Listen for the Lie(3)

Maya:?????????????You know that my family has hired three different private investigators, right? Like, my parents did not give up. I don’t know if there’s anything left to find.

Ben:???????????????I’m aware, yeah.

Maya:?????????????I guess it couldn’t hurt, though. I mean, it’s been five years and it’s like no one even cares anymore that Savvy is dead. They’ve all given up.

A quick note here—you’ll often hear people who knew Savannah refer to her as “Savvy.” It was what most people called her.

Ben:???????????????So you haven’t heard any updates from the police or the DA or anyone?

Maya:?????????????Not in years. They all knew Lucy did it, they just couldn’t prove it, I guess.

Ben:???????????????There have never been any other suspects?

Maya:?????????????No. I mean, Lucy was covered in Savvy’s blood when they found her. She had Savvy’s skin underneath her fingernails, there were scratches on Savvy’s arm and bruises shaped like Lucy’s fingers. People saw them fighting at the wedding. Lucy killed her. She killed my sister and got away with it because the useless police department said there wasn’t enough evidence for an arrest.

Ben:???????????????Have you had any contact with Lucy recently?

Maya:?????????????No, not since she left Plumpton. She’s never come back, even though her parents still live here.

Ben:???????????????As far as you know, is she still claiming to have no memory of the night Savannah died?

Maya:?????????????Yeah, that was her story.

Ben:???????????????Do you believe her?

Maya:?????????????Of course I don’t believe her. No one believes her.

Is it true that no one believes Lucy Chase? Is she hiding something, or have the people of Plumpton accused an innocent woman of murder for five years?

Let’s find out.

I’m Ben Owens, and this is the Listen for the Lie podcast, where we uncover all the lies people tell, and find the truth.





CHAPTER THREE


LUCY




Nathan, as it turns out, has no balls.

We ate chicken. We drank wine. I played with the giant carving knife just to watch him sweat. He rambled on about work.

He did not ask whether I’m a murderer.

At this point, I’m curious how long this can go on for. He’s clearly wanted to break up for a while, and now he’s worried I’m going to murder him. Surely he will locate his balls and actually say the words “Please move out of my apartment and never contact me again” soon?

On the plus side, I have more time to look for a new place while I wait for the inevitable. Just this morning I found a very promising one-bedroom with no income requirements. It looks like a dump in the pictures, and the landlord asked to see a picture of my feet when I emailed, but, hey. It’s cheap.

Sometimes I think about the fact that the twenty-two-year-old version of me would be absolutely horrified by almost-thirty me. That shiny, smug newlywed with a four-bedroom house was so certain that she had life figured out and it was all going her way.

Guess what, asshole?

I also halfheartedly applied for a couple of new jobs over the weekend, and already got a rejection from one. I’m really killing it lately (pun intended).

But I don’t actually want a new job, if I’m being honest. I’ve published three romance novels under a pen name, and the third one is actually selling some copies. It’s an unexpected turn of events, considering how few people bought my first two books, but it means I’ve had to work overtime on the next one, so I don’t lose momentum.

And maybe, with a little luck, they’ll start selling enough copies so that I don’t have to worry about finding another mind-numbingly boring day job.

Of course, now I have to worry about a podcaster shining a very bright light on my past, and possibly someone finding out that it’s actually a suspected murderer writing their new favorite rom-com. No one except my agent, my publisher, and my grandma knows about my career as a romance author, but I’m a favorite subject for the amateur internet sleuth.

The thought nags at me all weekend. Monday morning, I run extra miles on the treadmill in the gym at Nathan’s complex, and then head to the grocery store because I need to tell my feelings to chocolate. Lots of chocolate.

The grocery stores are never empty in L.A., even on a weekday, because no one here has a real job. I maneuver around a woman at the entrance who is talking on her phone and wearing leggings that probably cost more than my entire outfit. They make her butt look great, though.

I turn my cart into the produce section. Maybe I’ll get something to chop into tiny pieces in front of Nathan.

(A nicer person would just say, “Hey, you heard about the podcast, didn’t you?” and put him out of his misery. I should try to be less of an asshole. Tomorrow, maybe.) A slim blond woman is tapping a butternut squash with one finger, and I try very hard not to imagine smashing the squash against her head.

I fail. Squash, as it turns out, is a weakness of mine.

I wonder whether it would even hold up after being smashed against a human head. It would probably explode and you’d just end up with a headache and squash all over your face.

The woman looks up and notices me staring at her. I smile like I wasn’t just imagining bludgeoning her to death. She walks away, casting an alarmed glance over her shoulder at me.