Listen for the Lie(5)

“You talked to Dad too? About me staying with them?”

“Of course not; I try to avoid having conversations with your father whenever possible. But Kathleen talked to him. We wouldn’t just spring you on him.”

“He never did like surprises.”

“No. Does that mean you’ll come?”

I stare at the butternut squash and consider smashing it against my own head.

“Lucy?”

I blink. “Sorry. Squash.”

“Don’t buy squash, you’re coming to Texas!”

“Oh my god.”

“Right?” She’s hopeful again.

I sigh. I can’t say no to the only family member I like. One of the only people I like. “Yes. I’m coming to Texas.”

A soft voice, a voice I always try to ignore, whispers in my ear, “Let’s kill—”

I grip the phone tighter and will the voice away.

“Oh, wonderful! Do you think Nathan will want to come?”

I take a shaky breath. The voice seems to be gone. “I don’t think he can get off work.”

“Oh, sure. Well, I’ll just buy you a plane ticket then. You okay to leave this weekend?”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Nonsense, I want to. I’ll be dead soon anyway.”

We might all be dead soon, but that seems like too much to hope for.

“Sure, this weekend.” I reconsider her last statement. “Wait, are you sick?”

“Not that I know of, but my friends are dropping like flies, so really, it’s only a matter of time.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“Now, listen, I don’t drive much anymore, but I can probably make it to Austin to pick you up. If my car starts. You never know these days.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll rent a car. And I’m getting a hotel.”

“Well, your mother won’t like that.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose with my fingers.

“And Lucy?”

“Yeah?”

“You heard about that podcast, right? The one about you?”





CHAPTER FOUR


LUCY




I have to buy a suitcase because I never travel. I had a beautiful matching luggage set once, but I left my ex-husband with clothes stuffed into garbage bags.

Brewster greets me at the door when I come in, excitedly sniffing the new purple luggage. Nathan is home, still in the black pants and white button-up he wore to work. His face lights up when he sees the suitcase. Subtle, dude.

“Going somewhere?”

I drop the bag on the floor. “No, it’s for a dead body.”

His lips part. He looks from me to the suitcase.

“What?” I glance down at it. “You think I should have gotten a bigger one?”

He stares at me for several seconds before letting out a long, annoyed breath. “Jesus Christ, Lucy.”

I lean down to pet Brewster. He licks my hand, oblivious to the tension in the room. Dogs don’t know about murder podcasts. Lucky bastards.

“You weren’t even going to pretend, huh?” I ask.

“What?” The tiny dent between his eyebrows appears. He has perfect L.A. eyebrows. Sculpted by a professional. I’d liked that he was the kind of guy who didn’t feel his masculinity was tied to his beauty routine (or lack thereof).

Now I’m annoyed by those two immaculately plucked eyebrows.

“A lot of people pretend to think I didn’t do it,” I say. “They act like they want to hear my side, like they haven’t already made up their mind.”

“Oh. I, uh, I do want to hear your side…”

I roll my eyes. That was so insincere I don’t bother responding to it.

Some guys actually like the suspected-murderer thing. The first couple of years after it happened, I’d get the occasional email with a flirty request for a date. Thrill seekers, I guess. Or they want to save me. I’m a real fixer-upper.

Not Nathan, apparently.

“You’re … going somewhere?” he asks, after a long silence.

“Texas. My grandma is having a birthday party.”

“Oh.”

“She invited you too.”

He blinks. “I, um … I don’t know if I can … you know, with work.”

“Sure.”

“When are you leaving?”

“Friday. I’ll be gone about a week.”

He nods. I wait for him to suggest that I take all my stuff with me when I go. The only sound is Brewster’s loud sniffs as he thoroughly examines the ends of my jeans.

“Are you going to tell me?” he finally asks.

“What?”

“Your side.”

For fuck’s sake. Men are such babies. They’re too scared to actually break up with you, so they just get mean or fade away until you get mad and dump them.

Risky move, making a suspected murderer angry enough to dump you.

“Would you believe me if I did?” I ask. My phone buzzes. I pull it out of my purse to see a text from my mom.

You’re not staying at a hotel. I’m getting the guest room ready now.

I quickly type out a response. I’m fine at a hotel.