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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

Vera paused, her eyes glistening. ‘That makes sense, when you say it like that, and I should have thought of it before. I just – it’s so hard, losing him, and then immediately having them dig into my marriage, spread it out for all to see. It’s not fair, Lucy. It’s not fair to us. To who we were.’

I shook my head. ‘It’s not.’

Tears dripped down her cheeks again, and I knew it then, deep in my heart.

She hadn’t done this. She couldn’t have. And I should never doubt her again.

We spent the afternoon making arrangements. She didn’t resist when I suggested we hold a memorial soon, grieve John on our terms, not the police’s, and together, we agreed to two days from now. We didn’t go to the funeral parlor or anything, like they do on TV. We didn’t look at a laminated book of flowers and caskets. We did it all online, like true modern women. I called a place I found on Yelp and helped her complete the obituary. It would be printed in the Daily Freeman tomorrow morning. She told me, again and again, ‘Thank you so much for staying, I couldn’t do any of this without you.’

When we were finished, we didn’t talk about John or the police or anything that had transpired over the last few days. Instead, we parked ourselves on the couch in front of Netflix, devouring movies without much of a plot, without even a hint of romance or familial obligations. Noir wasn’t fun anymore, when it felt like you were living it. Vera and I weren’t ingenues in hazy lighting with finger curls and penciled lips. We were real humans, and our worlds were falling apart.

When we hit our second eighties comedy, I ordered pizza and made her eat a slice. We queued up Airplane!, and Dusty nuzzled between us, and it almost felt like we were a family again, even if I knew this family couldn’t last.

When we began to get tired, we checked every lock in her house, more than once, and I followed her to her room, Dusty at our heels.

She fell asleep first, and as I listened to her breathe, I made my plans, tracing maps in my head, mentally packing away my things, and trying not to think of a killer out there – of Sam Alby contemplating his next move.

Or of Davis. Somewhere out there in the meadow, waiting. Watching me, watching us.

Deciding how best to complete his revenge.

Penguin walking logo

TWENTY-FIVE

The funeral parlor smelled like Pine-Sol.

Up front, the silver-haired minister had a rogue drop of sweat climbing down his forehead. It seemed rude and insubordinate, that kernel of body sweat, as if it didn’t give a shit about John, it was only doing its thing.