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"When bodies begin to appear on the pages of her book as well as in Liza’s 'real’ life, will she be able to distinguish between what is actual reality and what is fiction?"
Great authors "write what they know.'" But when an author writes about murder, things can get a bit squirrely. In Lies She Told, the protagonist seeks to revive her literary career by writing a hot new thriller. But as the plot she writes begins to blur with her own life, the reader is left to sort out what’s true, and what are lies. After all, who doesn’t love a "book within a ...
Sometimes the truth is darker than fiction.
Liza Cole has thirty days to write the thriller that could put her back on the bestseller list. In the meantime, she’s struggling to start a family with her husband, who is distracted by the disappearance of his best friend, Nick. With stresses weighing her down in both her professional and her personal lives, Liza escapes into wr...
It is hard to believe that a man is telling the truth when you know that you would lie if you were in his place. —Henry Louis Mencken, A Little Book in C Major
I don't know this man. Fault lines carve his cheeks from his gaping mouth. His brow bulges above narrowed eyes. This man is capable of violence.
"Did you think I wouldn't find out?" Spittle hits my face as he screams. Fingers tighten around my biceps. My bare heels leave the hardwood. He's lifting me to his level so that there's no escape, no choice but to witness his pain. "Did you think I wouldn't read it?"
I feel my lips part, my jaw drop, but the sheer volume of his voice silences me. His grip loosens enough for my feet to again feel the floor.
"Answer me." He whispers this time, the hiss of a kettle before the boil.
"I didn't do anything." Tears drown my words.
"Why, Liza? Tell me why he had to die." His speech is measured. I wish he would swear, call me names. If he were out of control, I could calm him down, negotiate, maybe even convince him that everything has been a misunderstanding. But he's resolved. His questions are rhetorical. There's a gun on the dining table.
"Please." Sobs fold me in half. I press my hand to the wall, seeking leverage to stand. "I don't know.'"
He yanks my arm, forcing me from the corner. My knee slams against the jutting edge of the bed as he pulls me toward the oak writing desk and open laptop. The offending document lies on the screen. I'm pushed down into the desk chair and rolled forward.
"You expect me to believe this is a coincidence?" His index finger jabs the monitor.
"It's a story," I plead. "It's only a story."