The Safest Lies

From the New York Times bestselling author of All the Missing Girls and The Perfect Stranger comes a captivating psychological thriller about a girl who must face her darkest fears--but can she outrun the past? Kelsey has lived most of her life in a shadow of suspicion, raised to see danger everywhere. Her mother hasn’t set foot outside their front door in seventeen years, since she escaped from her kidnappers with nothing but her attacker’s baby growing inside her--Kelsey. Kelsey knows she’s supposed to keep a low profile and stay off the grid for their protection, but that plan is shattered when her dramatic car accident and rescue by volunteer firefighter and classmate Ryan Baker sparks media coverage. A few days later, she arrives home to find her mother missing. Now, to have a chance at a future, Kelsey will have to face her darkest fears. Because someone is coming for her. And the truth about the past may end up being the most dangerous thing of all. "[A] fast-paced, suspenseful treat." -- PW , starred "Positively movie-ready." -- Kirkus “Will blow readers’ minds.” -- SLJ Praise for Megan Miranda's All the Missing Girls : "This thriller's all of your fav page-turners (think: Luckiest Girl Alive , The Girl on the Train , Gone Girl ) rolled into one." -- TheSkimm "Fast-paced and frightening." -- Refinery29 "[The] perfect read for thriller fans." --Bustle.com

"Reluctant and voracious readers alike will enjoy the twisty turns present in this mystery." —VOYA 

“A strong fit for readers who want fast-paced stories about girls learning to fight back.” —The Bulletin
 
“Readers who love a little bit of romance with their thrills and chills will love this new young adult novel.” —Bookish.com

“Recommended for any collection.” —Booklist

Auteur
Megan Miranda is the acclaimed author of The Safest Lies, and *several other novels for young adults, including *Fracture. She is also the New York Times bestselling author of All the Missing Girls and The Perfect Stranger for adults. She lives in North Carolina with her husband and two children. You can follow Megan on Facebook at AuthorMeganMiranda, or on Instagram and Twitter at @MeganLMiranda.

Résumé
From the New York Times bestselling author of All the Missing Girls and The Perfect Stranger comes a captivating psychological thriller about a girl who must face her darkest fears—but can she outrun the past?
 
Kelsey has lived most of her life in a shadow of suspicion, raised to see danger everywhere. Her mother hasn’t set foot outside their front door in seventeen years, since she escaped from her kidnappers with nothing but her attacker’s baby growing inside her—Kelsey.
 
Kelsey knows she’s supposed to keep a low profile and stay off the grid for their protection, but that plan is shattered when her dramatic car accident and rescue by volunteer firefighter and classmate Ryan Baker sparks media coverage.
 
A few days later, she arrives home to find her mother missing. Now, to have a chance at a future, Kelsey will have to face her darkest fears. Because someone is coming for her. And the truth about the past may end up being the most dangerous thing of all.

"[A] fast-paced, suspenseful treat." —PW, starred

"Positively movie-ready." —Kirkus
 
“Will blow readers’ minds.” —SLJ*

Praise for Megan Miranda's *All the Missing Girls:

"This thriller's all of your fav page-turners (think: Luckiest Girl Alive, The Girl on the Train, Gone Girl) rolled into one." —*TheSkimm

"Fast-paced and frightening." —*Refinery29

"[The] perfect read for thriller fans." —Bustle.com

Échantillon de lecture
CHAPTER 1

The black iron gates used to be my favorite thing about the house.

Back when I was younger, they reminded me of secret gardens and hidden treasures, all the great mysteries I had read about in children’s books.

This was the setting of fairy tales. The vegetation creeping upward in places, ivy and weeds tangling with the bars, and the way they’d light up in a storm, encircling the house—­a stark surprise against the darkness.

And we were on the inside.

It was better to see it from this direction, on the way out. It looked different as I grew older. From the other side, through a different filter. A glance over my shoulder as I walked away, and all I could see were the cameras over the entrances. The sterile, boxed walls of the house beyond. The shadow behind the tinted window.

I didn’t realize, for a long time, that this was the secret.

Still, there was a familiarity to the iron gates, and I couldn’t help tapping them as I passed each morning, a routine goodbye as I left for the day. In the summer, the bars would be hot from the sun. And in the winter, when I was bundled up in wool, sometimes I’d feel a spark underneath the cold, like I could sense the ­current of electricity that was running through the top.

Mostly, though, they felt like home.

Today, my palm came away damp, coated with morning dew. Everything glistened in the mountain sunrise.

Now that I was beyond the gates, and because I saw my mother’s shadow, there was a routine I was supposed to stick to:

Check the backseat through the windows before unlocking the car door.

Start the car and count to twenty so the engine had time to settle.

Wave to my mother, watching from the front window.

Two hands on the wheel as I navigated the unpaved driveway made of gravel, and then the winding mountain roads on the way to school.

The rest of the day was a tally of hours, a routine I knew by heart. Swap this Wednesday for any other Wednesday and nobody would notice. My mother said there’s a safety to routine, but I didn’t exactly agree. Routines could be learned. Routines could be predicted. But it would be a mistake to say that. Honestly, it was a mistake to even think that.

Here was the rest of my Wednesday routine:

Arrive at school early enough to get a parking spot near a streetlight, since I’d be leaving late. Avoid the crowded hallway, hope Mr. Graham opened his classroom early. Claim my seat in the back of math class, and coast through the day, mostly unnoticed.

Mostly.

My books were already out and I’d just about finished the morning problems when Ryan Baker swept into class.

“Hey, Kelsey,” he said as he slid into his seat, just as the bell rang.

“Hi, Ryan,” I said. This was also part of the routine. Ryan looked the way Ryan always looked, which was: brown hair that never fell the same way twice; legs too long for the desk beneath him, so they stretched under the seat in front or to the aisle between us (today: aisle); jeans, brown lace-­up boots, T-shirt. Autumn in Vermont meant a sweatshirt for me, but apparently Ryan hadn’t gotten there yet.

Today he was wearing a dark blue shirt that said volunteer, and he caught me staring. I didn’t know if it was supposed to be ironic or not.

His fingers drummed on the desk. His knee bounced in the aisle.

I almost asked him, on impulse, but then Mr. Graham called me up to the board for a problem, and Ryan started drawing on his wrist with blue ink, and by the time I returned to my seat, the moment had passed.

First period was mostly quiet and mostly still. People yawned, people stretched, occasionally someone rested their head on their desk and hoped Mr. Graham didn’t notice. Everyone slowly came to life over the span of ninety minutes.

But Ryan always seemed the opposite&md…