Trust Me When I Lie by Benjamin Stevenson

Trust Me When

Trust Me When I Lie by Benjamin Stevenson
English | 2019 | Mystery/Thriller | ePUB | 1.8 Mb

Trust Me When : Eliza Dacey was murdered in cold blood. Four years later, the world watched it unfold again on screen.

Producer Jack Quick knows how to frame a story. So says Curtis Wade, the subject of Jack’s new true crime docuseries, convicted of a young woman’s murder four years prior. In the eyes of Jack’s viewers, flimsy evidence and police bias influenced the final verdict…even though, off screen, Jack himself has his doubts.

But when the series finale is wildly successful, a retrial sees Curtis walk free. And then another victim turns up dead.

To set things right, Jack goes back to the sleepy vineyard town where it all began, bent on discovering what really happened. Because behind the many stories he tells, the truth is Jack’s last chance. He may have sprung a killer from jail, but he’s also the one that can send him back.

“The homestead lights switched on.

Crunching gravel bore through the silence. A whistle. A faster patter now, many quick, small steps. A dog.

He didn’t have time to think; he grabbed the object and ran. Get there. Come on. Get there. It was a lopsided run, favoring his left, and he lumbered over the fence hard and landed on his side. Dropped the object. Fuck. The grass was wet against his cheek. The mist had settled, descending ghosts.

A strong beam shot up in the air, cutting through the fog. Unexpectedly, he felt a pang of not fear but jealousy: Lauren had a better flashlight than he did.

He pushed himself up to his knees, patted the ground until he found it. He ran to the car, immediately felt dizzy—too much running on an empty stomach—and leaned against the hood for a second. He had a second. Breathed in, tried not to focus on the pain. The dog sounded close now, no more time. He jumped in, tossing his find on the passenger seat, and shot off, no headlights, into the darkness.

The moon was high and bright. Vast quadruple-lane bridges spanned canyons hundreds of meters deep. In the daylight, red-rock cliff faces plunged into deep-blue, glittering water below. But in the dark, the bridges soared over nothingness, long black holes. In between gorges, rock walls loomed, the road a deep wound blasted through each mountain. Not a tunnel, a gash—open to the sky but encased in rock, dark with trickling water on either side. The bridges and cliff walls alternated every couple of hundred meters, giving Jack the feeling he was both in the middle of the air and deep underground. Safe enough now, he flicked the headlights on.

He gripped the steering wheel so hard his fingers were white and the curve of his bones showed through. He’d always had thin, cold hands. Bad circulation. Vampiric fingers designed to protrude from, curl around the lids of, coffins. Not a man’s hands, really.”


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