She Lied She Died
Carissa Ann Lynch
One More Chapter
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020
Copyright © Carissa Ann Lynch 2020
Cover design by Lucy Bennett © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020
Cover photograph © Mark Owen/Trevillion Images
Carissa Ann Lynch asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record of this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Source ISBN: 9780008421038
Ebook Edition © December 2020 ISBN: 9780008421021
Version: 2020-10-23
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
Thank you for reading…
The One Night Stand: Chapter 1
The One Night Stand: Chapter 2
The One Night Stand: Chapter 3
The One Night Stand: Chapter 4
The One Night Stand: Chapter 5
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About the Author
Also by Carissa Ann Lynch
One more chapter...
About the Publisher
Dedicated to Shannon
Thank you for your wisdom and late-night advice when my characters got in sticky situations I couldn’t get them out of. And for teaching me how to play chess—one of these days I might win.
“A truth that’s told with bad intent
Beats all the lies you can invent.”
— William Blake, “Auguries of Innocence”
Chapter One
I was nine years old when the murder happened.
Old enough to taste fresh-found fear in the air; young enough to feel unscathed by it.
Alone in the farmhouse, I squatted on my haunches in front of my brother Jack’s bedroom window, eyes peeping over the ledge as far as they dared, faded binoculars shielding my face.
Jack would have killed me if he knew what I was doing because: 1. I was never allowed to enter his room, uninvited. 2. I’d gone through his trunk, which contained his “private things” (if you consider pics of naked girls with hairy bushes, and a pair of binoculars, “private”) and worst of all: 3. I’d borrowed those precious binoculars.
Jack was away, visiting with our dad’s aunt, my quirky Great Aunt Lane. Six years my senior, Jack and I were as close as two siblings that spread apart in age could be, I guess.
But Jack’s anger and disapproval about me being in his room were the farthest thing from my mind … he wasn’t here to stop me, and even if he was … something important was happening, something that went above and beyond everyday sibling squabbles.
I’d been quarantined to my bedroom, courtesy of Mom and Dad.
“Don’t come out until we tell you.”
“We have an important meeting to tend to.”
But I knew. I didn’t know what exactly … but I knew something bad had happened.
Sirens raged across the field, so loud my chest rumbled, thrumming in rhythm with the abhorrent beat.
My room—my temporary prison—was equipped with two windows, but unfortunately, both faced the trees. Wrong side.
I’d fought hard for this room—it was slightly smaller than my brother’s, but the rich green view was superior, and it had a built-in bookshelf to boot. Now, for the first time, I regretted my choice.
The urgency and excitement … that knocking fear … that call of importance—all of it was coming from the other side of the house.
So, I’d crawled across the knotty pine floors, army-woman style, until I’d reached my brother’s bedroom. It was unlocked, as was his precious trunk, and the binoculars were the prize I’d been hoping for.
I adjusted the binoculars on my face. They were old, too big for me. But they were my best bet because the chaos was happening across the field.
Through the foggy lens, I searched for my mother and father. But they were nowhere to be found.
There were others—several others, in fact. A cluster of people formed a strange, mystic circle in the centre of the field, a cloud of low-slung fog forming a blanket around them. Like ancient druids, they were engaged in some sort of ritual…
I let my wild imagination run its course, then I readjusted my viewpoint.
The source of the sirens was obvious—an ambulance had pulled right through the center of Daddy’s field, mowing down crops and kicking up mud. There were thick wet tire tracks in the soil.
The doors of the ambulance were left flung open on the driver’s side and cab; the flash of the sirens glittered like rubies.
The circle-jerks weren’t moving, but I could tell they were looking. Looking at what, exactly? I wondered. Heads ducked low, hands on hips … there was one man with his hands folded behind his head. Another was a woman covering her mouth and nose…
My next thought—a stupid one—was that maybe there was one of those crop circles in Daddy’s field. I’d read something about them in Jack’s sci-fi magazine, the one with the grainy image of Nessie, with her long neck and protruding humps, on the cover. I hadn’t believed a word of it.
As I trained the binoculars on the circle, willing the lens to focus, I realized that most of them were in uniform. Cops. Boring!
Suddenly, the man with his hands behind his head pivoted. He turned away from the others. Moving, marching, he was headed straight
