We Lie Here: A Thriller, page 23
Sheldon and his wife of 30 years, Maryam, did not survive.
Their 19-year-old only child did, albeit with substantial injuries that would end her dream of dancing with the famed dance company. “My parents always told me that nature finds a way,” Marsh said, pointing at her still-healing wounds and scratches. “And since I can no longer dance, I’ll teach and I’ll carry on my mother’s dream. And now, my dream, too.”
With the help of her best friend, Felicia Campbell, and her boyfriend, Rob Gibson, Marsh learned to walk again. After the day’s classes, she spends an hour at the barre, fighting to reclaim her strength and flexibility.
“I can do first and second positions,” she said with a warm laugh. “I’ll never grand jeté again, but I’m here. Nature always finds a way.”
She’s so beautiful in this picture, with her pink satin skirt and curly bun. She’s so strong and . . . Wow. Felicia and Dad helped her walk again.
I click on another article written after her disappearance.
Over 50 people arrived at Lake Paz to search for evidence related to the disappearance of a Los Angeles–area woman. After a daylong search, volunteers found a “suspicious item” that was immediately turned over to authorities. Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department detective Matt Stall says he can’t reveal the nature of this item but expects it will help shed light on the circumstances surrounding the case.
Did she tire of the pain? Her loss? Why did she leave? In 1989, my father was twenty-one years old and a junior in college. Who had he been dating then? Mom or Liz . . . or both? And Felicia—she’d been a true friend; but then, that friendship hadn’t been enough to keep Elizabeth there. Because . . . “voluntary missing adult,” just like the report indicated.
Wait.
The server at Bucelli’s Italian told me that Felicia had been waiting for Liz. And then, the server had called me Liz. Felicia knew that Liz was alive and that she was no longer missing. They’d come to Palmdale, again, to do what?
How long has Elizabeth Marsh been gone?
I glance at my phone just in case I didn’t hear it ring over the manic beatboxing from my heart. I want Detective Stall to call me now more than ever.
There are text messages from Ransom.
Got the cash
Here’s more stuff
My screen loads with files of PDFs.
How is he getting all of this?
A report from the DNA lab.
Please examine the following items for foreign DNA:
Swabs from under the victim’s right-hand nails
Swabs from under the victim’s left-hand nails
Swabs from the victim’s neck (exposed skin).
Please examine the victim’s pantsuit for foreign DNA in areas that may have been touched by suspect during the attack.
Though the victim was found in water, several injuries were to the back of head. Please have foreign DNA uploaded into CODIS.
There’s an inventory sheet listing logged-in DNA buccal swabs. I see my name there, along with Alicia Campbell, William Harraway, and Ransom Andrepont.
My stomach drops. Ransom? Why did Kayla take his DNA?
Additional swabs being analyzed come from Felicia’s car as well as from the gun found in the car door pocket and the note found in the passenger footwell. Felicia’s car has been impounded—there’s a receipt for that.
The last document is a spreadsheet: a GPS log with columns for dates and times, activity, and location of data. So many numbers. My eyes glaze, but I’m able to pick out words.
1224 Stardust Way (N 34.6661569°, W -118.4018816°). This is the Marsh family’s cabin. Felicia created this route on Wednesday, May 15, at 6:53 in the morning. So . . . last week.
54938 Edgewater Court—that’s my parents’ address. Felicia also created that route on May 15 at nine that night. Did Felicia drive to my parents’?
I take a breath, but my lungs sit like knots in my chest. Because the third address . . . 9033 Fourth Street, Santa Monica. Route created on Wednesday, May 15, at 5:15 p.m.
I live at 9033 Fourth Street.
A FAMILY AFFAIR
44.
Palmdale
7:22 p.m.
Where the hell did she go?
Yara hasn’t been home since early morning.
You’re supposed to watch her, the mastermind texted.
There are more things to do in life than following some spoiled bitch around Palmdale. Working a nine-to-five, first of all. Gotta work. Not everybody has multiple streams of untaxed revenue rolling in.
Do I have to do everything myself?
Ugh. Tuck in your tail and just take it . . . for now. Then you fuck everybody up, including the mastermind. If it keeps going this way, if accusatory texts keep blowing up the phone . . .
Switch teams. Simple as that.
And who’s out here looking for the needle in the haystack in a city full of needles?
Again, after being on my feet all damn . . .
What is that?
The car’s acting up again. The steering wheel is vibrating a little more than it vibrated yesterday. The car is dying. Need more money, to either fix it or buy a new one.
One last sweep and I’m done.
No black Jeep at Target.
No black Jeep at In-N-Out.
There it is! The black Jeep is parked close to the entrance of the Holiday Inn!
A slow drive past the car to look at the license plate . . . Yep, that’s Yara.
Even in a parking space two rows over, the Jeep is still easy to see.
Found her!!! Best text sent today.
An ellipsis bubbles on the phone’s screen. Stay and watch.
Ummm . . . For how long?? Again, people got jobs.
For as long as it takes!
That could be all night. If it is all night, there’s a new plan to follow. Run Yara off the road and make it look like an accident. And then all of this will be over.
New car. New headboard. But in a different city. Leave everything and everyone behind. Live a whole new life. A better life.
Finally.
45.
Room 303 smells like burgers and fries and the red wine I sloshed onto the table. The moon and the hotel parking lot’s orange sodium lights shine through the windows.
I turn in bed onto my stomach. “But why did Felicia go to my apartment?”
Shane, all shoulders and smog-colored eyes, lies beside me. “Did she actually get out of the car and use the intercom to call up? Or did she just drive by?”
“I don’t know.” That night, I’d stayed at his place in Culver City and driven to Palmdale from there. “I wish she would’ve come earlier. I’d know whatever it was she’d wanted to tell me.”
And why did she drive to my parents’? Did they talk to her that night?
Shane runs his fingers through my dry hair, then kisses my shoulder. His lips against my bare skin make me tremble, and I stretch toward him, a plant starved for sunshine. It’s been nearly a week since we’ve seen each other, and I keep hugging him as though he’s crossed the Atlantic on the slowest steamer.
The left- and right-side nightstands hold our phones. The nightstand on my side has vibrated all evening. It vibrates now.
Shane hides his face in my hair. “Your family knows you’re here tonight, right?”
“I texted them this afternoon.” I pause, then add, “They’re doing this on purpose—it’s all about control, keeping me in place.”
At first, I thought there’d been an emergency. That Mom had gotten into a car accident, or Dad had hurt himself at football practice.
My dress isn’t ready, Mom had texted.
Didn’t Tynisha say that it would be ready???
One more couple to the guest list
Orlando Flores and his wife
He’s a reporter with the Antelope Valley Times!!!
Is it possible to add them?
Of course it is
Make it so!!
Cece called
She’ll be here either Thursday or Friday
For the body
And now I grab the phone again from the nightstand to make sure that all is well in the House of Gibson.
There’s a cascade of new text messages.
He allergic to anything? Mom asks.
Don’t want to kill him
Yet
LOL
Shane reads the text and says, “Ha,” then climbs out of bed. “I’m allergic to peaches.”
I text Mom, then place the phone on the nightstand. “Just another fire drill,” I say and grab my IDEAS journal from the nightstand. “They’re really helping me write this show.”
Shane’s muscles shift around his body as he performs the simple act of pulling up his boxers. It’s like I’m watching a beautiful, complex clock reporting that it’s seven o’clock.
“I look forward to meeting them,” he says.
I smile and toss the journal onto the carpet. “Famous last words.”
He squints at me. “How bad could it be?”
I hug a pillow to my chest and knead it with my chin. “My mother’s favorite pastime is making grown men cry. They’re caught off guard because she’s beautiful and so they don’t realize that her tongue has slit their throats. Saw it happen to our high school vice principal, who thought he’d get to walk away after calling my mother a Black bitch.”
Shane winces. “Was it the ‘bitch’ part?”
“No, she actually enjoys the ‘bitch’ part.”
“What happened to him?”
“He got promoted to principal. But he has this rasp . . .”
He holds out his hands. “Well, I come in peace. Oh, is there a wine store close by? I can’t meet them emptyhanded.”
“A wine store?” I crawl to the bottom of the bed and run my hand along his neck. “Bruh, you in Palmdale. We got a grocery store, some liquor stores, and a BevMo.”
He kisses me, then grabs bottled waters from the fridge. He points to the plastic tub I took from the cabin. “What’s all that?”
“Information involving a mistress, dead parents, racists next door, and Lake Paz.” I trace the eagle tattoo above his heart and tell him about the cabin, the basement, and the boxes. About Bud and Birdie possibly and probably cutting the brake lines on the Marsh family’s Benz.
“And I found this answering machine with Felicia’s name on it, I think, and these tiny little tapes . . .” I tell Shane that I listened to a few messages and found the number to the investigating detective in one of the folders. “But he hasn’t called me back.”
He hops back in bed. “Who’s the victim?”
“No idea.” I guzzle from the bottle, and cool water nurses my thick tongue and scratchy throat. “But my dad’s ex-girlfriend was missing at one time. Wanna hear the messages? They may make more sense to you.”
I grab the answering machine from the tub and press a button. There’s a beep and a voice.
“Erased. To start a new greeting—”
I slap my forehead. “Well, golly, Yara. Way to go.”
He laughs. “How’d you press the wrong button?”
“Dunno.” I drop the machine back into the tub. “It’s like driving a freaking Model T-Mobile or whatever. At least there are still more tapes in the bag.”
“I’ll call the detective. Use my badge number and all that. Brother to brother.”
I crawl beside him in bed. “You will?”
“Anything for you.”
My smile dies. “What if . . . ? Maybe I shouldn’t . . .” I clench—the shakes are coming on and twisting inside me. “I’m scared that I’m gonna find out the worst about Dad . . . or just confirm what I always suspected.”
“Which is?”
“That he has this whole other life that I don’t know about.” I jam my hands into my armpits. “You think I should stop?”
His eyebrows scrunch. “You won’t stop, though.”
“I could stop.”
“Impossible.”
“If he’s cheated on Mom and I find out for sure . . . I won’t feel like celebrating.”
Shane swipes his knuckle against my cheek. “Welcome to the world of adulting, Yara Gibson. Keep your arms and legs close to you at all times.”
“I don’t think I’m ready to grow up,” I say, shaking my head.
Here in Grown-Up Land, you work too much, you don’t smile enough, and everything you thought you knew turns out to be the sweetest lie.
Let me off this wack-ass ride.
46.
The western Mojave Desert is at its prettiest right now at six thirty in the morning, with that new sun making jeweled light across the sand and stones. Jackrabbits spring across boulders, and birds blanket the sky to do whatever birds do together en masse. As the moon fades in the western sky and the sun turns the horizon the colors of berries and wines, my family welcomes Shane with hugs and handshakes. Mom and Dad thank him for the Dom Pérignon and her favorite Pinot Grigio.
Anxiety feels like heartburn this morning, but there’s nothing I can do to stop the spread. We settle on the back deck with our plates filled with the buffet Mom has prepared—from frittata and crisp bacon to fruit (no peaches) and fresh-baked cinnamon rolls. Dad has lit the firepit, and the rich smell of applewood mixes with early-morning sage and bacon.
My mother tells witty stories about her running career and the bigoted vice principal that she filleted. “He hasn’t uttered the word ‘black’ since then,” she says, laughing. “Just ‘dark’ and ‘darkest brown.’” Though charming and pleasant, she remains watchful, waiting for Shane to slip up.
Dominique shows off her intelligence, using “boondoggle,” “capricious,” and “kitsch” in one breath. Though she, too, is charming and pleasant, she hides her yawns behind the rim of her coffee cup. Either it’s too early, or she’s completely bored by my boyfriend.
Dad shares stories about football parents who think their sons are the next Tom Brady but these same sons are scared to get hit by the ball or the other team.
Shane, too, is polite and attentive. He shares stories of playing football at Culver City High School and Duke University. He holds my hand, but not so much that it looks controlling and creepy. He congratulates my parents on their anniversary but doesn’t say nonsense like, I hope Yara and I find that same joy.
It’s the most perfect Wednesday morning in Gibson family history.
“That was . . . interesting,” Shane says now as we drive back to the Holiday Inn.
I toss him a look as I grip the steering wheel. “Meaning . . . ?”
“Lakes look so calm and peaceful but . . .” He squints as he thinks. “Lakes have these hidden dangers. Weeds that wrap around your ankles. They’re cold, and they host weird bacteria that works itself into your brain and kills you. Your family’s like a lake.”
I throw back my head and laugh. “You call it a lake. I think it’s more like those high-security areas with the crisscrossing laser beams and fragmentation mines.”
He chuckles. “Your parents . . . There’s some anger bubbling there. Dom is definitely your mother’s favorite. And you’re a Daddy’s girl—he made sure that you ate, that you were hydrated, that you were . . . okay.”
I make a face. “Did he?”
Shane nods. “He kept you stocked with juice, tissues, and bacon.”
“He did!”
“I caught your mother glaring at him a few times,” Shane says. “Like you’re actually the other woman. Families, right? I understand you better, though. Why you’re constantly thinking and imagining. Why you don’t like conflict. Why you’re writing Queen of Palmdale.” He turns to me and smiles. “Makes me love you more.”
I loosen my death grip on the steering wheel as relief veins through me.
From the cup holder, my phone vibrates.
A text from Mom. He’s cute and smart!!
Good jobbbbbbb
I send her, Dominique, and Dad a thank-you text.
I know it was a lot to prepare a last-minute breakfast on a workday
THANK YOU!!!!
My phone vibrates with a response from Dominique.
He’s grown on me!
At the Holiday Inn, the ladies with the cleaning carts are working two doors down from my room. A good thing they’re close—a pile of towels towers on my bathroom floor, and the table is still tacky from spilled wine.
Today, I can hang out with Shane until he leaves at noon. My family has school. Afterward, Dominique and Mom are heading to the dress shop to deal with the seamstress.
I capture show ideas in my journal before those thoughts evaporate—lakes, high-security area, breakfast at dawn—but the plastic tub from the Marsh cabin is calling me. I grab the file on Elizabeth Marsh’s disappearance. Even as Shane rubs my shoulders and kisses my neck, even as my heart makes ticking sounds like a love bomb ready to burst, I can’t tear my eyes away from this woman’s picture. Shane continues to vie for my attention as he nuzzles my hair.
I sigh. “Housekeeping is right there.”
He doesn’t have enough time to respond before my phone rings.
“Matt Stall here.” The detective in charge of Elizabeth Marsh’s missing person case.
“It’s the detective,” I whisper to Shane.
My boyfriend tosses me a pen and settles beside me at the foot of the bed.
I tap the speaker icon. “US Marshal Shane Christopher is also here.”
“Thanks for returning our call,” Shane says.
“It’s not a problem,” Detective Stall says.
I tell him that I’m calling about the missing person investigation for Elizabeth Marsh. “My cousin Felicia Campbell was recently . . . murdered,” I add, my tongue thick, “and I’m currently in possession of the files she kept and I’m trying to figure out if Liz’s disappearance is related to Felicia’s death. You may have something useful . . .”
The detective grunts. “Condolences on your cousin. Doubt that I have anything to add. You have the Marsh files right there. Elizabeth Marsh was reported missing on June 25 by Miss Campbell. In fact, Miss Campbell was the only one who thought Marsh had disappeared under suspicious circumstances.”
