Prologue
I may not be that smart or talented or coordinated, but… Actually, I forget where I was goingwiththis.
Delilah Sinclair, attempting to cheerherselfup.
I’d liketo point out that none of this is myfault.
I know, I know, peoplealwayssay that. But, seriously, folks — I mean it when I tell you none of this is my fault. None of it. Not the police sirens or the stolen car or even the unfortunate state ofmyhair.
You probably have a hard time believing that, examining this situation from an outside perspective. I can practically hear you judging mefromhere.
Sure, Lila, it’sdefinitelynot your fault that you landed yourself in this debacle. At this time of night. Wearing that outfit. With exactly three dollars and seventeen cents to your name. Missing a multitude of things, not limited to your iPhone and any remaining semblance ofdignity.
Trust me, I know how it sounds. Frankly, I wouldn’t believe me either. Especially given my track record. Just ask my friends, family members, and former teachers — over the years, I’ve come up with a variety of colorful excuses to weasel my way out of takingresponsibility.
For school assignments:You’ll never believe it, Mrs. Tippen! My essay on photosynthesis was torn to shreds by my grandmother’s schnauzer Peaches just as I was leaving thismorning…
For a traffic ticket:Oh, officer, I didn’t even see that stop sign! I’m just in such a rush to get church, I’m volunteeringtoday…
For my friends:Wow, there was soooooooo much traffic. Who knew it would be so congested duringrushhour?
For my parents:You called? Twice? Oh, yikes, my phone has really been acting up, I should take it to the Apple storethisweek…
I’m not proud of my little white lies but, let’s be honest, I’m not the only one who does it. Heck, there’s a scientific study that claims sixty percent of Americans can’t go ten whole minutes without telling a whopper. (Sampling from my ex-boyfriends alone, I’d peg that statistic closer to eighty-five percent, but Idigress.)
What it comes down to is this: we’re all big, fatliars.
We lie about our dress sizes, our fears, our favorite movies, and our accomplishments. We lie about things that matter greatly and things of absolutely no consequence. Big things, small things, and all the in-between things. I’m not exemptfromthat.
But notthistime.
This time, I’m not making excuses or attempting to pass the blame off on another unsuspecting soul. (Or schnauzer.) My credibility may be shot to all hell, but I swear on my favorite shade of MAC lipstick — may they discontinue it if I prove to belying.
This is not myfault.
I just wish the police officer slapping handcuffs on my wrists saw it thesameway.
ChapterOne
I don’t answer blockednumbers.
Or unknownnumbers.
Or really anynumbers,ever.
In fact, you should probably justtextme.
Delilah Sinclair, waiting for her phone to stop ringing so she can use itagain.
“You get one phone call.Make itquick.”
The burly policeman walks away, his broad shoulders filling out his uniform in a way that would normally make me do a double take. Except, right now, seeing as I’m currently standing smack dab in the middle of a jailhouse in a notoriously sleazy Boston suburb, surrounded by drug dealers and drunk drivers and more than a few ladies of the night in seriously killer plastic stiletto heels, I really have no business checking anyone out. Especially a policeofficer.
See, handsome single cops don’t really go for the criminal element when it comes to the women in theirlives.
Not that I’m acriminal.
At least, I wasn’t… until about sixhoursago.