Praise for Every Single Lie

Praise for

EVERY SINGLE LIE

“Raw, real, and utterly gripping, Every Single Lie is part page-turning mystery, part heart-rending character study. A staggering portrait of family trauma and resilience in small- town America.” —Jennifer Lynn Barnes, New York Times bestselling author of The Inheritance Games

“A razor-sharp mystery that speaks critically about the cruel corners of social media and small-town biases.… Enough twists and turns that there is no way to stop turning the pages.” —Booklist, starred review

“A carefully detailed portrait of a fraying family, a scathing look at small-town rumors, and a blunt critique of social media’s rapid, rabid tendencies.” —Kirkus Reviews

“Vincent’s thriller is an action-packed yet emotional novel that demonstrates just how toxic rumors can be.… A realistic and gripping contemporary novel that many teens will thoroughly enjoy. A worthwhile selection for high school and YA public library collections.” —School Library Journal

“Beckett’s nonstop sleuthing and memorable voice—alternatively witty and vulnerable, coolheaded and fiery—keep the pages turning.” —Publishers Weekly

“A compelling story about how much we can miss about people, even those we love, and the price that can exact.” —BCCB

Dedication

To my sixteen-year-old self, and to every teenage girl who needs to hear this: Better times are ahead

Title Page

Chapter One

ONE

I drive onto the Clifford High School campus at the end of sixth period, armed with a slim jim and an ironclad hunch. Jake always parks near the gym, so I bypass the main student lot, then the staff lot, and I continue into the one on the far side of the school, which is reserved for athletes and band members.

Jake Mercer is a baseball player, a liar, and a cheater. As of last night, he’s also my ex-boyfriend.

His ancient Camry is in its usual spot at the back of the lot, so I pull into a space in the next row, then I get out of the car and grab my backpack, rolling my eyes at the reindeer antlers clipped onto his front windows. There’s also a puffy red “nose” wired to his front grill. Last week, he lost a bet with my brother, so he has to keep his car dressed up like Rudolph until New Year’s Eve.

Two and a half weeks to go. Not that it matters to me. I don’t have to ride in it anymore.

Shivering in spite of my jacket, I take the small cardboard box from my back seat, along with my slim jim, a flat strip of metal used to pop the lock on a car door.

Jake’s Camry is old enough that the rubber window seal is already dry and cracked, which makes it easy to slide the slim jim into his door, hook end first. It takes me a second to feel around in there, but then I snag the latch and give the thin strip of metal a sharp tug.