She Lied She Died Carissa Lynch (best beach reads of all time TXT) 📖

BEFORE

How did it begin?

I guess it started the way most bad things do: with secrets.

And then, of course, there were also the lies.

Lies that tasted like malt vinegar, but flowed like syrup from our tongues … and what was the truth anymore? I don’t think we’d recognize it if it were staring us straight in the face…

“Laney, are you ready?” I dropped my purse with a smack on the entryway floor, just like I did every day after work. I was exhausted. Most days I’d take a shower and throw together something for dinner then fall asleep watching TV.

But then I remembered: Samantha was coming.

I scooped my purse off the floor and carried the bulgy black bag to my bedroom.

Our house wasn’t exactly a penthouse – paint peeling, the original lime green from the 60s playing peek-a-boo through the cracks. But it was clean (mostly) and roomy for just the two of us. Two bedrooms, two baths. Our furniture wasn’t fancy, but it was comfortable. I liked to think of our small bungalow as “homey”; it was also small enough to keep us together and large enough to keep us from killing each other…

I kept the house tidy; well, I thought I did…but now that I knew Samantha was coming – or Sam as Delaney liked to call her – the house was bathed in a whole new light.

I swept the living room curtains back, a cloud of dust tickling my nose and the back of my throat. The windows were grimy, a thin layer of dust coating the sills and every baseboard in sight.

And the air in our house…today, it felt stale and muggy.

A pile of unpaid bills lay cluttered on the arm of the sofa from where I’d forgotten to finish sorting through them last night.

The kitchen was worse. Breakfast dishes and coffee mugs were stacked on the counter, and the drain in the sink was giving off that putrid egg smell again…

Most days, I left for work by seven, with Delaney not far behind. There was rarely time to tidy up in the mornings, which was why I often saved all that for after work.

Leaving the dishes, I drifted back to the living room, my chest tightening with dread. In addition to the dust and messy mail pile, there were empty bottles of tea and Vitamin Water crowding the coffee table. Delaney had been watching Teen Mom 2 last night when I’d taken myself to bed.

When did she stop using the garbage can? I thought, angrily.

It’s like you spend their early years teaching them every day common tasks and social skills, and just when you think they’ve mastered them, you have to re-instruct them as teens.

I stuffed the bunch of mail between two couch cushions and scooped up Delaney’s mess in my arms. When I went to throw it away, I realized the garbage was full. Not only that, it smelled like last night’s fettucine.

And the carpet, has it always looked this dingy?

It had been needing to be replaced since … well, since the day we moved in nine years ago. But replacing carpet was one of those costly projects that I planned for tax return season but never got around to. Because there was always something else that came up – tires for the minivan, new school clothes for Delaney, a broken hot water heater, a busted drum in the dryer…

It was Friday, and in our house, Fridays meant Michael.

Usually, Delaney’s friend Viola dropped her at Michael’s after school. But ever since I’d discovered the pot stash in her top drawer, Delaney had been riding the bus as part of her punishment.

I wasn’t sure if her friends were bad influences, exactly, but I knew that not getting to ride with them to and from school might make Delaney think twice before picking up another joint.

Or it will make her better at hiding it, I considered, pressing down on the tender spot between my eyes and praying another migraine wasn’t on its way.

I’d offered – a few times – to take Delaney to Michael’s. Michael and his new wife’s house was close, and it would take me less than a half hour to take her there, after work. But Samantha – or Sam – had insisted on picking her up this week. “It’s no trouble, no trouble at all,” she’d said in that high, silky voice of hers that I’d grown to detest. ‘I don’t work, so it’s no bother. You shouldn’t have to drive out here after working all day…’

But even that felt like a sneaky dig – Samantha didn’t work because she didn’t have to. Michael’s income was enough to sustain them.

Was she rubbing that in my face, or was I just being paranoid?

On the surface, Samantha seemed pleasant, polite, sweet even. But still…

No trouble at all, I thought warily, looking around at the mess I’d come home to.

“Delaney?” I shouted. Then, lowering my voice: “Are you ready in there? You should give me a hand out here.”

I couldn’t imagine Sam raising her voice, which should have made me feel better about Delaney spending so much time with her new stepmom, but there was something about her I couldn’t put my finger on. Something in my gut that said she was phony.

Oh, big surprise, Ivy! You don’t trust your husband’s pretty new wife, the one he left you for. Join the ex-wives club, I scolded myself.

Back in my bedroom, I scraped my hair into a tight knot. I fought the urge to put on makeup.

I don’t need to impress that bitch, I thought bitterly.

But I picked up a pair of tweezers and tugged on a wiry gray hair that had seemingly sprouted overnight on my right temple. My bed was still unmade from this morning, sheets and comforter tangled in a knot at the foot of the bed. I fought another urge – to crawl under the covers and live there.

Maybe I’ll hide in here when she knocks, I considered.