This Beautiful Lie (Suspicious Hearts #3)

Chapter 1

One

Wounds fade—or so they say. They stitch themselves together with time, bandages, or miracle creams—like they were never there at all. But sometimes… sometimes they leave scars—raised and rigid, soft and almost transparent—quiet reminders of the pain that was once felt.

But the deepest wounds? The ones that fester almost invisibly? They don’t heal the same way. They linger, hidden beneath laughter and distractions, beneath years of pretending. They ache in the quiet moments. They don’t just mark you.

They change you.

They haunt you.

They cast shadows over your happiest moments.

Especially your happiest moments.

John: If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were avoiding me. Are you ever planning to meet your niece?

I set my cellphone on the bedside table and inhaled a deep breath. “My niece.” The words rolled off my tongue like a foreign language. A niece was an extension of a family that I never truly had… the family I always wanted, but possibly didn’t deserve.

“Shit,” I whispered to no one at all.

I yanked my oversized shirt over my head, ignored the ache in my belly, and focused on getting ready.

A red sheath dress lay on my bedspread. Perfectly tailored, stunning, one I was sure to get attention in. I picked it up, then hesitated… No—he said understated.

I was distracted, feeling things I’d been trying to avoid for months—thinking way too damned much about my past.

I walked to my closet and pulled out a black Italian silk pencil dress with the tags still attached. It was backless, bold, sexy. I slipped it over my head and ripped off the tags in one swift motion.

Understated was not part of my everyday wardrobe. Bold, sexy, someone to be noticed—that was me.

Maybe I’m not right for this job. Maybe I should listen to the voice in my head that is telling me to stay home tonight.

And do what? Eat a tub of ice cream and wallow in guilt over avoiding everyone I loved?

I moved toward my vanity, pumped two dabs of styling cream onto my fingers and smoothed it though my hair. The brown ends curled up at the base of my neck, reminding me, I was in need of a trim.

Tomorrow. I’ll make an appointment tomorrow.

I dropped to my haunches, then got on all fours and searched the back of my closet for the knock off Christian Louboutins I’d kicked there last weekend. Here I was, thinking about my next haircut, when I should be trying to formulate a response to John.

He was the closest person in the world to me—like a brother—but I’d been avoiding him for months.

Not because I didn’t care. God, I cared too much.

I should be celebrating. I should be able to push past my own bullshit, paste a smile on my face, and hold his daughter like the action alone didn’t wreck me. But I couldn’t…

A darkness had taken root inside me, slow and quiet like rot beneath floorboards—spreading into the corners of everything I should be able to find joy in.

And John… Of all people, he had to know why this was hard.

He had to.

He’d been there. He’d seen how broken I was…

I stopped getting ready and stared into the center of my room.

The soft movement of the ceiling fan circled overhead, brushed cool air across my bare arms. Everything else around me was still, quiet and unremarkable.

A plain dresser. A small bookshelf with spines I hadn’t touched in months.

One framed photo on the nightstand, face-down.

The bed was made, but not beautifully. Just… done.

The room was simple. Lived in. A little hollow. Like me.

Maybe that was why I was avoiding him… Because he knew me too well. He’d look too closely—he would read between the lines—and he’d know. He’d know I hadn’t put myself back together the way I always pretended I had.

I plopped down on the edge of the bed and proceeded to buckle my shoes, pulling the straps a little too tightly in hopes they would anchor me.

My clutch sat on the nightstand, half-zipped, waiting. I snatched it up, fingers trembling with a kind of nervous energy that made me feel like I was already late, already behind.

Makeup. ID. Emergency contact: John.

Cash—just a little.

Pepper spray, tucked in the side pocket like a secret I hoped I wouldn’t need.

PING!

The sound shot through the room like a firecracker, nearly launching me off my bed.

My heart punched my ribs, and my fingers scrambled to steady my phone. The screen lit up with a brightness far too sharp for a mind this fragile.

Traffic Alert: I-405 South

Slower than usual traffic on the 405 toward Santa Monica. Estimated arrival: 7:24 p.m.

Shit.

Adrenaline surged. I moved like a spark catching fire—snapping off lights, grabbing keys, locking the deadbolt with one hand while slinging my bag over the other. My shoes clicked a nervous rhythm across the floorboards as I rushed to the door.

Then—

The screen door slammed behind me, the warped steps groaning as I hurried down the stairs.

I didn’t stop.

Not for breath.

Not for doubt.

Because whatever waited for me on the other end of this night—I had a feeling it was going to change everything.

Then––one heel snagged on the edge of the third step, jerking me backward with a violent jolt. I pitched forward, grabbing the railing with both hands as the rest of me kept moving. My ankle twisted, and I let out a muffled curse through my teeth.

“You okay?” Mr. Briggs called from his usual spot in the courtyard, his voice warm and wheezy. “Did you trip?”

“Fine,” I managed to mutter, straightening my spine as I bent to free my heel from between two slats. The wood had clamped on like a mouth, chewing at the leather of my counterfeit shoes. “Damn stairs,” I cursed.

For half a second, I thought about asking again—reminding him the steps needed fixing. That they were dangerous. That one day someone was going to break their neck.

But when I glanced down again, finding him sitting in a sagging lawn chair with a blanket over his knees, the words lodged in my throat and stayed there. He was trying. Probably had over a dozen phone-calls into his good-for-nothing son about this very thing.

With a sharp twist, I freed my heel and steadied myself on the railing again.

“Mark said he’d come by Monday,” Mr. Briggs muttered, the apology in his voice weak and slightly embarrassed.

I let out a short laugh, brushing imaginary dust from my skirt, knowing it was yet another of his son’s false promises.

Either that, or he’d show up later in the afternoon, lingering around my door, trying to wear me down into going to dinner.

No thank you! I’d take splintered steps and rusted railings over him any day.

I walked to the bottom, more carefully this time.

Someone’s laundry flapped from a second-story banister, the colors bleached pale by the sun, and a faint smell of Tide filled my nostrils.

I dodged a half-deflated soccer ball as I walked past Mr. Briggs’ chair, then sidestepped a toddler-sized bike which was tipped over near the mailboxes.

My BMW waited at the far end of the lot, parked beneath the lightpost that had gone dark over a month ago—just one more thing Mark hadn’t gotten around to fixing.

I slid behind the wheel, plugged in my phone for CarPlay, and a message blinked across the screen almost immediately.

John: You there?

I stared at the message, fingers tightening around the steering wheel with the kind of tension that had been building for weeks.

Then I exhaled, flipped the screen to GPS, and eased the car into reverse––I’d text him back tomorrow.

Tomorrow, I’d stop avoiding him. Tomorrow, I’d stop being a coward.