by Ed James
Tell Me Lies
A completely addictive and unputdownable crime thriller
Ed James
Books By Ed James
Scott Cullen series
Ghost in the Machine
Devil in the Detail
Fire in the Blood
Stab in the Dark
Cops and Robbers
Liars and Thieves
Cowboys and Indians
Heroes and Villains
Craig Hunter series
Missing
Hunted
The Black Isle
DI Fenchurch series
The Hope That Kills
Worth Killing For
What Doesn’t Kill You
In for The Kill
Kill with Kindness
Kill the Messenger
Tooth and Claw (previously published as Snared)
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Hear More From Ed
Books By Ed James
A Letter from Ed
Acknowledgments
To Susi Holliday, for a character name, and for a pair of ears when I needed to talk.
Chapter One
Tuesday, October 2, 2018
Faraj
The wooden bench pressed into Faraj’s legs as he reached into his locker. He sifted through his bag, right to the bottom, and touched something hard. His soccer shoes, smelling dark and musky, though the leather was freshly polished, just like his daddy told him—black polish covered the three white stripes to mask the logo. Daddy would be proud of him, proud of the hour he’d spent on the back stoop, brushing and brushing until they shone in the fading light.
The usual chatter filled the locker room, excitement at getting out on the grass, nervousness at who’d be last pick. Then silence, like Coach had entered. But he hadn’t.
The acrid tang of body spray hit Faraj’s nose, inflaming it already. He stifled a sneeze as he looked around, eyes stinging, blinking away tears.
Hayden stood across from him. Blue eyes, blond hair swept low, just above his eyebrows. Topless, just wearing tighty-whities. He sprayed again across his pale skin. Before practice, like always.
Who is he trying to smell nice for? Coach?
Hayden stepped closer to Faraj, brandishing the can like a weapon. “Got anything to say?” He jabbed a finger into Faraj’s chest. It hurt. “Towelhead.” That hurt worse.
But Faraj still didn’t look up.
Never look up if they’ll see the fear in your eyes. That’s what his daddy told him. Only look up when they’ll see the righteous fury they can’t hope to deal with.
“Hey, Towelhead.” Hayden prodded Faraj’s shoulder now. Then again, harder. “I’m talking to you, Towelhead.”
Faraj felt it now, the rage building inside him, boiling at the pit of his stomach, burning through his veins into his arms and legs. Now he looked up, fists clenched. “What did you say, mama’s boy?” His voice sounded shrill and childish, quiet and distant. Hardly a threat, hardly the righteous fury they can’t hope to deal with.
Hayden laughed. “I heard about your daddy, Towelhead. Heard he left you and your mama. That right, Towelhead?”
Faraj stood up as tall as he could get, but he still had to look up at Hayden. But he had rage on his side. “Shut up!”
“Your daddy ran away, Towelhead. Who’s the mama’s boy now, huh?” Hayden pushed him.
Faraj stumbled backward, his shoulder hitting the locker, his knees bumping the bench. He tried to stay standing, to show no fear, just rage and fury, but he fell down, his ass cracking off the wood.
Weak. Pathetic. A victim.
The other kids sat watching in silence. Nobody trying to help, nobody looking away.
Hayden stood over him, his fist pulled back like he was going to punch. Instead, he reached down and grabbed Faraj’s soccer shoes from the floor. “Aw, did your daddy get you these before he left you, huh, Towelhead?”
“Give me them back.” Faraj reached for them.
But Hayden threw them to a buddy, then pushed Faraj again.
His head bumped off the locker. The pain was almost as bad as the hatred broiling in his stomach.
Hayden caught one shoe and put his hand in, holding it like a club. “These smell older than you, Towelhead. Your mama can’t afford new ones?”
“Go, Hayden!” His accomplices joined in the laughter as they tossed the soccer shoes around. “You the man, Hayden!”
The rest of the class sat round, watching.
“You not going to speak, Towelhead?” Hayden grabbed Faraj’s chin with his free hand and jerked his head up to look in his eyes. “It’s no fun if you don’t say anything.”
“Stop!” Jacob charged across the locker room toward Hayden, his muddy-brown hair in a bowl cut dancing around, ruddy cheeks redder than ever. He slapped Hayden’s bare back, a sharp sting that shut up the crowd. “Stop!”
Hayden took his time turning around to look at Jacob, the practiced menace he’d seen in the movies. He looked him up and down, then laughed again, face screwed up, head tilted. “Get outta here, Fatboy.” He brushed off Jacob with a flick of the wrist.
“I said, stop!” Jacob pressed his forehead into Hayden’s and held it there. He was fat, that’s true, but he was taller than Hayden and much heavier. And he had power on his side, maybe even rage and hatred. “Faraj is my friend.”
“Friend, huh?” Hayden made kissy-kissy faces. “Get a room.” He made to walk off, but Jacob put a meaty hand on his shoulder. Hayden looked down at it. “What do you think you’re doing, Fatboy?”
“This.” Jacob stepped forward and locked hi
s right leg around Hayden’s, then nudged his chest. Hayden toppled backward, landing on the tiles with a sickening crunch. You could hear the gasp around the room as Jacob flipped Hayden over, pushing his face into the floor. He knelt on Hayden’s back and grabbed at his chin, pulling his neck back, like they were on WWE. “Submit!”
Hayden shook his head as much as he could. “Never.” His voice was a thin croak, sounded even weaker than Faraj’s.
None of Hayden’s helpers were getting involved.
Faraj walked toward them, ready to stop them if they attacked his friend.
Jacob yanked at Hayden’s chin again. “I said, submit!”
The door clattered off the wall. “What’s going on?” Coach Smith stood in the doorway, hands on hips, eyes wide. His gray hoodie done up over his belly, at least two layers of white tees underneath. A whistle hung around his neck, but he hadn’t used it once in all the time of coaching them. Took him a few seconds of mouth breathing before he stormed into the locker room. “Jacob?” Even he looked shocked. He wrenched Jacob off Hayden. “I thought you were better than this, Jacob.”
Jacob slouched over to his locker space and the kids on either side shifted to give him space. Space meant respect. In those few seconds, Jacob had climbed a few rungs up the ladder. He glanced over at Faraj, a smile flashing across his lips, then looked away, muttering something to himself.
Coach helped Hayden to his feet. “You okay, son?”
Hayden limped over to his locker, rubbing the back of his head. His friends had shuffled around, narrowing the space. He picked up his body spray and gave a blast before tugging his soccer jersey over his head. “He attacked me!” The way Hayden spoke, it was like he couldn’t work out which of those words surprised him most. That someone had attacked him? Or that the someone was Jacob?
“He was protecting me.” Faraj couldn’t look at Coach. The rage and fury had turned to shame and embarrassment. “Hayden called me Towelhead.”
“Hayden Johnson…” Coach shook his head, jowls wobbling. “Son, I don’t want that sort of language in my locker room, do you hear me?”
“But Coach, he—”
“I don’t give a damn, Johnson.” Coach swung around the room. “The rest of you, get your asses out on that practice pitch this minute. Two laps, you hear?”
“Yes, sir!” They couldn’t get out of there fast enough, even to two laps of the soccer pitch.
Coach watched them go, his eyes narrow.
Faraj put his feet into the shoes. They felt too tight. Got worse as he tied the laces. He chanced a look at Jacob and caught a sly smile from his friend.
I don’t care what punishment we get, I have a friend now.
“Johnson, I’m disappointed with you.” Coach stuffed his hands in his three-quarter-length track pants. “This isn’t how a team captain behaves, okay?”
Hayden pulled his soccer shorts up to his knees. “I don’t want no Muslims on my team. I just want Americans.”
“That’s it.” Coach pointed at the door. “My office, now!”
Hayden stared at him, open-mouthed.
“You heard me, right?”
“I heard you.” Hayden tugged up his shorts. “Soccer’s dumb, anyway.” He stomped out of the room and slammed the door behind him.
Coach sat next to Faraj. “Hey, son. What that boy said to you, nobody should hear that. Okay? Nobody.”
Faraj wedged a finger down the side of his soccer shoe. Pins and needles already. Definitely too tight.
“Son, where I grew up, they don’t like black dudes like me there.” Coach didn’t look black, but then he didn’t look white either. Like Faraj, he was stuck in the middle. “I’ll make sure he’s disciplined for what he said, you hear?”
Faraj nodded slowly. “I hear you.” He caught Jacob’s smile again.
Something thumped outside the room.
Coach looked at the door.
Footsteps rattled out in the hallway, heavy and lots of them.
“Boys, stay here.” Coach walked over to the door and peeked out into the corridor. Then he stepped back, hands up.
A soldier stepped into the locker room, his face hidden by a mask, pointing a rifle at Coach’s chest. Two others flanked him. “Faraj al-Yasin?”
Without taking his eyes off the rifle, Coach pointed into the corner.
The two other soldiers marched over and hauled Faraj clean off his feet.
Sweat trickled down his back. His guts churned. What are they going to do to me?
The first soldier pulled his mask to the side to show a hairy mouth, his tongue like a snake’s. “S-son.” Sounded like he was covering a stutter, like Ashlyn in Faraj’s class. “We need to speak to your father. Where is he?”
The soldiers gripped his arms tight. Faraj looked around the room for help, for answers, for anything. Jacob sat there, open-mouthed, panting like a dog. Coach wasn’t any help, still holding his hands up, staring at the gun.
Faraj looked at the soldier. “I don’t know where he is.”
“Sure about that, son?” The soldier’s tongue ran over his lips like the Joker in that Batman film Faraj wasn’t supposed to have seen, but which still woke him up at night. “We can do this the hard way, son, or the easy way. Choice is yours.”
“I don’t know where he is!” Faraj tried to wriggle but they held him tight. He locked eyes with Coach, pleading for him to help.
And he did, finally. Coach clenched his jaw. “I thought the military exercise was later?”
“Well, it’s happening right now, mister. I’d advise you to stay out of this.” He pointed the gun at Faraj. “Now, where is your father?”
Faraj couldn’t speak. He just shook his head, like it could get rid of them.
“So you really want to do this the hard way? Okay.” The soldier didn’t give him another choice, just set off toward the door. “Come on.”
Jacob lurched forward, roaring as he slammed into the soldier’s leg, like a linebacker spearing a quarterback.
Almost.
Jacob only knocked the soldier off balance, not clean over. The other two soldiers let go of Faraj and grabbed Jacob. They pulled him away, but couldn’t lift him off his feet.
“Stop!” Jacob kicked and screamed, breathing heavily, gasping for breath. “No!”
Coach stood there, eyes bulging, hands higher than ever.
The first soldier, the one with the stutter, took Faraj by the arm and pulled a hood over his head. Faraj felt a sting in his neck and his legs stopped working. Jacob’s shouts stopped as everything went black.
And that’s the last thing Faraj saw.
Chapter Two
A year later
Saturday, November 30, 2019
Mason
I shuffle out of the Starbucks and take the table nearest the edge. It’s got a good-enough view of the mall’s lower level, but also across to Pottery Barn Kids. They’re still inside. A couple minutes until I need to move, so I scrape back the chair and sit. The semi-automatic clunks off the plastic seat.
The two women at the next table don’t notice the sound. Instead, they put their wallets away, like I’m going to steal them. One of them wears lavender perfume so thick I can taste it.
So I wait, sipping bitter coffee through the lid, getting milky foam stuck in my beard. Just a regular guy having coffee at a Starbucks.
Tuna fish hits my nose. One of the Golden Girls nibbles at a toasted sandwich, her birdlike movements catching in my peripheral vision. But she’s looking at me.
Never leave an impression.
Shouldn’t have bought the coffee, shouldn’t have sat down. But I need to blend in while I scope out my targets. So I shift three tables down, putting a plastic plant between me and the Golden Girls. Shoppers have left pennies in the plant’s soil, confusing a Starbucks in a suburban mall for an ancient burial ground.
The view from this new table sucks—a walkway obscures the mall’s ground floor, and I’m too far from the Pottery Barn to see cle
arly. I can still make out the line inside, though, almost reaching the door. No sign of anyone leaving yet.
Mall cop at ten o’clock, downstairs. Cuffs, flashlight, and nightstick swaying from his belt. Wants people to know he’s a big shot. Maybe he was, back in the day. Some kick-ass detective until he busted his knee. Or he’s just full of himself and wants to pretend. He’s taking it slow, thumbs in his belt loops, nodding at passing shoppers, their bags bouncing off him. He disappears under the walkway and I lose him. And you can’t control what you can’t see.
The Pottery Barn door opens and the noise level swells. Kids scream, inane music blares, and parents try to talk above the racket. Two fathers in full preppy uniform are out first. Sweaters over polo shirts, 501s, Nike sneakers. Probably Microsoft or Amazon drones spending quality weekend time with their families. Four sons dressed the same, all preschool but acting the same, heading to the same jobs in twenty years. Assuming there still are jobs then.
A big man walks out the front door, holding hands with two small boys. His sweatpants are ripped almost to the point he shouldn’t wear them. But he does. Bet his wife’s happy with him.