The Lie by Natalie Wrye (primary phonics books .txt) 📕

Unfortunately, for me, that’s not enough, and on a mission to find the woman who left me with a cryptic message that’s been haunting me for days, I seek her out, circling the empty rooms, hoping to finish the talk we started.

I slide a new denim shirt over my shoulders, leaving our assigned bedroom, and with Nancy and Sabrina still at the bridal dress shop, I take it upon myself to inspect every square inch of the main house.

Starting with the Eastward Wing.

Her wing.

My footsteps barely make a thud against the hardwood floors as I cross them, the feeling of temporary emptiness threatening to swallow me whole, each doorway another long-lost memory.

Memories I’d rather leave in the past.

But like the past, the doorways hold surprises.

And one of them decides to show up just as I pass, a pair of shadows stepping out of a white, well-lit room.

I brace myself, hands up.

“Oh. Oh, my word,” a semi-elegant older woman cries from the doorway. “I am so sorry. Forgive me. Forgive me for scaring you.”

I lower my hands. “No problem. I—I thought this wing was empty.”

“Well, it was at first,” the woman responds, more lipstick on her teeth than her mouth. She grins wide. “But we just had to have this room. It has the greatest view.”

I nod, knowing that every room has the greatest view. I try to move on. But the stranger stops me with a hand, shouting over her shoulder.

“Come here, honey! We have a guest.”

I brace again, and a middle-aged man with graying sideburns steps forward, one meaty hand held out. “Well, howdy there,” he comments like a caricature of a cowboy. “We haven’t met yet, have we?”

“I think I’d remember you,” I deadpan.

“Of course, of course. Hey, you look just like one of the Fletchers.”

“Probably because I am one.”

“Goodness God all mighty. You must be Lincoln.” He gives a sloppy, self-satisfied grin, and I can’t stop the urge to wipe it from his face.

I straighten, rolling back my denim sleeves. “Andrew,” I correct. “I go by Andrew.”

“Right, right, right. Andrew. God, you’re the spitting image of your grandfather.”

I arch an eyebrow. “You knew my grandfather?”

“Well,” he shuffles in oversized dress shoes, “I knew of him.”

“And you are?” I finally take his hand, having forgotten it was there, and his sweaty palm wraps around mine, pumping it.

I hate it immediately, withdrawing my shake with a step back.

“We’re the Bannekers,” he announces with country-fried confidence. “Jonathan’s parents.”

I nod. “Yes. Jonathan. Hannah’s soon-to-be husband.”

“You betcha. Hey,” he leans closer, “I guess that makes us family there, Lincoln, doesn’t it?”

“Guess so.”

“This is Paisley. And I’m Billy Bob.”

“Oh, I’m not surprised. I take it you’re not from New York.”

“Not originally,” Mrs. Lipstick-Teeth pipes in. “But we’ve been here for the past year or so, Billy Bob longer actually. I was visiting New York one weekend with girlfriends when I came across this hunk of burning love. We were married a year ago.”

I suddenly remember why Bri called them the Boring-kers.

I can’t think of anything less titillating as Paisley Banneker tries to launch into the origin story of her and her husband’s relationship.

A story I couldn’t give two shits about.

I plot my escape.

“I—I hate to interrupt you there,” I say. No, I don’t. “But I’ve really gotta be on my way. I haven’t had a chance to really talk to the bride, and I’m sure I’ll have to slip in before all of the wedding guests start hounding her. I don’t want to keep her waiting.”

“No, of course not,” Paisley and Cowboy Bob answer in unison.

“You go meet your sister and we’ll catch up later, won’t we?” Billy Bob presses.

I can’t even fake a smile. “You betcha,” I echo back, turning and leaving before they can draw me any further into conversation.

I march fast.

Passing doorways, rooms and windows that show that our little rainy afternoon is sliding into evening, I hurry.

Tonight’s the rehearsal dinner. And the closer we get to it, the less likely I will be able to get Hannah to herself.

To get to the bottom of this hostage weekend she’s holding us all in.

Tightening a fist, I find myself making headway until I turn a corner and almost slam into a wall of slime.

“Fuck!”

I back up, realizing that the wall isn’t slime at all. It’s muscle.

Wet muscle.

A person.

I draw back to discover familiar brown eyes staring in my direction.

I relax my shoulders.

“Gahdammit, Lach. Give a guy a fucking heart attack, why don’t ya?”

My old college friend Lachlan Quinn steps forward, wet brown hair swept across his forehead. He holds up a hand. “Give you a heart attack? You’re not the man coming out of a leisurely swim to find himself almost knocked off his feet with nothing to defend himself with?”

He glances down at a pair of soaked black swimming trunks.

“It’s not like these shorts can fit anything else in there. They’re already quite full.”

“You wish, you fucker. You’re not that well-endowed. We’ve pissed in enough alleys together for me to know at least that.” I slap his hand, tension leaving my body as we shake. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Having a swim. What’s it look like?”

I gaze over at the elongated pool—one of many, stretching along the now-tiled hallway.

“Before the rehearsal dinner?”

“Hey, a man’s gotta find a way to release before the madness begins. Great madness, of course. You know more than most that single women love weddings. And a Fletcher family one? There’s guaranteed to be plenty.”

“Glad to see you have your priorities straight.”

“Yeah, you bet.” He wipes a cascade of water off his face, raising golden-brown eyes to meet mine. He shakes out his hands, his stare searching my face. “And it seems like you do too. I don’t think I believed in a million years that you would show.”

I don’t blink. “To be honest? I almost didn’t.”

“Yeah. Yeah, Sabrina wasn’t sure you would, either.”

My throat grows smaller. “You talked to Sabrina?”

Lachlan blinks. “Of course. Who do you think invited me to the wedding?”

I