The Lies We Bury Read online

  She shrugged.

  He took out another set from his file. “These belong to a missing young woman from Roselea, Mississippi, named Annabeth George.”

  “So?”

  Cage put the prints side by side, never taking his eyes of her. “These two sets of fingerprints match.”

  Her angry mask flashed to confusion. She leaned forward, her thick glasses sliding down her nose to reveal a crooked bump where it had been broken. “I thought that was impossible. Two different people can’t have the same fingerprints.”

  “That’s right.”

  “What are you playing at?” Her voice trembled.

  “I’m here to help you,” Cage said. “But I need you to be honest.”

  “Your fingerprint dude screwed up.”

  Human error happened on prints, and since Annabeth’s had been taken when she was twelve as part of a safety program in her school, there was a minuscule chance the growth in the finger might have slightly changed the expanse between the ridge lines. But the lines themselves didn’t change. Cage trusted the match.

  “Annabeth George and her best friend, Mickie, went to the lake seven years ago and were never seen again. Your fingerprints match Annabeth’s.”

  She slammed her hand down on the paper and shoved the sheets at him. “My name is Lyric Gaudet. I don’t have a friend named Mickie,” she snapped. “Your geeks got it wrong. Where’s Miss Alexandrine? She’ll fix this.”

  He changed tactics, softening his voice. “Your tattoo, it’s covering a scar. R-e-s-p-i-r-e R-a-n-n s-o-u-f. I’m guessing Creole?”

  “None of your business.” Her arms banded tightly across her middle, fists clenched. Even her lips had gone white.

  Every person lied about something, and everyone had a tipping point. Cage leaned forward and folded his hands over the prints. “When Annabeth and Mickie disappeared, I was a sheriff’s deputy in Adams County. I worked the case for months, and we never found a hint of what happened to them. And their families are still living in hell.”

  Guilt needled him, and for the thousandth time, he wondered if his single bad choice could have prevented the girls from disappearing.

  “That sucks, but you’re still wrong.” She gnawed at her lower lip, tracing the tattoo with her finger, her head nodding with each new letter. “Please get my ring. I need it.”

  A sharp knock on the door, and then a tall, striking woman with a detective’s shield hanging around her neck entered. “Agent Foster, may I speak with you for a moment?”

  “Now isn’t really the best time.” The girl’s wall was crumbling. A little more time, and he would have her trust.

  “It’s urgent.” She looked at Annabeth, and her icy expression softened. “Please give us a few minutes.”

  Sonofabitch. “I’ll be right back.”

  The detective shut the door and glared at him. “Myra Bonin, major crimes. I’m your NOPD liaison.”

  The New Orleans police—aside from the pencil-pushing brass—had voiced suspicion and resentment when the Louisiana Bureau of Investigation announced its newly formed Criminal Investigative Assist Unit to aid the NOPD with major crimes. Most of the NOPD resented the intrusion. Cage needed to earn their respect and trust. The last thing he wanted to do was piss off the only investigator who’d offered to be his liaison with the department, especially when the job hadn’t even started.

  “Nice to meet you, and I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you first. I’ve worked this case from the beginning, and I’d like to get things figured out and bring some closure to her family.”

  “You’re not with the sheriff’s office anymore,” Bonin said. “And you don’t start with the LBI for another two weeks. Meaning you’re on vacation.”

  Exactly what his angry wife had said while he rushed to get on the road. “My former captain gave me the opportunity to bring Annabeth home.”

  Bonin appeared unimpressed with the sentiment. “Does your boss at the LBI know about any of this?”

  “I plan on calling him once I’ve confirmed everything.” So much for that being relatively easy. He’d expected Annabeth to break her façade once she saw him and realized she was finally safe.

  “That she doesn’t really believe she’s Lyric Gaudet?”

  “Seven years is a long time to screw with someone’s head. If he kept her all that time, she’s probably under his control. She needs to believe she’s safe before she lets us in. Did anyone notice any unusual people hanging around when she was arrested?”

  “She got into a fight in front of a bar on Bourbon Street. Unusual is the norm.” She handed him a file. “You’ll want to look at this before you go back in.”

  Cage scanned the information. His head spun. “This is solid?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He motioned for her to enter the room first, but she shook her head.

  “Ganging up on her is risky. I’ll watch from the video room. Then you and I can discuss what the hell you were thinking jumping on this without at least talking to your liaison first. Especially when the LBI agent in charge is a pompous media whore.”

  He flushed “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Don’t call me ma’am. I’m not that much older than you,” she said. “And the tattoo is Creole for ‘inhale, exhale.’”

  “Thanks.” Despite the air conditioning, Cage’s scalp was damp with flop sweat, his newly shorn hair doing a poor job of soaking up the moisture. Adrenaline pulsed through him the way it always did when a case started to break.

  The girl eyed him warily as he closed the door and took his seat. “We have some new information.”

  “Yay.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m thirsty. Can you get me a Coke? And my ring?”

  “Not right now. I need you to answer some questions.” He placed the picture of a smiling, suntanned Mickie and Annabeth on the table. With the photo in his peripheral vision, he now saw Annabeth beneath the strangely lopsided face and the fading scar. “Annabeth is the one on your left.”

  “Cool. That chick who dragged you out of here looks like a bad bitch. She’s almost as tall as you.”

  “Detective Bonin,” Cage said. “I’m working with her.”

  “I bet. You one of those white boys who like light-skinned women? ’Cause that one looks like she needs a good dick.”

  The back of his neck warmed. “I’m married.”

  “So? Is your wife here?”

  Her stalling tactics had gone on long enough.

  “If she is, maybe you could get a little three-way action.” Her smirk turned into a cocky smile. “Bonin looks like she swings both ways.”

  He ignored the comment and opened the file Bonin had given him and laid it flush on the table. Lyric Gaudet stared back at them.

  Annabeth’s brash exterior disappeared. Her face paled, and she sucked in a hard, fast breath. “Who is that?”

  “Lyric Gaudet,” Cage said. “She disappeared in 2005 right before Katrina hit. She lived with her grandmother Charlotte Gaudet in the French Quarter. Lyric went to the store for supplies and never returned.”

  Cage put the photo next to the picture of the two girls. Mickie’s summer tan made her skin appear darker than Annabeth’s, whose biracial parents had gifted her with beautiful caramel coloring. Lyric’s missing persons report listed her as Creole. Just like Annabeth and Mickie, the real Lyric Gaudet had shoulder-length, dark hair with an athletic build. They could have easily been mistaken for relatives.

  Their similarities set Cage’s nerves on edge.

  “This is you.” Cage pointed to Annabeth’s picture. “How did you come up with Lyric’s name?”

  “Because that’s my name!” She slammed her hand on the table and shoved the picture of Lyric away. “Look, I was in an accident. I’m sure you can tell by my elephant-man face.”

  “You don’t look like the elephant-man. When was the accident?”

  “Seven years, last week.”

  Sweat trickled down his neck. Just weeks after the teenagers had disappeare
d. “What happened?”

  “Details don’t matter. I got hurt pretty bad. Screwed up my brain. Only thing I could say was Lyric, and my gran’s phone number.”

  An electric current rippled through him. Lyric had disappeared when Annabeth was only ten-years old. Roselea was a small community, and while Annabeth had been a popular girl and a track star, her paranoid parents also sheltered her.

  He tried his best to rationalize. Was there some connection between the Georges and Gaudets? Surely, Charlotte Gaudet would have known the girl wasn’t her granddaughter, and if the families were friends, had she really kept Annabeth from them all these years?

  With five years between their disappearances and their physical similarities, Cage had to consider the other very likely possibility.

  And it chilled him to the bone.

  Annabeth’s nails left red streaks across her tattoo.

  “So, amnesia then?” Cage asked. Anything was possible with head injuries, especially one that had caused such facial trauma.

  “Yeah, my face got busted up. And my brain got it even worse.”

  “I need the name of the hospital so I can confirm your story.”

  “Mercy Hospital in Jasper, Texas. Transferred to Tulane. Spent three months there getting surgeries and rehab. Have at it, Agent Dick.” She laughed at her own joke, revealing a gap where two of her left molars should be.

  Annabeth grabbed the corner of her mouth and stretched it wide open. “Knocked two teeth right out. Left my partial at home. Between that and my smush-face, I’m ready for a date.” Her dark eyes gleamed, and she leaned forward across the table to slide her hand over his. “What do you say? Get me out of here, and I’ll show you a good time.”

  Cage pushed her hand away. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that. What were you doing in Jasper?”

  She flopped back in the chair and huffed. “Wish I knew. I can’t remember anything before the accident.”

  “Did your grandmother ever mention the name Annabeth George? Or having friends in Mississippi?”

  “Gran was born and raised in the Quarter, just like me. It’s in her blood, and she never traveled anywhere else.”

  Did she really believe what she was saying? None of it made any sense. Lyric’s grandmother must have noticed the mole above Annabeth’s lip. She would have known this wasn’t her flesh and blood.

  “What about the rest of your family?”

  “Don’t have any. It was just me and her.” She yawned, her eyes suddenly droopy. “Took me a long time to recover. And I’m still not right. Won’t ever be, so Gran and me mostly kept to ourselves.”

  Cage arranged the pictures side by side again and slid them closer to her. Annabeth’s frightened gaze latched onto the snapshot of Lyric, and she started digging at her tattoo again. She rocked back and forth, her lips moving silently.

  He pushed Lyric’s picture to the end of the table. Annabeth shot back in the chair, eyes transfixed on the photo. Tremors shook her small body.

  “Listen, whatever happened that night, I’m on your side.” Cage kept his voice soft, his arms lying open on the table. “But I can’t help you if you don’t come clean with me. I want to bring you home, Annabeth. And Mickie was your best friend. Tell me what happened to her.”

  “I’m not … I don’t know any Mickie.” She pressed her hands over her ears, her head whipping back and forth. “No, no, no. No!”

  Something feral flashed in her eyes. She snatched the pictures and flung them across the table at him. She kicked the chair against the wall as she stood and slammed her hands on the table. “My name is Lyric!”

  “I’m trying to help you.”

  “Liar!” Spit flew from her mouth. She gulped air as if she’d just finished sprinting. “You’re trying to solve your case by using me. It’s not going to happen.” She stomped past him and yanked on the locked door. “I want to go back to the holding cell until I’m bailed out. And I want my ring!”

  Cage pushed his arm between her and the door. He towered over her, but the rage in her eyes made her seem of equal height. “Sit down. We’re not done talking.”

  Her arm flashed out and her fist connected with his windpipe before he had a chance to react. “Yes, we are.”

  3

  An officer hauled a screaming Annabeth back to the holding cell. Two patrol cops snickered as Cage rubbed his throat. The girl could pack a punch.

  “So, the superstar can’t handle a little girl?” One of the uniforms sneered. “Why the hell did they send you over here, anyway?”

  “The LBI is trying to make your life easier.” Cage sidestepped him, the stink of the burly officer’s sweat-stained uniform turning his stomach.

  “NOPD don’t need help from the Louisiana Bureau of fucktards,” the officer snapped. “Especially some white-bred Mississippi boy who’s just here to look pretty for the cameras.”

  Cage looked him up and down. “You’re whiter than me, Hoss. And thanks for the compliment.”

  “My grandma’s half Creole, asshole.” The uniform adjusted his belt. “I’m born and raised in this city. You’re an outsider, and you’ll stay that way.”

  “Knock it off, Pietry.” Bonin had caught up with him. “Your shift’s over.”

  Pietry looked her up and down, his gaze lingering on her chest. “How about you get a drink with me, sugar?”

  “I’m on the job.”

  “Your loss.” Pietry sneered at Cage. “I thought we didn’t have to deal with him for another two weeks.”

  “Plans changed,” Bonin said. “Sorry you’re too low on the totem pole to be informed.”

  Pietry’s face turned scarlet. “Dyke bitch.” He stalked around the corner.

  “Welcome to New Orleans. He’s just the first asshole you’ll deal with. Most of the patrol cops—and plenty of detectives—feel exactly like him.”

  Cage exhaled, his guts slowly relaxing. “Thanks for covering me.”

  “I considered reporting you to the LBI myself,” she said.

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “I watched you in there,” Bonin said. “You actually give a damn about that girl, and that’s a rare thing. And you didn’t let her comments about me get under your skin. How’s your throat?”

  “Sore,” Cage said. “You think we can get her medical records today?”

  “I sent the subpoena first thing this morning. We’ll have them shortly. The grandmother had to know this wasn’t Lyric.”

  “Grief makes people do strange things. Why didn’t anyone follow through on Lyric’s original missing persons case?”

  “All hell broke loose during and after Katrina. This station was the only one not flooded, and they were completely overloaded. A lot of people went missing. If family members didn’t keep pushing, police regulated those people to cold cases. Lyric’s grandmother stopped calling.” Bonin’s expression was neutral, but Cage read the warning in her defensive tone.

  “No judgement. I can’t imagine working through Katrina and the aftermath.”

  “Thanks. Not everyone has that reaction,” Bonin said. “The print match is solid. You think she’s playing us?”

  Cage’s instincts rarely led him off course. And the few times he’d second-guessed himself led to disastrous consequences—Annabeth and Mickie’s abduction by far the worst one. “No. I think her medical records will confirm her story.” He used the file as a fan, his body damp with sweat. “Ya’ll have the air on?”

  “New Orleans in the summer, and this is an old building with an old system. Be thankful you won’t be working here most of the time. God knows I am. You’ll be working downtown at Criminal Investigations with me—once you’re officially on the job. Did you get a hotel?”

  “I thought we’d be on our way back to Roselea tonight.”

  “Call the Mason Dupey,” Bonin said. “My sister’s the manager. Tell her I sent you, and she’ll find you a room.”

  “Thanks.” Cage loosened his tie. “Now comes the hard part. I�
�ve got to call my wife and tell her I’m staying here.”

  “What about your supervisory agent at the LBI?”

  Pompous media whore perfectly described Cage’s new boss. He would see Annabeth as an opportunity to put the new division—and himself—in the spotlight. And that greed would outweigh his anger over Cage’s unauthorized investigation. “I don’t have the right to ask this—”

  “Agent Rogers will preen more than the Rex King of Carnivale,” Bonin said. “Annabeth’s mental well-being won’t be on his agenda. But he’s well connected, and I like my job.”

  “You know she was likely taken by a serial offender,” Cage said. “Lyric too. And God knows how many more.”

  Bonin sighed. “You have one day.”

  That’s her.

  She’s been in my dreams for weeks. She stares with this demanding, urgent look and then lunges at me. My wrists burn, and then she hisses “run.” Some nights the dream plays on a loop until I force myself awake.

  My chest burns. The pressure in my head is building, and I want to scream and bang my fists against the wall.

  I try to remember the breathing exercises my therapist taught me, but my mind refuses to focus on anything but her face.

  Lyric Gaudet, according to Agent Foster. And I’m some girl named Annabeth who’s been missing from his hometown for seven years.

  I dig my fingers into my tattoo. I’ve already turned the skin raw. It’s Creole for the only advice my therapist gave me that stuck.

  Creole. If I’m not Lyric, then I’m not Creole. All of my pride in descending from a powerful Haitian Creole family, all the things Gran told me about the life I couldn’t remember—was that all bullshit?

  It’s so hot in this damn cell. I can’t get a full breath. My face feels like I’ve been standing over a pot of steaming gumbo for too long.

  She lied. Gran lied to me. The anger’s coming back. It starts in the pit of my stomach and then takes over my whole body.

  And if that girl is Lyric, the other … the other is the one I never forgot.

  I yank open the buttons of the stiff, orange jumpsuit. Its short sleeves aren’t cutting it.

  It’s still too hot.