Liar by Justine Larbalestier Read Free Book Online Page A

means that they don’t smell like Zach. Sweat doesn’t soak into metal. Jewelry doesn’t have the fragrance of where it’s been; only of what it is. Besides, he never wore them. He bought them for her to wear. He never bought anything for me. I think about telling Sarah this, but it will only confirm that me and Zach were together.
    â€œWhen was the last time you saw him?” she asks, sliding away from the sweater, her back against my desk.
    â€œWhy is everyone asking me about that?” I know why. Ever since Brandon told about Zach and me, everyone has been staring, whispering. But I want to hear her say it, to admit that she suspects me of killing him, too.
    I miss Zach so much. The thought of him makes my breath hurt. I’m afraid I’ll choke. His death, his absence makes everything tighten, thicken, break.
    â€œWe’re all trying to figure out what happened. Who did this to him. Why.” She doesn’t look at me directly. Her hand reaches toward his sweater again. She stops herself before she touches it.
    â€œWho killed him, you mean?” It’s what everyone’s saying: Zach was murdered. But no one knows who or how or why. The why is huge. Zach is a good guy. Was. I cannot imagine a reason to kill him.
    â€œLast time I saw him was Saturday night,” Sarah says. Her voice wilts on “Saturday.”
    â€œMe, too,” I say, though I didn’t. I don’t know why I say it. Those two words mean I’m admitting to seeing Zach. To being his—his whatever I was.
    â€œYou’re lying. I was with him Saturday. We were at Chantal’s party. You weren’t invited.”
    As if I would want to go. So much noise. Not just the music, but their voices all loud and raucous from drinking. I never drink. None of the Wilkins do.
    â€œThe party didn’t go all night,” I say. “He saw me after.” I cross my legs the other way, stretch out my spine.
    â€œAt 5:00 a.m.?” she asks. “When he was so drunk Chantal’s older brother ended up helping him get a taxi home?”
    â€œHe wasn’t that drunk. I climbed in through his window.”
    â€œThrough the window? Of a seventh-floor apartment?”
    I nod. I’ve climbed into higher windows. “I went up the fire escape. His bedroom’s right next to it.” Not true.
    The kitchen is. I have to climb across ledges to get to Zach’s room. Sarah’s not the kind of person who’d notice where the fire escape is. “He always leaves the window open a crack. He used to anyway. He was snoring. I crawled in next to him. He woke up.” I can see it clearly though I know it didn’t happen. Not that night.
    â€œI thought you said you never slept with him?” She’s crying again. It amazes me she can do that even through her questions and her anger.
    â€œI didn’t. There are other things you can do.” Sleep for instance. He had been drunk. He’d woken up, grunted “Micah,” then rolled over, and gone back to snoring. Or at least that’s what would have happened if I’d been there that night. It had gone that way before.
    Sarah takes a long look at me, without any fear for a moment. “You,” she says, at last, “are nasty. I don’t believe a word you’ve said. Can you even describe his bedroom?”
    â€œLots of trophies.”
    â€œWhat jock boy’s bedroom doesn’t have lots of trophies?” She shifts against my desk. It’s hard and metal, even with the cloth draped over it. She can’t be comfortable. “What color are the walls?”
    â€œAt night? Dark.”
    â€œVery funny. What’s the rest of the house look like?” She’s sneering.
    â€œI told you. I get in through his window.”
    â€œWhat’s—?”
    â€œWhy am I answering your questions?” I want her to go. I want her to stop interrogating me. I want her to leave me