Twisted Lies Read online

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Praise for C.B. Clark

  Twisted Lies

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Epilogue

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing

  Also available from The Wild Rose Press

  A shape materialized out of the gloom…tall, lean, dark…infinitely terrifying.

  She whimpered, pivoted, and fled out of the house, stumbling over hidden roots and rocks, crashing into trees, fighting through the clinging prickles of wild raspberry bushes.

  She ran until her chest heaved and her lungs burned as if they were on fire. Her heart pounded with such ferocity she feared it would burst from her chest. Too exhausted to run farther, she sank to the cold, damp sand, curled into a ball, and closed her eyes.

  Her pursuer’s labored breathing pierced the late-night air. “Maggie!”

  Risking a peek, she opened her eyes and shuddered.

  He loomed over her. “Why are running from me, Margaret? I’m here to help.” His glower fixed on her; his gaunt face twisted into a parody of a smile. His thin lips shifted upward, teeth gleaming in the glow of the flashlight he carried.

  She scuttled behind a washed-up log, her small hands scrabbling in the soft sand, tangling in the crackling strands of dried seaweed and broken shells.

  His fingers wrapped around her shoulders, his nails digging into her tender skin as he dragged her from her hiding place.

  She opened her mouth to scream, but her throat was too tight, and no sounds emerged.

  Praise for C.B. Clark

  TWISTED LIES is award-winning author C.B. Clark’s seventh novel published by The Wild Rose Press. Her first novel, MY BROTHER’S SINS placed first in the Melody of Love Romance Writing Competition. BROKEN TRUST placed second in the 2017 Best Romance Novel Critters/Preditors & Editors Reader’s Poll. BITTER LEGACY, BROKEN TRUST and SECRET BETRAYAL are out in audible.

  “C.B. Clark takes readers on fabulous adventures.”

  ~Top pick, Night Owl Reviews, 5 Stars

  “Ms. Clark has done a fantastic job with yet another spellbinding story.”

  ~Reviews by Crystal, 5 Stars

  “BROKEN TRUST was an amazing mystery. Read this book in a few hours because I couldn’t put it down.”

  ~PRG’s Reviewers’ Choice Award 2018

  Twisted Lies

  by

  C.B. Clark

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Twisted Lies

  COPYRIGHT © 2021 by C.B. Clark

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Debbie Taylor

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Edition, 2021

  Trade Paperback ISBN 978-1-5092-3861-3

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-3862-0

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  This work would not be what it is if not for my ever-supportive editor, ELF, and the staff at The Wild Rose Press. Thank you for making my dreams come true.

  And of course, to Lin, my beta reader with the sharp eye.

  Chapter 1

  Twenty-one days.

  Twenty-one days sober.

  Other people talked about abstaining from alcohol in terms of months or years, but in the three years since her drinking started impacting her life, the longest Athena Reynolds had been dry was seven days.

  So, twenty-one days was good.

  Damn good.

  Abstinence was an ongoing battle. Every hour, every minute, every agonizing second of the past twenty-one days, her body ached with a bone-deep desperation. She’d made it that long, but today, the thirst was like a beast inside her, screaming to be fed. Her hard-won sobriety was about to end. She craved a drink. Now. She’d never wanted one more.

  Sinking onto the couch, she smoothed the crumpled envelope on her lap and reread the address label. Her stomach knotted. Someone knew her real name, and that she lived in the bustling foothills city of Calgary, Alberta.

  How was it possible? After all these years? The past she’d been running from had found her. The nightmare was back. The envelope fell from her shaking hands. Her legs wobbled as she rose and stumbled out of the living room and down the short hall to the kitchen.

  Afternoon sunlight streamed through the window above the sink. The cozy kitchen, with its walls painted a cheerful butter yellow, and the well-scrubbed laminate countertops, gleamed. The steady hum of the refrigerator and ticking of the antique clock on the wall were the only sounds in the silent house. The pungent smell of fried onions and roasted garlic, from last night’s homemade spaghetti sauce, hung in the air.

  The efficient kitchen, with its breakfast nook and view of the tidy, fenced backyard and the rolling, grassy foothills and snow-crested Rocky Mountains beyond, was the reason she’d bought the small rancher. This was her favorite room—the place she sought refuge when life overwhelmed her. How many times had she sat there in the evenings after work, sipping a glass of chilled white wine, watching the birds at the feeder on the back porch, breathing in the sweet smells of flowering Saskatoon bushes, regrouping until she was ready to face the world?

  These days, her drink of choice was a cup of herbal tea or unsweetened apple juice. Alcohol was off the table…had been for twenty-one unendurable days.

  But today, all bets were off.

  The brown-paper-wrapped bottle sat on the counter taunting her. She’d read the letter, then rushed down to Larry’s Liquor Outlet on the corner and bought a twenty-sixer of vodka. The alcohol called to her with the siren song of a mermaid, leading her, like the sailors of old, to certain destruction.

  Otis, her mixed-breed rescue dog, padded into the kitchen, his nails clicking on the tiles. He leaned his large hairy body against her legs, offering unspoken comfort. His long pink tongue lolled out, and he licked her hand.

  “Hey, boy.” Never taking her focus off the mesmerizing bottle, she scratched him behind one floppy ear, threading her fingers through his rough coa
t.

  His tail thumped the floor like a bass drum.

  Giving him a final pat, she crossed to the counter and ripped the bag off the bottle. She crumpled the brown-paper wrapping into a ball, then tossed it into the sink. The brand was one she hadn’t tried, but the taste or quality didn’t matter. She wasn’t going to sip the vodka.

  Not a chance.

  A single, quick gulp, and she’d drain her glass. Then she’d pour the rest of the contents down the sink. She just needed one drink…one stiff shot. Twisting open the bottle top, she poured several ounces into a glass tumbler.

  Don’t do this!

  The command bellowed through her like an edict from above.

  You’re throwing away twenty-one days of sobriety.

  Her stomach twisted, and her brain whirled with the coping strategies she’d learned from the four AA meetings she’d attended. Stress was a trigger. She needed to calm down and take control. Closing her eyes, she focused—breathing in through her nostrils and out through her mouth. Slow and steady, just like she’d been taught.

  Again, and again.

  Really? This mindfulness crap was supposed to work? Who were those AA people kidding? She opened her eyes and spotted the full glass. In that second, the battle was lost. The booze called, promising instant gratification. She needed a drink more than she needed her next breath. Grabbing the tumbler with both hands, she lifted the glass and gulped.

  The vodka slithered down her throat, coiled in warm anticipation in her stomach, and seeped into her bloodstream. The familiar, tart, citrusy taste settled on her tongue like an old friend. A tidal wave of comforting warmth swelled, filling her body, relaxing and exhilarating at the same time. She slugged down the rest of the drink and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

  She’d go back on the wagon tomorrow, attend an AA meeting, voice her regrets, and all would be well. Everyone had relapses. Today was hers. Lord knew, she had plenty of reason. She picked up the bottle, held it over her empty glass, and poured.

  Her cell phone rang, the tinny peal piercing her brain like a dentist’s drill. The bottle slipped from her hand and landed on the tiles with a thunderous crash. Shards of glass sprayed across the room. Liquor puddled on the floor. The sharp bite of alcohol filled the small kitchen.

  Otis barked and bounded into the room.

  “Get back, boy.” She gestured for him to sit. “Stay.”

  He stopped inches from the spilled liquor and glass splinters and sat.

  Cursing under her breath, she tore off a handful of paper towels and crouched on her hands and knees. She ignored the earsplitting ringing and mopped at the spilled liquor. The call was probably from work.

  Three weeks prior, her boss, Frank Schuster, at the prestigious law firm of Schuster & Corbin in downtown Calgary, had called her into his office. Apparently, her drinking problem wasn’t a secret anymore. Her co-workers had noticed her all-too-frequent absences and tardiness, and the quality of her work was suffering.

  All things considered, Frank had been pretty decent about the uncomfortable situation, but he insisted she take a paid leave of absence while she got her problem under control. The underlying threat was that either she stopped drinking, or she’d be fired.

  Hell, if gaining control of the beast that had taken over her life was that easy, she’d have quit long ago. But she needed her job, and she promised him she’d seek help and be back at work in a month, two at the tops. He wished her well, and she packed up her desk and drove home. A woman from the law firm’s human resources department called her every week or so for an update on her recovery. Her mouth twisted. Wouldn’t HR be happy to hear of her most recent relapse?

  A sharp, stabbing pain shot through her hand. “Ouch!” She winced and studied her palm. A tiny splinter of glass was embedded in her skin, and a thin trickle of blood seeped from the wound. She sank onto the floor and leaned back against the cupboard. Blood dripped from her cut, mixing with the vodka in a pink-tinged puddle. Tears burned her eyes as she looked from her bleeding hand to the spilled vodka, unsure which upset her more…the wasted alcohol or her oozing wound.

  Otis trotted to her side, somehow avoiding the wet floor and broken glass. He licked her face, lapping up the tears.

  She buried her nose in his furry neck, inhaling his comforting doggy smell. He plopped on her lap, his heavy body crushing her legs, and she rubbed his belly, tangling her fingers through his coarse gray hair.

  The sting in her hand pierced her desolation and guilt. The small cut had stopped bleeding, but she should remove the sliver of glass and clean and bandage the wound. And then she’d go to the store and buy another bottle.

  Why not?

  The damage was done. She’d broken her twenty-one-day record. One more drink wouldn’t make a difference. Ignoring the inner voice warning her she was destroying her hard-won sobriety, she shoved off Otis’s dead weight and hauled herself to her feet.

  The phone rang again.

  Throwing her hands up in the air, she swung to the counter, grabbed the vibrating phone, and hit Cancel. Blessed silence filled the air like the sweetest of symphonies.

  Otis barked and scratched at the back door, his thick claws digging new furrows into the scarred doorframe.

  “Hold on, boy. Let me fix my hand, then you can go out.” Shifting to the sink, she twisted the tap and held her injured palm under the cool running water. The tiny sliver of glass washed away, and she turned off the tap and dried her hand with a paper towel. Sliding open the drawer beside the sink, she fished through the jumble of twist ties, screws, nails, and other junk, and tugged out a crumpled cardboard box of bandages. She removed a bandage, used her teeth to rip off the paper covering, and smoothed the thin plastic bandage over her wound.

  Otis barked again. Tail wagging, he perched on his hind end, staring expectantly at first her and then the door, his request more than clear.

  Exercise was supposed to be another coping strategy for staying sober. Maybe a walk in the fresh air would help dull her insatiable thirst, and she wouldn’t have to buy another bottle and hate herself even more. “Okay. Okay. You win, boy. Let’s go for a walk.”

  Otis’s mouth curved in a lopsided grin, and he danced in a circle, his tail wagging.

  She dodged the damp patches and shards of glass on the floor and grabbed her coat and purse, plus Otis’s leash, from the hook by the door. Shrugging into her wool coat, she flung open the door.

  Otis shot through the opening, bounded over the small porch, and raced across the lawn to the back gate, barking in high-pitched excitement.

  Chapter 2

  They crossed the busy street and entered the green belt. She chuckled at the dog’s antics. Otis was three years old, but even though he’d grown from a tiny pup that fit in the palm of her hand to over a hundred pounds of shedding fur and slobber, he still acted like a puppy.

  The siren call of alcohol faded as she strolled along the wide gravel path past budding green ash and trembling aspen trees. She inhaled the rich scents of rain-washed earth, growing plants, and spring. Unhooking Otis’s leash, she freed his squirming body.

  He bolted to the base of a tree and barked.

  A squirrel scampered up the thick trunk and chittered noisily, taunting the dog from the safety atop a branch.

  If she let him, Otis would happily spend hours waiting at the base of the tree in hopes the squirrel would forget the dog was watching and return to the ground. She called him and strode down the path.

  Nose to the ground, tail wagging, Otis followed.

  The trees deadened the sounds of traffic, and she could almost forget she was in the middle of a busy, modern city. Birds flitted through the trees, and the afternoon sun filtered through the branches and shone warm on her shoulders. The fresh scents of rising birch sap, melting snow, and…dog dung?…hung in the warm spring air. She lifted her foot and grimaced. The sole of her sneaker was coated in brown, foul-smelling dog feces. Muttering under her breath, she scraped her sho
e on the grass.

  Otis blasted ahead, chasing a new intriguing scent.

  She didn’t worry about him running loose. The trails were usually deserted at this time of day. The young urban mothers wearing the latest yoga gear, pushing their strollers filled with squalling babies and followed by a gaggle of straggling toddlers, didn’t make an appearance until the afternoon. Runners and power walkers waited until after work to get their exercise.

  She used to be part of that after-work crowd. Before her world fell apart, three times a week, she’d switch from her high-heeled pumps and power suit to a T-shirt, leggings, and sneakers, grab Otis, and together they’d run along the park’s kilometers of paths.

  That was before—before her heavy drinking made doing anything more than sinking on the couch with a bottle of wine or a glass of vodka too much of an effort. But since she’d been home on leave, she’d been doing well, getting out and walking Otis almost every day.

  Until today.

  Until the letter showed up in her mail. Her good intentions had gone south after that. She searched her coat pocket. Damn. She’d left her cell phone at home. Two missed calls from work could be explained. Three…not so much. She wasn’t independently wealthy. She needed her job, needed her boss to know she was trying her hardest and had every intention of getting healthy and back to work. Even if her actions today proved that was a lie.

  Loud, frantic baying jolted her out of her dark thoughts. Her heart stuttered as the barking ramped up another decibel. Definitely not Otis’s I saw a squirrel! bark. Something had the dog nervous. A bear? Not likely, not this close to the city. “Otis, come!”

  The high-pitched barking increased in volume.

  She hurried down the trail. Please don’t let it be a skunk. Otis’s unforgettable encounter last spring with a skunk flashed before her. He’d come running back to her, his tail between his legs, whimpering and stinking to high heaven. She’d hauled him home, wrestled him into the bathtub, poured six large cans of tomato juice over him, and hosed him down. Even then, he’d stunk for weeks.

  She sped around a bend in the path and skidded to a stop.

  Otis ran to her, whining and racing in frenzied circles around her legs, threatening to trip her.