by Stacy Green
The Lies We Bury
The Cage Foster Series
by
Stacy Green
The Lies We Bury
Copyright © 2018 Stacy Green.
Kindle Edition
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without express written permission from the publisher. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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stacygreenauthor.com
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“Stacy Green writes suspense like a pro. You’ll be captivated from the first page to the end of this harrowing story. Don’t forget to breathe!”
Diane Capri, New York Times Bestselling Author of The Justice Series and The Hunt For Reacher Series.
Other Books by Stacy Green
THE NIGHT HE DIED
(Book Two in the Cage Foster Series)
TIN GOD
(Book One in the Delta Crossroads Trilogy)
2013 Kindle Book Review Best Indie Book Award Finalist for Best Mystery/Thriller
SKELETON’S KEY
(Book Two in the Delta Crossroads Trilogy)
ASHES and BONE
(Book Three in the Delta Crossroads Trilogy)
LIVING VICTIM
(Book One in the Delta Detectives Series)
DEAD WRONG
(Book Two in the Delta Detectives Series)
NIGHT TERROR
(Book Three in the Delta Detectives Series)
LAST WORDS
(Book Four in the Delta Detectives Series)
SHOTS FIRED
(Book Five in the Delta Detectives Series)
DEAD WAIT
(Book Six in the Delta Detectives Series)
HEAR NO LIES
(Prequel to the Lucy Kendall Series)
ALL GOOD DEEDS
(Book One in the Lucy Kendall Series)
SEE THEM RUN
(Book Two in the Lucy Kendall Series)
GONE TO DIE
(Book Three in the Lucy Kendall Series)
ALL FALL DOWN
(Book Four in the Lucy Kendall Series)
KILLING JANE
(An Erin Prince Thriller)
INTO THE DEVIL’S UNDERGROUND
WELCOME TO LAS VEGAS
TWISTED MINDS
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Praise for Stacy Green
Other Books by Stacy Green
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Books by Stacy
About the Author
Acknowledgments
1
My head pounds in time with the music. It’s coming from all different directions—a heady nightclub bass mixed in with the squall of brassy trumpets, playing for change on the busy street corner.
Faces blur past me. People wander in throngs down Bourbon Street, drinks in hand, laughing and shouting in varying states of drunkenness. I try to weave my way through a crowd of barely-dressed, squealing college girls, but they’re too busy laughing at the friend who’s just tumbled to the dirty street. Her heel’s stuck in one of the many potholes, and her frothy pink drink has spilled over her shirt. Her right hand’s landed in a mushy horse turd.
I just need to cross Bourbon, and the crazy will thin out.
I push through, wrinkling my nose at the heady mix of pot and urine.
“Where you off to so fast?” A man has blocked my path, his dirty hand on my shoulder. His breath reeks of cheap beer and rotting teeth. He stares at me with hollowed eyes, his black skin tight against his boney cheeks.
“Damn, Joe. When was the last time you ate?”
Joe shrugs. “I played for some food yesterday. Or mebbe it was the day before. But someone stole my drum.”
“I hope you took a dump before they swiped it.” When he wasn’t hawking his talent for money, he used the bucket for a bathroom.
“Here.” I dig into my pocket and hand him my last bit of cash. “Ten bucks will get you something to eat. Don’t spend it on a drink.”
A raucous bass line booms from the corner bar. All the drunks cheer like it’s the brass band at Mardi Gras. Forget the vampires. New Orleans is full of zombies. They’re just after alcohol instead of human flesh. Every night, they mob Bourbon Street—women in their skimpy best, frat boys wallowing in their douchery. It’s all a party. I bet most of them don’t give a damn about the history they’re stomping over.
Joe tucks the money down the front of his pants. “What’re you doin’ out here at night?”
“I’m a dumbass looking for punishment.” I wrap my arms around my waist and make myself small, but the herd keeps zigzagging too close. My fingers dig into the ink on my arm. I can’t freak out now. Her house is just a few blocks down. “I’m on my way to Miss Alexandrine’s. No way to get there without crossing Bourbon.”
Joe scratches his chin and touches my arm again. “Want me to walk you on down? Know you get twisted in the crowds.”
I pat his hand. “Go eat. I’ll be fine.”
He shrugs and disappears into the fray. I plunge ahead, keeping my eyes on the ground. No single stone in the French Quarter—or the city, for that matter—is flat. Guess that’s what happens when you build on a swamp.
I don’t see the man until I slam into
him. He’s at least a head taller than me with breath like a dragon’s.
“Hi there.” He grins down at me, his pale cheeks pink from partying and heat.
“Excuse me.” Gran taught me that’s what I’m supposed to say instead of “Move.” Manners count.
“Where you going, pretty lady?”
He’s definitely wearing beer goggles.
“Away from here.” I sidestep him. His fingers brush against my bare arm.
“Why don’t you hang out with us? You’re local, right? Tell us all about your city.” He runs his fingers down my arm, and my stomach coils. “Your skin is so pretty.”
I slap his hand away. “Back off.”
He laughs and holds up his hands. “Whatever. There’s plenty more just like you around here.”
He and his friends lumber toward the next bar, and I finally make it to the sidewalk. I’m sweating through my shirt, and the mass of people seems to double the humidity. I wipe my face with my shirt and get my bearings.
Laveau’s House of Voodoo is on the right. Nothing but hoodoo kitsch to satisfy the tourists. She never lived at this building, as far as I know. Her house was farther down, closer to Congo Park. Gran swore she saw Marie Laveau’s spirit walking the streets every time she visited St. Ann Street.
I’ve never encountered the Queen. Now would be a great time. Maybe she could fix me.
My fingers clutch the ring tucked beneath my shirt. Sweat has stuck both the ring and the chain to my skin. Gran chose the ring herself—a family heirloom she swore would protect me.
The worst of the zombies are finally behind me, but the bass and cheers are replaced by a sharp staccato. Bang, bang, bang.
Drummers. Boys camped out in front of one of the bars off Bourbon and St. Ann, beating worn drumsticks on plastic buckets. Fast and loud and digging into my brain with every rap of the plastic.
Too many people. Why didn’t I just wait?
I walk around the drummers’ audience, keeping my eyes down. My glasses are steamed over, making my vision more blurry than usual.
“Watch it.” A female voice snaps. “Don’t those thick-ass glasses work?”
I yank off the frames and rub them on my shirt. Put them back on.
A college-aged girl stares at me. I’m immediately jealous of her porcelain skin, perfect makeup that somehow hasn’t sweat off, and a string of beads around her neck.
“Mardi Gras is over.” I try to walk around her. The musicians slam their drums even louder. My head seems to pulse.
Bead Girl is blocking my way. “What’s wrong with you?”
If she only knew how loaded that question was. “Nothing.” I brace for the usual insults.
“You look like your face is melting.”
That’s the best she’s got? “You look like you’re ready to blow the whole second line for more beads. Move out of my way.”
I only manage two steps before she sticks out her heel, and I hit the filthy pavement hands first. My palms burn, my jeans tear. My knee feels wet.
I stagger to my feet. The girl and her friends glare at me. “How’s the pavement taste?”
I want to choke her, but I don’t have the time.
“What’s this?” Bead Girl is staring at something on the ground.
I don’t realize the chain’s broken until I see my Gran’s ring in her manicured hand. My heart stops. I’m exposed. “Give it back.”
She squints at it. “It looks like an antique.”
“It was my Gran’s. Please give it back.”
She’s still touching it, running her poisoned fingers over the glass. “What’s inside here?”
“Doesn’t matter.” I step forward, a knot of nerves making their way up my throat. “Give it back or I’m calling the cops.”
She ignores me and takes out her phone, aiming its bright flashlight at the glass. “It looks like dirt.”
Her friend snickers.
My skin is on fire, my head throbs, my chest is caving in. I can’t lose that ring.
I try to remember what the therapist said about controlling my anger, but everything’s jumbled. I only see the ring in her hand, Gran’s voice in my head.
“Never take it off. Carry it with you, and you will always be shrouded. Lose it, and it will be like a beacon.”
I try one last time. “Please give it back.”
“Or what?” Bead Girl smiles. “I bet it’s worth some money.”
Everything turns red. The zombies scatter, and I only see her pretty, laughing face.
I slam my fist into her mouth and smile when her lip splits. Blood drips onto the beads.
“Oh my God.” She’s screaming at me, her hands going to her face. I lurch forward and catch the ring before the glass shatters on the bricks.
One of Bead Girl’s friends yanks me up by my hair. “You bitch.”
I jab her in the throat. She lets go and tumbles into the other girls. I turn and run toward the house on St. Ann Street. I’m so close. They’ll never touch me once I’m with her.
A hand closes around my arm and jerks me to stop. A sweaty cop glares down at me. “Why’d you hit that girl?”
I stare, the words stuck in my throat.
“I saw the whole thing. She was handing the ring back to you.”
Was she? I try to pick through my memory, but anger and fear blur the images.
“I have somewhere to be.”
The cop raised an eyebrow. “Settle down. I don’t want to have to arrest you.”
He shifts, and I see the silver handcuffs gleaming. “You’re just being detained right now.”
Dark, black and cold. Hurting all over.
I taste blood.
I will not be handcuffed.
2
Cage Foster took one final look at the photograph. Two teenaged girls, smiling and happy, less than a month from graduating high school. Just hours after someone took the photo, they’d disappeared without a single scrap of evidence.
Now one of them waited on the other side of the door.
He loosened his tie and then wiped his brow. He opened the door to a small, windowless interview room. She sat in a folding chair in the far corner, arms banded across her orange jail uniform. He scanned the changes: a gold hoop in her nose, a scripted tattoo on her right forearm, a thin scar running from her chin to her left ear. Her face was off somehow: asymmetrical, her scarred left jawline off kilter. That side of her mouth pulled upward.
The thick, black-framed glasses were new.
Same shimmering brown eyes, same spattering of freckles across her nose. Her silky, black hair was longer, falling in waves around her odd face.
Her eyes narrowed as Cage grabbed the other chair and placed it just a few feet from her.
She tossed back her hair in defiance and stared at him. No spark of recognition, no cry of joy. Was it really her?
Seven years had passed—not enough time for her face to become unrecognizable. Something terrible had turned this woman into a distorted mirror image of her teenaged self.
She broke the silence. “Who are you?”
Her voice no longer had the soft quality of a teenager’s. It was hardened and sharp, her accent more pronounced.
She had the same mole to the right of her top lip.
He sat down and gave her the shortened version of his new position. “My name is Agent Cage Foster from the Louisiana Bureau of Investigation. I’m here about a case in Mississippi, where I used to be a deputy.”
Technically, his job at the LBI didn’t start for two more weeks. But the call from the Adams County Sheriff had changed everything.
“I’ve never been to Mississippi. Where’s my ring?” She scratched the tattoo on her arm. “I need it back.”
Cage had read the arresting officer’s report. A minor altercation with a couple of drunk tourists had turned into an assault on an officer when he tried to handcuff her. Her fingerprints got a hit.
“It’s with the rest of your things. You’ll get it back
once you’re released.” She’d scratched the patrol officer’s face. “But that might be a while. Attacking a cop is never a smart idea.”
Her fingers clenched into fists. “He said I wasn’t under arrest. Why did he need to put handcuffs on me?”
“It’s procedure.”
“Whatever. Get my ring. I need it, now.”
He hadn’t recognized the ring she’d made such a fuss over. She definitely hadn’t been wearing it when she disappeared. “It’s an antique, by the looks of it. Family heirloom, I assume?”
She leaned forward. “Is the glass cracked?”
“The ring is fine, I promise.”
“Then get it for me.” Her fist came down on the table, her uneven mouth stretched tight.
Cage ignored her request and changed gears. “What’s your name?”
“Really? As if you don’t have it in that file.”
“Lyric Gaudet. You live with your grandmother in the French Quarter. She’s recently deceased.”
Her mouth twitched. “That’s none of your business.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
She stared, suspicion in her dark eyes. “Like I said, I’ve never been to Mississippi. So, unless you’re here to give me my ring back, you’re wasting your time.” She spit the words, drumming her fingers on the table. “I called Miss Alexandrine. She’ll fix everything.”
Cage had her case memorized, but he pretended to thumb through the thick file while his mind raced. She’d been an innocent high school kid when she disappeared. What reason would she have to lie about her identity? Was she too scared of her captors, like the girl in Utah several years ago? If Annabeth had spent seven years with the person who took her and somehow escaped—or worse, assimilated—she might still be too afraid to talk.
“I’m trying to find someone, and I think you may be able to help.”
She scratched at the tattoo again. “Can you get the assault charges dropped?”
“That’s an NOPD decision. But I’ll try. Your cooperation with this will definitely help your case.”
He let the silence hang between them.
“Whatever. But like I said, I’ve never been to Mississippi.”
Cage placed the copy of her fingerprints on the table between them. “These are yours, taken last night after your arrest.”
