We Lie Here: A Thriller, page 1
PRAISE FOR WE LIE HERE
“We Lie Here is another fast and surprisingly funny thriller from Rachel Howzell Hall. I was on the edge of my seat through all the revelations, twists, and turns in a fast-paced third act. Get this book and relax with the knowledge that you are in the hands of a fantastic crime novelist.”
—Adrian McKinty, Edgar Award–winning author of the Sean Duffy series
“In We Lie Here, Rachel Howzell Hall gives us a tight, lean, eye-level look at the Gibson family—flawed, normal, abnormal, and each affected by a deadly secret left buried for years—while weaving a page-turning tapestry of dread, cold-blooded murder, and nail-biting tension. What a ride. What a wonderful writer. More, please.”
—Tracy Clark, author of the Chicago Mystery series
“Rachel Howzell Hall continues to shatter the boundaries of crime fiction through the sheer force of her indomitable talent.”
—S. A. Cosby, author of Blacktop Wasteland
“We Lie Here is definitive proof that it’s impossible to be disappointed by Rachel Howzell Hall, who just gets better and better with each book. She has tools and tricks to spare as she pulls you to the edge of your seat with her razor-sharp plotting and keen eye for the darker side of human behavior that’s too easily obscured by the California sunshine.”
—Ivy Pochoda, author of These Women, a New York Times Best Thriller of 2020
“Loaded with surprises and shocking secrets, and propelled by Rachel Howzell Hall’s magnificent prose, We Lie Here is a captivating thriller that I couldn’t put down. It’s very clear to me that Hall is one of the best crime writers working today, and she keeps getting better. We Lie Here is a can’t-miss book.”
—Alex Segura, acclaimed author of Secret Identity, Star Wars Poe Dameron: Free Fall, and Blackout
“Rachel Howzell Hall continues to prove why she’s one of crime fiction’s leading writers. We Lie Here is a psychological-suspense fan’s dream with both a heroine you’ll want to root for and a story you’ll want to keep reading late into the night. A must read!”
—Kellye Garrett, Agatha, Anthony, and Lefty Award–winning author of Like a Sister
PRAISE FOR THESE TOXIC THINGS
An Amazon Best Book of the Month: Mystery, Thriller & Suspense
“This cleverly plotted, surprise-filled novel offers well-drawn and original characters, lively dialogue, and a refreshing take on the serial killer theme. Hall continues to impress.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“A mystery/thriller/coming-of-age story you won’t be able to put down till the final revelation.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Tense and pacey, with an appealing central character, this is a coming-of-age story as well as a gripping mystery.”
—The Guardian
“The mystery plots are twisty and grabby, but also worth noting is the realistic rendering of a Black LA neighborhood locked in a battle over gentrification.”
—Los Angeles Times
“Rachel Howzell Hall . . . just gets better and better with each book.”
—CrimeReads
“Rachel Howzell Hall continues to shatter the boundaries of crime fiction through the sheer force of her indomitable talent. These Toxic Things is a master class in tension and suspense. You think you are ready for it. But. You. Are. Not.”
—S. A. Cosby, author of Blacktop Wasteland
“These Toxic Things is taut and terrifying, packed with page-turning suspense and breathtaking reveals. But what I loved most is the mother-daughter relationship at the heart of this gripping thriller. Plan on reading it twice: once because you won’t be able to stop, and the second time to savor the razor’s edge balance of plot and poetry that only Rachel Howzell Hall can pull off.”
—Jess Lourey, Amazon Charts bestselling author of Unspeakable Things
“The brilliant Rachel Howzell Hall becomes the queen of mind games with this twisty and thought-provoking cat-and-mouse thriller. Where memories are weaponized, keepsakes are deadly, and the past gets ugly when you disturb it. As original, compelling, and sinister as a story can be, with a message that will haunt you long after you race through the pages.”
—Hank Phillippi Ryan, USA Today bestselling author of Her Perfect Life
PRAISE FOR AND NOW SHE’S GONE
“It’s a feat to keep high humor and crushing sorrow in plausible equilibrium in a mystery novel, and few writers are as adept at it as Rachel Howzell Hall.”
—Washington Post
“One of the best books of the year . . . whip-smart and emotionally deep, And Now She’s Gone is a deceptively straightforward mystery, blending a fledgling PI’s first ‘woman is missing’ case with underlying stories about racial identity, domestic abuse, and rank evil.”
—Los Angeles Times
“Smart, razor-sharp . . . Full of wry, dark humor, this nuanced tale of two extraordinary women is un-put-downable.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Smart, packed with dialogue that sings on the page, Hall’s novel turns the tables on our expectations at every turn, bringing us closer to truth than if it were forced on us in school.”
—Walter Mosley
“A fierce PI running from her own dark past chases a missing woman around buzzy LA. Breathlessly suspenseful, as glamorous as the city itself, And Now She’s Gone should be at the top of your must-read list.”
—Michele Campbell, bestselling author of A Stranger on the Beach
“One of crime fiction’s leading writers at her very best. The final twist will make you want to immediately turn back to page one and read it all over again. And Now She’s Gone is a perfect blend of PI novel and psychological suspense that will have readers wanting more.”
—Kellye Garrett, Anthony, Agatha, and Lefty Award–winning author of Hollywood Homicide and Hollywood Ending
“Sharp, witty, and perfectly paced, And Now She’s Gone is one hell of a read!”
—Wendy Walker, bestselling author of The Night Before
“Hall once again proves to be an accomplished maestro who has composed a symphony of increasing tension and near-unbearable suspense. Rachel brilliantly reveals the bone and soul of our shared humanity and the struggle to contain the nightmares of human faults and failings. I am a fan, pure and simple.”
—Stephen Mack Jones, award-winning author of the August Snow thrillers
“Heartfelt and gripping . . . I’m a perennial member of the Rachel Howzell Hall fan club, and her latest is a winning display of her wit and compassion and mastery of suspense.”
—Steph Cha, award-winning author of Your House Will Pay
“An entertainingly twisty plot, a rich and layered sense of place, and most of all a main character who pops off the page. Gray Sykes is hugely engaging and deeply complex, a descendant of Philip Marlowe and Easy Rawlings who is also definitely, absolutely her own woman.”
—Lou Berney, award-winning author of November Road
“A deeply human protagonist, an intricate and twisty plot, and sentences that make me swoon with jealousy . . . Rachel Howzell Hall will flip every expectation you have—this is a magic trick of a book.”
—Rob Hart, author of The Warehouse
“And Now She’s Gone has all the mystery of a classic whodunit, with an undeniably fresh and clever voice. Hall exemplifies the best of the modern PI novel.”
—Alafair Burke, New York Times bestselling author
PRAISE FOR RACHEL HOWZELL HALL
“A fresh voice in crime fiction.”
—Lee Child
“Devilishly clever . . . Hall’s writing sizzles and pops.”
—Meg Gardiner
“Hall slips from funny to darkly frightening with elegant ease.”
—Publishers Weekly
PRAISE FOR THEY ALL FALL DOWN
“A riotous and wild ride.”
—Attica Locke
“Dramatic, thrilling, and even compulsive.”
—James Patterson
“An intense, feverish novel with riveting plot twists.”
—Sara Paretsky
“Hall is beyond able and ready to take her place among the ranks of contemporary crime fiction’s best and brightest.”
—Strand Magazine
ALSO BY RACHEL HOWZELL HALL
These Toxic Things
And Now She’s Gone
They All Fall Down
City of Saviors
Trail of Echoes
Skies of Ash
Land of Shadows
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2022 by Rachel Howzell Hall
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
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Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781662500329 (hardcover)
ISBN-10: 1662500327 (hardcover)
ISBN-13: 9781542033695 (paperback)
ISBN-10: 1542033691 (paperback)
First edition
To my mother, Jacqueline. I marvel at it all . . .
CONTENTS
Start Reading
Thursday, June 25 . . .
THE GOOD DAUGHTER
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
HOME AGAIN
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
AN OLD FRIEND
21
22
23
24
25
26
STRANGE LADY
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
I’M NOT OKAY
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
A FAMILY AFFAIR
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
HOW TO LI(V)E
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
HERE WE LIE
61
62
63
64
Epilogue
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.
—Benjamin Franklin
Thursday, June 25, 1998
Every summer, the Afro-Americans came to hoot and holler at Lake Paz. Yes, every summer they arrived and talked loudly, and never kept private things private, and always spilled those secret things across the woods like cheap wine. And they always spilled those most-awful private things while good people, quiet people, tried to sleep.
Birdie glanced at the clock on her nightstand: almost an hour before midnight and those people in the cabin next door were doing this now. Of course they were. Their anger had slipped through the evergreens and rustled through the high grass to pull her from sleep.
They made the first Black family in these woods look flawless. Now, that family—the best of their people—would drive up, say hello as they moved from the car to their porch, bags of groceries already in hand and purchased from wherever they lived ten months out of the year.
The noise from that family would be laughter. A woman’s. A girl’s. His. Melodic. Harmonious. Pure. And he would play the piano, too. “Rhapsody in Blue” had been Birdie’s favorite, and he’d play a few other songs she recognized from the movies or television shows. The girl played piano, too. Not as good as her father, but it was still nice to listen to. Not that Birdie would ever admit that to Bud. Oh no, not ever.
Any time that family sat lakeside, Birdie would hear them speak soft words. I love you and You’re beautiful and Yes, I’d like another. And the way he looked at his woman and at his little one as he said those words . . . So soft. So dreamy.
What was that like? To hear soft words and silken declarations of love?
But that had been many summers ago. Tonight? Only hard words. Stop and Let me go and Please don’t, with the little girl crying, screaming, shrieking even.
Birdie studied Bud, still sleeping in bed beside her. He was snoring with his mouth open. Lost to this world for the next seven hours. That was for the best, since Bud didn’t much like the Blacks—not the ones who’d vacationed at that cabin summers before and definitely not the ones vacationing there now.
The girl shrieked again.
Birdie’s pulse jumped, and she pushed away the heavy quilt. Mosquitoes lunged at her bare, pale legs. She slapped them away, then grabbed the bedside can of DEET and sprayed. After pulling on her robe and pushing her feet into slippers, she tiptoed toward the doorway.
The hardwood floor creaked.
Bud snuffled, then turned over in bed. “Where you going?”
“Fresh air,” she said. “Can’t sleep.”
But he was already out again. Good. With Bud asleep, she wouldn’t have to involve Karlton, Lake Paz’s sole sheriff’s deputy. He’d warned Bud and Birdie several times: Leave them people alone, or I’ll have to bring you in again.
Let sleeping Buds lie.
Birdie grabbed the flashlight from the living room coffee table and the pistol from the empty sugar tub in the pantry. Just in case Bud was right.
The night air smelled of dying lake grass and still water and held the heat of the day. Croaking frogs and crickets vied to make the most noise. Tonight, the crickets were winning. Sometimes these were the only noises in the woods by the lake, and sometimes Birdie thought she was the only human surrounded by trees, water, and a sky as wide as forever.
Birdie now heard crying coming from the cabin.
These people.
This lakeside community had one restaurant, a general store, two churches, and a bar. No crime. No problems. Maybe not as fancy as Lake Arrowhead with all those movie stars and tycoons building mansions around its shores. Lake Paz was natural, created by the San Andreas Fault. Or, according to legend, created by the devil himself. Lake Arrowhead couldn’t say that.
Beneath that moonless, forever sky, Birdie tromped through the crackling dry leaves and hard pine needles, past that gold Camaro (the only thing Bud actually liked about these people) with its god-awful thunderous muffler.
“Please, don’t! Ohmigod, stop! Please.”
All of this late-night hullabaloo made her underarms sticky with perspiration. What was he doing to her? And with their daughter right there? She’d heard that mental illness plagued the family. Every morning, she saw the woman, glassy-eyed and limp, wandering the shores of the lake. The child, wearing her Cookie Monster nightgown, trailing behind her mother, would stop to dip her hands into the water, but then call out Mommy, wait! because Mommy never stopped because she was drunk or whacked-out on drugs. The girl could’ve drowned a million times, and Mommy would’ve never known.
Maybe tonight he had tired of her spells, of searching for her again in the woods, of finding the little girl alone on the porch or playing by herself near the lake again.
Or maybe she cheated on him, and he found out and threatened to leave.
Or maybe he cheated on her, and the silly young thing had been enough of a fool to ask him about it.
“I’m begging you!”
Birdie’s blood chilled. Crazy or not, any woman—white, Black, purple—knew desperation when she heard it. She slowed in her step as she came upon the kelly-green A-frame cabin, the nicest cabin at Lake Paz. It had a basement, a hot tub, and a deck that overlooked the lake. They can’t do anything without flash and noise, Bud had complained, even though he’d wanted both a hot tub and a deck. Even though he owned the town’s only general store, he still couldn’t afford those fancy-pants things.
Hesitant, Birdie climbed the porch steps and pushed the doorbell. As she waited, worry flitted around her belly like fireflies.
No answer.
She ran her fingers through her short blonde hair, then banged her fist against the door. “It’s Roberta Sumner from next door. I’m gonna call the sheriff’s if you don’t open up.” She slapped at her neck—she’d forgotten to DEET there, and the skeetos were eating her alive.
The door cracked open. A smell wafted through that small slit. It wasn’t alcohol. It wasn’t drugs. Not even blood. Did terror have a scent?
Birdie stuck her hand into the robe pocket hiding the pistol.
All had quieted in the cabin. Even the girl had stopped crying.
The woman’s eye, bloodshot and swollen from crying, peeked out at her. “Mrs. Sumner, how are you?” Always polite, she now sounded hoarse, tired.
“You all are too loud.” These hard words made Birdie a little dizzy, a little nauseated. Because that wasn’t what she’d meant to say, not right away. A Nebraskan, she’d been raised to offer pleasantries first—how do you do, lovely evening isn’t it, that’s a lovely coat. It was almost midnight, though. “You’re gonna wake up the dead making all that noise.”
“I’m so sorry,” the young woman said.
Birdie tried to peer past her into the living room. The space was dark and quiet. Too dark. Too quiet. She gripped the pistol tighter. “Everything okay?” she asked. “Do you need the police? An ambulance?”
