We Lie Here: A Thriller, page 8
Little Girl Yara has never slept well in this room, and now, as early-twenties Yara clutches her scratchy new comforter, there’s too much moonlight and too many shadows. A coyote howls down the block. A shotgun booms and a hillbilly AK-47 goes cak-cak-cak. But gunshots don’t scare her as much as—
CUT TO:
Barbara Gibson storming to that gold Camaro out back with her Louis Vuitton duffel bag slung over her shoulder.
Where had Mom fled tonight after her fight with Dad?
I want to grab Felicia’s note with that address—your mother’s favorite place—but I just got warm. I don’t feel like climbing out of bed and searching through my purse.
My phone buzzes.
Shane’s sent a good-night video. He’s in bed, shirtless, and his finger traces the eagle tat above his heart. He smiles his wonderfully crooked smile and says, “I miss you. Dream of me.”
I will, I text back. Promise.
Downstairs, the kitchen door slams.
Is that Dominique or . . . ?
“Where’s the bathroom?” a young woman asks.
Who the hell . . . ?
“Behind the stairs.” Dominique sounds far away. Is she not escorting her guest through our house?
Outside, a car door slams.
I slip out of bed and over to the window.
Dominique’s Jeep backs out of the driveway.
Where the hell are u going??? I text her.
Taillights from the Jeep dim as she drives away from the house.
To get some drinks
We ran out
WTF?? Your friends are still here??
Chill they’re people not werewolves
Ransom’s still there
And is Ransom now a member of this household?
I glare at the phone, then glare out at Edgewater Court. Over at Mrs. Duncan’s house, her cat, Nixon, slinks out from the shrubs. At Mr. Abernathy’s, his son, Derrick, smokes a cigarette on the porch. I return to the bed, depositing my glasses on the crowded nightstand, then wrap the sheets and comforter around me, burrito-style. Confined by the sheets, my pulse slows, and I take deep breaths to tamp down my anger. My eyelids grow heavy, and my nerves feel fuzzy. The drugs are working!
Theme music from Cheers drifts past my closed door.
Dad chuckles.
Mom shrieks, laughs. “Rob, you are crazy.”
Their bedroom door closes.
We have strangers at our gates. Strangers in our downstairs bathroom. Strangers occupying our backyard patio chairs.
Strangers . . .
Someone with dark skin stands over me. Their brown eyes shine in the dark.
Who are you?
The shadow doesn’t speak.
Did I think those words? Did I speak those words? Did the phantom hear those words?
I reach out, but I touch only air. I bat my hand.
The phantom is too far away from me, and now, it’s fading . . . Water all around me. Rocks poke the soles of my bare feet . . . I’m shivering. Frogs croak. So cold . . . Something cold presses against my forehead and . . . and I scream—
My eyes pop open.
Sunlight spills across the comforter. The carpet shines, and dust motes ride on the air blasting from the air conditioner.
A nightmare, not night terrors, because I remember.
I sit up in bed and wince from the twang in my neck. My blood feels like fizzy, shaken soda. I pull my arms out of the linens and press my eyes with the heels of my hands.
Ativan dreams.
Not of Shane. Not with spiders.
There was a person . . . here . . . but not here. There was a hand . . . A red splotch . . . Cold . . . There was a gun . . . A red splotch on a cold gun . . .
And the cold gun was pressing the space between my eyes.
13.
My mind sizzles like a cheap sparkler, and the dream breaks apart like foam.
I kick off the comforter, thankful that Mom keeps the house at seventy-three degrees. On this early Saturday morning, the sun bursts through my east-facing windowpane. The sky is grainy blue, and Mr. Abernathy’s snapping and cracking American flag means that there’s wind. An olive-green PT Cruiser is parked in the driveway. LaRain Andrepont is here.
Before going downstairs, I peek in the bathroom. The door to Dominique’s bedroom is open. Her bed is made, and her hot-pink toothbrush isn’t hanging in the toothbrush holder.
She must’ve slept over at Ransom’s.
Both Mom and LaRain wear green-and-white Falcons High School tracksuits. Mom sits on a stool at the breakfast counter as LaRain brushes Mom’s hair into a high ponytail. She’s been doing our hair forever, in this kitchen and at her salon.
Mom smiles at me. “Hey, sweetie.”
“Yaya-mama!” LaRain—full makeup, ponytail as long as Mom’s, fake mole popping above her lip—holds out her arm for a hug. If I didn’t know her, I’d never believe that she was coaching at a track meet today. But glamming while running has always been her “thing” since competing together with Mom in high school and being crowned Miss Inglewood 1990.
“You sleep okay?” Mom asks, eyes narrowed.
I nod. “Why?”
“Just . . .” She lifts a shoulder, then offers me a wobbly smile.
“I’m good.” Did I scream out last night? Did I wander through the house?
Mom points to the box of doughnuts on the counter. “LaRain brought you a cinnamon roll.”
My favorite. “Thanks, Lala. Mom, where’s Daddy?”
“With Paul, fixing your car,” the former beauty queen says. “Whose man did you steal?”
I say, “Ha. Please tell Paul thank you.”
“Dad has your keys,” Mom says.
I give her a thumbs-up, then pluck the cinnamon roll from the box. “What time are you heading to Lancaster?”
“A little before noon,” Mom says, looking at her hair in a compact mirror. She frowns at her reflection, then scowls at LaRain. “I said Beyoncé’s high ponytail, not the head of the Alien Queen. Fix this.”
LaRain says nothing as she unwinds Mom’s ponytail to start again.
Mom grins at me. “I warned your father that we’re gonna beat his school today.”
I dump cream and sugar into my cup of coffee. “Is Pepsi’s hamstring better?”
“Nope.” LaRain spritzes hair spray around Mom’s edges. “You know how she pulled it, right? Doing some upside-down twerking challenge on the internet.”
“And I saw that you clicked ‘Like’ on her video,” Mom says, smirking at her friend.
“Talent is talent,” LaRain says. “If she doesn’t land a scholarship, she can always land a job at Charlie’s titty bar.” She nudges my mother’s shoulder. “I’m just playing, Bee.”
“What’s going on around Palmdale, Lala?” I ask.
LaRain’s perfectly arched eyebrows lift. “I was just about to tell your mom that they found some dead woman floating in the lake.”
Mom and I say, “Again?”
I grin. “Jinx.”
Mom winks at me, then picks up her pack of cigarettes from the breakfast counter, catches me side-eyeing her, then tosses the Newports back on the bar. Instead, she plucks the packet of Nicorette from her back pocket and pops a piece in her mouth.
“Which lake?” I ask LaRain.
“Palmdale,” LaRain says, finishing Mom’s ponytail a second time.
Man-made and over a mile long, Lake Palmdale is part of the California Aqueduct. During fishing season, the Fish and Fly Club stocks it with trout and catfish.
Last week, a woman was found dead in her empty fishing boat. Investigators ruled her death a suicide.
A month ago, a woman was shot in the chest and dumped on the lake’s bank.
That man-made lake has the worst man-made luck.
I hate this place.
This place hates women.
No love lost.
I unroll the pastry to eat one delicious segment at a time. “Who was last night’s victim?”
LaRain shrugs. “Nobody knows.” She takes a piece of gum from Mom’s pack. “Police are running her car’s license plate right now.”
“Is Paul supposed to be telling you this?” Mom asks, eyebrows high.
LaRain snorts. “Nope. You think I’m only with him for his buck teeth and receding hairline? Nobody pays attention to the folks who keep the police station clean.”
Paul knows everything, which means LaRain—and sometimes, Ransom—knows everything, too.
“The lady in the lake was driving this gorgeous Benz, too,” LaRain continues.
My knees go weak and I stop in midchew.
“So, a rich bitch?” Mom asks.
“Uh-huh. The car has this custom purple paint job, like she’s Prince.”
Felicia Campbell drives a purple Benz. Could there be two rich bitches in Palmdale with the same tastes in cars?
“Was she Black? White? Old?” I ask, breathless.
LaRain’s lip quirks. “Why you wanna know? You trying to write a new episode of Tough Cookie? You gonna pay me?”
The Andrepont family. Always hustling.
“Can we finish our damn breakfast, please?” Mom says. “We gotta get going soon.”
“I’m serious, Yara,” LaRain says, gathering her hair supplies. “Hundred dollars, and I’ll get you whatever—”
“No, you won’t,” Mom interrupts. “Cuz you don’t follow through.”
LaRain frowns. “When haven’t I followed through?”
“You been trying to leave Palmdale and move to Vegas since 2010,” Mom says.
LaRain rolls her eyes. “All I gotta do is—”
“Then you always say that,” Mom says. “Gurl, bye. Or hello, since you ain’t leaving.”
I turn away from them and find Felicia’s last text message to me.
Help
Lix uz
I tap out a reply.
You there?
An ellipsis bubbles on the screen.
Who’s this?
Yara
I was a little rude to you yesterday
Sorry about that
No response—she’s pissed.
Fine. Whatever. I apologized even though she broke my necklace. Even though she came out of nowhere and tried to grab my arm, and told me all kinds of tinfoil, messy nonsense. How was I supposed to react?
But I am glad she wasn’t dumped or drowned in Lake Palmdale.
Mom pulls out her phone and shows LaRain the seating arrangement chart for the anniversary party. Satisfied with her place in the ballroom, LaRain snaps her fingers and dances in place. “And where are you putting Sharla?” she asks.
“Near the kitchen door,” Mom says.
LaRain throws her head back and cackles.
Mom points her pack of Newports at me. “Make a note of that, Yara.” The gum has lasted all of three minutes before she tapped out a cigarette. And now, she blows smoke to the ceiling and watches her friend through the silvery veil.
LaRain runs her fingers through her ponytail. “Sharla shouldn’t have gone to that dinner. Big mistake.”
Mom shakes ashes into the ashtray. “They should’ve honored me. What more do I need to do to be recognized? I teach movement, and I coach those special needs kids at that school. I do makeup and hair for cancer patients. My daughter donated the walk-on from her TV show. But they’re honoring Candace’s basic ass?”
“And what happens thirty-six hours later?” LaRain asks.
“Busted on Al Gore’s internet sucking some councilman’s rancid dick,” Mom says.
LaRain sucks her teeth. “And there goes Sharla, following behind her.”
Like LaRain’s always following behind my mother.
“So, Sharla’s still invited?” I ask.
“Oh, hell yeah,” Mom says, shooting smoke to the sky. “But her flat ass is now sitting by the kitchen, so make a note.”
Rewarding one friend while sitting the other friend at the worst table. Not disinviting her because Mom wants a full ballroom. But punishing her for attending the gala honoring a rival. Classic Barbara McGuire.
I finish my pastry, then retreat up the stairs to take a shower.
Cousin Felicia—glad she answered my text. I wouldn’t want that kind of drama this coming weekend. If anyone’s gonna shenanigan, it should be my mother. She wouldn’t have it any other way.
My phone buzzes from the counter as I lather in the shower.
I dry off and wrap the towel around me. My phone’s screen shows that I’ve received three texts, each message from Cousin Felicia’s number.
Yara hi
This isn’t Felicia
Felicia is dead
LaRain has to run errands before the track meet, so she tells Mom that she’ll meet her at the school. She leaves behind the box of doughnuts and retreats to her PT Cruiser. She and Ransom now stand in our driveway as she picks at the twists in his hair like a mama bird.
He peels off several hundred-dollar bills and hands them to her.
She shoves the money into her phone case, coos at him, pats his cheek, and, finally, waggles a stiff finger in his face.
He smirks and tosses his head, all yeah, right.
I turn from the den window. My cell phone bobs in my hand as I reread the message.
Felicia is dead
Eyes wide, Mom points at the phone. “If that’s true . . . who’s texting you back?”
Who is this??? I text. Then I pluck the rubber band around my wrist.
“What if Lee really is dead?” Mom whispers.
I shake my head. “But that wouldn’t make sense.”
Mom places her hand on my wrist to stop my nervous plucking. “Cece told me last night that Lee’s having some kind of mental crisis.”
My eyebrows lift. “I wasn’t imagining it, then?”
Mom shakes her head. “I need to remember: This is what Felicia does. She cries wolf. She holds fire drills. Gets you worked up and freaked out.” She pauses, then adds, “You kinda inherited that gene.”
“She’d claim to be dead for attention, though?” I ask, even as her observation chafes.
“That’s why, to this day, I don’t fuck with Lee. I advise you to lose her number, or she’ll pull you into her . . .” Mom wiggles her fingers at my phone. “Thing.”
Too late. Felicia has already pulled me into her thing. The woman’s given me a set of keys, for Pete’s sake.
“And you didn’t see her last night?” Mom asks.
“No.”
“You sure? You’re not forgetting like you do sometimes?”
“Positive.”
Mom stares at me for several seconds, then pulls bottles of Gatorade from the freezer. She arranges them inside a zip-up insulated bag. “I haven’t talked to her in years.”
“But you talk to Cece all the time,” I say.
She tears open a box of protein bars. “Cuz Cece is talented and entertaining. But Felicia . . . We went to high school together, and when she was running for senior class president, she made all these stupid promises that were impossible to keep. Like hamburger day every Friday, and no more detention. Of course she won the election. Of course everybody hated her when nasty-ass sloppy joes were served three Fridays after she’d won.” Mom grunts. “Tell me the truth, Yara. You invited her to the party, didn’t you? It’s okay—I won’t get mad.”
“No, I didn’t. I swear,” I say. “She just showed up in the Holiday Inn parking lot. She didn’t ask for an invitation, but she probably wanted one. This is the hottest party of the year.”
Mom grins, huffs on her nails, and buffs them against her chest. But then she closes her eyes, her smile dimming. “What if Lee is the woman in the lake?”
I frown. “But who would’ve hurt her?”
Mom slips the protein bars into the insulated bag. “Girl, it’s Palmdale. Take your pick: Crips or Nazis. Family, friends, strangers.” She pauses, then sighs. “I can’t stand her, but we’re cousins. Once upon a time, we were friends. Good friends, but she was so smart and so haughty. She’d make it a point to show everybody just how much smarter she was than the rest of us. That her family had money and that Cece knew everybody in music.
“My family—we were the poor cousins, and Cece and Uncle Skip would host these big parties at their big house in Baldwin Hills where all the fancy Black people lived. Sometimes, I was invited. Most times . . .”
My mother slouches against the counter. “And then there were the boys. Lee ran through them like toilet paper, and honestly? I don’t remember what happened that ended our friendship. Whatever it was, I took my girls, she took hers, and that was that.” She zips, then unzips the insulated bag.
I touch her wrist, my own heart bobbing in sadness. “You okay?” She can be vindictive and controlling, but she is my mother.
Mom sucks in her cheeks, shrugging. “Haven’t thought about any of this in a long time. And I’m low-key pissed that she’s trying to suck all the oxygen out of the room again. Why the hell did she even drive up here? She doesn’t belong in Palmdale.”
I fake shout, “Wolf!”
“You are a treasure, Yara.” Mom runs her knuckle along my cheekbone, then lifts my hand. “Promise me that you’ll stay away from your drama-queen, wolf-crying second cousin.”
I nod. “Cross my heart.”
Together, Mom and I load all the track-meet supplies into the back of her SUV. Dust swirls across the asphalt, but nothing blocks the glare of the sun. No nuance up in that sky—it will be hot and bright today. By the time we’re done packing, Dominique and Ransom are standing in the back garage, checking out Mom’s gold Camaro.
Nothing useful is stored in that old shed—just rusted tools on pegs, a few old cans of paint, a giant deflated tire Dad uses as a part of his team’s conditioning regimen.
Back in the kitchen, Mom and I both stop speaking to eavesdrop on my sister and her boyfriend—but we can’t hear anything over the brup-brup-brup of a neighbor’s motorcycle.
Mom’s phone chimes from her back pocket. She says, “Hey, Lala. You’re on speaker.”
“Girl,” LaRain says. “The cops are sayin’ that the woman in the lake is Felicia.”
“No.” Mom sinks against the breakfast bar, hand to her heart, eyes closed.
“And,” LaRain says.
“And what?” I ask, because Mom is squeezing the bridge of her nose, unable to speak.
