I have to buy a suitcase because I never travel. I had a beautiful matching luggage set once, but I left my ex-husband with clothes stuffed into garbage bags.

Brewster greets me at the door when I come in, excitedly sniffing the new purple luggage. Nathan is home, still in the black pants and white button-up he wore to work. His face lights up when he sees the suitcase. Subtle, dude.

“Going somewhere?”

I drop the bag on the floor. “No, it’s for a dead body.” His lips part. He looks from me to the suitcase.

“What?” I glance down at it. “You think I should have gotten a bigger one?”

He stares at me for several seconds before letting out a long, annoyed breath. “Jesus Christ, Lucy.”

I lean down to pet Brewster. He licks my hand, oblivious to the tension in the room. Dogs don’t know about murder podcasts. Lucky bastards.

“You weren’t even going to pretend, huh?” I ask.

“What?” The tiny dent between his eyebrows appears. He has perfect

L.A. eyebrows. Sculpted by a professional. I’d liked that he was the kind of guy who didn’t feel his masculinity was tied to his beauty routine (or lack thereof).

Now I’m annoyed by those two immaculately plucked eyebrows.

“A lot of people pretend to think I didn’t do it,” I say. “They act like they want to hear my side, like they haven’t already made up their mind.”

“Oh. I, uh, I do want to hear your side…”

I roll my eyes. That was so insincere I don’t bother responding to it.

Some guys actually like the suspected-murderer thing. The first couple of years after it happened, I’d get the occasional email with a flirty request for a date. Thrill seekers, I guess. Or they want to save me. I’m a real fixer- upper.

Not Nathan, apparently.

“You’re … going somewhere?” he asks, after a long silence. “Texas. My grandma is having a birthday party.”

“Oh.”

“She invited you too.”

He blinks. “I, um … I don’t know if I can … you know, with work.” “Sure.”

“When are you leaving?”

“Friday. I’ll be gone about a week.”

He nods. I wait for him to suggest that I take all my stuff with me when I go. The only sound is Brewster’s loud sniffs as he thoroughly examines the ends of my jeans.

“Are you going to tell me?” he finally asks. “What?”

“Your side.”

For fuck’s sake. Men are such babies. They’re too scared to actually break up with you, so they just get mean or fade away until you get mad and dump them.

Risky move, making a suspected murderer angry enough to dump you.

“Would you believe me if I did?” I ask. My phone buzzes. I pull it out of my purse to see a text from my mom.

You’re not staying at a hotel. I’m getting the guest room ready now.

I quickly type out a response. I’m fine at a hotel.

I look up at Nathan to see that the answer to my question is clearly no. “Yes,” he lies.

“I still have no memory of the night, but I never would have hurt Savvy.” The words tumble easily out of my mouth. I’ve said them a hundred times.

Nathan stares like he expects more. They always do.

My phone rings, my mom’s name on the screen. I sigh and swipe to answer it.

“You’re not staying at a hotel.” Her tone leaves no room for argument. “Hi, Mom, how are you?” I ask dryly. Nathan is still staring at me as I

step out onto the balcony.

“I’m fine. You’re not staying at a hotel.”

“Grandma said you broke your leg.” I look down, watching as a woman on the street pushes a stroller down the sidewalk. A small pug pops his head out, tilting his smushed face up to the sun.

“Stop changing the subject.”

“I thought you liked it when I try to make small talk. Act like a normal person and all that.”

“Lucy.” She’s already incredibly tired of me, and I haven’t even arrived

yet.

“Let one of my cousins have the room. They’ll be in town, right?” “Only for a night or two. You’re staying with us. We have plenty of

room. Besides, everyone will talk if you don’t stay here.” Ah. There’s the only reason that matters.

I turn around and lean against the railing. Inside, Nathan is furiously texting. “God forbid people gossip about me. I can’t imagine what that would be like.”

“The cheapest hotel in town is like eighty dollars a night anyway, and I doubt it’s up to your standards.”

“Bold of you to assume I have standards.” Though, she has a point. Considering that I’ve just lost my job, I don’t need to be spending several hundred dollars on a hotel room.

“Just stay with us, Lucy. Don’t make things harder.”

She left off the “like you always do” at the end of that sentence. I guess it’s implied.

“Okay. Thank you.”

“Oh.” She sounds surprised, like she didn’t actually think she’d succeed. I’m going soft, I guess. “Good.”

“Seriously, how’d you break your leg?”

“I fell off the stair machine. You know the one at the gym, with the stairs that go round and round to nowhere? Well, it’s quite high up, and I missed a step and … it was embarrassing, to say the least.”

“Sounds painful.”

“It was. Anyway, I’ll let you go. Oh, and did your grandma tell you about that—”

“Yes, I know about the podcast.”

I’ve actually probably known about the podcast longer than anyone. I received the first email five months ago.

From: Ben Owens

Subject: Listen for the Lie Podcast

Hi Lucy,

My name is Ben Owens and I’m a journalist and the host of the podcast Listen for the Lie. I’m doing some research into the murder of Savannah Harper, and I’d love to sit down and talk with you. I actually live in Los Angeles too, so I’d be happy to come to you.

Please feel free to email me or call at 323-555-8393.

Cheers, Ben

I didn’t reply.

My research turned up the first season of his podcast, and quite a few news articles that gave him decidedly mixed reviews.

“Questionable ethics,” one article said, “but you can’t argue with the results!”

Another article described Ben as having “boyish good looks,” which had only made me hate him more. I’ve never liked men who can be described as having boyish good looks. They’re always smug.

But I never reply to emails about Savvy, and I wasn’t making an exception for this smug bastard, so I archived it and moved on.

Of course, most emails about Savvy don’t require a response. They’re usually some version of “How do you live with yourself, you heartless bitch?” or “You’re going to hell,” except almost always with the wrong your, which is extremely distracting. An insult doesn’t have the intended impact when spelled incorrectly. I’d reply to let them know, but, in my experience, dumbasses don’t appreciate having their spelling corrected.

I sit down on the bed next to my open suitcase, scrolling through the emails that Ben sent me months ago. Brewster nudges the bag of jelly beans on the nightstand with his nose, and I shoo him away from it and pop one in my mouth.

A second email had arrived a few weeks after the first, asking again for a meeting. And then a third:

From: Ben Owens

Subject: Listen for the Lie Podcast

Hi Lucy,

One last email! I’d really love to interview you, and get your

side of the story. I’m willing to meet on your terms. The podcast is really coming together, and I think it’s important to hear your side of the story.

Cheers, Ben.

Oh, sweet, naive Ben. No one gives a shit about my side of the story.

To be fair, my side of the story is “I don’t remember anything,” so it’s not exactly exciting. Or believable, apparently. I glance out the door at Nathan, who is drinking away his awkward feelings about his murderous girlfriend on the couch, the glow from the television flickering across his tense face.

I’ve tried to avoid thinking about just how popular this season of the podcast is, but now I can’t stop myself. I google Ben Owens Listen for the Lie. A picture of him pops up. He looks very smug.

There are numerous articles about the podcast. The usual true crime websites have picked up the story, but it’s splashed across national media as well. Entertainment Weekly and Vanity Fair and a dozen other places have

articles with headlines like “This Small-Town Murder Will Be Your New True Crime Obsession” and “Come for the Murder, Stay for the Accents: Listen for the Lie Podcast Digs Up a Cold Case in Texas.” Twitter is having an absolute field day with theories.

People seemed to have formed teams, given that I keep seeing “Team Savvy” pop up. Logic dictates that there must also be a “Team Lucy,” though I don’t see evidence of it.

Given the flurry of media attention, everyone in Plumpton is definitely listening to the stupid thing.

I look down at Brewster, wishing I’d come up with an excuse to avoid the whole trip. I should have pointed out to Grandma that my presence at her birthday will likely ruin the whole thing. I’m the relative that you tell everyone about at parties, when you’re comparing fucked-up families. I make for a good story. You don’t invite me to the party.

But my grandmother never asks me for anything, and I haven’t seen her since I left Plumpton nearly five years ago. She’s never been on a plane, and she’s sure as shit not starting now, to use her words. She’s also expressed concern, more than once, about being force-fed kale if she ever visits California.

Texans hate California. It’s one of the reasons I made it my home.

Plus, my cousins really are assholes. Grandma is right—she can’t have a party with just the assholes.

If I’m going to go, I might as well go armed with knowledge. I open my podcast app and find Listen for the Lie.

I put on the first episode as I pack.

Listen for the Lie Podcast with Ben Owens

EPISODE ONE—“THE SWEETEST GIRL YOU EVER MET”

I arrive in Austin on a Tuesday, and honestly, I’m disappointed by the lack of cowboy hats.

It’s my first time in Texas, and I had visions of streets lined with nothing but barbecue joints and stores that sold boots and whatever else you need to ride a horse. Saddles? I don’t know. I know nothing about horses. I’ve never even done that touristy L.A. thing up in the hills where you can ride a horse to a Mexican restaurant, load up on margaritas, and then ride back. Always seemed like a bad idea to me.

The Austin airport is extremely Austin. I can tell this immediately, even though it’s my first time in the city. There are signs advertising that it’s the live music capital of the world, and there’s a band playing in one of the food courts, in case you doubted this. There are decorative guitars in baggage claim. There isn’t a single Starbucks or McDonald’s in the whole airport, because you know that saying? Keep Austin Weird? The second part of that saying, the part no one remembers, is support local businesses. There are only local businesses in the Austin airport.

I consider eating barbecue before I leave, but eating dinner at an airport after arriving seems sad.

So, I jump in my rental car and head for Plumpton.

And this is where Texas is no longer as expected. It’s very green. I guess I thought it was a desert. And just to really prove that I’m an idiot, it starts raining so hard that I have to pull over onto the shoulder for several minutes because I can’t see the road. It’s raining like the apocalypse is nigh, and I start to wonder whether it’s a sign that this case was a poor choice.

I’m going to be honest with you guys. While I was sitting in that car, watching the apocalypse

rain, I seriously considered going back to the airport and flying straight back home.

And honestly, I was still thinking about that barbecue.

When the rain finally lets up, I soldier on, hungry and nervous. About two hours later, I arrive in Plumpton, Texas.

[country music]

Plumpton is a quaint, charming town in the Texas Hill Country. It’s home to about fifteen thousand people, a number that’s growing every year. It’s a tourist town, due to its close proximity to several Hill Country wineries, but it’s also become a popular spot for young couples looking to escape the big cities. The public school system is one of the best in Texas.

The downtown area is bustling with tourists when I arrive, but when I take a stroll around the block, several locals recognize me. One man even yells that he’s looking forward to the podcast. My reputation precedes me.

The town is mostly local businesses, but a few chains have made their way to Plumpton as the town has grown over the past ten years. The first Starbucks opened here a couple of years ago, which at least five people complain to me about within my first two days in town.

But Plumpton’s main claim to fame is Savannah Harper, to the chagrin of nearly everyone who

lives here. Most people in this town don’t want any part of the big-city life—they’ve either lived here for generations, like Lucy Chase’s family, or they moved here specifically to get away from the city, like Savannah Harper’s family. They don’t like being known for a grisly murder.

It’s a common sentiment in Plumpton—this wasn’t supposed to happen here. This sort of thing happens in bad places, not in a town where all the locals know each other and attend the same church.

Norma gives me a few Plumpton tips when I check into my hotel. She’s a friendly woman in her

fifties, and she works the front desk until six in the evening every weekday.

Norma: And don’t go to the bar on Franklin, that’s where all the tourists go to get sloppy. A bachelorette party was throwing around penis confetti last time I was there, if you can believe that. I was finding penises in my hair for hours.

Ben: That’s … unfortunate.

Norma: Go to the bar down the road a bit, on Main. Bluebonnet Tavern.

Ben: I’ll keep that in mind, thank you.

Norma: You’re from California?

Ben: Yeah, Los Angeles. Well, San Francisco, originally. I live in L.A. now.

Norma: That whole state is going to break off into the ocean after a big earthquake, you know.

Ben: I’ve heard that.

Norma: You know Lucy Chase lives out there too? Horrible woman. Savannah was an absolute peach. Just the sweetest girl you ever met. I hope you nail Lucy’s murderous ass to the wall.

This, I should note, was a common theme in my first few days in Plumpton.