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Back One White Lie Save as PDF
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

There was that smile again – fake, disbelieving. I couldn’t help it: I remembered the smell of John in my bed, the note in my backpack, all the times I’d woken up having dreamed of him.

McKnight scooted his chair back and turned off the camera. ‘That’s all for now, Miss King. Thank you for coming in. We really appreciate it. An officer will take your prints on your way out.’

I got up, steadying myself against the table, then moved for the door.

‘Oh, and Miss King?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Get home safe, okay? They say it’s supposed to rain, and I know you have trouble seeing clearly when the weather’s acting up.’

Penguin walking logo

TWENTY-FOUR

Back in my house, after locking the door tight behind me, I headed straight to the bathroom, needing to scrub the fingerprint ink from my hands.

As I flipped on the light, I stopped short, the image searing itself into my brain.

The faucet was running, a tiny stream trickling into the sink.

Stomach twisting, I switched the water off, my mind flashing to the faucet in our prewar bathroom in Brooklyn. It used to stick, and Davis had a habit of not twisting it all the way off, leaving it dripping. It drove me nuts, and one day I playfully stuck a Post-it on the bathroom mirror with a message scribbled out in bright blue Sharpie – Remember to twist the faucet all the way!

Thanks, babe! he’d written on his own Post-it, and later I’d told Ellie and our friends about living with a dude, about our passive-aggressive but sweet notes to each other; we’d all laughed about it.

It was only that weekend, when I picked up my laundry from the wash-and-fold and the lady had yelled at me that I could have ruined her machine, that I realized that very same Sharpie had gotten into my hamper. My clothes were ruined. Permanent blue ink on every one of my whites. When I confronted him, Davis swore up and down that I must have left it in my pocket – God, Lucy, what kind of maniac do you think I am? Who would do something like that?

After that, when Davis and I argued, I’d frequently discover the faucet running in the bathroom. A tiny little ‘fuck you,’ just for me. A reminder that should I criticize, should I make a request, I would pay. His signature.

Was this proof? Had he tracked me down? Had he killed John, left me this to let me know he was here, just in case I didn’t put it together on my own?

Or was I actually being paranoid this time, like he always said I was? Had all the chaos and the grief and the fear and the shame of losing – and loving – John scrambled my brain?