BooksBarbecue
Back One White Lie
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

Most editors – so busy worrying about the death of journalism and the impending loss of their jobs – didn’t even check. They believed what I had printed on eggshell paper from the copy shop on Bedford Avenue. I’d taken most of the courses, I told them I always traveled with my pocket copy of The Elements of Style, and they bought it.

There was one woman who didn’t believe me, that bitch at Vogue – it had taken every bone in my body to keep the hatch shut during that interview – but she was only one editor. There were others. There would always be more people to lie to, to fool. Honestly, I would have stayed Liv my whole life if I could have.

Only then, there was Davis.

Davis, who turned my fresh start into a veritable living hell. Who punished me, physically, mentally, and emotionally. It was no wonder it eventually got to me in a way I couldn’t control.

It was after he showed up at my hotel in May, Ellie in tow, that I realized I might need to get creative. After he told me he’d never, ever let me leave, that if I did, he’d find a way to take away everything I ever cared about, including Dusty, that I began to realize I might have to start over … again.

I was all set to leave, quietly in the night, Lucy King’s brand-new ID tucked into my wallet. But then, just a couple of days before I’d planned to go, Davis had come at me, after a dinner out, going on and on, berating me about all the guys I’d flirted with at the bar we’d gone to after, guys I hadn’t so much as looked at, that paranoid prick.

And like that, the hatch opened again.

I grabbed the bottle of good whiskey we always kept on our counter and …

Smash.

My first instinct had been to dial 911, but I ended the call quickly, tossing my phone against the brick wall. Then I’d used the bottle of whiskey to give myself the bruise, and I’d left him passed out on the hardwood floor of our apartment. I’d taken Dusty, taken my bags, and gone.

I’d spent those first few weeks half-afraid he’d find me and half-afraid of something even worse.

That the police would find me. That I just might have left him for dead.

That’s why the bruise was necessary. Self-defense, if anyone ever asked, since I’d been too stupid to capture any of the bruises before. Blackmail, if he insisted on trying to control me still – that was, if he didn’t kill me first.

I took another turn, leaving the pass, and the trees, behind. I was getting closer to the city, and the sky was bluer than it should be in Seattle and speckled with clouds.