The Darkest Lie by Pintip Dunn Page A

to live like this anymore. I don’t want to skulk around school, hoping nobody notices me, pretending the past will go away if we ignore it.
    I want my life back. Not my old life—that would be impossible. But a new life cobbled together from the shards of who I used to be. Maybe the first step is to agree to work with Sam. To talk about the scandal directly and honestly.
    â€œWhy didn’t you try to interview him?” I ask Sam. “This was your big chance, and you blew it.”
    â€œHe’s still grieving,” he says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I want to write a kick-ass article, sure. I want to learn the truth about what happened to your mom. But I’m not going to deepen anyone’s pain. I chose this career in order to help people, CeCe. Not kick them while they’re down.”
    That decides it. There are no guarantees in life. No proof that will ensure you’re making the right decision. Sometimes, you just have to hold your breath and jump. And hope you land on your feet unscathed.
    â€œOkay. Let’s do it. Let’s work together.”
    â€œGreat.” He grins so big his eyes almost crinkle shut. “We can start with my appointment with Mr. Willoughby at the hotline. Maybe we’ll find another lead there.”
    â€œAbout the hotline . . .” I knew this partnership would be a risk. I knew I’d have to take a leap of faith. But I didn’t think it would happen so soon. “I suppose this is a good time to tell you I’m volunteering as a call counselor.”
    I hold my breath, bracing myself for his reaction.
    His lips arch in a half-smile, and his forehead remains unwrinkled. He doesn’t look shocked. He doesn’t even look surprised. “Relax, CeCe. You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.”

Chapter 15
    Time slows. The swing arcs from one side to the other. One week passes. A fly buzzes across the porch. A month. Sam holds my gaze, without fidgeting or blinking. An entire year.
    â€œHow did you know?” I whisper.
    He drops his eyes and studies the patches of dirt on the wooden slats. “It’s not like I was snooping or anything. I was interviewing Mr. Willoughby in his office, and the call counselor schedule was sitting right there on the coffee table. I scanned it before I even knew what I was looking at.”
    â€œThat list is supposed to be confidential.” I wipe my palms across my jeans. “If the identities of the counselors ever got out, it would destroy the illusion of anonymity, and the hotline would no longer be a safe place to talk.”
    That’s only half of it. The anonymity also protects me from the Justin Blakes of the world cackling, “Is that call counselor or fuck counselor?” From being a source of amusement for the entire school.
    â€œI’m not going to tell anyone, CeCe. It’s irrelevant to the article, and like I said, I don’t make a habit of hurting people just because I can.”
    Everything about his mouth, his eyes, his posture radiates sincerity, but what do I know? I spent my whole life never understanding fully what kind of woman my mother was.
    What’s more? If he knows I volunteer at the hotline, he could’ve doctored the flyers. He could’ve sent me that text. As unlikely as it seems, Sam Davidson just became a suspect.
    I might have just partnered with the boy who seeks to shoot me down.
    â€œWhen is your appointment with Mr. Willoughby?” I ask, getting to my feet.
    He checks his watch. “In half an hour. He promised to give me a tour of the hotline.”
    I stiffen. “The hotline doesn’t give tours. Especially not to newspaper interns. The location is kept as confidential as the identities.”
    â€œHe didn’t want to at first, but I ... uh, convinced him.”
    â€œDefine ‘convinced.’ ”
    â€œI gave him a choice. He could either show