Page 8 of Never Lie
“Are you sure? Because—”
“I’m sure.”
She shrugs like she thinks I have made a tragic error in judgment by not accepting a pity date from her husband. It’s not the first time she’s offered. After a few times, you would think she’d get the message I’m not interested, but sadly, she has not.
“Anyway.” Paige thrusts the Manila envelope at me, her bright red fingernails shining under the overhead lights. “Here’s the proof of your new book.”
I accept the envelope from her grasp. I’m tempted to rip it open. This book is the culmination of two years of research and late nights spent poring over my notes and pounding on the keyboard. But I don’t want to look at it in front of Paige. I’ll do it after she leaves.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Gruesome stuff,” she comments, crinkling her nose. She made no secret of the fact that she thought I should “tone down” some of the violent scenes described in the book, but I was adamant they should stay as is. “It’s hard to read—for some people.”
“It’s all true.”
Paige eyes the envelope in my hand. She was hoping I would open it in front of her. She drove all the way up here from Manhattan after all. It’s no small trip to Westchester, but my first book,Know Yourself, was on theNew York Timesbestseller list for twenty-seven weeks. This highly anticipated follow-up could be worth a fortune to her. She wants to keep me happy.
She stands there for a moment, waiting to see if I’ll offer her a tour or perhaps a cup of coffee. She wants to be my friend. Or at least, she wants a pretend friendship, where we gossip, do lunch at a café, and act as though we don’t dislike one another.
I don’t have friends. I never have.
“Could I…” She licks her lips. “Could I trouble you for a glass of water?”
I throw a glance toward my kitchen. “Of course. The water is a bit brown though, I have to warn you. I’ve gotten used to the metallic taste, but it bothers some people.”
Her nose crinkles again. She has the faintest hint of freckles on the bridge, no doubt covered by several layers of makeup. “Brown water? Adrienne, you should have somebody take a look at that.”
“Oh, I don’t mind. It tastes fine. Let me grab that water for you.”
“Actually, that’s okay.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, it’s fine.” She looks a tad green at the idea of choking down a glass of my fictional brown water. She wants to be my friend, but not that badly. “I should be heading out now. It’s a long drive back to the city.”
I nod. “Drive safely.”
She takes one last long look around my house. She’s probably wondering how much it cost me. In another life, Paige could have been a real estate agent. She has the right personality for it. Pushy as hell.
“Honestly,” she says, “you should think about getting some sort of security system for this place. I don’t want to come here one day and find you murdered in the living room.”
Statistically, the risk of such a thing is low. Less than a quarter of all homicide victims are female. Most of those women are young and low-income.
“Or get a boyfriend,” Paige adds with a laugh. “Like I said, happy to help on that front.”
Up to seventy percent of females who have been murdered are killed by an intimate partner. So in actuality, her suggestion to “get a boyfriend” is not only highly judgmental and insulting but would onlyincreasemy risk of meeting with a violent end. But I will not debate this woman.
“I’m really fine,” I say again. “I don’t need a security system.”
She considers this for a moment then snorts. “Yeah, that’s right. You invite the crazies right in, don’t you?”
It hits me now. I don’t know how I never saw it. Paige doesn’t respect what I do. She has been my advocate through two publications, and in her defense, she’s damn good at it. But she doesn’t believe in any of it. To her, the people I help are a bunch of “crazies.”
During the five years I have known Paige, she has insulted my home and my lifestyle choices, and she’s been the harshest critic of my manuscripts. I have taken every bit of her abuse because she’s good at what she does. But today, she has crossed a line.
Nobody talks about my patients that way.
“Paige.” I tap the corner of my right eye. “You’ve got a bit of mascara caked right here.”
