The Lies We Bury Read online

  I clutch the protected ring and hope Charlotte’s spirit is still tethered to me. “Tell me what to do.”

  A woman with albino skin is suddenly standing in front of me. “Faith” is tattooed on her chunky arm with a cross as the “t.” A tiny handmade juju doll hangs on a chain around her neck.

  “I’m not interested in buying dolls or a reading.”

  She smiles. “I don’t need to read you. Your energy is blasting across the aisle.”

  Or she can tell by looking I’m in deep shit. Plenty of charlatans around, especially in the market. Tourists are suckers.

  “I’m cool.” Hopefully she gets the point.

  “I also can’t ignore someone in such need.”

  “Lady, I’m fine.”

  She hands me a bottle of water. “You look dehydrated.”

  “I don’t have any money.”

  “That’s all right.” She starts to walk back to her booth and then stops and gives me another weird smile. “Perhaps a priest could help you.”

  Confession? No way. I don’t even know what the hell I should confess to. If I had a way to get inside my head and …

  I nearly drop the water. She’s right. I do need a priest.

  8

  Cage lost her. Annabeth had locked the courtyard gate, and by the time he ran around the front of the house and through the alleys, she was long gone. They’d driven up and down the streets for three hours, stopping to check in various pubs and stores. The priestess everyone was supposed to be afraid of wasn’t home. With dusk moving in, they’d gone back to Charlotte’s house.

  Cage let Bonin search Annabeth’s room—she could deal with it if anyone tried to say the girl’s verbal consent to search had passed.

  He’d screwed up this time. The new job would be toast, and Sam George would never allow the Adams County Sheriff to take him back. He and Dani had some money in savings, and the grant would take care of Ironwood. She’d have to go back to work full time, and they wouldn’t be able to live at Ironwood during tourist season.

  What about the house in New Orleans? They closed in two weeks.

  He sat down on the front step, sick from the heat and from his stupidity. Had Annabeth been playing him the whole time? How much of her memories was she holding back?

  Blue pickup. Jesus Christ. Everything about Annabeth came back to bite him in the ass.

  If his instincts had been so wrong about her, then maybe he needed to find a new profession.

  The front door banged shut behind him. Bonin handed him a glass of water and sat down on the step next to him.

  “I screwed up.”

  “We screwed up,” she said. “I’m just as responsible. I bought her act too.”

  “Maybe it’s not an act,” Cage said. “The brain injury causes mood swings and aggression, makes her impulsive.”

  Bonin handed him a thick, short black candle with his name carved into the wax. Tiny black crystals were stuck in some kind of oil oozing around the burnt wick.

  “What the hell is this?”

  “It’s a crossing spell,” Bonin said. “A pretty sloppy one but still effective.”

  He stared at her.

  “Voodoo isn’t black magic, but there are tricks. This spell is meant to create confusion.”

  “That’s why my name’s carved in it?”

  “Yep,” she said. “And before you start talking about black magic, that’s Hollywood bullshit. Many of our Loa are associated with Catholic saints.”

  “Loa? As in L-o-a?”

  “In Voodoo, the supreme creator is distanced. We pray to the Loa—the spirits of Haitian and Louisiana Voodoo. There’s a Loa for just about everything, including ancestral Loa. We make offerings to them in exchange for help and guidance. Black magic is only done by outliers.”

  Cage came from a Mississippi small town that embraced its antebellum homes and Civil War heritage. Cultural traditions lasting for generations made sense to him—those customs represented everything that made the southern states unique. “I grew up in southern Mississippi. Voodoo, hoodoo, root doctors—I know black magic isn’t accepted by most practitioners. But for the love of God, please tell me you don’t believe this spell shit works?”

  “You realize you just mentioned God like he’s the only sentient being who could actually exist. Like all religion isn’t ultimately leading to the same thing.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying. I don’t care what God you pray to or how many or if you do at all,” Cage said. “But you’re saying this girl put a spell on me? That’s why I lost her? It couldn’t possibly be because she locked the gate and had a head start.”

  Bonin’s mouth tightened into a straight line. Her eyes blazed. “I never said that’s why you were confused. Whether or not I believe the spell can work isn’t the point.”

  “Then what is?”

  “You want to believe this was an impulsive decision; I’m telling you it took some planning and thought. She broke into a locked cabinet downstairs where Charlotte kept much of her supplies. She found the oil and the black salt and took the time to carve your name and then lit the candle and let it burn long enough for some of the oil to melt into the wax.”

  Bonin snatched the candle from him. “We weren’t upstairs more than ten minutes. And she didn’t know the spell by heart. She had to search through one of Charlotte’s books.”

  Cage leaned against the iron railing. “She planned it.”

  “Not an impulsive move. Which means she has zero credibility as far as I’m concerned.”

  A text chimed on his phone. He lazily held it out in front of him instead of protecting his privacy and immediately regretted it.

  FaceTime so I can stare at your handsome face.

  “Your wife’s sweet. Take the time to call her.”

  He flushed. “It’s not my wife.”

  9

  He stared at the sleeping woman. She’d been nothing but trouble from the start, but her hold on him seemed to get worse every time he tried to get rid of her. He slipped out of the room and sat down at the table, reading the text again.

  The phone rang five times before his cousin answered, grouchy with sleep and probably fucked up on something. “What?”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah man,” was the reply.

  The girl’s body had shattered on impact with the car. He’d witnessed the scene with his own eyes. What a damned waste. She was a fine piece and a fighter. He would have thoroughly enjoyed playing with her.

  “The old lady really believed she was her granddaughter?”

  “Uh, that’s the big question, but I can’t get much information. We got a fucking small-town deputy working for the LBI’s new department. Supposedly, he’s to assist with big cases, since we got so much street crime down here. It’s all bullshit. They want to put a handsome, white face in homicide to make the press happy. Makes ’em more confident we’re doing things right. Like white people can’t be corrupt.”

  He rolled his eyes. He’d listened to this argument a hundred times already. “And this girl doesn’t remember anything?”

  “Nothing. She’s still wrapping her mind around the whole thing. Brain damaged, you know. Screwed up her face too. Damn shame.”

  Sure as hell was. “Why you telling me all this? I haven’t seen her in years. Didn’t even know she was missing.”

  “Thought you ought to know, I guess. It’s a crazy mess. How’s things?”

  His cousin droned on for another thirty minutes, and he supplied the necessary answers until he finally managed to end the phone call.

  Only two women had ever escaped him, and the loss haunted him. He wasn’t worried about her identifying him. She’d gone this long with her head screwed up, she probably wasn’t going to have some big revelation. And the other had her chance a long time ago and blew it. Stupid.

  He scrubbed the graying stubble on his cheeks. Staying put was the smart thing to do. He was safe here. His routine was perfected. He had a steady job
and his fun on the side.

  But she’s alive. I never had the chance to break her.

  He shuffled to the bedroom, fumbling in the dark for his keys. The woman in the bed rolled over, her dark hair spilling on the pillow. Still pretty, even if the drugs and alcohol had taken their toll on her skin.

  And she enjoyed the game. Sometimes she got more into it than he did. She’d be pissed when she found out he’d played without her.

  Keys in hand, he slipped out of the trailer and headed for his sacred place.

  A little stress relief would help him decide what to do.

  10

  “Special Agent Foster.” Summer Jordan’s throaty greeting belonged on a phone sex line. She lifted the plastic face shield and grinned. “I’m honored you’re still willing to consult with country doctors like me.”

  “Are you seriously doing an autopsy right now?” Cage wanted to sink into the stairs.

  “Shh,” she said. “As long as you can only see me, it’s not a privacy violation.” She rubbed her forehead with crimson latex gloves.

  “Christ, Summer.”

  “You said looking at the girl’s medical records was urgent, and I’ve got a full plate today. Who’s that with you?”

  “Detective Myra Bonin.” Her voice was sharp. “I’m working with Cage, and I wasn’t aware he sent a copy of Annabeth’s medical records to you.”

  “I wouldn’t call them a copy. He takes shitty cell phone pictures.” Summer wrinkled her forehead and stuck out her chin—her telltale expression for breaking open the ribcage. “A doctor’s handwriting’s hard enough to read as it is, and you’re sending me crooked pictures with shadows.”

  “Sorry,” Cage said. “I was in a hurry, and I need to upgrade my phone.”

  Snap-snap-snap.

  “Seriously? The Louisiana Bureau of Investigation didn’t get its hotshot a shiny, new phone?”

  “You realize how much trouble we could get in, right?” Bonin looked ready to punch him. “It’s bad enough I convinced the arresting officer to trust me in dropping the charges. Now we’ve lost her and broken privacy laws so that some county coroner—”

  “Regional Medical Examiner,” Summer said. “Six counties. I attended one of the country’s top medical schools, and before I decided dead people were better, I studied neuroscience.”

  Snap-snap-snap.

  “I’m sorry,” Bonin said. “I know better than to make assumptions. But I’m still not happy about him sending you her records.”

  “Apology accepted. Cage, the rest is on you.”

  “Summer’s being modest,” Cage said. “She spent a year working as a surgical intern specializing in brain injuries.”

  “Fine,” Bonin said. “She’s probably qualified, but you still haven’t given a decent reason for ignoring a major privacy law.”

  “We both think Annabeth’s hiding something, right?”

  “I’m starting to think she’s a fraud, yeah.”

  “I’d like to have a medical opinion before we hit her with that.”

  Summer’s tongue peeked out from the corner of her mouth. Cutting away the heart, for sure. “You need to talk to her current neurologist.”

  “We’re trying to reach him,” Cage snapped. “I need answers, and you’re the only option right now.”

  Summer wielded the bloody forceps like a laser pointer. “Good Lord, you’re stressed. When was the last time you got laid?”

  Bonin choked back a laugh.

  Mockery was an essential part of his friendship with Summer, and he usually enjoyed trying to one-up her. But he was short on time, and he could do without the morbid sounds of her yanking out internal organs. “None of your business. Just give me your opinion on her diagnosis.”

  “First off, in her most recent records—which are still from Tulane and not her current neurologist—she isn’t diagnosed with focal retrograde memory loss,” Summer said. “She spent several months in their therapy program, and both the hospital neurologist and psychologist note her long-term memory loss shouldn’t be permanent.”

  “So she’s faking,” Bonin said.

  He didn’t want to believe it. The fear and confusion in her eyes had been too raw to be an act.

  “That’s not what I’m saying.” Summer gritted her teeth and twisted hard. “This guy’s heart’s a tricky bastard. Did you read how badly Annabeth was injured?”

  He’d skimmed over the details. “I got the gist.”

  “Let me give you the specifics: severe tearing, signs of healing and tearing again, both vaginally and anally. Slivers of a foreign object embedded into her vaginal wall. Would you want to remember?”

  “Repressed memories?” Bonin asked. “I thought that wasn’t a real thing.”

  “You’re confusing repressing with recovered memories, usually severe childhood sexual abuse—that’s a whole other debate,” Summer said. “We’re capable of blocking out things we don’t want to deal with—and that’s without a traumatic brain injury. And don’t forget the trauma she must have gone through during the initial days of her recovery. To be honest, I’d be more surprised if she did remember.”

  “Is she making the conscious choice not to remember?” Cage asked.

  “Got it.” She held up the oozing heart. “Look at the size of this thing. This is what obesity does. Every school kid should have to see something like this.”

  He started to explain that Summer spent too much time in the morgue to have any real social skills, but Bonin stared in fascination. “That’s incredible.”

  “Her repression probably isn’t a conscious choice,” Summer said. “The brain is extremely complex, and we don’t fully understand it, but the body in general goes to great lengths to heal itself. This is the same idea. Think of it as psychological scar tissue. Speaking of scar tissue, you should see the—”

  “I don’t care! Thanks for your help, Summer.”

  She laughed. “Good luck, you big pansy.”

  His screen went black.

  “I’m still pissed you went behind my back with this,” Bonin said. “But everything she said adds up.”

  “To what? She’s hiding stuff, but you didn’t see her reaction. She didn’t know about Lyric.”

  Bonin pulled a document from her bag. “This is a copy of Charlotte Gaudet’s will. It leaves everything to her granddaughter, specifically describing Annabeth without giving a legal name.”

  “She believed Annabeth was the only family she had.”

  Bonin slipped on her sunglasses. “French Quarter real estate’s extremely valuable, even if it’s in subpar condition. This house is worth over a million dollars.”

  11

  It’s dark by the time I get to The Conjure Shop on Rue Domaine. The priest usually doesn’t come to the shop until evening, so I’ve been stuck in the heat. I suck in the shop’s wonderful cool air. “I need to speak with Sen Michel.”

  The big girl behind the desk looks bored. “Who’re you?”

  “Tell him it’s Charlotte Gaudet’s granddaughter.”

  She jumps at Gran’s name and scurries between the silky curtains that lead to the back room.

  Most of the Voodoo shops in the Quarter cater to tourists—lots of junk and watered-down spells, if that. The Conjure Shop’s off the main path, and High Priest Michel knows his stuff. He should, since Miss Alexandrine taught him.

  “Lyric.” He comes through the curtains, barefoot, wearing white pants and a thin white dress shirt. Gran always said his dark skin glowed because of the spirit within him, but I swear it fades as soon as he sees me.

  “How can I help you?” Sen Michel’s not looking me in the eye. Sweat pops in the crook of his neck.

  “I need you to look into your crystal ball.”

  It sounds ridiculous to say it. Crystal balls are for sorcerers and frauds. But a real Voodoo priest knows how to use the crystal to enhance his powers.

  He purses his beautiful lips, still not quite looking at me. “What’s wrong? Why have y
ou been running?”

  “I’m in a hurry,” I say. “Some things have come up, and I need answers. About me. My past and my future.”

  “The crystal doesn’t tell your future,” he says. “It shows your intentions, your inner reality.”

  “That’s what I need.” Tell me what the memories mean. Can I trust Cage Foster? What should I do?

  Sen Michel stares at me for too long, his dark eyes hypnotizing … and sad.

  He knows. He’s always known.

  The reality nearly knocks me onto my ass. I’ve spent time with Sen Michel, learning rituals and discussing my eventual initiation as Gran’s successor.

  He knew, and he never said a word.

  I know better than to go after a high priest, but all I see is red. I charge toward him, knocking over a tray of juju dolls. He catches my wrists. I try to jerk away, but he’s damn strong.

  “Rete,” he whispers.

  “Settle?” I’m screaming. “You knew all this time, and you’re telling me to settle?”

  The girl at the counter is reaching for the phone.

  “Don’t,” Sen Michel says gently. “Ché, come into the back. We need to talk.”

  Sen Michel’s private space is small and sweet smelling, and a massive altar takes up half the room. The altar is loaded with offerings like cash, wine, and dozens of other bits and pieces.

  “How could you?” I turn on him.

  He holds up his hand, his expression so fierce I shut up. “Listen to me. A shadow is over you.”

  “A spirit?”

  “It’s too vague,” he says. “It may be your ancestor trying to warn you.”

  “Not my ancestor,” I snap. “Remember?”

  “You have much to learn,” Sen Michel says. “Voodoo is family. You don’t have to be blood for an ancestor to accept you. And Charlotte must have prayed for them to watch over you.”

  I don’t know if I believe that. I’m not sure I believe in anything right now, but I’m not going to tell him.