by T. L. Martin
Liar, Liar
Copyright 2020 T.L. Martin
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written consent of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes only.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are used fictitiously and are a product of the author’s imagination.
Cover Designer: QDesign
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Interior Formatting: Champagne Book Design
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Editor: Sarah Collingwood
www.sarahac36.wordpress.com
Table of Contents
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
PLAYLIST
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
COMING NEXT
CONNECT WITH ME
For you.
Listen Here
This is the Kit—Bashed Out
Billie Eilish—Bad Guy
Ituana—You Can’t Always Get What You Want
Sasha Sloan—The Only
Cassie—Me & U
Selena Gomez—Hands to Myself
Harry Styles—Woman
Shawn Mendes—Treat You Better
Lennon Stella—Older Than I Am
Sasha Sloan—Thoughts
The Sundays—Wild Horses
Sabrina Claudio—Problem with You
Grace VanderWaal—Stray
Sasha Sloan—Normal
James Arthur—Hurts
Lorde—Liability
Abi Ocia—Running
Hollow Coves—The Woods
Noah Cyrus—Lonely
Sasha Sloan—Too Sad to Cry
Elina—Wild Enough
Matoma—Slow (ft. Noah Cyrus)
Lauv—There’s No Way (ft. Julia Michaels)
Sabrina Claudio—Orion’s Belt
SYML—WDWGILY
Ella Henderson—Yours
SYML—Where’s My Love
Fleurie—Hurricane
Melanie Martinez—Cry Baby
Melanie Martinez—Soap/Training Wheels
SYML—Body
The Sweeplings—Carry Me Home
The Paper Kites—Bloom
Rhys Lewis—Better Than Today
Anson Seabra—Trying My Best
Emeli Sande—Read All About It
Banners—Got it in You
Eva
(Thirteen years old)
Stop shaking. Stop shaking.
Stop. Shaking.
But my body, it won’t listen, so I push myself harder. My eyes dart over the long, empty hallway, passing closed door after closed door, and I just want somewhere to hide. I’m good at being invisible.
Panting, I look over my shoulder. He’s not following.
But I can’t stop running. I’ll never stop.
“Oh, excuse—”
I snap my head toward the feminine voice and gasp, the hard corner of a towel cart digging into my hip. Eyes wide, I glance down at the cleaning supplies and quickly stumble around them.
“Sweetie—wait! Please! Where are your parent—”
“S-sorry, I’m s-so-sorry—” Paranoid and out of breath, I think I’m still whispering the broken words when I stagger down the stairs, across the cold marble entrance, and out the double doors.
A blast of wind chills my cheeks. The night sky suffocates the light, and noises startle me at every corner. The icy breeze slips through my thin white nightgown.
Which way do I go? I don’t know how to get back to Detroit. I don’t even know where I am. It felt like we drove for at least an hour and a half before arriving at the hotel, but I’ve never been so far from home. I should have paid better attention when Dad told me to get in his car. I should have pressed when I asked where we were going, or to whom. I should have watched the street signs, freeways, anything. But Dad had never taken me on a drive before. I was excited. I was hopeful. I was stupid.
I wrap my arms around my chest and squeeze tight, careful with the shard of glass still in my hand. Keeping my head down, I let my long curls hide my face like a dark, messy curtain. My feet move fast over the sidewalk—so fast they blur before my eyes as they take me from one block to another. I cross the street without checking the light. When a horn blares in my ears, I jump at the angry sound, but I don’t pause or look up.
Pain throbs between my legs, much worse than the burning in my lungs. I hold back the sob climbing up my throat.
Crying is for stupid, weak girls.
I’m not weak.
But then I think about tonight—his gross, hairy hands bruising my skin, tearing my underwear, the horrible, horrible pain—and my stomach twists so sharply I think I might puke.
I’m a dirty liar. Weak is exactly what I am.
My grip tightens on the shard of glass. My savior.
Something warm slides down my palm, and my body shakes harder when I see the blood. Dark red trickling down olive skin, from my fingertips to the ground. Unease rocks through me, burning my throat.
I can’t believe what I’ve done.
When pain slices through my hand, I see fresh blood. I didn’t realize how hard I was squeezing. The acid in my throat builds, spreading the unease to my lungs and making it hard to breathe. My blood mixes with his. I know I cut the pig; I still see the way he clutched his neck, blood leaking between his fingers, before my muscles unfroze and I bolted from the hotel room. I cut him good.
But I can’t know for sure how good.
It’s only a matter of time before Dad gets word about what I’ve done.
I can’t leave a trail, and I won’t lose my only weapon either. Pulling up the ankle-length hem of my nightgown, I wrap the material around my hand until it turns as red as my wound. Hopefully, it will stop the leak.
The sky turns from dark to darker as I walk closer to nowhere, streetlights disappearing behind me as I go. My muscles ache, the bare heels of my feet raw.
Don’t stop.
Somewhere in the dark, blue irises flicker in and out of sight. I shut my eyes for a moment.
It’s not real. It’s not real.
Black hair. Snake eyes. Black hair. Snake eyes.
Pictures and voices flash in my head until my brain hurts almost as bad
ly as the rest of me. When the lump in my throat grows so large I can’t pull in a breath, I hug my arms around me tighter and pretend it’s my mom’s embrace. I try to remember what that felt like. The thought warms me, but a shiver shakes my body anyway, and I know it’s not from the cold.
I want to be brave.
I am brave.
Liar, liar.
My face twists into a scowl, disgust flooding me. How did I let this happen?
A drop of rain hits my face, making me start. Another follows. Soon, thunder roars, and droplets slap my cheeks.
Teeth chattering, I push on until I can’t feel my feet.
I don’t know how many hours have passed when I start shutting down, but the rain has slowed. Shops with closed signs line both sides of the street. My legs wobble, the area between my thighs still throbbing. I inhale, begging my muscles to keep going.
Don’t let me down now.
But, like usual, I fail myself. When I try to take another step, a quiver shoots down my back, making my vision blur. My chest burns. I can’t remember how long it’s been since I had water.
I need a break. Just a second to rest.
Leaning against the nearest brick wall, I let my head sag and focus on my breathing. My legs feel like they’re made of jelly, but I’m scared if I allow myself to sit, I’ll fall asleep and get caught.
The rumble of an engine whips my head up.
I squint through streams of rain and foggy vision, making out an old pickup truck one shop away. It’s idling in place, a portly man in the driver’s seat focused on a paper in his hands. My heavy-lidded gaze slides to the truck’s bed. A tarp covers it from one end to the other, but the furniture underneath is too big, resulting in the bed hanging open and a bungee cord holding everything tight. A shadowed sliver of space pulls my attention toward the left side of the bed.
My pulse ticks like a clock in my ears.
I know I can’t rest in this spot for long, but on the road, in a moving vehicle . . .
The driver reaches for his seat belt, and my heart slams in my chest. It’s now or never. I sneak close and try to be quiet, ducking down as I climb into the back, but I can’t help whimpering at the strain. Positioning myself like a snake, I squeeze into the narrow opening beside a couple chairs and a desk.
The engine putters, drowning out the rain hitting the tarp. Then, we’re moving. A strangled exhale leaves my lips, something between relief and terror.
I’m okay.
I’m okay.
I’m okay.
Liar, liar, liar.
I want my mom. I want my cousin. I want this nightmare to be over. But I doubt I’ll ever see either of them again, and an end to my nightmare is nowhere in sight. Bile hits my throat, hotter than ever. My wet nightgown—the nightgown he dressed me in—chafes against my skin. My eyes water, but I won’t cry. I won’t, not over him.
Even though I don’t know where I am.
Even though I have nowhere to go.
It’s not like I can go home. Dad’s debt runs back further than the time I’ve been alive. If he’d sell me once to pay it off, he’ll do it again. Probably to the same man, if he makes it out of the hotel room alive. I shudder as if the thought could conjure him.
No. I have no home now.
I am lost.
At that last thought, my eyes drift shut.
Lost.
The word echoes and sings in my head. A gentle lullaby.
Lost.
Listening to the hollow sound on repeat rocks me into a sleep-like state. Mom used to rock me just like this. Except, with her arms curled around my waist, the world wasn’t so grey . . . so cloudy . . . so real yet not.
Lost.
Maybe I don’t care what’s real anymore. Maybe right now, while I fade away in the bed of a pickup truck, shaking and invisible, it’s okay to pretend none of this is really happening. It’s okay to be weak.
Just for a minute. Just while I rest.
Soon, when my eyes open, I’ll lock away this side of me before anyone can see it again. Before anyone can steal more pieces of me.
Or maybe, if I’m lucky, my eyes won’t open again at all.
Eva
(Present day—Seventeen years old)
Eyes pin on me. The stares prick my skin like fire ants. But all I see is the poem on the whiteboard.
Slow and steady, I push my chair back and stand.
“Please, take your seat.”
Ignoring Mr. McKenna, I tilt my head and silently reread the poem.
“Miss Rutherford, please.” Mr. McKenna’s voice rings with a sliver of alarm. “If you’ll just take your seat, I’m sure we’ll have this sorted out by the end of—”
I stroll to the whiteboard. Red letters stare back at me, neat and taunting, smack in the middle of nine other anonymous poems written by students.
Roses are red,
Violets are blue.
Eva’s a slut
with daddy issues.
Hide your’s quick
or she’ll fuck him too.
Dragging my pointer finger along the marker tray ledge, I don’t stop until I touch the eraser.
Whispers erupt, but I’m focused on one tiny thing that’s bugging the shit out of me. Finding the apostrophe in your’s, I take my time making it disappear, careful not to damage any other letters in the process. You’d think AP English students wouldn’t make such stupid mistakes, but, apparently, my expectations are too high.
After setting the eraser down, I lazily make my way back to my seat, pausing to straighten a crooked stack of books balancing at the edge of Whitney’s desk.
“Ah, well.” Mr. McKenna clears his throat. “Let me take care of the rest of that for you.”
While I take my seat and he erases the poem, I feel Whitney’s gaze on the left side of my face. I’d like to imagine she’s feeling guilty for her handiwork, but, sadly, I don’t think a feeling as genuine as guilt would survive in her basic, superficial heart.
Carter Watson, the jerk eyeing me from the seat beside her, snickers, and I blink slowly as our gazes connect. Carter likes to look at me as though we share a secret, but the thing about secrets is they need to consist of something worth remembering; the night we spent together was anything but. Besides, I’m pretty sure he’d have to stop making a fucking show of that night for it to be considered anything near a secret.
My focus slides back to the title of the poem. Daddy Fucker. How original. Of all the kinks to be into, daddies are not my jam. My stomach rolls at just the thought, but I keep my expression blank. I may be the reject at Caspian Prep, but most of the girls just pretend I don’t exist, which is fine by me. Whitney, though, has had it in for me since the day I enrolled.
She’s still staring at me when I meet her green gaze.
One brow arches toward her ruby-red hairline like she’s just waiting for me to say something inappropriate.
Who am I to disappoint?
With a wink, I whisper, “Tell Daddy I miss him.”
Her jaw crashes to the floor. Face sheet-white.
And just like that, this crappy afternoon is almost worth it.
If you gathered all the wealthiest snobs on the East Coast, fed them from a silver spoon for forty-eight hours straight, then collected bags of their rose-scented shit and made a school out of it, you would get Caspian Prep High.
In other words, I fit in like a hair dryer in the bathtub.
Slouching in my seat, I use a black pen to trace an old sketch of a lily in my notepad while Mr. Doau drones on about division of labor. I force myself to listen for the sake of my grade, but the longer his scratchy voice grates on my ears, the stabbier my pen’s movements become. I hate his voice. I hate the shiny balding spot at the back of his head. I hate the bulging gut hanging over his belt. Everything about him threatens to make me puke, which is why when the bell rings, I’m the first student to shoot up from my seat, shove my crap into my backpack, and beeline for the exit.
I’m one
measly step from the threshold when I hear it.
“Miss Rutherford.”
My eyes shut, feet freezing, as students push their way around me.
“Miss Rutherford.” Sharper this time.
This fucking asshat.
I grind my teeth but eventually whirl around as the last student filters out of the room.
Mr. Doau leans back against the edge of his desk, hands folded over that gross, bulging stomach. “Detention. Three o’clock.”
I squeeze the strap of my backpack slung over my shoulder.
He glances at my desk. “There’s no smoking allowed on school premises, let alone littering.”
I grudgingly follow his gaze to the used cigarette under my chair, and bitterness darkens my vision when I look back at him. “I don’t smoke.”
He’s unfazed, of course, because he already knows this.
He shrugs. “The evidence says otherwise. I’ll see you at three.” He turns away and rifles through papers on his desk.
Anger whirls inside me as I force myself to turn away too.
“As much as I enjoy your company in the afternoons,”—his voice hits my back, halting my steps—“it does pain me to see you wasting your life away.”
I press my lips together, standing in place even as his heavy cologne wafts closer.
Then his words are right behind me, testing my gag reflex. “Remember what I told you, Eva. I could make things so much easier for you.”
My stomach churns when he inhales, breathing me in.
“You should take it as a compliment, you know? The fact I still remember your touch so well after all this time.”
My expression turns blank as I stare into the hallway watching students pass by, one after another. If there’s anything to be grateful for right now, it’s their looks of pure, blissful ignorance, no clue about the conversation taking place just a few feet away.
“Remember what I told you, Mr. Doau,” I seethe. “I’d walk off a cliff before ever taking you up on that.”
The scent of his cologne fades when he steps back, and I use the opportunity to inhale, exhale. Anchor myself to the cold, sharp angles of the weapon tucked safely between my hip bone and the tight waistband of my jeans.
My pulse is racing when I exit the classroom.