PRAISE FOR
THE
GOOD LIAR
“With twists and turns, the lives of three women intersect in the most unexpected ways during the aftermath of a tragedy. Thought-provoking, suspenseful, and mysterious, The Good Liar is a true page-turner that explores the ways stories are connected and created, and what can be hidden underneath. This is a book you won’t be able to put down!”
MEGAN MIRANDA, New York Times bestselling author of All the Missing Girls and The Perfect Stranger
“A riveting story . . . The twists are shocking, the characters are well drawn but unpredictable, and the conclusion is as poignant as it is surprising. The Good Liar is thrilling, captivating, and not to be missed!”
KATE MORETTI, New York Times bestselling author of The Vanishing Year and The Blackbird Season
“Lines will be crossed and secrets revealed when tragedy intersects three women in The Good Liar, a guilty pleasure you won’t be able to put down until the very last page. A must read!”
LIZ FENTON and LISA STEINKE, authors of The Good Widow
“For many years, Catherine McKenzie has been writing some of the best thrillers around. She’s outdone herself with The Good Liar, the powerful and heartbreaking story of the painful aftermath of a national tragedy. It’s sharply written with engaging characters and twists and surprises up until the very last page. A smart, fast-paced, and riveting thriller!”
DAVID BELL, author of Bring Her Home
“In her latest, Catherine McKenzie continues to prove she’s a master at crafting psychological thrillers . . . . The story is layered with superb twists and expert pacing, deftly building in suspense until its stunner of an ending. A compulsive read that kept me guessing!”
KERRY LONSDALE, Wall Street Journal bestselling author of Everything We Left Behind and Everything We Keep
“With her compelling characters, whip-smart dialogue, and edge-of-your-seat pacing, McKenzie asks how well we know those around us—even the people we love the most.”
PAULA TREICK DEBOARD, author of Here We Lie and The Drowning Girls
“Catherine McKenzie isn’t just a talented storyteller; she has a knack for asking the questions every woman secretly asks, and answering with a story that expresses our collective dreams and fears . . . . Far more than a first-rate page-turner, it’s an exploration of the cost of keeping secrets, how the bonds between women both chafe and comfort, and how in the midst of the terror and beauty that is life, we find grace.”
ALLISON LEOTTA, author of The Last Good Girl
“Catherine McKenzie has done it again . . . In yet another page-turner, three women, linked by trauma, transform from images seen through the camera’s lens into human and relatable characters as their layered lives come into focus. As you settle in for this tense and compelling ride, you’ll start to question who ‘the good liar’ really is—Cecily, Kate, witnesses, the media, friends, family, or maybe even Catherine McKenzie herself.”
EMILY BLEEKER, bestselling author of Wreckage and When I’m Gone
For Sara—
For making it through.
CECILY
I was late. That’s why I wasn’t there when it happened.
Not in the building, not even that close.
I lost track of time that morning trying to get the kids organized and out the door. It happens sometimes. I’ll have everything under control and then—poof!—an hour will have gone by and we’ve missed whatever deadline we were supposed to hit. School drop-off, a kid’s birthday party, even an airplane once, despite the fact that we were in the terminal with plenty of time to get to our gate before pushback.
None of those misses ever made a permanent difference in my life. Not that I knew of, anyway. Just consternation and an eye roll from the kids. Mo-om being Mom.
Usually, it seemed beyond my control. I could’ve sworn I’d done everything possible to finish whatever needed to get done for me to arrive on time. That day, though . . . that day, I might’ve been late on purpose.
I can admit that now.
But then, my foot tapped at the sticky floor of the train car as if that might make it go faster. I counted down the stops from ten to one, like I was counting down to a rocket launch. And when the “L” finally pulled into the right station, I pushed past the slow, slow crowd and ran for the stairs.
Like Alice in Wonderland’s White Rabbit, I was late, late, late.
My heart throbbed as I ran up the concrete stairs. That’s probably why I didn’t notice the first tremor or the panicked looks on the faces of the people I sprinted past. I was too focused on getting to my destination. When I was finally outside, I had to stop to catch my breath.
What I saw stopped me from breathing at all.
The building I was trying so desperately to get to was two blocks away. The October sun should’ve been glinting off its glass panels. Instead, they were engulfed in flames. Before I could process what was happening, screams swallowed me. It felt like being caught in that noise at the beginning of “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band”—that discordant, reverse sound that has a basis in something melodic, and yet not.
I remember only bits and pieces after that.
People running past me, my nose filling with the awful stench of burned plastic, the crushing heat. A feeling like the building was sucking in its breath, pulling me toward it, before it blew apart, the heat slamming into me. The ringing in my ears that reminded me of the bell on my son’s bike when he was a child. Paper and debris and things I can’t think about raining down around me, burning holes in the belted coat I’d picked out so carefully the night before, back when it felt like it mattered what I wore that day.
Then I lost the thread of time again. It’s probably only minutes I can’t account for, but if you told me it was hours, I’d have no basis to disprove you.
Through it all, I couldn’t move. I was the lamppost more than one person rammed up against. I stood there, stuck, as the fire licked the building clean. And then a man’s hand was in mine,
