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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

I made the second turn, the path opening up just slightly, the light peeking through the trees, dappling the ground, which had turned from stones to thick, fat roots, crawling beneath my feet like snakes. I walked the length of the path, and before the next turn, I paused, again rehearsing the script in my head. Just after I got to the clearing, I heard him scream. I saw him slip and fall.

I stilled my breath, listening for footsteps. None, nothing but the rolling of the river below, the chirp of a songbird.

Then I heard him scream.

Penguin walking logo

NINETEEN

It echoed through the woods, but I forced myself to count off beats in my head instead of running straight for the clearing. I imagined it all, him stepping away from the camouflage of the trees, the rocks slipping from beneath him, his camera in his hand as he fell to the bottom, his backpack and water bottle the only markers left behind. We’d all agreed it was better this way; if Vera and I watched John walk off the trail, we might get our stories messed up.

So I waited, twenty counts, and then, as if suddenly sensing danger, I ran.

The clearing was empty, not a soul in sight, but I spotted his backpack, about fifty feet up ahead. I bolted down the path, over rocks, around ivy, across fallen leaves, toward the spot, the light spatter of rain coating my face, letting myself pretend, for a moment, that my story was true, that I really had seen him. Letting myself feel those feelings just the tiniest bit: of being alone, of losing someone you love. Feelings I knew well, that the absence of my parents had printed on my heart.

Up close, the tableau was more frightening than I’d expected.

I shouted for Vera, as we’d agreed I would, then studied the scene before me. The backpack and bottle were upright and covered in water droplets – obedient pets waiting for their owner to return.

There was no blood – John must have been careful not to drip any – but the rocks and gravel on the cliff’s edge were disturbed. It looked so real, so true to life. I stepped closer. The tiny bit of grass and mud just before the rocks was marked with … footprints. Had to be John’s.

Vera had told him to be careful, but what if he’d gotten too into staging it?

What if …

I turned back, looking for John’s footprints leading back off the trail, but the leaves were too thick to see any – there was nothing. It made sense, of course. He would have been careful to step only where the ground was covered as he walked off the trail, careful not to leave any tracks. My ears pricked, listening for the rustle of leaves, for John’s movements, but I couldn’t hear a thing.