Schooled In Lies
Authors: Angela Henry
SCHOOLED IN LIES
A Kendra Clayton Novel
Copyright © 2009 Angela Henry
This is a work of fiction. Names, character, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or a used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or Boulevard West Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and review.
SCHOOLED IN LIES:
A Kendra Clayton Novel
ISBN-13:
978-0-615-33432-5
Boulevard West Press
P.O. Box
782
Springfield, OH 45507
Cover Image:
© Friday/
Fotolia.com
Cover Design: Vedic Design
Interior Layout: Custom-book-tique
For bulk order prices or any other inquiries, please contact [email protected]
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SCHOOLED IN LIES
A Kendra Clayton Novel
Angela Henry
THE COMPANY YOU KEEP
"A tightly woven mystery..."
—Ebony Magazine
"This debut mystery features an exciting new African-American heroine... Highly recommended."
—Library Journal
TANGLED ROOTS
"Smart, witty, and fast-paced, this second Kendra Clayton novel is as likeable as the first."
—CrimeSpree Magazine
“…
appealing characters…witty dialogue…an enjoyable read.” 4 Stars
—Romantic Times Magazine
DIVA’S LAST CURTAIN CALL
“
It's the perfect script for a great summer read."
—Broward Times
"…this series is made of inventive storytelling, crackling wit and that rarity of rarities in American
publishing: an
authentic, down-to-earth slice of Black life."
—Insight News
This book is for all the people who love reading about Kendra as much I love writing about her.
Also by Angela Henry
The Company You Keep
Tangled Roots
Diva’s Last Curtain Call
Prologue
Summer 1996
JULIAN SPICER HAD BEEN pounding away at the same nail long after he’d driven into the loose roofing tile. He imagined the nail was the face of his idiot secretary. He still remembered the pathetic excuses and the tears as she tried to explain why she hadn’t given him the phone message that had come four days ago. Four days ago! How hard was it to give someone a phone message? It wasn’t rocket science. Not that it mattered now. By the time he’d found out about the missed message, it was already too late. He’d lost out on a major client account, an account that would have put his struggling business in the black. But Julian quickly came up with a way to save himself a lot of money. He’d fired his secretary on the spot.
He shouldn’t have hired her in the first place. He’d let himself be talked into it by someone he never should have trusted in a million years. Someone he thought he knew. He’d been wrong. But Julian had ended that association as well, just as quickly as he’d fired his secretary. Still, he felt like a fool every time he thought about the phone call that he’d received two days earlier informing him of a truth he had no idea even existed. Surely the caller had been lying. He found out all too painfully that it wasn’t a lie. He was being used. No big surprise. He’d always been a sucker for anyone with a problem. A
soft touch
is what his Aunt Emma always called him. Julian liked to think of himself as a fixer, someone who always knew what to do and how to do it, always full of answers and solutions. But what had that kind of attitude gotten him?
He turned his attention to another loose tile hammering away at it trying uselessly to pound away his hurt and frustration. By the time the nail was well beyond being hammered into place, he had found a new resolve: No more Mr. Nice Guy. From now on he would be all about his own business, his own needs, and his own ambitions and to hell with everybody else’s. Julian stood and ran a forearm across his brow to wipe away the sweat that threatened to run into his eyes. He was carefully edging his way across the slanted roof, toward the ladder propped against the side of the house, when he thought he heard a noise down below.
“Anybody down there?” he called out then waited for a response. Nothing. He was almost to the ladder when he heard the sound again. This time he recognized the unmistakable sound of footsteps on the gravel below. Figuring he probably knew who it was, and pissed that this person would have the nerve to show up at his house, Julian stopped in his tracks and angrily called out again.
“Who the hell is down there?” This time he was answered by a hard blow to the back of his head that knocked him unconscious and sent him tumbling off the roof onto the spikes of the wrought iron fence below.
She woke up in the dark. Confused and disoriented, she lay still for a few seconds and tried to get her bearings and figure out where she was. She tasted blood in her mouth. Tentatively, she touched her lower lip and discovered it was split. There was also an egg-sized knot on the back of her head, causing pounding that made even thinking painful. Curled into a fetal position on her side, she slowly turned onto her back and reached out a hand hitting something hard and unyielding mere inches from her face. She tried to straighten out her cramped legs but couldn’t. Where the hell was she and why was it so dark? Then another sensation cut its way through the mind-numbing pain in her head. Movement. She was moving.
A familiar smell filled her nose. Exhaust fumes. Car exhaust fumes. She was in a moving car. Judging by the enclosed space she was in, she quickly realized she was in the trunk. Panic welled up inside her and she started screaming and frantically beating on the inside of the trunk. But the car didn’t stop and after a few minutes both her throat and hands were sore. She was feeling around the trunk for something to pry open the lock with when the car came to an abrupt stop. She heard the opening and closing of the car door and footsteps crunching on gravel.
Fumbling around in the dark, her hand came to rest on a hard, round, plastic cylinder. A flashlight. She felt for the switch to the sound of a key being inserted into the trunk lock. When the trunk flew open, she flashed the light into her captor’s face. When she saw who it was, memories suddenly came flooding into her head, jolting her back in time, making her remember how she came to be in the trunk of a car with a murderer staring down at her.
Chapter One
Two weeks earlier
THERE WAS A TIME when sitting at the big round table in the middle of the cafeteria meant something. Sitting at that table was a status symbol. It was the table that separated the some-bodies from the nobodies. It was prime real estate and if you were lucky enough to sit there, everyone knew your name. I am, of course, talking about my high school days. A time when popularity was at a premium and only a chosen few achieved it, leaving the rest of us geeks, freaks, and loners to survive high school as best we could. But, now, eleven years later, looking around that same round table at the receding hairlines, beer bellies, the beginnings of crows-feet, and the overall world weariness caused by disappointment and unfulfilled dreams, all I could think was,
Oh, how the mighty have fallen
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