend, and I’d bet on that, too.)
Back in the kitchen, Mom prepares dinner—shrimp scampi with crusty italian bread, roasted asparagus, and a delicious Chianti I brought back for her from Rome last year. Since Dad and Dominique won’t be home until an hour or so from now, I retreat to my bedroom and grab my laptop from the bureau. The humidifier sends vaporized water into the air that now smells of oranges and albuterol. Maybe this is Pavlov’s dog but with smells instead of bells. I’m associating the humidifier with what always came when Mom turned it on. I’m expecting her to step into the room any minute now with pediatric prednisone and a mug of warm tap water.
I didn’t want to anger my mother when she presented me with the envelope earlier, but this is not the wedding certificate I’ve been seeking. The one in this envelope is the ceremonial one with the flounce and the church-lady calligraphy. I want the one from the State of California with the official watermark in its belly.
I click over to the Los Angeles County Registrar’s website. Here, you can order the trajectory of a person’s life—birth certificate to wedding certificate, divorce decree to death certificate. I plan to frame three copies of the wedding certificate—for Dominique, for my parents, and for me. Then, as an old lady, I will hand my copy down to my own child, just one more precious memento in our family tree.
My phone thumps.
What’s up
Ransom!
You ever get that W9 form, I text.
Nope
You know a dude that drives a green Mazda?
Lot of dudes drive green Mazdas
I tap in the license plate number.
And send me whatever else you can please
Like what
Any reports
DNA
Maps
Sound files
Doesn’t matter
If it’s related to Felicia’s case, I want it.
I turn back to the registrar’s website. The marriage certificate won’t make it to me by Saturday night, but I still order it. I’ll make a temporary centerpiece using the ceremonial certificate. Then, once the real certificate arrives, I’ll drive back, and over brunch, I’ll present the framed, authentic certificates to Dominique and my parents.
You paying, Ransom asks.
Flat fee just like we pay consultants
10k
U crazy
5k
No
1000, I type.
The ellipsis bubbles, then stops. Bubbles, then . . .
BATCH 1 PHOTOS.;
Yes!
So many photos.
Aerial photos of Lake Palmdale, Felicia Campbell’s purple Benz, the note on the passenger-side footwell, her wallet. Pictures of one shoe—a black flip-flop with a cluster of jewels on top—her purple duster, the gun in the driver’s side door pocket, the phone washed ashore, and that second set of footprints in the wet soil. Surveillance camera stills of the German sedan pulling into and parking at the Park N Ride lot. Stills of the light-colored compact behind it. Hoop earrings and three rings. Pictures of the interior, including the seats and door handles. A receipt from Bucelli’s Italian on Friday, May 17, at 9:43 p.m.
Her last meal was all-you-can-eat breadsticks?
After paying Ransom, I pace my bedroom, not sure what to do with this information. On one hand, shopping bags filled with empty frames and goody bag ingredients line the walls. I have stuff to stuff in purple tulle. I need to pick out a frame for my parents’ wedding certificate.
On the other hand, there’s a receipt from Bucelli’s Italian.
Cooking complete, Mom is conked out in the chaise longue as Hoarders continues to play on TV.
I scribble a note on the back on an envelope—out running errands—and leave it on the coffee table.
Outside, the neighborhood smells of barbecued meat and marijuana, all being consumed to the music of Toby Keith. Down at Mr. Abernathy’s, his driveway is crowded with pickup trucks, some decked with American flags, Confederate flags, and MAGA flags.
The tightness that lived in my chest throughout childhood returns.
I don’t miss this part of Antelope Valley life. This place where Hollywood used to come to blow up movie sets for action scenes, this landlocked Methopolis whose claim to fame is one-hit wonder Afroman and the mysterious hilltop mansion that everyone dreams of owning but no one knows who actually owns it. Stay for the beautiful sunrises and beautiful sunsets. Hike, dirt bike, and four-wheel drive in between. That sound? Oh, that’s just a sonic boom over at Edwards Air Force Base. That shaking? Oh, did you know the San Andreas Fault is right there? Oh, him? He’s a Nazi Low Rider. Not him, the other guy? The one burning the cross? Ignore him. Here, have some delicious breadsticks. Take a few. They’re all-you-can-eat.
From the driver’s seat of my car, I see Bucelli’s patrons noshing on those breadsticks and sipping beers and glasses of Chardonnay. Inside, the noise of the restaurant overwhelms me—the clank of dishes and utensils, the Italian music, and the loud voices. For a second, I think of backing out to the parking lot.
The hostess wearing a WELCOME-HAILEY name tag smiles at me, but her kohl-lined eyes stay flat. “Welcome to Bucelli’s Italian. How many?”
“My mom should be seated already. May I try to find her?”
Hailey says, “Yeah sure,” and returns to reprogramming the waiting-list pagers.
The receipt in the evidence batch photo says that Felicia sat at table 49.
A busboy passes by with a tray of waters.
“Where’s table 49?” I ask him.
He points to an empty window booth.
I shiver as I creep closer to the table. A stand-up menu sits on the surface, and the booth benches are clear and clean. There’s nothing special about this table. Why did I come here?
“May I help you?” The server—her name tag says KYLIE—aims her bright smile at me.
My mind spins and grabs a story. “My mother ate here back on Friday night. She thinks her phone slipped into the crack of the booth.”
Kylie gasps. “Oh, wow. Let’s see.” She scooches into one side of the banquette, and I scooch into the other.
“Were you working that night?” I ask. “Around nine?”
“Yep.” She ducks beneath the table. “This is my table, too.”
I also duck and paw around for a phone that won’t be there. “You probably served her. African American woman wearing a very dramatic purple jacket, diamonds, hoop earrings—”
“Oh yeah. A bun?”
I nod. “That’s her.”
Kylie sits up. “I don’t see anything, sorry. How’s she feeling?”
“Mom?” I sit up. “You know . . . Meh.”
“Yeah, she was literally upset and—now I remember. Are you the person she was expecting? Cuz she kept asking if you’d arrived, if you’d called the restaurant. Especially after she got a text. That’s probably when she dropped her phone. Her hands were literally shaking. I comped her a tiramisu just to make her feel better. So what happened?”
I cock my head. “Huh?”
“You didn’t show up. She was literally waiting for you. Something must’ve happened, right?”
“Yeah, totally.” My face warms. “I literally got caught up. We hadn’t seen each other in a while, and I thought that we’d be able to have dinner, but . . . total shit show. And now I’m sad she was sad. Thanks for hooking her up, though. That was an awesome thing to do.”
She taps the tabletop. “Well. Gotta get back to work. Hope you find her phone.”
“Me too.”
She waves at me, then smiles her bright-white smile again. “Have a good night, Liz.”
35.
Liz?
She’s here?
Or she was supposed to be here?
But Liz didn’t show up.
Why didn’t she show up?
I wonder about that as I roam the aisles of the hobby store grabbing frames in one lane, and fun-size packs of Skittles from another. Usually, any song by Wham! makes me dance, but right now “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go” has no effect.
Were Felicia and Liz planning to attack my mother? Show up to the golf resort and knock plates to the ground and pull all the fire alarms?
Back in the car, I scroll through the pictures Ransom sent me. The still photos from the surveillance video . . . The hooded figure that follows Felicia . . . I zoom in as much as I can, but there’s no extra detail. I swipe over to the still pictures of the compact car and zoom . . . zoom . . . A hand drapes over the steering wheel . . . zoom . . . zoom . . . A ring . . . jewels on that ring.
A woman driver? Will’s girlfriend, Soshea?
Or is that Liz?
Or Alicia?
Buried in the files of photos, there’s something I didn’t notice before.
AUTOPSY REPORT
The autopsy is complete?
I look up from the phone. Feels like someone’s watching me.
Dodges and Nissans, Toyotas and Hondas. Loud stereos, people shouting, horns honking, sirens screaming. There’s a smell of burning plastic. Someone nearby is smoking meth.
Time to go.
I pull out of the parking lot.
A black Chevy Silverado with thick tires pulls out of its space. Tinted windows and rumbly, the double-cab truck brup-brup-brups as it creeps closer to my rear. The windows aren’t rolled down, but I can still hear the screams and riffs of death metal.
On Rancho Vista, I turn left at the light.
The Chevy turns left.
My hands clutch the steering wheel. I peek in my rearview mirror.
Two of them. Acne flares. Sunken cheeks. Angry eyes.
Living in Palmdale Lesson No. 12: If some redneck’s following you, lead ’em to the sheriff’s station. Cuz if you lead ’em to your house? Calamity and ruin. Literally.
Someone followed my friend Kenisha home once. About twenty people drove out to protect her, then stopped the stalker in the middle of the intersection and beat his ass right there. My friend Triste didn’t have family to save her, and we cried over her grave a week later.
I call Dad as I race eastbound on Rancho Vista.
He doesn’t answer.
I call Dominique.
She answers on the first ring. “What?”
“I’m being followed.” My voice sounds thin but controlled.
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Positive.”
“Where you at?”
“I’m headed toward the sheriff’s station.” I stay on the main street, traveling south with the sun a gold ribbon just below the horizon. Not much traffic, so I switch lanes.
And so does the Silverado behind me.
I avoid side streets—too many of the tightly packed homes there display flags with stars and bars and iron crosses.
The Chevy speeds up.
I’m shaking, but I’m too scared to cry, too angry to cry. And then I see it. A convoy of El Caminos and Bimmers, Mustangs, and Chargers pulls out of the Louisiana Famous Fried Chicken parking lot with trap music on blast and chains and diamond earrings glinting in the orange neon light of the best fast-food chicken joint in Palmdale. Dominique sits behind the wheel of her turquoise Jeep, and Ransom slumps in the passenger seat. She pulls up beside me, and together we stop at a light. Ransom’s boys in a tricked-out Range Rover pull up beside the Chevy.
“We got a problem here?” the driver of the Range Rover asks the fools in the Chevy.
Hands up, the fool in the Chevy’s passenger seat shouts, “No problem,” and the driver pulls from behind my Jeep and U-turns. The Silverado’s tires spin and burn against the blacktop as it heads north. The Range Rover U-turns and follows the truck. The stink of hot rubber rides on the gritty air.
“You okay?” Dominique asks me.
I gulp back tears and nod. I’ve been holding it together so long that I have a side stitch.
She tosses a pack of cigarettes through the window. The pack lands on my lap.
I stare at the Newports, and just the idea of smoking eases my trembling. Before my hand reaches for the pack, I notice the rubber band on my wrist. I pull the band back as far as it will stretch and then release. POP! My skin stings but my vision clears.
Dominique takes a deep drag from her own cigarette, then blows smoke in the air.
“Thanks, again,” I say. “I didn’t wanna drive home. Didn’t want trouble at the house.”
Dominique taps ash out the open window, then smirks. “Yaya, we got beaucoup trouble at the house already. What’s one more thing? We’ll follow you.”
I’M NOT OKAY
36.
I am sputtering water, kicking my legs, and thrashing my arms. Small stones roll beneath my bare feet. Frogs croak as water glistens all around me like dark glass. My muscles and lungs burn, and my head aches. Something is holding me beneath the surface. Icy water rushes into my mouth, and I taste blood and cold water and—
My eyes pop open.
A bang of bright-white light and then blurry darkness. The air smells of stale smoke and peppermint, medicine and . . .
I sit up in bed, breathing hard, burrs in my throat. Above me, the ceiling fan buzzes. The digital clock on the DVD/VCR reads 2:13 a.m.
Nightmare.
Clank.
That.
I yank at my damp T-shirt. Cool air from the fan kisses my neck. The sweat on my skin feels thick as pancake batter.
Clank.
That.
I cock my head, close my eyes, and listen.
Water filling the toilet tank.
The rhythmic buzz of the ceiling fan.
My booming pulse.
I reach over to the nightstand for my eyeglasses . . .
Where are my glasses?
Maybe I knocked them over during my—
Clank.
That.
Holding my breath, I paw around the shadowy floor.
No glasses.
Bleary-eyed, I slip on my flip-flops and creep to the door.
The hallway is dark.
The door to my parents’ bedroom is closed.
I tiptoe to the staircase and wince as the top floorboard creaks.
One step . . . Another step . . .
The refrigerator hums.
The moon shines through the skylight and bathes the living room with silver light.
That!
That is not moonlight brightening the windows of our front door.
Burglar!
I back my way up the stairs, keeping my eyes trained on that beam of—
Wait!
That light isn’t coming from the outside.
A footstep.
Breathing.
I rush down the hallway and burst into my parents’ bedroom.
Mom snores.
Dad sleeps with a pillow over his head.
I shake him first.
He immediately tosses the pillow aside and says, “What’s wrong?”
“Someone’s in the house,” I whisper.
He kicks off the comforter.
Mom sits up in bed. “You okay?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
She reaches behind the headboard and grabs her machete.
Dad reaches beneath the bed for his wooden baseball bat.
Downstairs, glass breaks.
We freeze.
Mom hands me the machete, then grabs a hunting knife from beneath the mattress. All we need is Dominique and the saber she bought in Little Tokyo. Mom and I creep down the hall behind Dad. Slowly . . . slowly . . . we tiptoe down the stairs. I can’t hear anything over the roar of blood pounding in my ears. At the base of the stairs, Dad goes right into the living room, and Mom turns left into the den. I stay at the stairs.
“Stop!” Dad shouts.
Feet pound against the floor, and a hooded figure runs to the foyer, throws open the front door, and jams out to the porch.
Where’s Daddy?
I run out of the house. The frigid desert air slams into me and takes my breath away.
The prowler climbs over the hurricane fence that separates the planned neighborhood from undeveloped land and scrambles north to the desert.
