Lie Like a Magpie by Lily Anna
English | 2020 | Mystery & Thriller | ePUB | 2.7 MB
Maggie Morton is good at pretending. Pretending she can forget the past. Pretending she didn’t make a life-changing mistake. Pretending her identity isn’t faked. She hides behind her cover as a normal 18-year-old Sixth Form student, believing she can protect herself that way. If she can hold on to some normality, no one can hurt her again. Or so she thinks, until, a figure from her past comes back to haunt her. Her front is threatened. Try as she might to remain strong, the new person she has become begins to fall from her grasp. She’s forced to realise you can’t hide behind lies forever. Maybe if you try to, it hurts you more in the end. Maybe it’s time she faces the truth; the real truth of what happened and who she really is.
I was back at school three hours later, trying to bypass the cameras and security system from a tablet. Who needed their mother to do it for them?
I did it in under five minutes, soon coaxing the lock at the back gate open. I slipped into the building and went straight to the locker room, relieved to secure the grenade safely in my bag.
With hindsight crawling through the ventilation system last night had been overkill, when I could just as easily open all the doors I needed.
The locker room was less creepy at this time of day too. Early morning sunlight was spilling in from the sky light in the ceiling above, giving the room a slight warm, yellow ambience; preferable to the eerie green of last night.
I went to locker 25 again and swung the door open. Unsurprisingly, it was still empty. No secret compartments stashed with something either; the back panel of the locker wouldn’t move an inch.
It would have been nice to find whatever they were looking for on my own. Not only so I could see it first, but also as a reminder that I was still good at things. I wasn’t incapable of snooping around by myself.
I sank onto one of the benches with a yawn. I could realistically run back home and catch another couple of hours sleep, but I’d already told my parents I was going for a morning run and then heading straight into sixth form. They’d pick up on the sounds of me going back to bed; I didn’t need a reason to have to explain why I lied to them.
I pulled my legs up into a more comfortable position and wedged my rucksack under my head. The lumpiness of my makeshift pillow didn’t quite let me drift fully off to sleep, but I was zoned out enough to be alarmed by the sound of the school bell a few hours later.
I swore and caught my balance as my body jerked and I nearly rolled off the bench.
Pupils were starting to make their way down the corridors, yawing and shuffling their backpacks about as they entered the locker room. I pretended to be sitting to tie my shoe lace; probably less suspicious and attention-drawing than being spotted having a quick kip before school.
I retreated to the corner and leant against my locker instead, remembering to get the tablet back out to start up all the things I had disabled.
Hopefully no one was going to notice a two-hour lapse in video footage. I didn’t have time to loop some imagery of the vacant school to fill its place; a familiar voice had cut my concentration.
“You look tired.” It was the usual morning line from Olive Anders.