Last liar standing, p.1
Last Liar Standing, page 1
Last Liar Standing
Red Adept Publishing, LLC
104 Bugenfield Court
Garner, NC 27529
https://RedAdeptPublishing.com/
Copyright © 2022 by Danielle M. Wong. All rights reserved.
Cover Art by Streetlight Graphics
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
The Red Adept Publishing App
PROLOGUE
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 | NINE YEARS AGO
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33 | EIGHT YEARS AGO
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36 | SEVEN YEARS AGO
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38 | SIX YEARS AGO
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42 | FIVE YEARS AGO
CHAPTER 43 | FOUR YEARS AGO
CHAPTER 44 | THREE YEARS AGO
CHAPTER 45 | TWO YEARS AGO
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47 | ONE YEAR AGO
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50 | PRESENT DAY
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
Acknowledgments
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PROLOGUE
The average person has thirteen secrets right now. That’s all I can think about as I step through the double doors of this run-down motel. Its lobby looks like something straight out of the 1960s, with faux-wood paneling and marmalade-orange armchairs. I clutch my bag tightly and cringe at the peeling shreds of outmoded wallpaper.
There is a uniformed woman crammed behind a cluttered desk—some sort of makeshift reception counter. She morphs her glossy red lips into a strained smile and flashes it in my direction, but the only thing I can focus on is her exhausted expression. She resumes sorting through a mess of documents before I attempt a weak grin in return.
A quick scan of the remaining area tells me that I am not alone. My shoulders creep up as I count the guests inside. Not just a few either. Ten others wait to check in. Why is it so crowded? My entrance garners more than a couple curious glances, and I immediately glue my eyes to the tiled floor.
Of the odd assortment of guests, many are seated in pleather swivel chairs scattered across the room. A fortysomething woman in a blue dress perches on the sole sofa as a conspicuously older gentleman snoozes beside her. Are they together? Sinking into the puffy upholstered fabric is tempting after the long drive here, but I decide to stand in line regardless.
I take my place behind a petite woman with two enormous Louis Vuitton suitcases. She could probably fit inside her own luggage. She smacks her gum over the elevator music humming in the background. I stifle an eye roll and silently hope that the line starts moving soon.
When it finally does, the woman struggles with the handle of her larger bag. It’s jammed. Just as I think about offering assistance, a middle-aged man in khaki pants and loafers jumps up to help. She thanks him in a chirpy voice and continues moving. He looks her up and down, adjusting the groin area of his Dockers before finally breaking a creepy stare. I don’t even bother to suppress my eye roll this time.
Across the lobby, a young couple argues. Though their words are inaudible, their body language is unmistakable. It sends chills down my spine. He grabs her wrist, his knuckles turning bone white before she pries her arm from his grasp and whispers something in a hushed tone. I look away and try desperately to shake off the thought threatening to detonate my composure. When I glance back toward them, the woman is turned away, facing the window. Her skin glistens with tears and snot in the murky reflection.
Bark cloth curtains frame another window on the left side of the room. It was still dark outside when I parked, but a vivid sunrise is rapidly illuminating the sky. A flurry of color floods the horizon—wicked splashes of orange, yellow, and rose. I watch briefly before turning my attention back to the line in front of me. My heartbeat quickens when I realize that I am still at the end of it. This is taking too long.
I practice slow inhalations like Dr. Flynn taught me, but this place reeks of cigarette smoke. I inevitably fixate on an incessant clicking sound and find myself scouring the room for its source. My shoulders drop when I identify the noise—a teenager tapping his thumbs rhythmically against a bright phone screen. I wonder if he is composing a text message or playing a game. Maybe he’s stalking an ex on social media.
We accidentally lock eyes, and I immediately look away. Letting my gaze linger for more than a moment feels too risky. I can’t afford to be seen here, let alone recognized. I fish a pair of jet-black aviators out of my purse then throw them on like a mask.
The average person has thirteen secrets right now. This is what I think about while my anxious stare lands on the far wall. Aged photographs hang in mahogany frames, and a faded travel poster reads, “How to stay safe on your vacation!”
“Safe” is such a relative term. I have not felt safe in as long as I can remember. When someone else enters the lobby, my paranoia instantly swells. I try—and fail—to steady each breath. As I fidget with my car keys, I wonder if any of the other guests are harboring secrets as dark as mine. Are they on the run too? I wonder if they can see the fear leaching through my skin. Do my shaky hands give me away? Most of all, I wonder if anyone in this motel knows what I’ve done.
CHAPTER 1
The worst thing about paranoia is its relentless amplification. It gradually takes on a monstrous life of its own until the fear consumes every thought—dictates every action. Some might call it an obsession, but I detest the connotations of that word. This is no impassioned fixation or compulsion. The chaos in my head stems from veritable trauma.
This paranoia has become my own personal demon. It’s the reason my heart has not stopped racing since I left home. It’s the reason that I keep glancing over my shoulder as I check in to another no-name motel in this tiny Nevada town—about an hour south of the bustling boulevard known as the Strip. As the young front desk clerk bends down to fetch a pair of keys, I realize that we are finally the only two people left standing in this tiny lobby. No one else is here, and this is exactly what I need right now—to be off the grid.
To say that I feel exhausted would be the understatement of my hellish year. I have been driving for hours without so much as a quick bathroom break at some sketchy gas station. My T-shirt is stained with layers of sweat and smells vaguely of Swiss cheese. Once I pry open the door to my room, I spot a large spider crawling across the wall inside. Though I would normally bristle, I drop my bags and look the other way. I need a hot shower. And rest.
Physical discomfort has become my new normal. Even after a rinse in the disappointing stream of lukewarm water and a clean change of clothes, my skin crawls with inerasable remnants. Memories that cannot be washed off.
I lie in bed and try to recall what it feels like to crave sleep—to actually look forward to it instead of dreading it with every fiber of my being. It’s nearly impossible to settle on a position. Comfort is out of the question, but I would give just about anything for a semblance of relief. I writhe around on the motel bed to no avail. Part of me wants to blame it on this cheap mattress, but the other part knows better.
I never exactly got a formal diagnosis. Understandably so, the doctor was hesitant to prescribe me too many medications during our initial appointment. I stole a glance at her pad as she stood up to get me a glass of water. Insomniac, anxiety-prone, clinically depressed... The list went on. I tried to do things above board, but it was far easier just to procure the pills myself.
I resisted taking them at first. I really did. The prospect of forming a depende ncy, of taking the wrong dosage paralyzed me. I had already witnessed the horrendous side effects of pill popping firsthand—friends falling prey to the addictive cycle, patients losing touch with the physical world. Will I reduce myself to a cautionary tale?
I decided it was best to refrain for the indefinite future. Until one vicious, gut-wrenching night. The kind that comes out of nowhere and shakes you to the core. It felt like my heart—beating and bloody—was being ripped straight from my chest. I could barely breathe or whisper. Air was inaccessible, and every word was locked inside my shivering chest.
I feel that familiar sense of unease tonight. It starts as a tiny bud, a mere inkling. But it will soon bloom into something bigger. A force that I won’t be able to face alone. I sit up and fish anxiously through my cluttered bag until I find an orange plastic bottle. Seconds later, I dry swallow three pills and settle back into bed. But before I fall into an inevitable slumber, I swear I can hear people whispering on the other side of the door.
I AM ALREADY REVIEWING a mental list before my room comes back into focus the next morning. Just because I’m in a chemically induced haze doesn’t mean I have forgotten why I came here. At this point, the plan is ingrained in my brain. All week, I have rehearsed like an actor memorizing lines. I can’t afford to mess anything up.
As I strip off my night clothes, I catch an unwanted glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror. Fortunately, my diverted glance garners little more than a pale spark of flesh and violet veins. I feel thick stubble in the hollow of armpits and realize it has been far too long since my last shave. A razor—I should add that to the list.
After tossing my cell phone on the sink’s edge, I hop into the shower. The warm rush of water feels foreign at first. Other than the quick rinse last night, this is my first proper wash in four days. Such a bold transgression would have been unthinkable in my past life. Lately, though, personal hygiene has been the last thing on my frantic mind.
I twist open a plastic bottle of motel shampoo and glob it into my unruly mess of dark hair. The formula smells sickly sweet, like one of those cluttered perfume shops in the corner of a crowded mall. Those stores used to give me headaches—nasty ones that would linger for hours. I loathed the perky salespeople who would spritz customers with their best-selling scents without permission.
The water pressure is much stronger this time—a welcome change from the tepid trickle I encountered last night. I scrub every inch of skin until it turns raw. Then I let the hot water run over my shoulders, begging it to undo the knots burrowing in my neck. It fails to do the job.
I step out of the tub and pad across the strategically placed hand towel I MacGyvered into a bath mat. Leaving damp footprints in my wake, I bend over and start to towel dry my sopping strands. While I’m distracted by several split ends, a surge of blood rushes to my brain.
A sudden tinny noise makes me whip around. My breathing quickens, though I feel utterly stupid when I realize what the sound is. My phone, vibrating against the ceramic sink. I give the text a read until it sends shivers down my spine, then I chuck my cell onto the bed.
This constant jumpiness started recently. Growing up, I was always the calm one in my shifting group of friends. My college roommates used to see it as a challenge. They would take turns trying to scare me shitless—jumping out from dark corners and grabbing my shoulders or slapping me on the back before I swallowed my food.
A subtle smile spreads across my lips, half cynical, half somber, as I think about the person I used to be. A plucky child, a bright student, and a promising... It doesn’t matter anymore. This is who I have become.
CHAPTER 2
I stare through the peephole of my motel room door and wait. The curtains are drawn just as they were when I arrived, and the fluorescent lights are turned off. My fingers brush against the brass handle tentatively, gripping then quickly releasing.
I want so badly to throw the door open and launch myself into the desert rain. My bag is packed—not that it was ever otherwise—and ready to go. Too bad I’m not. In the parking lot, a young man takes his time climbing into his white F-150. I cannot move until he leaves.
Although my vantage point is limited, I try studying his figure to pass the time. He appears to be about twenty years of age. Dressed in worn jeans and a leather cowboy hat, he leans against his truck, sipping a bottle of beer with a dark label. The relentless rainwater makes it slip and peel. Once he sucks the bottle dry, he tosses it across the lot.
There’s a tug on my conscience as he unlocks his car and climbs into the driver’s seat. The guy probably isn’t drunk, but he definitely should not be on the road with that beer—or more—in his system. I purse my lips and watch him drive away. The old me would have marched up to the man and told him off. I might have even called the police if he gave me a hard time. Things are different now, though. I will not risk exposing myself.
After he leaves, I grab my bag and unlock the door guard. My fingers curl around the knob before slowly twisting it to the right. Now all I have to do is pull it back—open the door a crack and let the air rush in.
Just do it. I screw my eyes shut and tug, an instant sliver of bright light burning through my closed lids. Once it’s ajar, I run.
The clock starts now. At my car, I open the trunk and throw my bag inside. Fasten my seat belt, stick my key into the ignition, then step on the pedal. And just like that, I am gone as quickly as I came. It’s almost like I was never really there at all.
THIS MALL REMINDS ME of the one where I spent all my teenage summers. It is arguably more updated, but the general ambiance is similar. Back then, my friends and I used to try on designer outfits we couldn’t afford while pretending to be famous. We even staged photoshoots in the dressing rooms so we could remember what it felt like to wear something that special—that lavish. We would live entire lives before going back to our respective homes.
I smile sadly at the memory and step into a beauty surplus store. My basket fills quickly—hair dye, powder foundation, and a smoky eye shadow palette. I already have my usual mascara and liquid liner, and both products will go seamlessly with my new look. After paying in cash, I leave the shop.
The lure of a designer boutique tempts me for a moment. Money isn’t really the issue. Places here have so few customers that the sales associates will remember me without a doubt—I will be one of the few commissions of their entire week. It is much safer to go somewhere I won’t be remembered. Next stop: a random department store.
As I expected, the building is teeming with eager customers. Anonymous shopping. I pile several pieces—a pair of jeans, cardigans, some shoes, blazers, and sunglasses—into a cart then head to the front. There is no time to bother with dressing rooms right now. The long lines threaten to derail my perfect plan, but all I can do is wait.
After checking out, I confirm that I have everything necessary. Now it’s high time to leave the store. Walking back through the mall leaves me feeling nostalgic once again, maybe more so. My simple childhood memories feel so far away, completely removed from the life I live now. So much has changed since then.
The moment I step out of the mall, I’m instantly thrown back into my tragic present. Maybe I should have seen it coming. But there were never any signs. Even with my background and extensive training, I didn’t. No one ever expects betrayal.
Shaking off my thought, I start to cross the street. About halfway across, I realize that I left my keys in the store. A quick glance over my shoulder brings a white sedan into view. The other cars are slowing down for me, but this one seems to be picking up speed. Pure instinct makes me quicken my pace. My stomach drops when I realize that I am the only pedestrian still crossing.
There are intermittent honks and a few faint yells, but I hardly hear them. The sedan fills my peripheral vision as my heart thumps against my chest. Instead of slamming on their brakes, the driver just keeps going. My throat closes around a scream, but it’s too late.
I don’t even feel the impact.
MY SENSES ARE DULLER than a blunt knife, soft from overuse. I roll my tongue along the roof of my mouth, tasting blood as I go. The sheer bitterness makes me gag. I start drawing a hand to my neck, but I do not make it very far. There may as well be ten-pound weights secured to each arm.
