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Here We Lie
Paula Treick DeBoard
The past never stays in the past… Megan is a girl from a modest Midwest background.Lauren is the daughter of a senator from an esteemed New England family.When they become roommates at an exclusive private college, this unlikely pair forge a strong friendship and come to share their most intimate secrets.As a last hurrah before graduation, Megan joins Lauren’s family on their private island off the coast of Maine for the summer. Late one night, something unspeakable happens. Something strong enough to tear them apart.Many years later, Megan decides to reveal the truth about that night. But the truth can have devastating consequences.Readers love DeBoard:“An unforgettable story…5 stars”“I loved this book”“absolutely entrancing novel”“This is an important book and a great examination of why things play out the way they do in society”“Great summer read!”
Megan Mazeros and Lauren Mabrey are complete opposites on paper. Megan is a girl from a modest Midwest background, and Lauren is the daughter of a senator from an esteemed New England family. When they become roommates at a private women’s college, they forge a strong, albeit unlikely, friendship, sharing clothes, advice and their most intimate secrets.
The summer before senior year, Megan joins Lauren and her family on their private island off the coast of Maine. It should be a summer of relaxation, a last hurrah before graduation and the pressures of postcollege life. Then late one night, something unspeakable happens, searing through the framework of their friendship and tearing them apart. Many years later, Megan publicly comes forward about what happened that fateful night, revealing a horrible truth and threatening to expose long-buried secrets.
In this captivating and moving novel, Paula Treick DeBoard explores the power of friendship and secrets, and shows how hiding from the truth can lead to devastating consequences.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR (#u7d714980-24eb-5b13-8c26-2defe74dab6c)
PAULA TREICK DEBOARD is the author of The Mourning Hours, The Fragile World and The Drowning Girls. She is a lecturer in writing at the University of California, Merced, and lives in Northern California with her husband, Will, and their four-legged brood.
Also By Paula Treick DeBoard (#u7d714980-24eb-5b13-8c26-2defe74dab6c)
The Drowning Girls
The Fragile World
The Mourning Hours
Here We Lie
Paula Treick DeBoard
Copyright (#u7d714980-24eb-5b13-8c26-2defe74dab6c)
An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018
Copyright © Paula Treick DeBoard 2018
Paula Treick DeBoard asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for 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.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © January 2018 ISBN: 9781474083607
Praise for the novels of Paula Treick DeBoard
“In Paula Treick DeBoard’s latest breathtaking thriller, she paints a stark and chillingly real portrayal of a family torn apart by teenage transgressions. Gritty and inauspicious from the start, The Drowning Girls left me awestruck, revealing DeBoard’s true brilliance as an author. Spellbinding.”
—Mary Kubica, New York Times bestselling author of The Good Girl
“Think Fatal Attraction meets Desperate Housewives, and you have DeBoard’s latest thriller.... This is a gripping, tense suspense story with a good surprise ending.”
—Booklist
“Give this tale of domestic suspense, with its pitch-perfect pacing, to Gillian Flynn and Mary Kubica devotees.”
—Library Journal, starred review
“The Drowning Girls by Paula Treick DeBoard is cleverly plotted, full of twists and turns and so well-written that it pulls you in from page one. Genuinely suspenseful, DeBoard delivers a disturbing, multilayered, provocative novel that is impossible to put down.”
—Heather Gudenkauf, New York Times bestselling author of The Weight of Silence
“A heart-pounding look at what lies behind the deceptively placid veneer of the well-to-do suburbs. The kaleidoscopic view of innocence, danger, and malice shifts and twists as it races to a shattering conclusion.”
—Sophie Littlefield, bestselling author of The Guilty One
“This tale of a family in peril closes with a death that’s tragic and unexpected.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Fans of The Good Girl and The Luckiest Girl Alive, and really anyone who enjoys great suspense, have found their next must-read... I could not put it down.”
—Catherine McKenzie, bestselling author of Fractured and Hidden
“A coming-of-age tale about a family in crisis expertly told by Ms. DeBoard. The Fragile World examines how profound loss changes all who are forced to come to terms with it. Touching and compelling, it will move you.”
—Lesley Kagen, New York Times bestselling author of Whistling in the Dark and The Resurrection of Tess Blessing
“The Drowning Girls casts a spell as brilliant and alluring as the gated community of its setting. Paula Treick DeBoard maps this world of privilege and secrets with a deft hand... A suspenseful and compelling page-turner.”
—Karen Brown, author of The Clairvoyants and The Longings of Wayward Girls
For my sisters—the ones I was born with, and the ones I met along the way.
Contents
Cover (#u056a1c28-9f8d-5928-9f23-731751afda9e)
Back Cover Text (#u429e284e-5c75-58c5-be29-6357416af150)
About the Author (#u7cdfad41-abc0-557c-8a03-491afea8155b)
Booklist (#u619f54b4-795f-5eb0-80ee-b38cda1ec911)
Title Page (#u28f7d19d-e8ef-5b44-811f-e38bd7c27f35)
Copyright (#u6da9d278-03fa-5d8c-b19e-c857d6db4a2c)
Praise (#u36e43d11-2faf-5490-8a74-6326bc041684)
Dedication (#u3a54317e-9133-5825-88c9-ecd67ab6d81c)
OCTOBER 17, 2016 (#u202407c9-8a6c-5f47-a44e-fdf97723c834)
1998–1999 (#u1976e747-682d-5d85-a463-f794bc342c45)
OCTOBER 10, 2016 (#u6509c030-d27a-537b-bfd7-73712586e5d4)
FRESHMAN YEAR 1999–2000 (#ue304de9d-b503-5181-853a-846ea1c33349)
OCTOBER 10, 2016 (#litres_trial_promo)
SUMMER 2000 (#litres_trial_promo)
OCTOBER 10, 2016 (#litres_trial_promo)
SOPHMORE YEAR 2000–2001 (#litres_trial_promo)
OCTOBER 10, 2016 (#litres_trial_promo)
SUMMER 2001 (#litres_trial_promo)
OCTOBER 12, 2016 (#litres_trial_promo)
JUNIOR YEAR 2001–2002 (#litres_trial_promo)
OCTOBER 12, 2016 (#litres_trial_promo)
SUMMER 2002 (#litres_trial_promo)
OCTOBER 15–17, 2016 (#litres_trial_promo)
2002 AND AFTER (#litres_trial_promo)
OCTOBER 17, 2016 (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE FEBRUARY 2017 (#litres_trial_promo)
AUTHOR’S NOTE (#litres_trial_promo)
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS (#litres_trial_promo)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR (#u7cdfad41-abc0-557c-8a03-491afea8155b)
Reader's Guide
Questions for Discussion (#litres_trial_promo)
A Conversation with Paula Treick DeBoard (#litres_trial_promo)
OCTOBER 17, 2016 (#u7d714980-24eb-5b13-8c26-2defe74dab6c)
Lauren
It was raining, and I was going to be late.
The press conference was scheduled for ten o’clock, and by the time I found a parking space in the cavernous garage, I had twenty minutes. I slipped once on the stairs, catching myself with a shocked hand on the sticky rail. Seventeen minutes.
I followed a cameraman toting a giant boom over his shoulder, navigating a path through the crowds of the capitol. Thank goodness I was wearing tennis shoes. I passed a group of schoolchildren on the steps, prim in their navy blazers and white button-down shirts. Their teacher’s question echoed off the concrete. “Who can tell me what it means that we have a separation and balance of powers?”
Only one hand shot into the air.
Balance of power, I thought. A good lesson for today.
I glanced at the display on my cell phone and quickened my pace, taking the rest of the steps two at a time. Twelve minutes.
* * *
I set my shoulder bag on the conveyer belt at the security checkpoint and watched as a bored guard picked through it with a gloved hand—wallet, cell phone, tube of hand lotion I’d forgotten about, an envelope with twenty-five dollars for the giving tree that should have been turned in to Emma’s teacher that morning. Shit. Annoyed, the guard removed a water bottle, waving the offending item in front of my face before tossing it into the trash container at his feet. His eyes flicked over me, already disinterested, already moving on to the next threat, which was apparently not a suburban mom in her stretchy pants.
I followed a directional sign for the press conference and hurried down hallways and around corners before arriving outside the door, where another line had formed. A woman at the front, officious in a burgundy blazer, was checking press credentials. My heart pounded. Each time one of the double doors swung open, I caught a glimpse of the people collected there, accompanied by their cameras and cords and laptops and phones.
Then I was at the front of the line, and the woman in the blazer was blocking my entry, shoulder pads increasing her bulk. “Show your credentials, please.”
I reached in my purse for my wallet. “I don’t have—”
“I can’t let anyone in without appropriate credentials,” the woman said, more loudly than necessary. She was a head shorter than me, but her voice carried enough authority to make up for it.
“I’m not a member of the press, but I have to get in there,” I pleaded. I flipped my wallet open to a picture of my face—my name, address, vital statistics. Behind my Rhode Island license was my old one, a Connecticut ID with my younger face, my maiden name.
She frowned at me, waving two others past, identification badges hanging from their necks. “Ma’am, I have to ask you to step to the side. This conference isn’t open to the general public.”
I gestured again with my open wallet, pointing desperately to my name. “I’m family,” I said finally, catching the attention of those waiting behind me. I could feel their ears perk up, the unsubtle uptick of their interest. Did she say she was family?
Finally, this got me her attention, in the form of slow blink and unabashed pity. “Go,” she hissed, and I darted past before she could change her mind.
* * *
I stayed close to the back wall, trying to find a vantage point but at the same time be invisible. At the front of the room was a podium with a microphone, and off to the side was the Connecticut state flag, its baroque shield visible on a blue background. A woman was at the microphone, saying Megan’s name.
And then she was on the stage, instantly recognizable despite the years between us. I gasped, catching the back of a folding chair for balance. She was more polished than I remembered, but then, she used to wear oversize sweatshirts and thrift store jeans, which either fit her waist or her inseam, but never both at once. She had been a teenager then, brash and funny and lovable and so different from me. The person at the microphone, of course, was thirty-five.
Still, I remembered her in our shoebox of a dorm room, drinking from my contraband bottle of schnapps.
I remembered her on our bike rides, the sun so bright on her hair that it looked like her head might, at any moment, burst into flame.
