Still, Beth had looked. When Lily vanished again after Mariana died, she’d looked. And when she felt that her sister was close—with the same dreamlike certainty she’d had years ago, looking at Lily’s footprints in the dewy grass—she’d even get in her car and drive around Claire Lake, wondering if she’d see Lily at the next stoplight, around the next corner.
Lily was close now. Beth could feel it, but that wasn’t why she was driving tonight. She was driving because Lily had killed a man.
He’d been left on the side of the road. Shot in the face, like Julian. But this man wasn’t someone Lily knew. She’d chosen someone random, and she’d left a note: Am I bitter or am I sweet? Ladies can be either.
Lily had gone into her clock tower at last.
Beth had gotten a phone call four months ago, after Lily had been gone for well over a year. I’m in a hospital, Lily had said, the line crackling. They don’t know my real name. I don’t have any identification. I want to get out of here, Beth. I need you to come and get me. Please. Please.
Was it the truth? There was always that question with Lily, but Beth hadn’t cared. She’d felt numb at the sound of Lily’s voice, followed by scathing relief that wherever Lily was, she might be locked up in a hospital. Thank God someone is looking after her so I don’t have to, Beth had thought. Someone is keeping her from hurting people.
It could have been a lie to get Beth’s sympathy and, more importantly, her money, but something in Lily’s voice told Beth it might not be. For the first time in Beth’s life, Lily actually sounded worried about something. In fact, by the end of the call, as she heard the hopelessness in Beth’s voice, she’d begged.
Get me out of here. Please, Beth. Please.
* * *
—
Beth drove downtown. Lily wouldn’t have much money, so she would have to find a cheap room to rent. Beth started with Claire Lake’s cheapest motels, then the YWCA. Have you seen this woman? She used one of the only photos she had of Lily, from their last Christmas together. It was ridiculously out-of-date, but Lily hated to have her picture taken, and Beth didn’t have anything more recent.
Lily Knowles? she asked at place after place. Veronica Jenshak? Amy McMaster? She tried the aliases she knew, but no one recognized them, or the photo.
So Beth got back into her father’s Buick and thought again. Lily was here; she was sure of it. She also knew that Lily expected Beth to be looking for her. The note left with that man’s body had been so clear. Lily wanted Beth to panic, to find her, to stop her. To Lily, it was a game.
Get me out of here. Please, Beth. Please, Lily had said in that phone call four months ago.
And Beth had said, No.
She didn’t know what had landed Lily in a mental hospital, and she hadn’t asked. What had mattered was that Lily was locked up, looked after, unable to hurt anyone. Beth had hung up the phone with a sense of relief. Lily wasn’t her problem anymore.
And for a while, she wasn’t. But now this.
Wherever she’d been, Lily was free.
Beth rubbed the hangover from behind her eyes and tried to make herself think, but she was so tired. This was her fault. She should have found out what hospital Lily was in, made sure she stayed there forever so that no one else would die. She should have done . . . something. Anything.
Think, Beth, think. Where else would someone go when they had no money? Then she knew. The houseboats on the piers—the eyesore of Claire Lake. If there was a room to rent on one of those ratty old boats, it would be the perfect spot.
Beth drove the Buick to the piers and got out, tying her trench coat more tightly in the chill wind.
The third boat was the winner. Lily had used her Veronica Jenshak name and rented a room, an impossibly small sliver of space, for cash. She’d packed her bag and left only an hour ago.
Beth searched the empty room, flipping the mattress on the bunk and looking in the meager cupboard, swearing to herself because she already knew she’d find nothing.
The landlady could describe her sister’s car, though: a blue Pinto with rust on the back bumper. I’m coming for you, Lily, Beth thought as she got into her father’s expensive Buick and started it again. Drive fast, because I’m coming.
She knew her sister. Lily had left the houseboat for good—stiffing the landlady on part of the rent—and wasn’t coming back to the piers. She was out cruising, hunting somewhere, but Beth didn’t think Lily had left town yet. She bought a bottle of wine and kept driving.
The sun was setting. The dead man had been shot after leaving work. Would Lily try the same tactic again? Beth scanned the slowly emptying streets of downtown. She saw a blue Pinto and followed it for half a mile before she could catch a glimpse of the driver, who wasn’t Lily. Then she circled back to downtown. The first bottle of wine was almost finished, so she bought a second one.
She ended up on the edge of Claire Lake, on a side road no one used. She got out of the car, listening to the silence over the water. Lily was here somewhere. Beth was half-drunk, and the wine flushed her with grief and anger, sadness and an almost unbearable ache. She was all-powerful, and she was a speck of insignificance. She knew everything and nothing at once. Alcohol always did this to her in the beginning—it was why she loved it so much.
There was a flash of headlights at the other end of the lake, through the trees.
Beth had gotten back into the car and was about to slam the door when she heard a crack echoing across the dark, empty water, like a firework. Or a gunshot.
She put the car into gear and reversed up the path to the main road.
She drove fast, the Buick slicing up and down over ruts. Did I really hear that? Her thoughts spun wildly. Did I?
She thought she heard another crack—or was that the car? She careened around one turn, then another, coming out onto Claire Lake Road. There was a car pulled over ahead, the engine running, the headlights on. A second car was pulling away as Beth turned the corner. It was a blue Pinto.
She made a snap decision and stopped next to the car that was pulled over. She opened her door and put one foot out to get out, to help whoever it was. She froze.
It was already over. A man was dead on the ground. And his face . . . his face . . .
Beth went cold. I’m too late.
I need to run. I need to catch her.
Beth got back in the Buick and put it into gear, speeding up onto the road, looking for the fading taillights of the Pinto.
And behind her, a man walking his dog came out of the trees and watched her go before he ran for the nearest phone.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
October 2017
SHEA
The Greer mansion stood in shades of gray and white, like a tinted photograph. The wind had kicked up, cold and wet, though the rain hadn’t started yet. There was no one around as I got off the bus and walked up the street, no cars going by, no one walking their dog. Arlen Heights was hushed and quiet.
There was no car in the driveway. I stood facing the house, still wearing my work clothes and coat, my messenger bag strapped over my shoulder and across my chest. I took a minute to take in the swirling ugliness of the house, its pretension and clumsy lines and misery. An awful thing that was tolerated because it was made with money and pretended to have class. It’s an abomination that shouldn’t exist, Lily had said, according to Beth. That’s why I like it.
I pulled out my phone and turned it on. I ignored all of the missed texts and messages from Michael, from my sister. I called Beth.
“I’m at your house,” I said when she answered.
“I know,” Beth said.
“How do you know when you’re in Portland?”
“So you looked at my file,” Beth said. “I wondered if you would. I admire you for it. It’s what I would have done if I were you.”
“How did you know I’m at your house?”
“I have a motion sensor that triggers whenever someone comes up the driveway. I’d like to know if someone is going to burn the house down. That way I can cheer them on.”
I scanned the front of the house. “Are there cameras?”
“Lily smashed all the cameras a long time ago. I never tried again.”
“She doesn’t like her picture taken,” I said.