The Lies We Told
Page 1
PRAISE FOR
WATCHING EDIE
“Compelling, dark, and intense, this story of a friendship gone wrong will keep you guessing until the end.”
—B. A. Paris, New York Times bestselling author of Behind Closed Doors
“Gripping psychological suspense . . . wonderfully claustrophobic.”
—Fiona Barton, New York Times bestselling author of The Widow
“Wonderful . . . a standout in a crowded field.”
—The Raleigh News & Observer
“A stunning conclusion. A novel that excels in portraying the torment of youth, the reverberations of the past, and the darkness of the heart.”
—Richmond Times-Dispatch
“A twisted friendship comes back to haunt two women. . . . Betrayal and heartache come bubbling up in this supremely creepy psychological thriller.”
—BookPage
“Odds are you’ll need to read this one in a single sitting. . . . Way’s story of what happens when high school friends encounter one another in their thirties is sure to make you look twice at the people you call your pals.”
—Bustle
“[A] seamlessly crafted tale of betrayal and obsession . . . a psychological thriller that is impossible to set down.”
—Booklist
“Way expertly explores the dark side of friendship.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“[A] book that will garner comparisons to Gone Girl and The Girl on the Train, except this time, women are facing off against each other instead of an evil man . . . one thriller to keep you hooked.”
—GoodHousekeeping.com
“A spine-tingling suspense thriller filled with obsession, rage, and betrayal. . . . The climactic conclusion demonstrates that old adage ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.’”
—New York Journal of Books
“[A] captivating read. . . . The twists at the end of this novel should leave readers tied up in exquisitely delightful knots.”
—Dayton Daily News
“One of those novels that sucks you in and doesn’t let go for a moment. Way brings a powerful new voice to the psychological thriller genre.”
—Alex Marwood, Edgar Award–winning author of The Wicked Girls
“Eerie and atmospheric, Watching Edie had me hypnotized from the outset . . . a heart-stopping conclusion.”
—Heather Gudenkauf, New York Times bestselling author of Not a Sound
“[Way has] a voice that is both accomplished and fresh. . . . A haunting tale of the worst kind of betrayal, skillfully brought to the perfect ending.”
—Diane Les Becquets, national bestselling author of Breaking Wild
“[A] truly terrific exploration of female friendship and the choices we make as teenagers that roar back to haunt us as adults.”
—Carla Buckley, author of The Good Goodbye
“A clever plot, a fateful friendship, a callous betrayal, and an ending that is as twisty as it is inevitable.”
—Alexandra Burt, international bestselling author of Remember Mia
“An excruciatingly suspenseful and intensely creepy novel about two women bound together by a horrific crime from their past. . . . The surprises come fast and furious as the novel reaches its stunning conclusion.”
—David Bell, bestselling author of Somebody’s Daughter
“A taut, tricky suspense novel that drops secrets in all the right places. As she explores the heart of a dark female friendship, Camilla Way twists her way to an original ending that rings with truth.”
—Julia Heaberlin, international bestselling author of Black-Eyed Susans
“Terrific psychological suspense. A taut, compelling, thoroughly addictive read with a final twist that’s a real stunner.”
—Alison Gaylin, USA Today bestselling author of If I Die Tonight
ALSO BY CAMILLA WAY
Watching Edie
BERKLEY
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2018 by Camilla Way
Readers Guide copyright © 2018 by Penguin Random House LLC
Excerpt from Watching Edie copyright © 2016 by Camilla Way
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
BERKLEY is a registered trademark and the B colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Way, Camilla, author.
Title: The lies we told / Camilla Way.
Description: First edition. | New York: Berkley, 2018.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018001098 | ISBN 9781101989524 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9781101989548 (ebook)
Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION/Suspense. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction.
Classification: LCC PR6123.A93 L54 2018 | DDC 823/.92—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018001098
First Edition: October 2018
Cover photo by Justin Case/Getty Images
Cover design by Emily Osborne
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
For Albert and Sidney
CONTENTS
Praise for Watching Edie
Also by Camilla Way
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
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
Acknowledgments
Readers Guide
Excerpt from Watching Edie
About the Author
ONE
CAMBRIDGESHIRE, 1986
At first I mistook the severed head for something else. It wasn’t until I was very close that I realized it was Lucy’s. To begin with, I thought the splash of yellow against the white of my pillow was a discarded sock, a balled-up handkerchief perhaps. It was only when I drew nearer and saw the delicate crest of feathers, the tiny, silent beak, that I fully understood. And suddenly I understood so much more: everything in that moment became absolutely clear.
“Hannah?” I whispered. A floorboard creaked in the hall beyond my bedroom door. My scalp tightened. “Hannah”—a little louder now, yet with the same fearful tremor in my voice—“is that you?” No answer, but I felt her there, somewhere near; could feel her waiting, listening.
I didn’t want to touch my little bird’s head, could hardly bear to look at the thin brown line of congealed blood where it had been sliced clean from the body, or at the half-open, staring eyes. I wondered if she’d been alive or dead when it happened, and started to feel sick.
When I went to Hannah’s bedroom, she was standing by her window, looking down at the garden below. I said her name and she turned and regarded me, her beautiful dark eyes somber, just a trace of a smile on her lips. “Yes, Mummy?” she said. “What’s wrong?”
TWO
LONDON, 2017
Clara woke to the sound of rain, a distant siren wailing somewhere along Old Street, and the low, steady thump of bass from her neighbor’s speakers. She knew instantly that Luke wasn’t home—absent not just from their bed but from the flat itself—and for a moment she lay staring into the darkness before reaching for her phone. Four twelve a.m. No missed calls, no text messages. Through the gaps of her curtains, she could see the falling rain caught in a streetlamp’s orange glare. From below her window on Hoxton Square came the sudden sharp peal of female laughter, followed by the clattering stumble of high heels.
Another hour passed before she finally gave up on sleep. Beyond their bedroom door, the first blue light had begun to seep into the flat’s dark corners, the furniture gradually taking shape around her, its colors and edges looming like ships out of the darkness. The square’s bars and clubs were silent now, the last stragglers long gone. Soon the sweep and trundle of the street cleaners’ truck would come to wash the night away; people would emerge from their buildings, heading for buses and trains; the day would begin.
Above her, the repetitive beat continued to pound, and sitting on the sofa wrapped in her duvet now, she stared down at her phone, her tired mind flicking through various explanations. They hadn’t had a chance to speak yesterday at work, and she’d left without asking him his plans. Later, she’d met a friend for drinks before going to bed early, assuming he’d be back before too long. Should she call him now? She hesitated. They’d moved in together only six months before, and she didn’t want to be that girlfriend—nagging and needy, issuing demands and curfews. It was not the way things worked between them. He was out having fun. No big deal. It had happened before, after all—a few drinks that had turned into a few more, then sleeping it off on someone’s sofa.
Yet it was strange, wasn’t it? To not even text—to just not come home at all?
It wasn’t until she was in the shower that she remembered the importance of the day’s date. Wednesday the twenty-sixth. Luke’s interview. The realization made her stand stock-still, the shampoo bottle poised in midair. Today was the big interview for his promotion at work. He’d been preparing for it for weeks; there was no way he would stay out all night before something so important. Quickly she turned the water off and, wrapping herself in a towel, went back to the living room to find her phone. Clicking on his number, she waited impatiently for the ringtone to kick in. And then she heard the buzzing vibration coming from beneath the sofa. Crouching, she saw it, lying on the dusty expanse of floor, forgotten and abandoned: Luke’s mobile. “Shit,” she said out loud, and as though surprised, the pounding music above her head ended abruptly.
After a moment’s thought she clicked open her e-mail, and sure enough, there it was, a message from Luke, sent last night at six twenty-three from his work address.
Hey darling, left my phone at home again. I’m going to stay and work on stuff for the interview, probably be here till eight, then coming home—want to have an early night for tomorrow. You’re out with Zoe, aren’t you?
See you when I do,
Lx
* * *
—
An hour later, as she made her way up Old Street, she told herself to get a grip. He’d changed his mind, that was all. Decided to go for a pint with his team, then ended up carrying the night on. He couldn’t let her know because he was phoneless—nothing else to it. She would see him soon enough at work, hungover and sheepish, full of apologies. So why was her stomach twisting and turning like this? Beneath the April sky, gray and damp like old chewing gum, she walked the ugly thoroughfare that was already gnarled with traffic, with the brutal hulking buildings of the roundabout ahead and the wide pavements filled with commuters pressing on and on, clutching coffee, earbuds in, staring down at phones or else inward looking, unseeing, as they moved as one toward the white-tiled station entrance, to be sucked in, then hurtled forward, and spit out again at the other end.
* * *
—
The magazine publisher where they both worked was in the center of Soho. Though they were on separate magazines—she a writer on a finance title, he heading the design desk of an architectural quarterly—it was where they’d met three years ago, shortly before they’d started going out.
It had been her first day at Brindle Press and, eager to make a good impression, she’d offered to make the first round of tea. Anxiously running through everyone’s names as she’d sloshed water onto tea bags and stirred in milk and sugar, she’d piled too many mugs on the tray before she’d hurried out of the kitchen. The mess when it slipped from her hands and came crashing to the floor had been spectacular: scattered shards of broken crockery, rivers of steaming brown liquid, her carefully chosen “first day” dress soaked through.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. It was only then that she’d looked up and seen him, the tall, good-looking man standing in the doorway, watching her with amusement. “Oops,” he’d said, crouching down to help her.
“Christ, I’m an idiot,” she’d wailed.
He’d laughed. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, then added, “I’m Luke.”
That evening, when her new team had taken her out for welcome drinks, she had spotted him by the bar, her heart quickening as she met his gaze, his dark eyes holding her there, as though he’d reached out his hand and touched her.
Now, as she approached her desk, the phone rang, its tone signaling an internal line, and she snatched it up eagerly. “Luke?”
But it was his deputy, Lauren. “Clara? Where the fuck is he?”
She felt herself flush. “I don’t know.”
There was a short, surprised silence. “Right. What, you don’t . . . You haven’t seen him this morning?”
“He didn’t come home last night,” she admitted.
Lauren digested this. “Huh.” And then Clara heard her say loudly to whoever was listening nearby, “He didn’t come home last night!” A chorus of male laughter, of leering comments she couldn’t quite catch, though the tone was clear: Naughty Luke. They were joking, she knew, and their laughter was comforting, in a way, signifying their lack of concern. Still, she clutched the receiver tightly until Lauren came back on the line. “Well, not to worry. Fucker’s probably dead in a ditch somewhere,” she said cheerfully. “When you do speak to him, tell him Charlie’s raging—he’s missed the cover meeting now. Later, yeah?” And then she hung up.
Maybe she should go through his contacts list, ring around his friends. But what if he did arrive soon? He’d be mortified she’d made such a fuss. And surely he was bound to turn up sooner or later—people always did, after all.
Suddenly the face of his best friend, Joe McKenzie, flashed into Clara’s mind, and for the first time, her spirits lifted a little. Mac. He’d know what to do. She grabbed her mobile and hurried out into the corridor to call him, feeling immediately comforted when she heard his familiar Glaswegian accent.
“Clara? How’s it going?”
She pictured Mac’s pale, serious face, the small brown eyes that peered distractedly from beneath its mop of black hair.
“Have you seen Luke?” she asked.
“Hang on.” The White Stripes blared in the background while she waited impatiently, imagining him fighting his way through the chaos of his photographic studio before the noise was abruptly killed and Mac came back on the line. “Luke? No. Why? What’s— Haven’t you?”
Quickly she explained, her words spilling out in a rush: Luke’s forgotten mobile, his e-mail, his missed interview.
“Yeah,” Mac said when she’d finished. “That’s odd, right enough. He’d never miss that interview.” He thought for a moment. “I’ll call around everyone. Ask if they’ve seen him. He’s probably been on a bender and overslept—you know what he’s like.”
But his text half an hour later read, No one’s heard from him. I’ll keep trying though, I’m sure he’ll turn up.
She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very wrong. Despite his colleagues’ laughter, she didn’t really think he’d been with another woman. Even if he had, a one-night stand didn’t take this long, surely. She made herself face the real reason for her anxiety: Luke’s “stalker.”
Putting the word in inverted commas, treating it all as a bit of a joke, was something Luke had done ever since it had begun nearly a year ago. He’d even christened whoever it was “Barry”—a comical, harmless name to prove just how unthreatened he was by it all. “Barry strikes again!” he’d say after yet another vicious Facebook message, or silent phone call, or unwelcome “gift” through the post.
But then things had gotten weirder. First an envelope stuffed with photographs had been pushed through their mail slot. Each one was of Luke and showed him doing the most mundane things—queuing at a café, or walking to the tube, or getting into their car. Whoever had taken them had clearly been following him closely—with a wide-angled lens, Mac had said. It had made Clara’s skin crawl. The photos had been stuffed through their mail slot with arrogant nonchalance, as if to say, This is what I can do. Look how easy it is. But though she’d been desperate to call the police, Luke wouldn’t hear of it. It was as if he was determined to pretend it wasn’t happening, that it was merely an annoyance that would soon go away. And no matter how much she begged, he wouldn’t budge.