Lies(2)

I tighten my ponytail of long dark hair. Then, in a rare display of dexterity that my yoga instructor would be proud of, I stack three boxes in my arms and head outside into the hot afternoon sun. Jen’s Honda Civic is parked at the curb, the trunk standing open as she moves things about inside. My old Subaru sits in the driveway waiting to be filled. Birds are singing and insects chirping. It’s your typical mild autumn day in California.

That’s when the condo blows up behind me.




I come to on the front lawn, sprawled across crushed boxes. Guess they cushioned my fall. A ringing fills my ears, smoke billows up into the sky. The condo is on fire. What’s left of it, at least. This cannot be happening.

“Betty!”

I try to turn in the direction of Jen’s voice, but one of my eyes won’t open. When I touch the area, my fingers come away bright with blood. Also, my brain hurts. It feels as if someone picked me up and shook me around hard.

“Oh my God, Betty,” she says, falling to her knees beside me. She’s fuzzy for some reason, her familiar features indistinct. “Are you all right?”

“Sure,” I say as blackness closes in.




The next time I wake, I’m lying down in a moving vehicle. An ambulance, by the looks of it. Only things don’t seem quite right. A woman shines a small light in my eyes before tossing it over her shoulder. And instead of a uniform, she’s wearing tight black pants and a tank top.

“Lucky girl. Just a mild concussion and a small cut on her forehead,” the woman says with an English accent. Next she rips an antiseptic wipe out of its packet and starts cleaning up the blood on my face none too gently. “She’s certainly not his usual type.”

“What were you expecting?” asks the driver.

“I don’t know. Something a little less plump and homely, perhaps.”

A grunt.

“And she’s awake,” the woman says.

“That’s inconvenient.”

“I’m on it.” She drops the wipe and reaches for a syringe.

“W-wait,” I say, my mouth dry and muscles hurting. “What’s going on?”

Without any preamble, the needle is plunged into my arm, the stopper depressed. It all happens so quickly. I try to move, to push her away, but I’m no match for her strength. Not in my current condition. As darkness closes in once more, I see a discarded paramedic uniform sitting off to the side.

“Who are you?” I mumble, my lips, face, and everything else going numb.

“Friends,” she says. “Well, sort of.”

The driver just laughs.




Consciousness comes slowly. It’s like I’m underwater in an ocean of night. This time, however, I’m upright, seated on a chair in a large and dimly lit room. My feet rest on the cold bare floor since someone’s stolen my shoes. Everything’s woozy and horrible. My hands are tied behind my back, the restraints painfully tight. The shadows disappear as a blinding light is shone in my face. It’s dazzling and awful, shooting pain through my already pounding head. Next comes a bucket of ice-cold water thrown in my face.

“Wakey wakey,” yells the shadow of a man. “Time for us to talk, Miss Elizabeth Dawsey.”

I cringe and shiver. “Wh-where am I?”

“I ask the questions and you give me answers. That’s how this works.”

“Is all this really necessary?” the woman with the British accent asks. Her voice comes from farther back in the room. “He’s not going to be happy.”

“Keep your mouth shut,” growls the man.

With the light blinding my eyes, there’s little I can see. My bare feet rest on concrete and the air is dusty and still. I could be anywhere. “I don’t understand. Who are you people?”

Heavy footsteps come toward me; then smack! His hand connects with my cheek. Fothermucker. I’ve never been hit before. It’s a hell of a shock. My face throbs and there’s the taste of blood on my tongue. I must have bitten it. But then everything pretty much hurts to one degree or another.

“I wouldn’t have done that if I were you,” says the woman.

But the man just ignores her, stepping back beyond the light. “What does the word ‘wolf’ mean to you?”

“Wolf?” I ask.

“Answer the question.”

“I don’t…what do you mean?” I shake from more than fear, ice-cold water sliding down my skin beneath the drenched clothing. “As in the animal?”

“What else?”

“Fur? Teeth? House Stark? I don’t know.”

Laughter from the woman.

“Tell me about your fiancé,” he demands. “Everything you know about the man.”

This makes no sense to my already-addled brain. “But why? Thom hasn’t done anything. He’s an insurance assessor, for Christ’s sake. Whenever there’s a fire or a flood or something, he goes and helps people with their claims. That’s where he is right now, assessing damage from that hurricane in Florida. It was on the news and everything.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“What are you saying?” A sudden surge of fear grips me. “Thom’s okay, isn’t he? I mean, he couldn’t have been in the explosion. He’s on the other side of the country.”