The Little Lies (The Great Hexpectations Series Book 1)

by Marie F. Crow

  Copyright

  The Little Lies is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  THE LITTLE LIES: A NOVEL

  Copyright © 2021 by Marie F. Crow

  All rights reserved.

  Editing by Pure Grammar Editorial Services

  - btmediting@gmail.com

  Cover Design & Formatting by KP Designs

  - www.kpdesignshop.com

  Published by Kingston Publishing Company

  - www.kingstonpublishing.com

  The uploading, scanning, and distribution of this book in any form or by any means—including but not limited to electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the permission of the copyright holder is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized editions of this work, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Table of Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  Extras

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  About the Publisher

  Your Grandmother mentioned it has been a while since you were on a date.”

  “Did she?” I ask the rather large man named Cass sitting across the table from me.

  He’s shoveling food into his mouth like it’s a cavern. Starving children eat with more manners than this man is displaying. I’m fighting against every social grace I have to keep my face pleasant, but I already know it’s a losing battle. I don’t do pleasant. I do here and now and that’s pleasant enough for me.

  He makes a noise of agreement between chewing. “She said you’re too busy with work to find a good man.”

  I try to keep my smile in place, but I’m sure it slipped. I know those words are code. Anytime a relative remarks on a female working too hard, it really means they think her priorities are misplaced. The whole ‘can’t find a good man’ simply means, in their opinion, she’s putting her job before her biological clock and time is running out. The fact this man thinks he has the potential of filling in the role of a ‘good man’ in my life only speaks to his misguided ego, or the desperation of GiGi Jo.

  “Well, she’s a charmer like that.” I smile, swallowing down my angst to provide my own southern code, disguising my real opinion of this whole conversation.

  “Yeah, Jo is a real sweet one. Not too many like her anymore.”

  He actually winks at me as he tells me this. With his brow beaded from sweat in what could be considered an ice box of an Italian restaurant, the action seals any debate of me finishing this meal.

  “What did she tell you about me?” Cass grins, thinking I have nothing but cooing heading his way.

  “Not much,” I shrug, holding back the fact that if she had, I wouldn’t have even faked enough interest over the blind date to provide my grandmother any hopes despite its obvious outcome.

  It’s not a problem for Cass. I can tell by how he is settling into his, thankfully, sturdy chair, he is about to fill me in on more than I want to know about his life. He’s not about to broad stroke the reasons he’s a ‘good man’. He’s going to fine-tooth comb it.

  “I’m a funeral director over at Southern Respite,” Cass says when I neglect to ask, as if it’s a panty dropping fact in itself. “I prep the bodies, see to their families, and walk them through the service. It’s really a humbling experience being there for people in their time of need. Very touching, if I am to be honest.”

  “Mmmhmm,” I agree, pushing the red sauce laden noodles around on my plate. “I’m sure that’s very rewarding.”

  “Oh, it’s not about the money.” Cass leans closer to me, smirking, “Don’t get me wrong. The money is nice in a town considered a retirement destination, if you know what I mean.”

  I do and it does nothing to improve my mood, my opinion or remove my panties.

  “It’s completely about helping the families? That’s so caring of you.” My voice drops to a whisper of admiration tickling his obvious male ego.

  Cass scoots in as close as his bloated belly will allow him, dangerously dripping his plaid tie into the sauce of his plate. “Of course,” he assures me.

  He thinks I’m swooning over his generosity; his kind soul pulling at more than just the strings of my heart. He’s already picturing what I’m wearing under my little black dress I found at the bottom of my closet, freshly Febrezed, just in time to hear my doorbell ring. He’s curious what my deep red hair will look like swaying around my body with his motions, hoping to hear his name falling from my lips. In his mind, he’s already debating if I will take my heels off or leave them on, raising them high above our heads like a trophy.

  “What do you do for work?” Cass asks when I don’t offer to tell him, his eyes dipping lower than they should.

  I’m still pushing the soaked noodles around with my fork while he stares at me like I’m what’s being served for dessert. I debate for a moment telling a lie, some very people pleasing fib; some form of what would be considered a normal sounding version of what I’ve accepted as a job. I know my GiGi Jo would want me to, with her obvious concerns for my lack of contributing grandchildren. But what fun would that be?

  With the same mock infatuated voice, and false flirting smile, I tell him the truth. Grandchildren be damned.

  “People pay me to raise their dead to sort out issues like wills or to get that last goodbye. I walk them through the service, preparing them for the chanting I will do and how I will slice my arm to feed their long-lost somebody my blood so they may tell them which of the kids were their favorites. But you know, Cass,” I tell him, leaning in with the same eagerness he had, “it’s really about the families. It’s so humbling to watch a half-decomposed shell that someone like you made turn into a loving, only somewhat deranged, family member again. It brings those left behind such peace of mind. Just touching, if I’m to be honest.”

  Cass blinks at me, trying to figure out if I’m sincere or not. Maybe he’s just afraid I’m wondering what he’s wearing under that ill-fitting white dress shirt. Perhaps he’s worried if I’m in a mental debate over the possibilities of him leaving his black loafers on or maybe just those incredibly sexy black calf socks of his later tonight.

  Cass makes a sound of chuckling caught throat-deep in fear. “Your Grandmother said you were a funny one.”

  “Did she?” My smile is still plaster pretty.

  “Yup,” he says, slowly. “She said you like to make jokes.”

  “Like the jokes you make when you slide the drainage tubes into women?”

  Cass pales, stammering as he tries to figure out what a sweet little lady like myself co
uld possibly be saying to him. So pretty. So demure. So correct.

  “Now, who would tell you such a thing?” he asks, nervously looking around to see if any of the tables near to us overheard my question.

  I sip the sweet red wine I ordered, knowing perfectly well what illusion it must present with the conversation we are having right now.

  “Miss Henkins,” I tell him calmly, as he appears to sweat even more.

  Cass switches from half laughs, to shock, to a blend of emotions I can’t quite name, amusing as they are.

  “You’re making one of those jokes right now, aren’t you? Miss Henkins has been dead for years.”

  “I know. She’s standing right behind you.”

  Cass turns in his chair, prepared to see the very person he’s praying he won’t. Of course, he doesn’t, but he turns to me and then behind him a few more times just to be sure. I keep my smile and my red wine ready for my next round of humiliation.

  “Tell me, Cass,” I purr, twirling the wine in its glass until it forms a small twister of ruby and garnet, “what does one do with the perfect set of tits? You know, for the family’s sake? So they don’t go to waste?”

  Cass doesn’t answer me. He knows exactly what I’m talking about. He just doesn’t know how I know his dirty secrets. To be fair, most don’t. Miss Henkins still standing behind him, she does. Her smile tugs oddly on the skin of her face when she hears my question. A question she’s been screaming to be heard, as he said, for several years.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Cass stands, patting the moisture on his forehead with the linen cloth he pulled from his pocket. “I’m suddenly not feeling very well. Must be the food…”

  His words trail off with his backwards escape. He’s afraid to turn his back to me. I wave with just my fingers before blowing him a kiss through the air.

  “Does this mean you’re not coming back to my place for dessert?” I shout across the restaurant with a mock of a pout and broken heart.

  I watch as he almost runs from the restaurant, tripping over his feet with his sudden departure. I also watch Miss Henkins following his clumsy exit, her perfect tits still proudly displayed in the tight red dress she was wearing at the time of her death. Upon her shoulders, resembling the same shade as her dress, she wears a shawl of blood and gore, dripping deep into her cleavage before running the length of her body. Her perfect blonde updo is ruined from where her skull sits open and uneven from her quickly labeled ‘accidental death’ from the eighth floor of a hotel window. Luckily for the restaurant owners, no one but me can see the little pieces of her skull she leaves in her wake. Nor can they see various chunks of dark matter and the wet trail following her departure.

  Henkins has a few reasons to still be touring the town - from her sudden death after going public with her divorce, to the bankruptcy, the blackmail, and all the many other rumors which still feed the town to this day. Cass is just the unfortunate one to have her clinging to him, for the moment.

  At least she’s smiling now. Between her screaming insults at him the whole ride here and his complete lack of table manners, I knew shortly after sitting down the wine would be the only redeeming thing about tonight. Maybe I should have lied. Maybe GiGi Jo is right about my misplaced priorities. After being around Cass for the short time it took to roll my stomach with his heavy cologne, I’m still pretty sure the dead man who will be licking my forearm from my self-inflicted wound in a few hours will be a better ending to a night than anything Cass would have offered.

  “Sorry, GiGi Jo,” I tell the woman I know whom, without a doubt, is sitting by her crystal ball listening to every moment provided her tonight. “Grandchildren be damned.”

  Signaling for the check, I can almost hear her long string of words no one would believe to be in her verbal dictionary.

  “Are you Harper Buckland?” the young waitress asks me as she timidly hands me the white slip of paper.

  I don’t answer her. I let my eyebrow arch, asking her why she wants to know. It was my smile she mistook for an invitation of conversation.

  “Is it true what they say about you?” she asks me after looking to see what name is on the blue plastic card I handed her to pay.

  “What they say about me? That’s a long list, kid,” my mouth says. It’s not what my brain wanted to say, but that option wasn’t polite to a minor.

  “They say you can talk to the dead.” She didn’t ask if it was true. She’s just repeating some of the town’s favorite gossip.

  “Oh, that old tidbit?” I shrug, tapping fingernails the same shade as my smiling lips against the table.

  “Can you really bring people back, too?”

  I want to sigh, roll my eyes, get up and leave with more grace than my date had. I want to do anything other than wear this smile and pretend to care as someone barely old enough to be out past midnight recites one of the town’s scandals – witches.

  “Yes. It seems so.”

  “What if it’s a child?”

  I do sigh, now. I’ve done this enough times to know how this will end. The family will plead with me to help them. The child will then refuse to return to their grave after it’s raised. Which I will then have to force them back as the family screams over the sight. Even as I’m doing only what they asked of me, doing the exact thing I explained to them would happen, it will be me who becomes the monster. Then, in time, when they recover from what they witnessed, the very thing they were once happy to hear could be done, becomes the same thing they use to validate their hate and the town’s hate for me.

  “Sorry. I have rules against children. Let’s just call them…. age requirements,” I explain, holding out my hand for the bill.

  “What if it’s a child who refuses to stay dead and not one to bring back?”

  Her words chill me. The expression on her face is etched too deep for someone so young. This is the face of someone who has seen too much, too soon, and I have feeling she’s about to show me everything she hasn’t wanted to see.

  “What’s your name?” I cautiously ask her.

  “Her name was Becky.”

  She didn’t tell me her name. She just told me the name I know will come to haunt me in the coming days. As she watches me with pleading eyes, I know I’m about to break all of my self-made rules. This moment will become another cautionary tale for me, and I will recite it on my weakest nights.

  “Write your address down. I have a few things to do tonight, but I’ll try to make it by afterwards.”

  Her face lights up with hope. It makes me cringe. I try to look anywhere but at her as she scribbles down my future doom on her order slip. She hands it to me with a smile before skipping off to run my card.

  Suddenly, I’m missing Miss Henkins’ screaming insults and bone-littering skull. Revenge is something simple to understand. Grief is a whole different box of unwrapped regrets with a glitter of remorse that clings to anyone who touches the box. A box I’m about to pull the bow on, spilling its contents wide for all to see, and that glitter will stick to us all before it’s over.

  These final resting places are always the same. Even if the irony of calling them ‘resting places’ is lost on the many. Some may be better kept or surveyed, but the goal is always the same: to give the living a spot of denial of their very own. It provides a place they can come to with the lies that their loved ones are never truly far away. For some, they never really are.

  As I walk among the rows of names with the old and new flowers spread across the stone bases, I understand why they ask me to do it, to bring back their departed. They crave that one more moment. They seek to fill the void from the ‘goodbye’ they never got. Unfortunately, as their loved one sucks the blood from my arm to heal what has been done to their bodies, they find neither. There’s nothing peaceful about what I do. The Ripples are about to discover it for themselves.

  I let the many voices call to me from where they rest, hopeful it’s them my magic will touch tonight
. Having been forgotten by the ones they cared for in life, some just want to chat, be remembered, and heard. Their whispers grow louder in the back of my mind as I begin to drop the shields I wear like a castle wall around my gifts. With invisible fingers, they tug on my hands, my arms and even my hair to gain my attention. I can almost hear their sighs of disappointment when I walk past them.

  The Ripples are waiting for me a few rows ahead. Dressed as if for a funeral, they are covered in their most expensive mourning attire. The women appear to have stepped out of a salon with their humidity defying hair perfectly arranged. The men already have the southern proof of our early summer nights staining their ironed shirts. There is no conversation floating to me. Silence and envy – the perfect southern storm.

  “Hello,” I call, hating myself for accepting this job.

  They acknowledge me only with their eyes. It’s a rousing endorsement.

  Clearing my throat to smother the wit of my tongue, “Do you have the items I requested?”

  “What are you going to do with them, if we do?” a woman leaning on the black Lexus asks.

  I know her only by name. She is Deon Ripple. Someone who has more rumors attached to her divorces than the local gossip papers are even willing to print. Which says a lot for a small town filled with bored people.

  GiGi always jokes the Ripples are all vampires since none of them age, none of them gain weight and none of their spouses ever last. Staring at Deon, in her black dress only the rich could pull off as mourning attire, I don’t argue with GiGi’s logic.

  “I use them to anchor the person to this location. They also serve as something of a ‘remember when’ token to pull their minds back from the void.” I keep my voice neutral hiding my annoyance of repeating what was already explained when we signed the contracts.

  “Yes,” Deon exhales the smoke from her cigarette, “so you said. That’s not what I asked. I asked, what are you going to do with them?”

  I place my best retail working smile on my lips. “I arrange them around the grave. The person will only be able to move to the extent of the objects. They will literally anchor the person, pulling from the energy of the memories the items contain, as I already said.”