All The Lies (Lies & Truths Duet #1) by Rina Kent

Wrong place. Wrong life.

Those thoughts from when I first woke up at the hospital assault me again.

I flop down on a chesterfield sofa. The need to lie down and sleep surrounds me like a lullaby, but I don’t surrender to it.

A disaster happened the last time I did that.

Who would do that to me and why?

If I want to find answers, I need to know more about myself.

I pull out my phone and google my name. Several pictures come up, in cheerleading uniforms, at fundraisers alongside Alex, and at parties.

The smile on my face is so sickening and fake. I hate that smile. It’s not me.

There are a few articles about my disappearance for a month when I was twelve, some speculate there was a kidnapping. Others say, it was a runaway case. The picture where I was shot as Dad held me showed me in dirty clothes, my hair in a disarray and my face blank –so blank it’s frightening.

I run my fingers over the picture. “What happened to you back then?”

Dad’s name appears as a related search: Gareth Ellis. I googled him before and spent hours looking at his pictures. They always brought me a sense of safety and calm.

Gareth Ellis was a tall, fit man like Alex. He has that all-American look with blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a squarish jawline. He always wore English-cut suits like he was born in one.

I run my fingers along his face, feeling the pressure building behind my eyes.

Miss you, Papa.

According to his Wikipedia page, Dad was a bachelor his entire life. There isn’t a single picture of his wife—my mother—anywhere. No matter how much I dig, I only come up with gossip articles speculating that my mother could be a whore my dad impregnated.

My nose scrunches. From what I’ve gathered about Dad so far, he was never caught in a scandal about women. In an article, he told them, “I have the only girl I need by my side, my Rei.”

I close the search results so I don’t start bawling like an idiot. What right do I have to grieve my dad when I don’t even remember him?

My finger hovers over Instagram before I open it. My profile is as plastic as my life.

It’s all about rallies, cheerleading, and partying with the rest of the squad. My selfies are perfection incarnate with perfect makeup and perfect settings and perfect everything.

Sometimes, Owen and Sebastian take pictures with me, which should mean we’ve kept in touch over the past three years.

I scroll farther to my oldest pictures. Considering I’m an attention whore who posts often, it takes me several minutes to reach memories from high school.

My only picture with Asher stares back at me. It’s three years old, which means we were seniors at the time.

He stands in the middle of the empty field wearing white and blue football gear. His jersey sticks to his abs with sweat, and black lines sit underneath his eyes accentuating their forest color.

He grins in a wide and slightly cocky way, appearing every bit the gorgeous bastard he is.

He carries me bridal style in his strong arms. I’m wearing a matching white and blue cheerleading uniform with ‘Blue Tigers’ written on top. One of my legs is tossed high in the air as both my arms form a V with blue pom-poms.

Friday night lights shine behind us, creating a picture-perfect couple. There’s no caption, but there are hashtags.

#TigersForTheWin #We’reTheBest #StateHereWeCome #MyHero

I gawk at the last hashtag as if I can get into my head at the time and figure out why the hell I called him that.

Then I watch my smile in the picture. Wide and goofy, almost…happy. It’s not fake like all my smiles afterward. If anything, my picture with Asher is the last one where I had a resemblance of a genuine smile. Everything after that is plastic, dishonest…fake.

What happened three years ago?

I attempt to stalk Asher’s social media and see if the change is mutual. Then I recall Lucy telling me he doesn’t use social media. He never did, not even in high school.

I wonder why.

I check my DMs. They’re all either from Bree or the rest of the squad. They’re asking why I’m not answering my phone and haven’t returned to school.

I only reply to Lucy, telling her I have a doctor’s appointment.

Hopefully she believes it and asks the others to leave me alone.

I’m about to exit Instagram when a new message pops up on my screen. The username is Cloud003. I click on it out of curiosity then gasp.

Cloud003: Do you want to know who bound you like a slut?





My heartbeat picks up as I read and re-read the message. Is this the person who did it?

I scroll up and find other messages from the same user.

The first one he sent was two years ago.

Cloud003: I enjoyed your pussy tonight. Happy Halloween.

Cloud003: By the way, that mask you wore was such a lousy disguise. I obviously know who you are.

Reina-Ellis: What makes you think I don’t know who you are too?

Cloud003: Doubtful. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have opened your legs for me so readily. You wouldn’t have come that hard on my cock. Admit it—you like the thrill of the unknown.

Reina-Ellis: So do you.

Cloud003: But I already know who you are, my slut. Are you my slut, Reina?

Reina-Ellis: I am.

Cloud003: Only my slut?

Reina-Ellis: Only yours.





I gawk at the messages. That can’t be possible. I would never call myself a slut.