Read an Excerpt
The Lie
By C. L. Taylor Sourcebooks, Inc.
Copyright © 2016 C. L. Taylor
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4926-0266-8
CHAPTER 1
PRESENT DAY
I know he's trouble before he even sets foot in the building. I can tell by the way he slams the door of his 4×4 and storms across the parking lot without waiting to see if his short, bespectacled wife is following him. When he reaches the glass double doors to reception, I avert my gaze back to my computer screen. It's best to avoid direct eye contact with an aggressor. When you spend twelve hours a day with dangerous animals, you learn a lot about confrontation, fear, and hostility — and not just in relation to dogs.
The bell above the doors rings as the man enters the reception area, but I continue to enter the details of a seven-day evaluation into the computer database. A German shepherd named Tyson was brought in by an inspector a week ago. We've been evaluating him ever since, and I've identified behavioral issues with other dogs, cats, and humans — unsurprising in a former drug-den guard dog. Some people believe that a dog like Tyson should be put down for his own good, but I know we can rehabilitate him. Your past doesn't have to define your future.
"Where's my fucking dog?" The man rests his elbows on the reception counter and juts out his chin, contempt etched onto his thin, sunken face. His shoulders are narrow beneath an oversize leather jacket, and his jeans hang loosely from his hips. He can't be much older than late forties, early fifties tops, but he looks worn down by life. I suspect he's the sort to own a dangerous breed. Small man, big car. Big dog too. No wonder he wants him back. He's missing his canine penis extension.
"Can I help you?" I swivel around to face him and smile.
"I want my dog. One of my neighbors saw the inspector turn up when we was out. They took him out the backyard. I want him back."
"He's named Jack, he's a Staffordshire bull terrier, and he's five years old." His bespectacled wife puffs into the reception area, her black leggings sagging at the knees, her pink lipstick neatly applied, and her gray-streaked hair scraped back into a tight ponytail.
I look back at her husband. "And your name is?"
"Gary. Gary Fullerton," the man replies, ignoring his wife.
I know the dog they are talking about. Jack was brought in four days ago. His right eye was so swollen it was sealed shut, his lip was torn and bloody, and his left ear was so mangled the vet had to remove half of it. He'd been in a fight, but it clearly wasn't a one-off. You could tell that by the scars on his body and the wounds on his face. This owner's obviously fresh from the police station. On bail pending a hearing, probably.
My smile fades. "I'm afraid I can't help you."
"I know he's here," the man says. "You can't keep him. We haven't done anything wrong. He got into a fight in the park, that's all. We've got seven days to claim him. That's what my mate said."
I angle myself away from him so my shoulders are square on to the computer and we're no longer facing each other. "I'm sorry, but I can't discuss special cases."
"Oi!" He leans over the counter and reaches for the monitor, yanking it toward him. "I'm talking to you."
"Gary ..." His wife touches his arm. He glares at her but lets go of the monitor. "Please." She peers at my name badge. "Please, Jane, we just want to see Jack, that's all, just to check he's okay. We don't want any trouble; we just want to see our boy."
Her eyes mist with tears behind her glasses, but I don't feel sorry for her. She must know Gary enters Jack into fights. She's probably objected from time to time, maybe tried her best to clean Jack up with a wet washcloth afterward, but ultimately, she's done nothing to stop that dog from getting torn to bits.
"I'm sorry." I shake my head. "I really can't discuss individual cases."
"What bloody case?" the man roars, but his hands hang loosely at his sides. The fight's gone out of him. He knows he hasn't got a leg to stand on, and the shouting's just for show. The worst thing is he probably does love the dog. He was no doubt proud of Jack when he won his first few fights. He probably gave him a big handful of dried dog biscuits and sat next to him on the sofa with his arm around him. But then Jack started to lose, and Gary didn't like that; it knocked his pride, so he kept entering him into competitions, kept waiting for his fighting spirit to return, kept hoping his luck would change.
"Everything okay, Jane?" Sheila, my manager, strolls into reception from the corridor to my right and puts a hand on my shoulder. She smiles at Gary and his wife, but there's a tightness around her lips that suggests she's heard every word.
"We're going." Gary slaps the counter with the palm of his right hand. "But you haven't heard the last from us."
He turns and stalks toward the exit. His wife remains where she is, fingers knotting in front of her, silently pleading with me.
"Come on, Carole," Gary snaps.
She hesitates, just for a second, her eyes still fixed on mine.
"Carole!" he says again, and she's off, trotting obediently at his side.
The bell rings as they leave reception, and they cross the parking lot in single file, Gary leading, Carole following behind. If she glances back, I'll go after her. I'll make up an excuse to talk to her on her own. That look she just gave me ... it wasn't just about the dog.
Look back, look back, Carole.
Lights flash as Gary points his key fob at the Range Rover, and he opens the door. Carole clambers into the passenger seat. Gary says something as she settles herself, and she takes off her glasses and rubs her eyes.
"Jane." Sheila gently squeezes my shoulder. "I think we should have a nice cup of tea, don't you?"
I get the subtext: Jack's your business, Carole's not.
She heads for the staff room, then stops suddenly. "Oh! I forgot to give you this." She hands me an envelope. My full name is handwritten on the front: Jane Hughes, Green Fields Animal Shelter. "A thank-you letter, I imagine."
I run my thumb under the seal and open the envelope as Sheila waits expectantly in the doorway. There's a single piece of paper inside, folded into four. I read it quickly, then fold it back up.
"Well?" Sheila asks.
"It's from Maisie's new owners. She's settled in well, and they're head over heels in love with her."
"Great." She gives an approving nod before continuing into the staff room.
I wait for the sound of her footsteps to fade away, then glance through the glass double doors to the parking lot beyond. There's an empty space where Carole and Gary's 4×4 was parked.
I unfold the piece of paper in my hands and read it again. There's a single sentence, written in the center of the page in blue ink:
I know your name's not really Jane Hughes.
Whoever sent it to me knows the truth. My real name is Emma Woolfe, and for the last five years, I've been pretending to be someone else.
CHAPTER 2
FIVE YEARS EARLIER
Daisy doesn't say a word as I sit down opposite her at the table. Instead, she pushes a shot toward me, then glances away, distracted by a group of men squeezing their way through the pub to an empty table near the bathroom. One of the men at the back of the pack — a short, dark-haired guy with a paunch — does a double take. He nudges the man next to him, who pauses, glances back, and gives Daisy a nod of approval. She dismisses him with the arch of one eyebrow, then looks back at me.
"Drink!" she shouts and gestures toward the glass. "Talk afterward."
"Nice to see you too."
I don't ask what it's a shot of. I don't even sniff it. Instead, I knock it back, then reach for the glass of white wine that Daisy pushes toward me. I can barely taste it for the strong aftertaste of aniseed from the shot.
"You okay, darling?"
I shake my head and take another sip of wine.
"Geoff the Asshole giving you shit again?"
"Yeah."
"So quit."
"If only it were that easy."
"Of course it's that bloody easy, Emma." Daisy runs both hands through her blond hair, then flicks it over her shoulders so it cascades down her back. "You print out a resignation letter, you give it to him, and then you leave, middle-finger salute optional."
A man holding two pints knocks the side of my chair with his hip. Lager slops out of the glasses and soaks my left shoulder.
"Sorry," I say automatically. The man ignores me and continues onward, his mates in his sights.
Daisy rolls her eyes.
"Don't."
"What?" She gives me an innocent look.
"Don't give me shit for apologizing, and don't go after him."
"As if I would."
"You would."
She shrugs. "Yeah, well, someone's got to stand up for you. Want me to have a word with your boss for you too? Because I would, you know."
Her cell phone, on the table in front of her, bleeps, and she jabs it with a bitten-down fingernail. Daisy's eyeliner is deftly applied, her blond hair straightened and shiny, but her cuticles are ragged, her red nail polish chipped and flaking. Her nails are the one chink in her perfectly polished armor. She catches me looking and clenches her fingers into fists, burying them in her lap.
"He's a bully, Emma, pure and simple. He's been criticizing you and making you feel like shit since the day you started."
"I know, but there's a rumor he's going to take over the Manchester office."
"You've been saying that for three years."
"I can't just leave."
"Why? Because of your mom? Jesus Christ, Emma, you need to grow a pair. You're twenty-five years old. You only get one life; do what you want. Fuck your mom."
"Daisy!"
"What?" She tops up her glass and knocks it back. From the glazed look in her eyes, I suspect that this bottle of wine isn't her first of the night. "Someone's got to say it, and it might as well be me. You need to stop caring about her opinion and do what you want. It's getting boring, your obsession with what your bloody family thinks. You've been on about it since university and —"
"Sorry I've bored you. I thought we were supposed to be friends." I reach for my bag and stand up, but Daisy reaches across the table and grabs my wrist.
"Don't be like that. And stop bloody apologizing. Sit down, Emma."
I perch on the edge of my seat. I can't speak. If I do, I'll cry, and I hate crying in public.
Daisy keeps hold of my hand. "I'm not being a bitch. I just want you to be happy, that's all. You've already told me you've saved up enough money to stop work for three months."
"That's emergency money."
"And this is an emergency. You're miserable. Come work with me in the pub until you get something else. Ian would take you on in a heartbeat; he loves redheads."
"It's dyed."
"For God's sake, Emma —"
Her phone vibrates on the table, and the tinny sound of Rihanna and Eminem's "Love the Way You Lie" cuts through the chatter and hum in the pub.
Daisy holds up a hand to me, then snatches up her phone. "Leanne? You okay?" She puts a finger in one ear and frowns in concentration. "Okay. Yeah, we'll be there. Give us fifteen minutes to grab a cab. All right? Okay. See you in a bit."
She tucks her phone into the tiny clutch bag on the table, then looks across at me. There's concern in her blue eyes, but a sliver of excitement too.
"That was Leanne. She's in that new gay club, Malice, in Soho with Al. Al's on the hunt for Simone and her new girlfriend."
"Shit." I clutch my bag and reach around for my coat on the back of my chair.
"You okay if we go? I know we were talking about your job, but —"
"It's fine." I stand up. "Al needs us. Let's grab a cab."
* * *
We sit in silence as the taxi splashes through puddles and the bright lights of London's West End speed past us. The streets are unusually empty, the heavy rain forcing locals and tourists into already packed pubs, their windows misty with condensation.
Daisy looks up from her phone. "You know it's the anniversary of her brother's death, don't you?"
"Al's brother?"
"Yeah. I called her at lunchtime."
"How was she?"
"Drunk."
"Shit, at work?"
"No, playing hooky; she was in the pub."
"She's been doing that a lot recently."
"Yeah, when she's not stalking Simone," Daisy says, and we share a look.
It's been over a month since Al and Simone split up, but Al's behavior is becoming more and more erratic by the day. She's convinced that Simone left her because she met someone else, and she's determined to find out who it is. She spends hours on Google, looking for "clues," and she's created several false Facebook profiles to try to get access to Simone's page and the pages of anyone she's friends with. None of us had seen the split coming, not least Al, who'd been planning on proposing. She'd been saving up for months for a ring and a safari in Kenya so she could propose on an elephant ride — Simone's favorite animal.
"Here we are, ladies," the cab driver says over his shoulder as we pull up in front of the neon-pink Malice sign.
Daisy pokes a tenner through the glass partition, then opens the taxi door. "Let's go get Al."
* * *
"Excuse me, darling. Thank you. Excuse me."
Daisy elbows her way through the throng of bodies clogging up the stairs, and I follow in her wake. We've already squeezed our way across the dance floor on the ground level in search of Leanne and Al, but there is no sign of them. No sign of Simone either.
"Bathrooms!" Daisy twists back and waves her cell phone at me as she reaches the top of the stairs, then takes a left.
I struggle to push my way through the huge crowd of women drinking beer and hanging out outside the women's bathroom but finally manage to make my way inside.
"Oi!" A large woman wearing a Superdry T-shirt and oversize jeans shoots out a tattooed arm to bar my way as I attempt to squeeze past her. "There's a line."
"Sorry, I'm just looking for a friend."
"Emma, in here!" A stall door swings open, and Daisy waves at me through the gap. She makes an apologetic face at the woman in the line. "Sorry, we're dealing with a crisis in here."
"Bloody lesbians," the woman says. "Always a melodrama."
* * *
There's no room for me to squeeze inside the stall, so I hover outside and poke my head around the door. Al is sitting on the toilet with her head in her hands. Leanne and Daisy are pressed up against the walls on either side of her. Every couple of seconds, the main door into the bathroom opens, and pumping house music floods the entire space as women file in and out, grumbling as they squeeze past me to find an empty stall.
"Al, sweetie." Daisy hitches up her dress and squats down next to her friend. "Let's get you home."
Al shakes her head. The hems of her jeans are wet with rainwater, and the laces of one of her sneakers are untied. There's cellophane poking out from beneath the arm of her T-shirt. She's had another tattoo, but I can't make out what it is.
Leanne catches my eye as though noticing me for the first time. She's dyed her bangs pink since the last time I saw her. Her sharp black bob has always looked a bit severe, but with the pink streak and her new, thick-rimmed black "geek" specs dominating her thin face, she looks like she's wearing a motorbike helmet.
She shrugs and angles her arm toward me so I can read the time on her Mickey Mouse watch. It's midnight. She flashes her fingers at me, then holds up two more. Shit, Al's been drinking for twelve hours.
This isn't the first time Leanne's had to call Daisy and me to take Al home. At five foot six, about two hundred pounds, and bull-like in temperament, it takes all four of us to maneuver Al anywhere, especially when she's drunk. Simone used to manage it, but she had an advantage: Al was in love with her. She could always talk her into going home, no matter how much she'd had to drink.
Two of the girls washing their hands in the sink behind me start laughing, and Al looks up.
"Are they laughing at me? Are you fucking laughing at me?" She half rises, but Leanne presses down on her shoulder, and Daisy grips hold of her wrist so Al is rooted to the toilet.
I glance behind me. "They can't even see you."
"They know." Al runs a hand over her Mohawk. "Everyone knows. I'm a fucking laughingstock."
"No, you're not," Daisy says. "Relationships end all the time, Al. No one's judging you."
"Oh yeah? Then why did Jess at reception say 'Ticket for one?' when I came in?"
"Because you came alone?"
"Oh, fuck off, Daisy." She yanks her hand out of Daisy's grip. "What would you know? You haven't been dumped once in your whole life."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Lie by C. L. Taylor. Copyright © 2016 C. L. Taylor. Excerpted by permission of Sourcebooks, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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