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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

‘Legally, you can’t give a false name to an officer, but you’re lucky. “False personation”’ – he pointed to the official charge, printed in blackest ink – ‘it’s only a misdemeanor. Class B, which means it’s up to my discretion whether to arrest you or allow you to wait out your court date at home. I spoke with Jennifer Moon – she says you’ve elected to extend your rental agreement another month, so I don’t believe you’re a flight risk. But it is a criminal charge. You’ll want to procure a lawyer. The court date is printed there at the bottom.’

I nodded. ‘Okay.’

‘My best advice? Plead out. Explain your situation. Collect any evidence you have of the abuse. Come down to the station when you’re ready, and report the break-in by your ex. With all the extenuating circumstances, most likely scenario is going to be a fine and community service.’

I looked back up at him, searching his face, waiting to see if there was anything more. I could hardly believe that, after everything, there wasn’t.

McKnight offered me a weak smile. ‘And don’t ever do it again. If you’re in danger, if you’re afraid to give your real name, tell an officer that. We’ll do everything we can to protect you.’

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’

He nodded. ‘Goodbye, Miss Williams.’

I lifted my chin. ‘Goodbye.’

Calm as I could, I went back into my cottage, shutting the door behind me. ‘Dusty,’ I called, and after a minute, he came out from under the sofa.

I looked around at my destroyed home. ‘I’m sorry about that,’ I said to him. ‘I’m sorry about everything.’

I lifted up my purse and retrieved my wallet.

Stilling my hands, I pulled out my New York State ID. Lucy King. Born October 12, 1992. Brown hair, brown eyes. Five foot six. Organ donor. Address not all that far from here, in Poughkeepsie.

I fingered the ID, then shoved it into my back pocket, zippered the wallet shut, and headed to the bedroom. Kicking shards of glass out of the way, I pushed the bed aside and, using a piece of wood split from the remnants of my dresser, worked to pry up the floorboard.

Splinters had pierced my fingers by the time I got it open.

I retrieved my passport and my credit cards, and then, there it was.

It was faded from years of use. Years of going to dive bars with Ellie. Of flights to Miami with Davis. Of opening my first New York City bank account and getting my apartment in Bushwick.

For eight years, it had been well used, well loved.