We Lie Here: A Thriller, page 9
“And,” LaRain continues, “they found a gun.”
14.
Neither Mom nor I makes a sound. Beyond the kitchen, the desert crackles, restless with its cawing hawks, rustling shrubs, and barking dogs. My mother teeters between sharp breaths in and sharp gasps out, not wanting to cry but needing to expel something. She straightens the napkins in the holder. She rearranges the sugar jar with the flour jar. She holds her belly in between the keep-busy tasks.
Whose gun did the police find?
Where did investigators find that gun?
Did Felicia use that gun?
Paul hadn’t known the answers to these questions, which meant LaRain didn’t know the answers to these questions, either. More than that, Paul still couldn’t absolutely confirm that Felicia was the lady in the lake.
And if Felicia is dead, who, then, texted me from her phone?
Have I been texting her killer?
I tear my eyes away from Mom and reread last night’s messages from my cousin.
Help
Lix uz
The note she slid beneath my door is somewhere in my purse, but I remember those words. What I must share with you is very important . . . I have critical information that will change your life . . .
“She told me that she didn’t have a lot of time,” I whisper, tears in my eyes.
Mom comes over to hug me.
“I shouldn’t have brushed her off,” I say into her shoulder. “I should’ve listened to her and then . . . I don’t know. Been nicer or . . . or . . .”
“Stop. No, Yara.” She tweaks my nose. “Let’s just wait to hear for sure, okay? Don’t talk to anybody else about this. I’ll call Cece after the track meet. And not to diminish any of this, but trust me when I say that Felicia was mean as hell. I’ll show you some of the letters she sent me, okay? You’ll see what I mean. I’m not being a hard-ass about her just because.”
The front door opens.
Mom shouts, “Rob?”
He shouts back, “Yeah.”
Mom clasps my hand. “Remember what I told you. Don’t talk to anybody.”
I nod, then dart to the foyer.
Sunlight shines at Dad’s back, leaving his face in shadow.
“Did the scratches come out?” I ask.
“You okay?” he asks, head cocked. His eyes flick toward the kitchen. “What happened?”
I force my way into a smile. “I’m good. So everything’s buffed out?”
His gaze lingers at the kitchen door, and then he beckons me to follow him out to the driveway. “There you go.”
I run my fingers along the now-smooth paint. Like new again. I hop and wrap my arms around my father’s neck. “Thank you! You made my day!”
He pecks my forehead, then hands me the keys. “Back to work.” He tosses a weak wave to Mom, who’s now standing on the porch, then ambles to his Suburban parked at the curb.
Mom, backpack and whistle in hand, pops down the porch steps and heads to her gold Cherokee. The dry desert air leaches the moisture out of my fingers as I take her bag and load it into the back passenger seat. Four pairs of sunglasses crowd the cup holders, along with unopened boxes of Nicorette gum. The interior smells of lemon and cigarettes. I learned to drive in this SUV, and back then, my things—notebooks, pens, and water bottles—mingled with hers.
I tilt my head to let the sun warm my face. “Felicia left me a key to some place . . . 1224 Stardust Way.”
Mom tosses her jacket into the back seat. “Where’s that?”
“According to her, it’s your favorite place.”
Mom smooths her ponytail. “And how would she know that? We ain’t talked in years, and last time we did, I had two favorite places: Contempo Casuals and Orange Julius. Neither exists anymore.”
I laugh. “Orange Julius is still around, Mom.”
“Whatever.” She points at me. “Don’t you go off alone looking for a place you only know exists because someone with issues told you about it. I don’t need you calling attention to yourself. You’re not in La-La Land anymore.”
I lift my chin and stick out my chest. “I’ll have you remember that I traveled to Thailand alone after graduation.”
“I’ll have you remember that you caught dengue fever there, day three.”
“Ha.”
“And you have no time for field trips,” Mom says, slipping behind the steering wheel. “We have a party to plan. Did you reseat Sharla?”
I flush and hold up my phone. “Doing that right now.” I make a note on my phone, then beam at my mother.
She isn’t smiling. “My schedule is crammed, and I don’t have the bandwidth to save you because you fucked up while adventuring. Don’t make me worry about you, too, little girl.”
“Yep,” I say and wave as she backs out of the driveway.
So . . . where is 1224 Stardust Way, and why did Felicia want to meet there?
15.
After I can no longer see my mother’s car, I run back to my bedroom and change into a hoodie, leggings, and high-top Vans. I have no idea where Dominique and Ransom went. Twenty minutes later, I return to the driveway.
A dark-green Mazda that I don’t recognize is parked across the street. A middle-aged Black man with close-cut curly hair and stingy eyes sits behind the steering wheel.
Something about him makes me stutter in my step.
I toss my bag into the Jeep and hop behind the wheel. I back out of the driveway and roll in the direction of the green Mazda.
The man ducks and turns his head.
Too late. I see him, and as I continue south, I squint at his license plate number in the rearview mirror and tap the sequence into my phone.
He doesn’t U-turn to follow me.
Maybe he’s . . . just a strange man being strange?
I punch 1224 Stardust Way Lake Paz into the navigation system. It’s only a thirty-minute drive north. How much trouble can I get in just a half hour away? I definitely don’t want Mom joining me on this adventure. I have no desire to see the world through Bee Goggles, nor do I want to censor my thoughts. More than that, I know how to take care of myself.
The windshield rattles as dust and grit hit the glass. Sand sweeps across the highway, but the sky is still deep blue. Before the road winds between the mountains, my phone chimes with a text message.
From Felicia’s phone number.
You there?
We need to talk
16.
Lake Paz Road
10:50 a.m.
Antelope Valley, the land of lakes and losers, spreads out before the car’s hood.
Would’ve never thought . . . would’ve never considered . . . living in this place? With its constant wind, dogfighting, and meth? This was a place to successfully raise a family?
Also a surprise: having to follow this Jeep on a twisty road out of the valley. Sliding between cool mountains isn’t as exciting as the promise of sliding the knife across her throat or watching those big brown eyes fill with fear and confusion. That will be the best part—that dumb look, the stuttered Whuh-whuh-why? That’s when the knife will do the talking.
And that knife is snug now in a backpack. Its blade still shines, since there was no need to use it last night. Self-drowning had been a brilliant solution. No fingerprints, no blood, nothing to tie back to being with Felicia. Today, though, the knife will need to do its part.
Shoulda listened to me a long time ago.
There’d be no need to drive to who knows where.
Pretty simple becoming just another shadow in that house, sliding down the hall, that knife hidden beneath the jacket. First room on the left—that’s where Yara slept. Even though the wick wasn’t burning, the scent of the candle permeated the bedroom.
Yara had turned over in bed.
She thought I was a dream.
Not a dream. Very real. Yeah, it could’ve happened then, but there’d been too many people going in and out of the house. It had taken willpower to keep the knife stowed, to keep from grabbing a pillow, dropping it over Yara’s head, and smothering her.
The plan, that voice had warned. Stick to the plan.
Plans were like tongues. Everyone had one and ignored the damn thing until it got bitten or burned.
Following Yara is part of the plan. Bringing the knife? An exciting detour.
Excitement swirls like confetti. Can’t get this type of high with drugs, alcohol, or sex.
No new texts or voice mail messages brighten the phone. No interruptions now.
Only I can mess this up. By hesitating, by not knowing the lay of the land. Smart. Adaptable. A survivor. That’s who I am.
And after this afternoon? After making the knife do its job? I will make myself as small as a spider, and then, at the right time, I’ll strike again and take the prize.
17.
LaRain and Paul have been wrong before. Like the rumor they spread about our school superintendent. He was not having an affair with the hot young administrative assistant. The hot young assistant had been his love child. And the pastor at that Pentecostal church near the KFC hadn’t been arrested. He’d been filming a “know your rights” video for his new community initiative on policing.
Felicia could be having bottomless mimosas right now at the Rancho Vista Golf Club—even though she’s supposed to be at Lake Paz to meet with me.
I tap back a response to Felicia’s last we need to talk text.
We’ll talk when I get there
The phone rings—Felicia’s number.
Irritated, I answer. “What?”
“Yara,” a woman says. Then there’s a canyon of silence followed by, “Hello?”
“Felicia,” I say, “that you?”
Background noise, then silence.
“I’m losing you,” I shout. “But I’m on my way to the cabin. I’m late but don’t leave!”
The phone beeps twice and the call drops.
I try to call back, but the line rings and drops again. Bars for reception on my phone have dropped to just one. “I tried,” I say, dumping the phone into the cup holder. I’ll see her soon. And really, as twisty as this road has become, I need to focus on driving, not drama.
Behind me, the sky over the city is turning brown. Another dust storm may be brewing. The Jeep’s steering wheel vibrates beneath my palms as the car pushes through swift, powerful winds. A mini disaster looms in the rearview mirror, but up ahead, nothing but blue sky.
Hawks circle high above treetops, sag ponds, and siphons. Twisty trails cut through forest that survived the last fires. Beneath blackened tree trunks and naked branches, superblooms of bright-white star lilies sweep the forest floor.
At Meditation Drive, I turn left and inch down the curvy-tight road to Stargazer Way. I make a right—more curvy-tight roads. Lake Paz winks at me through the evergreens.
There are rumors about this lake, like . . .
There’s no bottom.
There’s a monster that swims here named Angry Phoenix.
That the rich men who built these roads dumped dead workers into this lake and collected life insurance.
At Stardust Way, I turn left, and seconds later, I reach my destination: a kelly-green A-frame cabin tucked into a copse of evergreens overlooking the lake.
No purple Benz.
At the gingerbread-colored cabin next door, an old white man wearing a red baseball cap sits in a porch swing.
My shoulders hunch. I don’t want no static, old man.
He stares into space as though neither of us exists.
Before leaving my Jeep, I try calling Felicia again.
The line rings once . . . then drops.
I climb out of my car and make my way up the porch stairs of the green cabin.
The cool air smells of pines and alkaline from the lake. Beetles buzz and whir from their hidden nests. It’s much cooler up here than in Palmdale, and my hoodie protects me from the unexpected chill.
Even though I have a key, I still knock on the door. Don’t wanna walk in on an unsuspecting family making ham-and-cheese sandwiches.
As I wait for someone to answer, I throw my eyes here and there. The old guy is still sitting in the porch swing. A woodpecker taps at the trunk of a pine tree. Two squirrels scamper across the power lines. Angry Phoenix lurks through the lake’s unlimited depths, waiting for an unsuspecting swimmer.
The old man stands. He leaves the creaking swing and disappears into his cabin.
Here at 1224 Stardust Way, no one has come to the door.
And now, I look closer. No cars other than mine have recently disturbed the needle-thick driveway—but then a breeze slips across the concrete, and the needles spin into a new pattern. The marigold drapes in the windows look stiff, like they haven’t been pulled back or washed in decades. The paint on the eaves is peeling, and the gutters are clogged with needles, leaves, and bird feathers.
I pull from my purse the envelope that Felicia slid beneath my hotel room door. Holding my breath, I slip one of the two keys she included into the lock.
Click.
With a heavy, shaky hand, I push the door open. Cool, pine-scented air rushes past me. Thank goodness. I anticipated the stink of rotting corpses. I squint into the dim space. “Hello?” I call out, then wait for a reply.
There’s a wood-framed couch there. A standing fireplace there. A large floor-console television over there.
I close the door, making sure to turn the lock. I flick the light switch, and the lamp on a side table pops on.
Weak, golden light floods the room. There’s . . .
Wood wall paneling. An upright piano. A quilt thrown across the back of an armchair. A layer of dust on the television screen. The logs next to the fireplace are cracked, and cobwebs hang from one piece to the next. The wood planks beneath my sneakers creak every other step I take, as though walking hurts them.
An old, framed photo sits on top of the piano. I tap the middle C key and stare at the couple in the picture. They’re Black, they’re attractive. But in the sixties, everyone was fly. He has wavy hair, wears plaid pants and a short-sleeved, button-down shirt. A cigarette hangs from his mouth. The woman wears a miniskirt and crop top. She wears her hair parted in the middle.
I don’t know these people.
There’s a frosted crystal lighthouse on top of the piano. I pick it up and turn it over in my hands. Just a frosted lighthouse—no switch to make it glow.
There is a small music box decorated with bars of a song. I turn the red-bead handle. It plays “La Vie en Rose.”
The curtains smell of dust and mold and hang like dead skin.
This can’t possibly be Mom’s favorite place.
I open the patio door, greeted again by bright light and fresh, metallic-smelling air. Evergreen trees and boulders take up the most space on the islet just off the bank of the lake. What an awesome slip of land. Perfect for kids who wanna play castaway or pirates. The lake itself is so blue and so deep, its surface rippling with crests made by Angry Phoenix.
I plop into a dusty lounge chair and listen to birds and to water lapping against the shore.
Where is Felicia?
With the lake and trees, these dusty trinkets and the vintage photo, the out-of-tune piano and the old redneck next door? A great location for an episode of Tough Cookie.
I take a few pictures of the living room. Out here on the deck, I have two bars, maybe three. I send the shots to Shane.
My situation right now
You go back in time? Shane texts back.
Ha ha
Something like that
Long story
I’ll tell you later
In this episode, Cookie receives an anonymous note telling her to drive to this address. The man you seek is HERE. She creeps around the deserted cabin, gun drawn, breath tight . . . and she finds the bloodied and battered body of the man who may have killed her distant cousin. Someone’s killed the killer! But who? The door behind her creaks open and . . . Next week on Tough Cookie . . .
Maybe I should keep this for Queen of Palmdale.
I return to the deck and settle into the lounge chair. I take more pictures, then scribble notes into my IDEAS-QUEEN OF PALMDALE journal.
I pull out Mom’s fabric journal that I found in the attic and read a few random entries from February 1998. Mom wrote about people accusing her of smiling too much, of being unstable and erratic. My uterus should not be tossed in a straw basket. Nana Audrey, my father’s mom, didn’t like my mother much and absolutely hated Lolly. The words “trapped” and “crazy” had spun crazily out of Nana’s mouth anytime she and Dad were together without Mom and figured that I wasn’t listening. My poor mother, Fighter Bee. She boxed against so many people.
I close my eyes. Free of debris, my lungs expand in my chest. I could stay here forever. This could become my favorite place. Sit, write, drink adult beverages while wrapped in a blanket. Shane mans the grill, and then, together, we watch the sun travel across the sky and the moon skip across the lake.
Yeah, it would be sweet to own a cabin by the lake. One day . . .
My eyes pop open.
What was that?
My brain moves like an Icee. Not a dream this time, but . . .
I glance at my phone. I’ve been asleep for almost forty minutes.
I slip the journal back into my bag, then dip back into the house. The front door is closed, but I remember the sound of the doorknob twisting, like someone was trying to get in.
A flare shoots in my heart, but I shake my head. “No. Don’t. Climb off the ledge, Yara.”
Outside, the lake water laps against the shore. Birds chirp from the trees. Too silent.
No Felicia.
I open the front door. A few dried leaves blow in from the porch, and I kick them back out. Leave the place as I found it—stuck in time.
At the cabin next door, the porch swing creaks, but there’s no one sitting there.
I climb into the Jeep and push the ignition button. A cherry-red computerized graphic of my car brightens the dashboard. I blink at what I see, then stagger to the front driver’s side tire.
