Lies
LIES
TM LOGAN
Contents
Thursday
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Friday
Chapter 11
Saturday
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Sunday
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Monday
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Tuesday
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
Wednesday
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Thursday
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Friday
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
A message from TM Logan
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
For Sally, Sophie and Tom
Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned . . .
William Congreve, The Mourning Bride
A liar should have a good memory.
Quintilian, Institutio Oratoria
I often wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t seen her car that day.
If the light had been green instead of red.
If my son had been dozing, or daydreaming, or looking the other way.
If I’d been five seconds faster in the stodgy London traffic, or five seconds slower.
If, if, if.
But I did see her car.
And everything else flowed from that one moment, pulled on by gravity faster and faster until it was irresistible, unstoppable. Inevitable.
Would things have turned out differently if I’d just driven on home?
Maybe.
Maybe not.
Maybe it was fate.
THURSDAY
1
My son’s first word wasn’t Daddy or Mummy. His first word was Audi. Which was strange because I’d never owned an Audi, and on my salary probably never would. But William had played with toy cars before he could walk, and recognised the badges long before he could actually read the names. At the age of four (and a bit) he was already something of an expert, playing his car game as we inched along in the sluggish north London traffic, spotting badges and calling them out from his car seat in the back.
‘Audi.’
‘Renault.’
‘Beamer.’
We were almost home. The traffic lights up ahead began to change and I pulled up third in line as they turned red. In the mirror I could see him clutching his first School Superstar certificate in both hands, as if it might blow away in the wind. A CD of kids’ songs was playing low on my car stereo. I am the music man, I come from down your way . . .