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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

We never went into town, despite my repeated asking. Not to that bar, Platform. Not to Schoolhouse for brunch. Once Al, the waitress there, had asked me why my neighbors never came, and I told her what they’d told me – that being so close to the gallery made it feel like work. From the look on her face, I don’t think she quite believed it, and I can’t say I did, either. There was the graffiti, for one thing, which still didn’t sit right with me, even though I told myself it was just rebellious kids. And the fact that locals wouldn’t go to the gallery. And then the way that Maggie, the older woman next door, who always managed to time her dog walks with mine, went quiet, her eyes ominous, if I ever mentioned my friendship with Vera and John.

What’s more, I never saw a visitor at the farmhouse besides me – no one going in, no one coming out. Even for a couple of artsy introverts, it was strange. And Vera and John – they weren’t exactly introverts anyway.

And then there was the day, last week, when I went over to find Vera and John staring at the tires on John’s truck. ‘Cheap, unreliable tires,’ Vera said, when I asked her about it. But I wasn’t stupid – they looked slashed.

There was something off about them, about their standing in this town, that much was clear. There were people who didn’t like them, for whatever reason. But in spite of my curiosity, I didn’t hound them for answers. They’d become too dear, too important to me already. I was too afraid of losing them to push.

Rachel’s name had disappeared from their whiteboard – erased, just like that – and though her junk mail still collected in my mailbox, she never came by to retrieve it again. If it had been an affair, if she’d been the one to slash the tires, it was none of my business. And I wasn’t willing to risk our nights together, tucked away at their place or mine, to find out.

Vera leaned back even farther in her chair, taking another sip of wine. She was sitting almost cross-legged, one knee hooked over the other, her hand on the table, barely grazing John’s. He turned his hand over, and their fingers intertwined, like puzzle pieces – a perfect fit.

Life wasn’t perfect. I won’t pretend it was.

Though Davis hadn’t emailed me again, his lack of contact didn’t quell my fear. I knew he was planning, waiting for the best time to strike.