An Honest Lie Read online

  Praise for the novels of Tarryn Fisher

  “You’ll have whiplash until the very end. The Wives will leave the most sure-footed reader uneasy until the last word is read.”

  —Colleen Hoover, #1 New York Times bestselling author

  “Fisher smoothly inserts moments of self-doubt, longing, paranoia, and triumph into her unsettling narrative…. Suspense fans will be rewarded.”

  —Publishers Weekly on The Wives

  “Fisher is a slick writer who keeps a tight rein on her lightning-fast plot, and the lengths that her feisty narrator goes to in order to reclaim her life make for salaciously satisfying reading.... Fisher is a writer to watch.”

  —Kirkus Reviews on The Wives

  “Fans of Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl will revel in The Wives... . Fisher’s story, like the score of a film, builds to an emotional and psychological crescendo that will keep readers on their toes until its final page.”

  —USA TODAY

  “The Wives author delivers another un-put-downable psychological thriller.”

  —E! on The Wrong Family

  “Fisher’s latest thriller is electric, like riding a roller coaster in the dark. Hairpin turns plummet to heart-stopping depths. You won’t devour this book. It will devour you.”

  —Author Tess Callahan on The Wrong Family

  “A wholly original story of two women with dark pasts on a crash course with one another. This smart, claustrophobic thriller will keep you up reading...and just plain keep you up at night.”

  —Andrea Dunlop, author of We Came Here to Forget, on The Wrong Family

  “Utterly absorbing.”

  —PopSugar on The Wrong Family

  “Nothing is as it seems in this twisty new thriller.”

  —Bustle on The Wrong Family

  An Honest Lie

  Tarryn Fisher

  TARRYN FISHER is the New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of nine novels. Born a sun hater, she currently makes her home in Seattle, Washington, with her children, husband and husky. She loves connecting with her readers on Instagram.

  For Jolene

  Contents

  At the end of the

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Questions for Discussion

  Author Q & A

  Excerpt from The Wrong Family by Tarryn Fisher

  AT THE END OF THE highway sat an old town, not completely dead, but on its last breath. There was no reason to go there unless you were lost or, in her case, trying to be found. She stared past the candy-colored lights, the reds and blues and lilacs, to the empty desert beyond...to Friendship. That’s where it began fifteen years ago and what had begun there would never really end. Two birds with one stone, she thought. Two vultures.

  Her phone lit up, drawing her eyes away from the window.

  Braithe: I’m going to kill her. You better come if you want to save her.

  1

  Now

  It towered on high, a black house throned on a mountain and surrounded by lush foliage. The constant flow of water from the sky nourished the succulent shades of green on Tiger Mountain. Her house was at the highest point, a cake topper. She liked to think of the mountain as hers, but the road that led to the bottom of the mountain passed by many houses. She knew only a handful of their occupants. She felt less determined than she had five minutes ago. She could go home, say she wasn’t feeling well or give another flimsy excuse, but duty kept her left foot jumping between gas and brake as she navigated the curves.

  Duty to whom? She met her own eyes in the rearview mirror, and then quickly looked away before turning left down a driveway. Rainy felt her tits lift and slap back against her rib cage as her old truck cleared a pothole; she’d forgotten to put on a bra. Trashy, she thought. Braking sharply in front of the shed, she threw the truck into Park and hopped out. The house was a Cape Cod, painted white with black trim and set back from the road on a cozy lot bordered by mountain hemlock. So stark was the comparison to her own ultramodern home that Rainy always paused to admire the warm charm of the Mattson house. Each of the houses on Tiger Mountain was marvelously different; that’s what both she and Grant loved the most about living there.

  As she stepped away from the car, her boots crunched against the gravel in the driveway, and she kept her head down against the rain as she climbed the three stairs that led to the door. She could hear them inside, their voices filling up the house with a cacophony of sound. Rainy hated this part: walking into a room and having all eyes on her. They would check her clothes, noting the lack of effort, see that she was braless, wonder—she was sure—what Grant saw in her. She rang the bell and bent to unlace her boots. By the time Braithe Mattson opened her front door, Rainy had kicked them off and was standing in her socks. One, she noticed, was of the floral variety, and the other plain white. It was too late to do anything about it.

  “I told you to stop ringing the bell and just come inside,” Braithe said.

  She didn’t have time to respond. Braithe pulled her through the door, and Rainy had to rework her face as her host corralled her toward the kitchen where the women usually hung out.

  “Working today?” Braithe glanced over her shoulder, eyeing Rainy’s black jeans and T-shirt. But Rainy didn’t sense any judgment, just curiosity. Braithe was—for lack of a more interesting word—kind. She nodded, and Braithe’s face lit with happiness. She was a rarity: a friend who understood that, for an artist, a productive day of work was hard to come by. Rainy felt a surge of affection for her. She’d only known Braithe for the year she’d lived there, but they’d fallen into an easy, noncommittal friendship that included an occasional dinner downtown and texts about nothing in particular. That dip you made on Friday night was amazing. Did you watch the Justin Bieber documentary? The boys want to go bowling Friday night, you down?

  Following Braithe past the formal areas of the home, she braced herself, keeping her eyes on the back of her friend’s head, dreading the routine of the next five minutes. There was nothing more painful to Rainy than the way women greeted each other: the high-pitched squeals of joy, the touching and hugging, the exaggerated expressions that accompanied the small talk. The high, singsong voices saying, “How are youuuuuuuu?” Bonus points if they delivered a compliment about hair or outfit. In her circles in New York, her artist friends never touched; they kissed the air beside her cheek and asked how she was in the same sentence they inquired about her bag. They didn’t wait for the answer—that was the best part to Rainy—but here, they wanted her answer. Here, they asked and expected to receive.

  Braithe Mattson’s kitchen was stark white, aside from the large black butcher-block island that sat at its center. A cluster of women were seated around it, seeming to glow under Braithe’s mood lighting. These were the faithful, the loyal, her ladies-in-waiting. The room smelled of her signature scent, a Tom Ford candle—Rainy had once Googled the price of it—called Lost C
herry. It was cozy, even if it was a little overly curated. Rainy did not see herself as one of them; she was the newest, still in the first year of her feel-out phase. She came to their weekly happy hours, and since some of their partners and husbands were friends, there were crossover dinners and summer barbecues, the group discussion centering on sports, their respective jobs and family gossip. All in all, they were nice...and they were Grant’s friends. She’d come because Grant was important to her, and he had asked her to.

  Rainy made a split-second decision: she sneezed violently into her elbow, and by the time she opened her eyes, a unanimous “Bless you” echoed from the women across the room. Suddenly, everyone was laughing, including Rainy, who was able to avoid the hugging and touching part as she sniffled past them. No one wanted to get sick or touch the snotty girl.

  The Tiger Mountain group was composed of mostly childless, married women in their thirties and forties who connected via a Facebook page, but the Baby Tigers—as Tara called them—were a handful of newlyweds in their midtwenties. They brought a fun, energetic vibe to the group; it felt like hanging out with your little sister and her friends. They were cute, but there was a disconnect that happened whenever the thirty-and fortysomethings spoke about things the twenties hadn’t reached yet. The two that came to happy hour with the most consistency were Ursa and Mackenzie, best friends who seemed to enjoy the company of the slightly older women. The other twenties had broken off into their own group that Ursa and Mac still hung out with occasionally. Rainy felt bad calling them the Baby Tigers; Tara had only come up with that nickname because she was threatened by their youth.

  Braithe came back and pushed a glass of white wine into Rainy’s hand. Her lips were lined in gold, as were her eyes. She surveyed the room.

  “Sit over there by Viola, will you—she’s miserable because she can’t drink.” She said it loud enough for Viola to hear.

  Braithe winked at Viola, who in turn made a face at her. Rainy made her way over to where Viola was sitting and slid obediently into her seat. She would have chosen to sit next to Viola, anyway. The clock on Braithe’s range read 7:47; she’d stay until nine-ish, and then say she had to get home to let Shep out. These were dog people; they would understand. That meant an hour and fifteen minutes for happy hour and she could call it. She grinned at Viola, who returned her look with raised eyebrows. Her pursed lips were a perfect matte burgundy.

  “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re thinking. I am thinking the same damn thing.” Viola leaned back in her seat, cradling her belly and looking miserable. Rainy eyed the gaggle. They were talking about a new restaurant and were distracted for the moment.

  “Well, why do we keep coming to these things?”

  “Good question. Pass me that water, would you?”

  Rainy leaned forward, reaching for the glass, and Viola took it from her gratefully. She drained it, eyeing Rainy over the rim.

  “Indigestion,” she said before Rainy could ask. “Samantha made some shit, and now I can’t tell if I’m in labor or if hot sauce is leaking into my chest cavity from her rice.” She pounded her chest with a small fist and grimaced. Samantha was Viola’s partner. Rainy had only met her once at one of these things; she was one part goth and the rest awkward computer nerd. Since Rainy was equally as awkward, she’d hit it off with Samantha, who shared her dry sense of humor.

  “Why did you put hot sauce on your rice?”

  Viola looked at her sideways, eyeing her with disapproval. “Why do you not?”

  Rainy laughed. “Touché.”

  Braithe seated herself on the last empty bar stool, her glass of white wine in front of her. To her left was Tara Hessler, her right-hand woman and main lady-in-waiting. Tara was a little flushed tonight, her creamy skin rosy with anticipation. She was, in Rainy’s opinion, a social scavenger, but a smooth one. She needed to be the prettiest girl in the room, but that was Braithe, so she settled for a close second. Tara adorned Braithe like an unnecessary tiara. Rainy avoided having close friendships for that reason: the last thing she wanted was costume-jewelry friendship. She didn’t have time for that. Codependency sucked up large chunks of time.

  Rainy, being the newest to the group, was always pelted with questions when she showed up to happy hour. It was like they were trying to fast-track her into their group with these little Q and As.

  “The new-girl novelty will wear off soon and they’ll stop hounding you.” It was a promise Viola made to her a year ago when Rainy moved to Washington. They wanted to know who she hung out with in New York—a handful of close artist friends from college. Who she dated before Grant—two art students and a gallery owner, nothing serious. Where were her parents? Dead. Did she miss the city? Yes and no. She liked the solitude and vast openness of Washington. And finally, the most painful question of them all—was she going to marry Grant? Viola had called them out after that, told them to stop being nosy.

  Rainy did not want to play house for the next ten years—she did want to marry Grant—but she also had no intention of talking to them about it. He was the only man she’d ever felt this way about, unless she decided to hold these little happy hours against him.

  “Get to know some people, this is your new home,” he’d said.

  “What people?” she’d argued stubbornly. “You are my people.”

  “Friends,” he’d said. “Friends are good, friends are healthy.”

  Ursa, in a pink silk top and jeans, was lip-synching along with Braithe’s playlist, forcing Mac to be her audience. She got right up in Mac’s face as she sang, “You make me, make me, make me want to cry!” Mac giggled and shoved her away; undeterred, Ursa began grinding against Tara on her other side. She paused her dancing to point a finger at Rainy and wink.

  Viola laughed from beside her. “She is on tonight.”

  Rainy had never really seen Ursa not be on. She was energetic: matte skin, leggy, shaggy hair. She worked in marketing and was smart as a whip. Rainy liked the way she could make anything sound fun—even a bikini wax. Mackenzie was her best friend: sweet, less sure of herself, a kindergarten teacher by trade. Rainy thought they were both in their late twenties, but she wasn’t sure; Botox made it impossible to guess a woman’s age. When Grant set her up with the group—the wives of some of his friends—he’d called them “fun” and “easygoing.” She’d wondered if he’d remembered she was uptight and not fun at all, but loving someone meant talking yourself into things on occasion. And besides, Viola was one of the realest people Rainy had ever met. The group was worth it solely for her friendship. And then there was Braithe: the glamorous, put-together adult friend. Her job was to make everyone feel like they had a place at the table—her table.

  Rainy sipped her drink, content for the moment. She looked around at their faces, her gaze finally resting on Tara. To her consternation, Tara was looking at her, as well. Rainy crossed her legs, suddenly nervous. Maybe it was the way Tara had repeated her name the first time Braithe introduced them, dropping her chin and raising her brows. “Rainy like our damn weather...?” Everyone had laughed, including Rainy, but she’d had the distinct impression that Tara didn’t like her. And over the last year that feeling had grown, fanned to life by Tara’s lack of eye contact and her occasional snarky remarks. When they were in a group, it was easy to overlook that she usually hadn’t said a word to Rainy all night. With Tara being the life of every party, she seemed inclusive, drawing everyone into her stories and jokes. Rainy had never minded the slights; these were, of course, Grant’s friends, and she didn’t take offense, since she didn’t want to be there, anyway. But here was Tara, smiling at her warmly, no hint of dislike on her face. Her full lips were curled nicely, the mole above her lip punctuating her smile. The result was French model holds a secret she’s about to spill.

  Rainy put her drink down and leveled her shoulders, the tag from her T-shirt scratching her neck. She could feel the energy building i
n the room, and it was making her nervous.

  They all were staring at her now, smiles picking up the corners of their mouths. Rainy suddenly felt a knot form in her throat; she was going to choke on her own panic.

  “Um...what? You guys are weirding me out.”

  “Look at my face, Rainy...look at my face.” Ursa wiggled her eyebrows and made kissy faces until Rainy cracked up.

  “Rainy...” Tara scooted forward in her seat, drawing Rainy’s attention back to her. Tara was seated directly across from her, on the side of the island nearest the kitchen door. In one hand she loosely held her vodka tonic, and the other was sliding something across the counter to Rainy. Tara tried to control the cogs of every situation and Rainy did not want to become one of those cogs. For that reason, she was hesitant to look down at what Tara was passing to her.

  She’d lived in Washington for a mere four months when her thirty-fifth birthday snuck up. She hadn’t been thinking about it. She’d been preoccupied with settling into her new home, finding a comfortable groove with Grant. The things on her mind back then: wondering if Grant secretly hated her cooking and stressing about whether she needed to go to bed when he did. When he told her he wanted to plan a dinner to celebrate, she’d been surprised.

  She’d been content to spend the night at home with Grant. She secretly hated her birthday, anyway; since her mother died, it had been a reminder of who she didn’t have. But at the time, it seemed important to Grant to plan something for her, so she’d let him.

  “What type of food? Vietnamese, Korean—I know this great Mexican place in Tacoma.” He was excited as he opened his laptop and said, “It’s Seattle, I can find you almost anything you want—or at least something similar.”

  The New Yorker in Rainy highly doubted that, but she kissed him to get a taste of his excitement and said, “Seafood sounds great.” Grant had booked a place on the water that he swore up and down served the best crab legs in the state. He’d sent a group text to his friends and their wives with the date and time. Everyone texted back, excited, and then Tara’s text had come.