“Harmony LaFab?”

“Name is an alias. You’re writers—does that count as a lie, or more like an occupational requirement? Last I heard, Harmony was enrolled in beauty school. Nothing like watching a guy take a knife to his own limb to make someone reconsider her line of work.”

“Is it the glitter?” someone else spoke up. “I mean, can you really trace glitter?”

“Want to have some fun? Attend my husband Alex’s lecture on blood spatter. Ask him about glitter as trace evidence. I’m telling you now, the man will practically levitate with excitement..”

“So what’s the lie?”

Time to go now, the doorway and hall stacking up with the next class waiting to enter.

D.D. smiled. Followed her own students to the door.

“The lie was implicit in the story. Why did the wife do what she did? Because she honestly believed she could get away with murder.

“That’s the lie. For your savvy detectives in your thrillers, and for me and my squad dedicated to the job. Killers can be as creative and clever as they want. We’re always gonna get ’em in the end.”

Chapter 1

These are the things I didn’t know:

When you first wake up in a dark wooden box, you’ll tell yourself this isn’t happening. You’ll push against the lid, of course. No surprise there. You’ll beat at the sides with your fists, pummel your heels against the bottom. You’ll bang your head, again and again, even though it hurts. And you’ll scream. You’ll scream and scream and scream. Snot will run from your nose. Tears will stream from your eyes. Until your screams grow rough, hiccuppy. Then, you’ll hear sounds that are strange and sad and pathetic, and you’ll understand the box, truly get, hey, I’m trapped in a dark wooden box, when you realize those sounds come from you.

Pine boxes aren’t composed entirely of smooth surfaces. Air holes, for example, can be crudely drilled. When you run your finger around them, when you poke your fingertip into them, desperately seeking . . . something . . . you’ll get splinters. You’ll chew out the wooden shards best you can. Then you’ll suck on your injured digit, lick the blood beading the tip, and make more hurt puppy dog sounds.

You’re alone in the box. It’s frightening. Overwhelming. Awful. Mostly because you don’t yet understand how much you have to fear.

You’ll get to know the box well, this home away from home. You’ll wiggle against it with your shoulders to determine the width. You’ll trace the length with your hands, attempt to bring up your feet. Not enough room to bend your knees. Not enough room to roll over. It’s exactly your size. As if it’s been made just for you. Your very own pine coffin, straining your lower back, bruising your shoulder blades, paining the back of your head.

One convenience: newspapers lining the bottom. You don’t notice this detail in the beginning. Don’t understand it once you do. Until the first time you wet yourself. Then spend days lying in your own filth. Like an animal, you’ll think. Except most animals are treated better than this.