The Darkest Lie by Pintip Dunn Page A

disjointed flashes of the familiar. The worn wooden sign directing us to Lakewood Cabins. The dilapidated playground next to the elementary school, with its creaky swings and peeling paint. The crumbling public library on the way to Alisara’s neighborhood.
    By day, Lakewood resembles an empty tuna can—plain, rusty, and a little sad, holding traces of something that wasn’t all that great to begin with. Once the railroad pulled out of town a decade ago, so did the jobs, leaving the people to make a life out of the leftovers.
    At night, though, the town takes on an almost spooky quality, a feeling that makes me grip the steering wheel a little tighter as I navigate the streets.
    â€œI don’t mind that you were late,” Alisara bursts out when we turn onto her road. “But I saw you walk back into the cabin with that new guy. Are you really not going to say a word about him?”
    I jerk, and the car swings toward the curb. “What . . . what do you want me to say?”
    â€œI don’t know, CeCe,” she mutters, looking out the window. A passing street light paints a stripe over her ear, making her look like the heroine in a slasher flick. “What you two were doing? How hot he is? If he’s a good kisser?”
    â€œI didn’t kiss him,” I say, heat creeping up my neck. “We hung out by the car and talked. But I, uh . . . I think he’s cute.”
    She turns to me, her features softening. She doesn’t press me for any more details, and I realize she doesn’t actually want the information. Like her running monologues by my bedside, this isn’t about gossip. It’s about giving her a sign of my friendship.
    My throat tightens. Because Alisara is my friend. Maybe, after these last few months, the only friend I have left.
    â€œAlisara,” I say hesitantly. “At the party, did they talk about my mom’s photo a lot?”
    â€œYeah.” She glances down, but then brings her gaze right back to my face. “The guys were pretending to masturbate to the picture; the girls were saying they always knew she was a slut by the way she dressed.”
    I pull into her driveway and turn off the ignition. “And what did you say?”
    â€œI said sure, those button-downs and linen pants were really sexy. I’m surprised the school board didn’t come down with a ban on pearl earrings. Scandalous.” She places a hand on my arm. “She was seventeen, CeCe. You don’t know why she posed for that photo. You don’t understand the context.”
    â€œSo, what, I’m supposed to give her the benefit of the doubt?”
    â€œShe was your mother.”
    â€œThat doesn’t give her a free pass.”
    Except she wasn’t a mother in name only. What about all the times she drove my forgotten homework to school? The years she served as room parent? She had less time after she went back to teaching, but she was just as attentive. Just as loving.
    Does that count for anything?
    I don’t know. Six months after her death, and I’m still no closer to an answer.
    * * *
    My phone rings as I slide my key into the front door. The “suspense” ring tone. I push the button to end the call. It rings again as I tiptoe up the stairs. I switch it to vibrate.
    A light shines underneath the door to the guest room—where Gram sleeps. But she’s not waiting up for me, no siree.
    â€œGram, I’m home,” I stage-whisper as I push open the door.
    She’s at her desk, spectacles perched on her nose and laptop in front of her. “I’m not waiting up for you.”
    â€œDidn’t say you were.”
    She scowls. “Your father’s puttering in the den, doing god knows what, and I’ve been here all night, losing my life’s savings to a bunch of yahoos who can’t tell a flush from a straight. I’m not going to ask if you’ve had a good time. I don’t want to know if