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One White Lie

Leah Konen
Chapters (59)
  1. COVER
  2. About the Author
  3. DEDICATION
  4. ONE
  5. TWO
  6. THREE
  7. FOUR
  8. FIVE
  9. SIX
  10. SEVEN
  11. EIGHT
  12. NINE
  13. TEN
  14. ELEVEN
  15. TWELVE
  16. THIRTEEN
  17. FOURTEEN
  18. FIFTEEN
  19. SIXTEEN
  20. SEVENTEEN
  21. EIGHTEEN
  22. NINETEEN
  23. TWENTY
  24. TWENTY-ONE
  25. TWENTY-TWO
  26. TWENTY-THREE
  27. TWENTY-FOUR
  28. TWENTY-FIVE
  29. TWENTY-SIX
  30. TWENTY-SEVEN
  31. TWENTY-EIGHT
  32. TWENTY-NINE
  33. THIRTY
  34. THIRTY-ONE
  35. THIRTY-TWO
  36. THIRTY-THREE
  37. THIRTY-FOUR
  38. THIRTY-FIVE
  39. THIRTY-SIX
  40. THIRTY-SEVEN
  41. THIRTY-EIGHT
  42. THIRTY-NINE
  43. FORTY
  44. FORTY-ONE
  45. FORTY-TWO
  46. FORTY-THREE
  47. FORTY-FOUR
  48. FORTY-FIVE
  49. FORTY-SIX
  50. FORTY-SEVEN
  51. FORTY-EIGHT
  52. FORTY-NINE
  53. FIFTY
  54. FIFTY-ONE
  55. FIFTY-TWO
  56. FIFTY-THREE
  57. FIFTY-FOUR
  58. Acknowledgments
  59. THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING

COVER

One White Lie
Penguin Books

About the Author

Leah Konen is a graduate of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, where she studied journalism and English literature. She’s the author of several young adult novels, including Love and Other Train Wrecks and The Romantics.

She lives in Brooklyn and Saugerties, NY, with her husband, their daughter, Eleanor, and their dog, Farley. One White Lie is her first thriller.

DEDICATION

For Eleanor

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ONE

People have all sorts of ideas about what they’d do if it happened to them.

They’d tell their friends. They’d make that call. They’d leave. They certainly wouldn’t continue on like normal, banging out personal essays or temping at whatever online mag needed a freelance editor for the day. They’d tell their family (assuming they still had family in their lives to tell), they’d keep themselves busy (pottery class! political campaigns! yoga!). They’d heal, and they’d move on, and they’d rebuild their lives.

That’s what I’d always thought, too.

The exit for Woodstock, New York, came into view, my eyes flitting nervously to the rearview mirror as I quickly pulled off the ramp. Suddenly, I was in the country, pastures and horses, run-down schoolhouses, abandoned barns, and bucolic churches sprinkled over the landscape: Rural Mad Libs. I found Shadow Creek Road at the end of a particularly snakelike stretch. I turned, so eager to get out of the car and get to step two of this plan that I hardly slowed at all …

I slammed on the brakes as the deer froze, staring me down.

My body lurched forward; Dusty yelped as he thunked against the side of his crate. My blood pumped heavy and fast, flushing me with heat. I struggled to catch my breath as the doe’s eyes flashed at mine. What are you doing? What in God’s name do you think you’re doing? She pranced away, the heft of her body disappearing into the tall grasses of the meadow, as quickly as she’d come.

My throat burned hot, acid rising, and I rammed the car into park. I jumped out and rushed to the passenger side, whipping open the back door. ‘You okay, buddy?’ I asked. Dusty licked my hand, my erratic driving apparently not doing him too much harm. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, attempting to swallow the bitterness in the back of my mouth, nauseated at the realization that I was unable to prevent my own dog from getting hurt. I couldn’t bear to lose him, too.