Page 17 of Pretty Lies & Ugly Truths

It’s clear Archer knows how to handle himself, but…I don’t really know him. He seems like a decent guy—after all, he did save my life tonight. He also comforted me while I ruined his nice shirt, so he can’t be that bad.

But then again, people said that about Bundy, and look at how well it turned out for those women.

Although…he has had plenty of opportunities to hurt me if he wanted to, which he hasn’t. It could be because he wants to get me somewhere quiet before he carves me up into pieces, but I don’t think so. Maybe I’m being stupid and naïve, but I don’t think he would. For some unknown reason, I trust him.

Making up my mind, I set about packing my things. I may be making a huge mistake, but at this point, what other choice do I have?

7

Archer

She lied. I know she lied. About what, though, I’m not quite sure. I can’t help but ask myself, how muchdoesshe remember?

Up until now, I was confident that the events from that night had been wiped clean from her memory—which wouldn’t have been unusual for such a heavy sedative as the one I gave her—but now, I’m not as sure.

Maggie doesn’t strike me as a cold, hard killer. It takes one to know one, and I know firsthand what it takes to perform such an act of violence, as well as the scars they leave on your soul. So, I find it hard to believe she could commit a brutal murder and then go about her life as if nothing happened. That would either make her the most resilient person I have ever met, or a complete sociopath.

I have come in contact with some real fucked up people in my life, especially in my previous line of work, and I can tell she isn’t like them.

Yet…I can’t seem to get a read on her. It was clear by her reaction there is something she isn’t telling me, and I plan on making it my mission to find out what.

Maggie steps out right as I end my call, Jayce still bitching into the phone when I hang up. She looks dead on her feet, her arms limp and heavy at her sides.

I slip my phone in my pocket and take the overnight bag she’s carrying, slinging it over my shoulder before guiding her towards the car.

After throwing her bag in the back, I close the trunk and lean with my hip against the vehicle, arms and legs crossed, while she remains planted firmly on the sidewalk.

“So…what’s it gonna be? Do you have somewhere you want me to take you or are you coming with me?” I ask, though from the defeated look she’s wearing, I am quite sure I can guess the answer.

I had one of my best friends and expert hacker, Beckham Reid, dig into Maggie’s past, so I know she’s adopted. Her adoptive mother suffers from a debilitating condition, which leaves Maggie to take on the role of caregiver. Based on that information I had a hunch Maggie wouldn’t want to put her in danger.

I should feel bad, using that knowledge to try and manipulate her decision, but there’s a very real threat that someone’s after her, and there is no way I’m just going to walk away and leave her here unprotected.

And after the disturbing news I just received from Jayce, I’m very glad I didn’t.

“No. I’m coming with you,” she murmurs.

I push away from the car, opening the passenger door and helping her inside before getting behind the wheel.As I pull away from the curb, her head whips back toward her apartment.

“Shouldn’t we wait for the police?”

“What?” I ask, perplexed.

“The police. Wasn’t that who you were talking to before I came out?”

Oh, she means when I was on the phone with Jayce. Yeah…I definitely won’t be involving those assholes, certainly not after what I just found out. I have plans for that piece of shit, and it doesn’t involve the cops.

“Don’t worry, I have it all handled.” She eyes me skeptically but must be more exhausted than I realized, because she just shrugs before turning away, resting her head against the glass.

At some point she falls asleep, the sound of her soft snores audible over the low hum of the engine. As I take a right turn onto the long gravel drive that leads to my place, the jostling of the car causes her to stir.

“W-where are we?” she asks, voice groggy as she sits up straight and swipes at her mouth with the back of her hand, her eyes becoming fully alert as she peers out the front window to where my house appears illuminated by the front spotlights.

When I first bought this place—aptly named The Last Resort—it was nothing more than a dilapidated shack, a place for me to live out the rest of my miserable existence, to wallow in my grief and wait for death to catch up to me.

Now, it’s a two-story, craftsman style beach house with slate grey cedar shake siding, light blue shutters and whitetrim. It has been completely renovated inside and out, outfitted with the best security system on the market—because one can never be too careful.

“This is my beach house. I figured it would be safer out here than in the city.”

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