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  LIES

  New York Times Bestselling Author

  KYLIE SCOTT

  Lies, Copyright © 2019 by Kylie Scott All Rights Reserved. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information contact the copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design: By Hang Le

  Cover Photograph: Brian Kaminski

  Interior Book Design: Champagne Book Design

  ISBN: 9780648457251

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  PLAYLIST

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  EPILOGUE

  PURCHASE KYLIE SCOTT’S OTHER BOOKS

  REPEAT SAMPLE

  PLAYLIST

  “Fake Love” by BTS

  “It’s a Heartache” by Bonnie Tyler

  “Tear Me to Pieces” by Meg Myers

  “Secrets” by Mary Lambert

  “Here You Come Again” by Dolly Parton

  “Bad Guy” by Billie Eilish

  “Barracuda” by Heart

  “Cuz I Love You” by Lizzo

  “Piece of My Heart” by Janis Joplin

  “Little of Your Love” by Haim

  CHAPTER ONE

  “You’re going to break his heart.”

  “No, I’m not,” I say. “That’s sort of the whole point. If I really thought leaving him would break his heart, then I probably wouldn’t be leaving him in the first place.”

  My best friend, Jen, does not look convinced.

  Boxes fill a good half of the room. What a mess. Who knew you could accumulate so much junk in only twelve months? At least we weren’t together so long that I can’t remember who owns what. One year is about the sweet spot for this issue in relationships, apparently.

  “The fact of the matter is, we’re not in love. We have no business being engaged, let alone getting married.” I sigh. “Have you seen the packing tape?”

  “No. He’s just such a nice guy.”

  “I’m not debating that.” I climb to my feet, then head up the stairs to the second bedroom. Thom’s unofficial workout room/home office. Not a room I normally go into. But it only takes a bit of rummaging to find what I’m looking for. Whatever else might be said about them, insurance assessors are organized. The bottom drawer of Thom’s desk has a neat stash of stationery. I grab a couple rolls of thick tape.

  “And leaving him this way…” Jen continues as I head back down.

  “How many times have I told him we need to talk? He’s always putting it off, saying it’s not a good time. And now he’s away again. I’ve been messaging him for the last week and he barely replies.”

  “You know he has to drop everything once a job comes up. I realize he’s not the most exciting guy, Betty, but—”

  “I know.” I smack down a line of tape with extra zest, sealing the lid of the last box. In this Operation Abandon Ship Posthaste, I know I’m definitely slightly the bad guy. But not totally. Say sixty/forty. Or maybe seventy/thirty. It’s hard to tell to what degree. “I do know all of that. But he’s always busy with work or away on some business trip. What am I supposed to do?”

  A sigh from Jen.

  “When you realize you’ve made such a monumental mistake, it’s hard to sit and wait to fix things. Nor is it fair on either of us to keep up the pretense.”

  “Guess so.”

  “And the fact that he’s yet again made no effort to prioritize our relationship and make a little time for me in his busy schedule is just further proof that I’ve made the right choice in ending this now before it gets any more complicated. End of rant.”

  Nothing from her.

  “Anyway, you’re supposed to be on my side. Stop questioning me.”

  “You wanted to get married and have children so badly.”

  “Yeah.” I sit back on my heels. “I blame it all on playing with Ken and Barbie’s dreamhouse when I was little. But it turns out that being in a relationship with the wrong person can be even lonelier than being alone.”

  Jen and I have been friends since sharing a room in college. We’ve witnessed the bulk of each other’s dating ups and downs. For some reason, I’m the type of girl who guys will go out with, but don’t tend to stick with. Apparently, I’m fuckable—just not girlfriend material. Maybe it’s my smart mouth. Maybe it’s the whole not fitting current societal expectations of beauty i.e. I’m fat. Maybe I was born under an unlucky star. I don’t know; it’s their loss. Like anyone, I have my faults, but all in all, I’m awesome. And I have a lot to give. Too often in the past few months, I’ve had to keep reminding myself of this fact.

  “There are just so many jerks out there,” Jen says. “I was happy that you’d found a good one.”

  “I think I’d prefer a jerk who was genuinely into me than a nice guy phoning it in. Honestly, I’d rather go adopt a dozen cats and settle into old age and isolation than be with someone who treats me as if I’m an afterthought.”

  She looks at me for a long moment, then nods slowly. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

  “Me too.”

  “Time to start filling up the cars. Boy, do you owe me.”

  I smile. “That I do.”

  Jen stands and stretches before picking up one of the boxes labeled kitchen. “I just didn’t want you to do something you’d regret, you know?”

  “I know. Thank you.”

  Alone in the two-bedroom condo, everything is silent. My parting letter sits waiting on the coffee table with his name written on the front. A slight bulge in the envelope betrays the shape of my engagement ring. It’s a sweet, simple ring. One small diamond perched on a band of yellow gold. My hand feels wrong without it. Naked. They say there are different love languages and you have to take the time to learn your partner’s needs. It’s like he and I never quite got there. Or maybe I’m just crappy at relationships.

  The bridal magazines I’d collected are in the trash. Perhaps I should have taken them into the florist shop where I work so someone could get some use out of them. But this feels more symbolic, more definite. My family are a couple of states away, and I have only a few of what I’d classify as good friends. Being an introvert makes it hard to meet people. A boyfriend, a husband, would mean I’m no longer alone. Someone cares about me and puts me first. At least part of the time. Only Thom doesn’t any of the time, so here we are.

  I tighten my ponytail of long dark hair. Then, in a rare display of dexterity that my yoga instructor would be proud of, I stack three boxes in my arms and head outside into the hot afternoon sun. Jen’s Honda Civic is parked at the curb, the trunk standing open as she moves things about inside. My old Subaru sits in the driveway waiting to be filled. Birds are singing and insects chirping. It’s your typical mild autumn day in California.

  That’s when the condo blows up behind me.

  I come to on the front lawn, sprawled across crushed boxes. Guess they cushioned my fall. A ringing fills my ears, smoke billows up into the sky. The condo is on fire. What’s left of it, at least. This cannot be happening.

  “Betty!”

  I try to turn in the direction of Jen’s voice, but one of my eyes won’t open. When I touch the area, my fingers come away bright with blood. Also, my bra
in hurts. It feels as if someone picked me up and shook me around hard.

  “Oh my God, Betty,” she says, falling to her knees beside me. She’s fuzzy for some reason, her familiar features indistinct. “Are you all right?”

  “Sure,” I say as blackness closes in.

  The next time I wake, I’m lying down in a moving vehicle. An ambulance, by the looks of it. Only things don’t seem quite right. A woman shines a small light in my eyes before tossing it over her shoulder. And instead of a uniform, she’s wearing tight black pants and a tank top.

  “Lucky girl. Just a mild concussion and a small cut on her forehead,” the woman says with an English accent. Next she rips an antiseptic wipe out of its packet and starts cleaning up the blood on my face none too gently. “She’s certainly not his usual type.”

  “What were you expecting?” asks the driver.

  “I don’t know. Something a little less plump and homely, perhaps.”

  A grunt.

  “And she’s awake,” the woman says.

  “That’s inconvenient.”

  “I’m on it.” She drops the wipe and reaches for a syringe.

  “W-wait,” I say, my mouth dry and muscles hurting. “What’s going on?”

  Without any preamble, the needle is plunged into my arm, the stopper depressed. It all happens so quickly. I try to move, to push her away, but I’m no match for her strength. Not in my current condition. As darkness closes in once more, I see a discarded paramedic uniform sitting off to the side.

  “Who are you?” I mumble, my lips, face, and everything else going numb.

  “Friends,” she says. “Well, sort of.”

  The driver just laughs.

  Consciousness comes slowly. It’s like I’m underwater in an ocean of night. This time, however, I’m upright, seated on a chair in a large and dimly lit room. My feet rest on the cold bare floor since someone’s stolen my shoes. Everything’s woozy and horrible. My hands are tied behind my back, the restraints painfully tight. The shadows disappear as a blinding light is shone in my face. It’s dazzling and awful, shooting pain through my already pounding head. Next comes a bucket of ice-cold water thrown in my face.

  “Wakey wakey,” yells the shadow of a man. “Time for us to talk, Miss Elizabeth Dawsey.”

  I cringe and shiver. “Wh-where am I?”

  “I ask the questions and you give me answers. That’s how this works.”

  “Is all this really necessary?” the woman with the British accent asks. Her voice comes from farther back in the room. “He’s not going to be happy.”

  “Keep your mouth shut,” growls the man.

  With the light blinding my eyes, there’s little I can see. My bare feet rest on concrete and the air is dusty and still. I could be anywhere. “I don’t understand. Who are you people?”

  Heavy footsteps come toward me; then smack! His hand connects with my cheek. Fothermucker. I’ve never been hit before. It’s a hell of a shock. My face throbs and there’s the taste of blood on my tongue. I must have bitten it. But then everything pretty much hurts to one degree or another.

  “I wouldn’t have done that if I were you,” says the woman.

  But the man just ignores her, stepping back beyond the light. “What does the word ‘wolf’ mean to you?”

  “Wolf?” I ask.

  “Answer the question.”

  “I don’t…what do you mean?” I shake from more than fear, ice-cold water sliding down my skin beneath the drenched clothing. “As in the animal?”

  “What else?”

  “Fur? Teeth? House Stark? I don’t know.”

  Laughter from the woman.

  “Tell me about your fiancé,” he demands. “Everything you know about the man.”

  This makes no sense to my already-addled brain. “But why? Thom hasn’t done anything. He’s an insurance assessor, for Christ’s sake. Whenever there’s a fire or a flood or something, he goes and helps people with their claims. That’s where he is right now, assessing damage from that hurricane in Florida. It was on the news and everything.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “What are you saying?” A sudden surge of fear grips me. “Thom’s okay, isn’t he? I mean, he couldn’t have been in the explosion. He’s on the other side of the country.”

  “He wasn’t in the explosion, no. Tell me more about him.”

  “Ah, we met in a bar downtown, been together for just over a year. He’s a hard worker. He likes watching football and going for morning runs. His favorite food is lasagna and he drinks Bud Light even though it’s trash.”

  “MORE.”

  “I don’t know what you want,” I cry. Never in my life have I been so scared.

  “Describe him to me.”

  “He’s just an average guy. Average height. Fit, but not bulky. He has brown eyes and hair. Thirty-one years old.”

  “Tick-tock, tick-tock,” says the woman. “You’re running out of time.”

  “Whose fucking fault is that?” hisses the man.

  “Guess I gave her more sleep juice than I meant to. Oops.”

  A grunt. “Keep talking, bitch.”

  My head pounds. “I, um…he sleeps on the right-hand side of the bed.”

  “What weapons does he keep in the house?”

  “Like guns? None. I hate the things. We both do.”

  Again, the woman laughs. “Not the brightest, is she?”

  “Keep talking,” repeats the man.

  “Thom’s a decent person. He’s nice…polite. Doesn’t do social media. Has no close family.” Nothing I’m telling them is damning or even particularly interesting. Still, I feel guilty for answering at all. But what the hell else am I supposed to do? “Is this what you want to know? I don’t understand; what’s he done? What’s he involved in?”

  “Who says he’s involved in anything?”

  “The fact that I’m here and you’re questioning me says something’s going on.”

  “Watch it. I don’t think you appreciate how nice I’m being,” says the creep. “Things could get much worse for you very quickly. You have no idea exactly how bad things could get.”

  “I don’t know what you want. Are you the ones who blew up the condo?” My heart is pounding and I can’t seem to get enough air. “Are you going to kill me?”

  “Asking me questions again. Tsk tsk. You just never learn. Perhaps you’d like to try some waterboarding, hmm? Does that sound like fun?”

  I choke on a sob.

  “Got to say, it really messes you up. Feels just like you’re drowning. You start suffocating and water gets in your lungs, which fucking stings, let me tell you. And your sinuses feel like they’re going to explode. Eventually, Betty, you’ll lose consciousness. Then I’ll wake you back up not so gently and we’ll start all over again.” The sadistic prick laughs. “I hate to do it. But I just don’t think you’re being entirely truthful with me, you see? It’s sad, really. All of this football-and-lasagna bullshit, it’s just surface information. You must know more about the man you live with, the man you’re going to marry. You’d have to know all his secrets by now, wouldn’t you?”

  I shake my head. “Thom doesn’t have any secrets.”

  “Everyone has secrets.”

  “No, not Thom. I mean, he hates his boss and he takes his coffee black.” I’m babbling now, the words tripping over themselves in their haste to get out. “He’s a bit of a loner. Only has a couple of friends f-from college, work…I don’t…oh, God.”

  “Do you talk to your friends about Thom?”

  “Well, I talk to my friend Jen. Wait, where is Jen? Have you taken her too?”

  “The friend checks out,” says the woman. “She’s clean.”

  “Is Jen okay?” I repeat. “Did you hurt her?”

  “Your nosy little friend is fine. Took a lot of talking to keep her out of the ambulance,” says the man. “Maybe we should have brought her along. I think you just need a bit more encouragement to help your memory.
”

  “Are you sure about this?” asks the woman.

  “Use your head,” he snaps. “If they’ve found the condo, then they know about this one. If they know about her, they’ll have tried to compromise her. Get her on the floor.”

  “Oh, no. I’m observing only,” says the woman. “You’re on your own with this.”

  The light clicks off and white spots dance before my eyes. I blink and blink, but it’s a while before I can see anything. In the meantime, there are noises. Water running from a tap. More heavy footsteps. The near-silent hiss of the frigid air-conditioning turning on.

  Slowly, gradually, things swim into focus. We’re in an empty basement by the look of it. Small barred windows set high. Bare brick walls and a concrete floor. Over by a laundry tub, the man stands with his back to me. He’s tall with a shaved head, dressed in all black. Meanwhile, the woman leans against a wall inspecting her nails. She’s petite with short dark hair and golden-brown skin.

  This isn’t real. It can’t be real. Everything hurts. And it’s about to hurt a lot more.

  Someone jogs down the stairs, coming into view a bit at a time. First are the black boots. Next is blue jeans. Then a gray T-shirt hanging loose. Finally, I see his face…

  And it’s Thom.

  Relief rushes through me. He’s here. He’s okay. Oh, thank God. Though, now that I really pay attention, he seems different than normal. My addled brain can’t figure it out exactly. As if it’s Thom’s doppelgänger. Because it looks like him, but the expression on his face…

  Oh, shit. What if they’re going to hurt him too?

  “Thom,” I gasp. “No.”

  He spares me only the briefest of glances. “What’s going on?”

  The creep turns, mouth set in a distinctly pissy line. Water keeps pouring out of the faucet into a bucket, presumably, and he’s holding a piece of ripped towel. “Wolf.”

  “Spider,” says Thom.

  “Since we had to pick her up, they wanted a threat assessment.” The woman continues to lean casually against the wall.