She sighed, a happy sound. “I finished the last scene this morning. I think I can move to the epilogue now.”
Ethan’s smile was huge. “Honey, that’s great. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because Holly called and I got sidetracked. I’ve only remembered now. Pregnancy brain.”
“What did our favorite detective want?”
“She’s going to stop by tonight. Said she has a surprise.”
“I hope it involves wine.”
“I hope it involves food.”
Holly Graham, their new best friend. She’d nearly died for them, had spent two weeks in a coma, her frightened parents hovering over her like birds on the nest. When she’d woken up, all of Middle Tennessee had cheered. It took her a solid month in the hospital, multiple surgeries, and setbacks, but when she was cleared to leave, she insisted on doing it under the cover of darkness, ostensibly so no one could see her limp. Sutton and Ethan knew the truth. She didn’t want to be lauded as a hero. She loved her job, and was grateful she’d be able to return to it.
It didn’t matter. Word leaked. She’d walked out of the hospital, hand on her cane, to a massive crowd of well-wishers and media. When she waved to the cameras, the crowd shouted in happiness.
The story, as was to be expected, was everywhere, even now, six months hence. Sutton and Ethan had been approached countless times about interviews, television, movies. Holly had been accosted by directors. They were all fielding offers to write a book. Holly refused outright. Sutton didn’t think they should, either, and Ethan agreed. But Bill and Jess were pushing, hard.
Ivy was gone. Her accomplice was in jail. Their lives were their own again.
The baby rolled lazily under his father’s hand, then kicked his mother in the kidney for good measure.
“Oof,” Sutton said, enjoying every minute. “He’s going to be a football player.”
“Cricket. The boy will play cricket.”
Holly Graham’s unmarked car pulled up in front of them.
“Holly’s here,” Ethan said.
“Oh, Lord, help me up. I look like a whale lying here.”
“You look beautiful.” But he helped her, laughing, a hand at her back. She was ungainly; she was adorable.
Holly gave them both careful hugs. “Should we go inside? I have some news.”
“Uh-oh. I’ve heard that tone from teachers about to slap my hand with a ruler,” Ethan joked. But Sutton said, “Yes, let’s go in. It’s too cool now, anyway.”
In the kitchen, Sutton ran her hand along the marble counter. She sat on a breakfast stool, pressed her aching back into the tall seat. Ethan sat next to her. Holly stood.
“This will be difficult to hear.”
“Go on,” Sutton said, feigning nonchalance. She knew the words were coming. She could feel them in the air.
“Ivy was wrong.”
* * *
Ethan was pacing by the window, a caged tiger, fury emanating off him like a storm.
Sutton hadn’t moved from her spot.
Holly was still talking, explaining, soothing.
“We’re absolutely sure. We found her notebooks, her computer records. All her research, all the painstaking details she’d sifted through, all the assumptions she’d made, all of them were wrong. The only fact she got right was that she was the daughter of a woman who had her while in juvenile detention.”
“But not me,” Sutton whispered.
“No. Not you. Not even the same facility. When all the juvenile facilities went online, as mandated by the State of Tennessee, the records were accidentally merged together. On paper, Elizabeth Sutton Wilson was named as the mother of a little girl the nurses called Ivy.”
“So who is she really? Who was her mother?” Ethan demanded.
“Legally, I can’t share that information, but she’s gone. She died from a heroin overdose the month after she got out of juvie.”
“But my daughter? Do you know—”
“Wait,” Ethan said, striding toward Holly so quickly she almost flinched. Almost. “Before you answer, Holly... Sutton, you need to think this through. There’s no going back.”
Sutton nodded. “I know.”
Holly tapped her notebook. “I have as much or as little information as you want, Sutton. The adoption was closed, but under the circumstances...”
“Give me a moment. I need some water.”
Ethan hurried to the refrigerator, pulled out an ice-cold bottle. Poured her a glass and handed it to her, watching her carefully.
Sutton drank, willing her heart to slow. She set the glass on the counter. “I don’t want to know who she is. I don’t want to know where she is. I just want to be sure she’s okay, that’s all. That she has had a good life. That she’s not a freak like Ivy. That I didn’t create a monster. That’s all I want to know.”
Ethan blew out a huge sigh, sounding strangely relieved.
“I understand completely,” Holly said. “I can assure you that she is a happy, well-adjusted young woman.”
“Then that’s all I need. She deserves a chance at a happy, settled life. It’s why I gave her up in the first place. I don’t want to ruin her life. I especially don’t want our notoriety to influence her. We have too much baggage now.”
“Stay for dinner,” Sutton said, starting to get up, but Holly waved her off.
“I promised Jim I’d come over after I talked to you. He’s going to open some wine, make us steaks. Besides, you need time. If you change your mind—”
“I won’t. Get rid of the notes, Holly.”
“I will. I’ll see myself out. Y’all have a good night, okay?”
Ethan followed Holly to the door, anyway. He retrieved the book he’d left on the porch, then turned the dead bolt and came back to the kitchen. He rubbed Sutton’s shoulder, and she leaned into his warmth.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m all right. I’m relieved, actually.”
“All that pain, all that fear and loathing, all for nothing.”
“Ivy wouldn’t have said it was nothing. Ivy would have seen the abandonment regardless. She would have found a way to ruin someone else’s life, instead of ours.”
“We’re not ruined, Sutton.”
The baby kicked in agreement, and she smiled. “You’re right. That’s the wrong word to use. I’m sorry.”
“Do you need some time to think about all this?”
She paused a moment. “Maybe thinking isn’t what I need right now. Why don’t I go do something mindless instead? I need to answer some email, anyway. That’s perfect.”
He searched her eyes, but seemed satisfied she was telling the truth. “Okay. Off with you. I’ll get things started.”
Twenty minutes later, Ethan opened her office door and stuck his head in. Grinned at his beautiful wife on the couch, legs up, laptop opened. She closed the lid.
“Dinner’s ready?” she asked.
“In five. I made carbonara. I figured you needed something warm.”
“Sounds perfect. I’ll be there in a second. Almost done here.”
* * *
Sutton waits for the snick of the door, then opens her laptop to the blue-and-white banners of the social media giant that destroyed the world’s anonymity.
The photograph is thumbnail-size, but a quick click opens it to fill the screen.
A young woman, standing on a beach, silhouetted by the sun.
Her legs are long, still coltish, her hair a soft shade of strawberry. Her nose seems carved from ivory; she has the profile of a Botticelli angel.
She is unaware of the camera, a hand shading eyes Sutton knows are blue.
She seems so hopeful, Sutton thinks, smiling at the photo. Hopeful, as if a new world awaits her.<
br />
It does. Oh, it does.
Sutton traces the outline of the young woman’s jaw, her fingers barely touching the screen. This girl, this goddess, hers as surely as if she reached out into the heavens and stamped her from a cloud.
No one needs to know. This is her secret. And she’ll take it to the grave.
“Hello, Josie.”
* * * * *
AUTHOR NOTE
Paris, France
May 2014
An author sits at a café in Montparnasse, drinking champagne, thinking about murder.
Over the course of the week, in cafés and restaurants, from the hills of Sacré-Coeur to the bowels of the Metro, from Versailles to the swanky streets off L’Arc de Triomphe, after miles upon miles of walks along the Seine, to the shadow of the sparkling Tour Eiffel, a book is born. A story of betrayal and danger. A story of need and desire. A story born in a homely black notebook, the kind Hemingway used, because the writer is a romantic who likes the old ways when it comes to storytelling.
* * *
I went to Paris looking for inspiration, but didn’t know I’d return with a real story. I had page after page of notes on the idea of a woman obsessed by a stranger’s murder at Sacré-Coeur, and how her life derails when she can’t leave it alone. The idea grew from day to day. It was an in-between story, the one I couldn’t let go, even though I had other book responsibilities. I worked on it every free moment, then dedicated last summer to it, until the idea became a story, and the story became a novel.
Which, for the first fifteen months of its life was called, aptly, if not uncreatively, The Paris Novel. Eventually, it became more vicious, more visceral, more real: Lie to Me. A much more evocative title, don’t you think? It’s certainly more fitting to the story.
I went back to Paris again last year so I could capture the magic I’d felt when I started the book. Large swaths of the story were written in Hemingway’s old haunts. There is an energy to these dark bars and sunny cafés; the spirits of the literary masters linger on for those who wish to honor them. I have no doubt my words were influenced by their presence.
Lie to Me was a huge challenge for me, the biggest one thus far in my career. I stretched my wings in completely new ways. My book journal is full of reversals and new ideas, many of which were abandoned as the story grew. I have several notebooks full of notes and plans and snippets of dialogue. It’s very fun to read these nascent thoughts; the enthusiasm is clear. Even now, several months removed from finishing, it bleeds through the page.
I am so excited to share Ethan and Sutton’s story with you. I had a specific goal in mind with this story—stretch myself beyond my limits. My daily to-do list had a permanently starred entry: Be willing to take one more step with LTM. I have, and I’m thrilled to take you along with me.
J.T. Ellison
Nashville
November 2016
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I owe debts of gratitude to so many people who believed in, cheered for, and otherwise stood by my side while I wrote this novel.
First, the incredible folks at MIRA Books, who saw the potential in me years ago and have stood by my side waiting for this book to come along, thank you, from the bottom of my heart. I couldn’t do it without you. Most especially, I need to thank my brilliant editor, Nicole Brebner, who helped me see the forest for the trees and made this book sing. The rest of the family deserves more accolades than I can possibly give: Craig Swinwood, Loriana Sacilotto, Brent Lewis, Merjane Schoueri, Margaret Marbury, Amy Jones, Randy Chan, Heather Foy, Stefanie Buszynski, Emer Flounders, Shara Alexander, Linette Kim, Margot Mallinson, Catherine Makk, Miranda Indrigo, Malle Valik, Susan Swinwood, Monika Rola, Olivia Gissing, Larissa Walker, and last but never least, Sean Kapitain—who designed this gorgeous cover. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for everything.
My loving tribe of friends and fellow writers, without whom I would be lost: Laura Benedict, Ariel Lawhon, Paige Crutcher, Jeff Abbott, Helen Ellis, Allison Brennan, Catherine Coulter—you keep me motivated and sane and full of memes and philosophical conversations and queso, and walk me away from the many cliffs that arise when a book is being birthed. I love you all!
For those who help with more than only words: Sherrie Saint, Joan Huston, Andy Levy, Lyzz Pickle, Sara Weiss, Anna Benjamin, Brandee Crisp—you are all incredible!
The fine town of Franklin, Tennessee, one of America’s absolute treasures, was the backdrop for this tale. Many an evening was spent in Grays on Main, people watching and writing. Thanks for the delicious old-fashioneds! Many pages were also drafted in the Coffee House at Second and Bridge, which sustained me with gluten-free crepes and endless cups of Earl Grey. Thanks to them, and to my YA tribe in Franklin, too.
For the librarians and booksellers who share my work with their people—a heaping helping of blessings on you all. Also, so many thanks to my incredible Facebook and Twitter friends, who are my daily dose of inspiration, and are always there when the going gets tough.
My agent, Scott Miller, without whom none of this would happen—thank you for always believing in me, and the exclamation points when you read this proposal, and your faith in this book. I am forever grateful for your steady guidance.
My fabulously kind family, who truly get me. I am extremely grateful for their support—this means you, Mom, Daddy, Jeffrey, Jay, Lisa, Jason, Kendall, and Dillon. You’re the most wonderful blood.
My right hand, Amy Kerr—aka #TheKerr—to whom the book is dedicated, who read this proposal and was so excited and enthusiastic about it that I was finally compelled to turn it in (I wasn’t going to, you know...). Thank heavens for you, babycat.
And for the man who took me to Paris as a surprise for my birthday and started this whole thing, who promptly took me back to Paris for our anniversary so I could write some more, who sat quietly by while I lost my ever-loving mind with excitement writing in the bar of La Closerie des Lilas, the man who supports and loves me in ways I probably don’t deserve, thank you. Randy, darling, you are the heart and soul of everything I do, and I love you more than you can possibly know.
Field of Graves
by J.T. Ellison
When the Lamb broke the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth living creature saying, “Come.” I looked, and behold, an ashen horse; and he who sat on it had the name Death; and Hades was following with him. Authority was given to them over a fourth of the earth, to kill with sword and with famine and with pestilence and by the wild beasts of the earth.
—Revelation 6:7–8
Prologue
Taylor picked up her portable phone for the tenth time in ten minutes. She hit Redial, heard the call connect and start ringing, then clicked the Off button and returned the phone to her lap. Once she made this call, there was no going back. Being right wouldn’t make her the golden girl. If she were wrong—well, she didn’t want to think about what could happen. Losing her job would be the least of her worries.
Damned if she did. Damned if she didn’t.
She set the phone on the pool table and went down the stairs of her small two-story cabin. In the kitchen, she opened the door to the refrigerator and pulled out a Diet Coke. She laughed to herself. As if more caffeine would give her the courage to make the call. She should try a shot of whiskey. That always worked in the movies.
She snapped open the tab and stood staring out of her kitchen window. It had been dark for hours—the moon gone and the inky blackness outside her window impenetrable—but in an hour the skies would lighten. She would have to make a decision by then.
She turned away from the window and heard a loud crack. The lights went out. She jumped a mile, then giggled nervously, a hand to her chest to stop the sudden pounding. Silly girl, she thought. The lights go out all the time. There was a Nashville Electric Service crew on the co
rner when you drove in earlier; they must have messed up the line and a power surge caused the lights to blow. It happens every time NES works on the lines. Now stop it. You’re a grown woman. You’re not afraid of the dark.
She reached into her junk drawer and groped for a flashlight. Thumbing the switch, she cursed softly when the light didn’t shine. Batteries, where were the batteries?
She froze when she heard the noise and immediately went on alert, all of her senses going into overdrive. She strained her ears, trying to hear it again. Yes, there it was. A soft scrape off the back porch. She took a deep breath and sidled out of the kitchen, keeping close to the wall, moving lightly toward the back door. She brought her hand to her side and found nothing. Damn it. She’d left her gun upstairs.
The tinkling of breaking glass brought her up short. The French doors leading into the backyard had been breached. It was too late to head upstairs and get the gun. She would have to walk right through the living room to get to the stairs. Whoever had just broken through her back door was not going to let her stroll on by. She started edging back toward the kitchen, holding her breath, as if that would help her not make any noise.
She didn’t see the fist, only felt it crack against her jaw. Her eyes swelled with tears, and before she could react, the fist connected again. She spun and hit the wall face-first. The impact knocked her breath out. Her lips cut on the edge of her teeth; she tasted blood. The intruder grabbed her as she started to slide down the wall. Yanked her to her feet and put his hands around her throat, squeezing hard.
Now she knew exactly where her attacker was, and she fought back with everything she had. She struggled against him, quickly realizing she was in trouble. He was stronger than her, bigger than her. And he was there to kill.
She went limp, lolled bonelessly against him, surprising him with the sudden weight. He released one arm in response, and she took that moment to whirl around and shove with all her might. It created some space between them, enabling her to slip out of his grasp. She turned quickly but crashed into the slate end table. He was all over her. They struggled their way into the living room. She began to plan. Kicked away again.
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