The Liar Next Door by Nicola Marsh

Prologue

I don’t make friends easily. I never have. I’m inherently suspicious of people: their motives, their lies. That’s what I hate the most, the monstrous untruths people tell in the name of self-preservation.

Though I’m a hypocrite. I’m guilty of lying myself, but I have a conscience and I despise myself for the charade. Keeping up the pretense is hard. I’m not sleeping well. I’m edgy. Lamenting the mistakes of the past and trying desperately to keep a grip on the present.

This sham I’m perpetuating won’t end well. I know this. I have a plan. It’s complicated and risky, but aren’t all good things in life worth taking a risk for?

I can see my future so clearly. I deserve to be happy. But one false step will bring my carefully constructed façade tumbling down and I’m incredibly nervous.

I hear sirens and foreboding trickles down my spine. Silly, because I haven’t hurt anyone. Not really. They can’t be coming for me.

But as the wailing intensifies and flashes of red and blue light illuminate the room, every muscle in my body tenses, ready for flight.

I take a deep breath, blow it out, and do it again, calming myself before I cross to the window and peek out. Three police cars pull up next door and the sirens are barely cut before the doors fly open and officers exit the vehicles, twelve in total. Some wear uniforms, some are plain-clothed detectives.

My gut twists with dread as I watch them stride up the path—thankfully not toward my front door—and I’m instantly remorseful for such a selfish thought.

Something bad has happened. That many officers wouldn’t show up for a simple disturbance or grievance, and certainly no detectives. I hope nothing’s wrong with one of the children. There are several youngsters in our cozy enclave. I see them playing in the park and it brings a simple joy to my complicated life.

I can’t see who opens my neighbor’s door no matter how hard I crane my neck. An officer notices me peering out my window and our gazes lock for a moment before I back away and draw the curtain so I’m out of sight.

While I hope my neighbors are fine, particularly the children, I don’t want to draw attention to myself. It’s the last thing I need.

I must relax and try to distract myself with mundane tidying, web surfing, even mindless reality TV. But I’m still on edge and when I hear a scream, a chill ripples over me, raising goosebumps.

Is it the anguished cry of a mother whose child is in jeopardy?

Or the shriek of someone who’s lost everything?