Lie To Her （Bree Taggert #6）
Melinda Leigh
CHAPTER ONE
There’s no line between love and hate, not even a fine one. It’s a mud puddle.
Quicksand.
And you can be simultaneously mired in both.
Let me explain. You love someone. They reject you. Now you hate them. But you still can’t stop loving them, even if you hate yourself for it.
A hot fucking mess, right?
I halt on the shoulder of the road. As the tires hit the gravel, the steering wheel vibrates under my hands, as if my SUV understands the significance of the moment. My heartbeat accelerates, my blood rushes, and heat blooms on my skin. I lower the window and take a deep breath, holding the cool December air in my lungs for a few seconds. I smell burning leaves and dampness. The first snow of the season is forecast for this evening. The weather won’t affect my plans. Nothing will. I exhale slowly, then repeat the exercise twice more, until my pulse steadies. After weeks of preparation, the first step of my plan is finally coming to fruition. I can’t—won’t—lose my nerve.
Forest and fields flank the country lane. Winter has stripped the trees bare. There are three houses in sight. The blue saltbox in front of me is currently for sale, vacant and dark. It’s been on the market for over a year, and clearly no one has shown any interest in buying it. The property is listed as is. The siding desperately needs power washing. The lawn is both overgrown and dying. Weeds strangle the shrubs, and the rusted mailbox, beaten down by corrosion and neglect, leans on its post as if too exhausted to remain upright.
My gaze shifts to the house across the street, a tiny white ranch-style home. A lamppost and a porch light both blaze. The owner left for work at four thirty, as he does every weekday afternoon. He must work nights, because he never returns until early morning. I know this because I’ve been watching the street, making careful notes about the residents’ activities.
It’s the third house that interests me, the small farmhouse on the other side of the saltbox. Spencer LaForge—the first name on my list—lives there. Lights glow inside and out.
On his dating app profiles, Spencer describes himself as a forty-seven-year-old digital marketer. His photos show a fit, attractive man with a smile full of straight white teeth and enough of a tan to make him appear outdoorsy. He claims to enjoy good conversation and a nice pinot noir. His hobbies include running, hiking, and reading. He’s looking for companionship and romance.
That’s not what he’s going to get today.
He doesn’t deserve a nice life anyway. He’s a liar, a cheat, a player. But the truth wouldn’t make an attractive dating profile, would it?
Superficial, middle-age douchebag seeks hot younger woman to fuck and dump wouldn’t get many swipes.
Killing him might seem a little harsh, but Spencer is a liar. Not the worst one, but a liar just the same. He must pay for the way he treats people. Today, I’ll cross him off my list.
I pull back onto the road, park in the driveway of the vacant house, and get out of my SUV. I take my small backpack from the rear seat and heft it over one shoulder, then hoof it across the lawns to Spencer’s driveway. I stop in front of his attached garage, pull disposable gloves from my pocket, and tug them on. Then I enter Spencer’s four-digit passcode into the PIN pad mounted next to the doorframe—another important detail I gleaned from watching him through my binoculars.
The overhead door rolls up. I slip inside and hurry past the black F-150. I walk past the riding lawn mower that occupies the second half of the garage. At the door that leads into the house, I press the button mounted on the wall and lower the overhead door. It closes with a metallic rattle and thud.
I draw in a long, gasoline-scented breath.
I’m in.
Despite his life of deception, Spencer is a man of routine. He uses the same passwords for everything. His dating app profile was ridiculously easy to hack. Today is Tuesday. He finished work an hour ago and is currently out for a run. He won’t let a little thing poor visibility interfere with his exercise routine. He’ll return soon to prepare for the date he’s expecting to arrive at six o’clock. He’s supposed to cook her dinner. Won’t she be surprised at what she finds?
My lips pull into a grin. My face is so tight, it feels as if the skin might split open. I wish I could stay and watch her reaction. The slut deserves what she gets, although none of this is her fault. I’m sure Spencer plans to treat her the same way he treats all women. She’s just another one of his victims.
Most people are willing to take their lumps and move on. Not me. I hold a grudge, nursing it like a newborn.
Focus!
I make my way through the mudroom into the kitchen. Spencer didn’t spare any expense on the renovation, with professional-grade appliances, granite counters, and a high-end slate floor. French doors open onto a covered patio. The teak outdoor table is set, complete with a vase of flowers, two plates, and two wineglasses. A neat pyramid of split logs, kindling, and tinder fill a sunken firepit. Graham crackers, chocolate, and marshmallows are lined up on a small table.
S’mores.
The only desserts Spencer will be having are his just ones.
I turn back to the great room. I’ve been in the house before. I needed to get familiar with the layout. A good plan minimizes potential surprises. I hurry for the stairs and jog to the second-floor landing. Down a short hall, I stick my head in the extra bedroom. Excitement ripples up my arms as goose bumps as I scan Spencer’s collection. There are things you just don’t expect to find in the average home.
Don’t get ahead of yourself. Stay in the moment. The plan must proceed one step at a time.
Turning back, I return to the kitchen. I spot two thick steaks marinating on the counter. Filets. Romantic setting, good wine, a hearty meal. He’s pulling out all the stops. Clearly, he’s banking on sex. After all, this is their third date. In Spencer’s very limited mindset, he deserves sex tonight.
The bastard.
How many women has he used and discarded?
Anger heats the back of my neck.
I check the time on my watch. Spencer will be back soon. I need to get to my hiding location. My hand strays to my jacket pocket, where my tools weigh heavily. I have no desire for a fight. For my plan to work, Spencer must comply. Once he’s restrained, the rest of the plan will play out smoothly.
Easy as pie, as my grandmother used to say.
But first I must obtain control. A sudden burst of nerves assaults me. My skin grows prickly and itchy. My stomach rolls over. Doubt tempts me to abandon my plan. But I can’t. I promised myself I would get even. I’d better get my shit together. Tonight is only the beginning.
Users will be punished.
I head for a small closet that faces the kitchen and great room. The door is louvered, so I’ll be able to see. Perfect. I push aside a ski jacket and step in, closing the door behind me.
The minutes tick by. My heart skips, and I’m suddenly aware of the sound of my breathing. Is it loud, or is it echoing in my ears because of my adrenaline rush? A tune plays silently in my head, a damned earworm for sure.
Every breath you take.
I concentrate on controlling my lungs. I can’t have Spencer hearing me. Can’t have him ruining what I’ve so carefully planned.
I hear the motor of the garage door opener engage. A minute later, the door rattles closed.