Never Believe a Lie Twice

By Kathleen Troy

Every great lie begins with the truth.

For 13-year-old Sage, living with his low-life con artist father Marty in Las Vegas hasn't been easy.

When Marty dies, the authorities arrange to send Sage to live with family he never knew existed. Sage plans to stay only long enough to steal their valu

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dylan and Friends Publishing Company
• Release date: Feb 2, 2022
• ISBN: 9781959215066

Kathleen Troy

Kathleen Troy, JD; PhD, is a published author, children's book publisher, movie producer, writing and law professor at Cypress College, and former Director of Education and Development for the Archdiocese of Los Angeles. Kathleen is an active member of Sisters in Crime and Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators and has won several awards for middle-grade and young adult books. Dog training is Kathleen's passion, and she has achieved recognition, most notably for training service dogs for hospice work. Kathleen welcomes hearing from you. Please email her at www.kathleentroy.com.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

A finger of bright sunlight poked me in the eye. I try rolling over to my side but after thirty seconds, I give up and flop onto my back. Breathing in the scents of disinfectant and body odor, I rub my hands over my face and decide I might as well get up. After all, there were worse places I could be than in a Las Vegas jail. 

Since Saturday night, I’d had plenty of time to think. One thing for certain, my future was not looking good. Having Marty Christopher for a dad for thirteen years had been like having no dad at all, and now he was dead.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I waited for the tears, but I just couldn’t pull it off. Maybe later. Right now, I had bigger things on my mind. 

At some point, Chief Brennan would have to figure out what to do with me. A foster home was my guess, but I wouldn’t let it come to that. This was Las Vegas. There had to be a traveling circus in town that could use a talented kid like me.

Down the hall, I heard the metal door from the lobby swing inward, followed by heavy footsteps and a jingle of keys that I hoped meant breakfast. My stomach growled as I swung my legs over the cot and toed around for my sneakers. Yesterday, the pancakes weren’t half bad.

When Chief Brennan reached my cell, there was no sign of breakfast. He pushed the wide brim of his hat up with a forefinger. His lined face was more serious than usual. How’d you sleep?

I shrugged. All right, I guess.

Sorry I had to keep you here but that’s the trouble when accidents happen over the weekend.

Marty always did have lousy timing.

Anyway, it’s Monday now.

The dirt underneath my thumbnail was suddenly interesting. I picked at it slowly and thought fast. He was telling me he’d found some do-gooder agency that dealt with unwanted kids to take me off his hands. My life was picking up speed. So?

He avoided my question by holding up a grubby blue duffle bag. We found this when we went through the accident scene. Your dad’s car was pretty smashed up. The fire got to most of it.

The duffle reeked of smoke. I waited. With the law, there was always something more.

Anyway, I thought you’d like to have his personal belongings.

I bit my lip and tried not to think of Marty. The Saturday night poker game had started like so many others in our motel room. Cases of beer. Fifths of cheap whiskey. High hopes, low stakes. Around midnight, Marty and the guys had taken the party on the road for a game of chicken. I’d had no choice but to go along but I’d split as soon as I’d gotten the chance. Back at our motel room, I’d gone to bed, glad for the quiet. Then, the knock had come at the door a few hours later.

The cop had been nice but when he stood in the doorway while I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, I knew what he saw. A filthy, run-down motel room. Empty beer cans and food cartons on the floor.

And a kid with nowhere to go.

There’s been an accident, he’d said. A bad one. Better get what’s yours. You’re coming with me. 

I didn’t have to ask who, and he didn’t have to say how. Living with Marty kept me on the edge. The cop waited in the doorway while I dressed. Aside from what I was wearing, there wasn’t much to get. I scooped up a pair of dirty jeans, my brown shoes, a library book, and a Yankees tee shirt I’d outgrown but still liked and stuffed them into a pillowcase. The cop wasn’t looking so I tossed in a pack of Camel cigarettes and was about to go for the bottle of vodka, but something told me I’d better be sober for what was coming next. Slinging the pillowcase over my shoulder, I walked to the door.

Do you have everything? 

My life didn’t need a second look. Yeah. A minute later, we were in his patrol car, heading for the station.

Chief Brennan tapped a thick, manila envelope against the cell bars, jarring me from my thoughts. This was in the glove compartment. He put the envelope into the duffle and motioned me over, keeping his eyes on me.

The envelope was news to me, but I got to my feet anyway and met him at the cell door.

I looked inside the envelope.

Of course, you did.

He rattled his key in the lock and the barred door slid back. Seems Marty was up to no good.

Probably. 

He handed me the duffle. Breakfast in ten.

Thanks, I mumbled and took the bag over to the cot. I turned it upside down, not too surprised when not much fell out.

 A wadded-up horse racing form. Marty must have lost that one.

A pair of cheap sunglasses. A set of lock picks. A printout of airline flights to the East Coast.

That’s weird. We never went anywhere.

Marty’s worn pitcher’s mitt and scuffed baseball were next. I slipped the mitt on and liked the feel of it. Tossing the ball a few times, I caught it and tried imagining Marty as a boy. I gave up on that real quick and dropped them back into the duffle. 

The brown envelope was another story. Inside it were two smaller envelopes. I started with the one that was as dingy as an old dog’s tooth. 

Did you squirrel away a million dollars, Marty? I muttered. Now that would have been funny.

Flicking the flap free, I was surprised to find copies of nineteen-year-old newspaper clippings. One inky, bold headline followed another.

Town Tycoon Missing

Evans Gone Without a Trace

Police Suspect Foul Play in Evans’s Disappearance

The Evansville News Posts Reward

This might have been an interesting story, but it had nothing to do with us. All about a rich guy named Evans from Evansville, Connecticut. The play on names made me snicker. The guy must’ve been really loaded to get his own town.

One article showed a grainy, black-and-white picture of Evans’s daughter Olivia. She was mousey looking, wearing a ridiculous-looking dress with ruffles and crying into a handkerchief. The article quoted her as saying, My father’s a big game hunter. He went on safari two months ago and didn’t come back.

Rotten luck.

The article ended with another quote from her on the same idea. I think a tiger ate him. 

I barked out a laugh at that one. From the headlines, it was obvious the police suspected foul play. Of course, why Evans had disappeared was the interesting part. He owned the town newspaper but maybe he was really a drug smuggler. Had he taken illegal bribes? Being rich could buy him a lot of enemies.

Looking closer at the daughter’s picture, I wondered if her crying was real or just crocodile tears. Kind of strange she’d still be living at home at her age. What was with the boohooing? My gut told me it was an act. What if she secretly longed to smoke Turkish cigarettes and try out for a chorus girl part on Broadway? Maybe she’d only wanted Evans out of the way so she could get his money. 

Might be as simple as that.

Having lived with Marty, the champion of two-bit con men, I knew lies were better when they ran close to the truth. Still, I gave her credit for coming up with the tiger angle. In Las Vegas, when someone wanted to get rid of somebody, it was always the same old, same old: hire the mob.

Okay, I was hooked on this crazy story. Besides, there was no sign of breakfast. Settling back on my cot, I propped the pillow behind my head. The follow-up articles were long on speculation but short on facts. After several weeks, there were still no leads. Disappointed the articles went nowhere, I gave up and began putting them back together. One thing was certain, when I became an investigative journalist, I’d write better stuff than this. 

The last headline in the stack announced the newspaper had been sold. I was about to put the article with the others, but the new owner’s name leaped out: Clive Christopher.

That stopped me short. My last name was Christopher. Was Clive a relative? Marty had never said anything about family. Coincidence? Nah, no gambler’s kid could ever believe in coincidence. Luck, maybe.

I put the old envelope in the duffle and picked up the bright white one. The sight of it made my stomach flutter with happiness. On the twenty-fifth of every month, sober or stinking drunk, Marty drove to his post office box and picked up an envelope, exactly like this. Inside, money was lined up like crisp, green soldiers.

I’d known better than to ask who sent the mysterious envelopes, but driving over to the post office, I’d make up something wild in my head. Like maybe Marty was an international spy and he was getting orders so he could free American hostages from an enemy camp in South America. Maybe he was hot on the trail of mercenaries who were plotting to overthrow the government. Or he was a modern-day Robin Hood, using the money to help the poor, the weary, and the downtrodden. That last one was so absurd I’d busted out laughing and couldn’t stop. Until Marty had threatened to shut me up for good.

A few months ago, I’d finally gotten my nerve up to ask why the envelopes always arrived on the twenty-fifth. He’d given me a rare smile and chuckled, Cuz that’s when Santa comes, kid. These envelopes brought the good with the bad. After we picked up the envelope, we ate like kings, and Marty was almost likable. Then the money would run out.

I checked the postmark. November fourteenth. Last week. Not the twenty-fifth. Inside was a photocopy of a note. The newspaper articles were photocopies, too. What was that all about?

The bold letters in the original note had been smudged, but the message printed in capital letters was clear.

MARTY,

MURDER IS EASY. YOU’VE BEEN PAID YOUR BLOOD MONEY. EVANS IS DEAD AND YOU WILL BE, TOO, IF YOU COME BACK.

C

Wow! This was getting interesting. Who was C? I turned the paper over, but there was nothing more. I held the envelope up to the light and could see it had come from Evansville, Connecticut. 

The puzzle pieces were out of the box and were beginning to fit together. The newspaper articles and the note were connected. Marty, always the hustler, had been trying to cash in on whatever had happened in Evansville nineteen years ago.

The jangle of keys told me Chief Brennan was back. Shaking my head in disgust, I jammed the paper into the envelope and tossed it into the duffle. I honestly wasn’t surprised by Marty putting the squeeze on somebody. Even dead, he was a loser.

Chief Brennan stood at the door to my cell with his hands on his belt and stared at me.

With Marty, I’d learned it was smart to keep quiet and let the law do the talking. I stared back.

Was Marty running a scam? 

He didn’t say anything to me. My eyes fell to the skid marks on the linoleum floor. They were probably from the last prisoner the Chief had dragged in here kicking and screaming. 

Can’t let this go, he pressed. I’ve put a call into Police Chief Murphy in Evansville. He might know something.

So that’s where this was headed. Chief Brennan hadn’t given me Marty’s old duffle for sentimental reasons. He’d kept the originals of the newspaper articles and the note. I was such an idiot. That’s why there’d only been photocopies. I’d be out of his hair soon, but a crime was a crime. I’d bet anything he’d already called Chief Murphy and faxed everything to him. Just goes to show, you can’t trust anybody in this world.

Okay, I played along. I kept my gaze glued to the skid marks and didn’t fidget under his stare. When Marty was about to hammer on me, it had been best to pretend to be invisible.

Do you know something?

Oh yeah. I knew that squealers lived a very short life, even in hee-haw towns like Evansville. If I knew how Marty had gotten the goods on C and was fixing to shake him down, I’d never open my big mouth. I wasn’t being loyal to Marty; I was being loyal to me. Marty may be dead, but C wasn’t. Uh-uh.

When I got to my feet, I refused to look back at the duffle. If I did, he’d know that I guessed something. 

Sage, his voice dropped a notch. I lost my father when I wasn’t much older than you. It was hard on me. It’s only right for you to feel sad. Even scared.

I caught my laugh in time by chewing on my lower lip. Still, the ‘I’m your pal’ pitch had been a nice touch. He’d almost gotten me with the duffle angle, but did he really expect me to break down and cry over a guy like Marty? As for scared, that didn’t begin to cover it. Even if I escaped foster care, I’d probably end up on the streets, and everyone knows what happens to kids on the streets.

I was tall for my age but with a mop of brown hair and freckles the size of dimes, I still looked like a kid. No one would ever mistake me for sixteen and hire me. Besides, lock picking and hot-wiring cars weren’t exactly skills legit employers wanted. I’m fine.

He took the key ring off his belt. Ready for breakfast? Hope you’re hungry for eggs and bacon.

You bet, I said, glad for the change of subject. Thanks.

He turned the key, slid the door open, and stepped aside. I moved past him, but this wasn’t over. Chief Brennan was smarter than he looked. 

You’re eating in my office today.

I nodded and kept walking. C’s note was still on my mind, but I was starving.

A dumpy, ancient woman with a halo of white hair filled the Chief’s chair. I skipped over her and followed my nose to the breakfast tray in front of her. It was loaded with enough food for two men. The woman gave me a gigantic, lipstick smile like we were old friends.

Sage, this is Mrs. Spears from the Children’s Home Society. Chief Brennan motioned me to the vacant chair. She’s here to help you.

I took my smile back. Breakfast was forgotten. Children’s Home Society was a fancy name for foster care. That was a stop I’d been dodging all my life. Not easy to do with a deadbeat dad like Marty. Even Las Vegas had rules about kids being in school.

Chief, she chirped, you run along and do important police work while Sage and I get better acquainted. Picking up the folder in front of her, she waved it in my direction like it was candy. You’re one lucky boy, she gushed. I’ve located your next of kin.

Not possible. I slid into the chair anyway.

Mrs. Spears, I’ll leave you and Sage alone for some privacy. Please use the telephone to make your arrangements. He turned to go. A uniform will be outside the door if you need anything.

 She gave him a cheery wave. When the door closed, she got down to business. Okay, kid. This is how it’s going to go. I’m calling your family and will convince them to take you off my hands. Then, I’ll get you cleaned up. She looked me over like she was trying to guess my weight. You’ll be on the 4:18 train bound for Evansville, or my name isn’t Agnes Spears.

Evansville? I can’t go!

Nonsense. You can’t stay here.

But. I scrambled for something to say. Suddenly, life as a foster kid was looking up. You can’t send me to people I don’t know.

That’s what all the kids say. Pushing back the sleeves of her baggy cardigan, she grabbed the telephone and punched in the number. Pursing her thick lips together, she reached for a pencil and waited. Finally, she said, I’m calling for Mr. Christopher.

The article said Clive Christopher had bought the Evansville newspaper. 

You’re Jack Christopher?

Maybe Jack and Clive were brothers.

I’m Agnes Spears with the Children’s Home Society. She tapped her pencil impatiently on the desk. In Nevada.

Someone named C had signed the note. First or last name? Dust motes swam in front of my eyes.

You’re Marty’s father? 

No way. My body felt like it was tumbling through space. Was it possible to faint while sitting down?

He hasn’t been arrested. 

I remembered the note. MURDER IS EASY.

 Mrs. Spears glanced at her watch and then the ceiling. She swiveled her chair away from me and for a moment, I thought she might put her feet up on the desk.

YOU’VE BEEN PAID YOUR BLOOD MONEY.

Marty, what did you get yourself into? I wanted to make a break for it but I’d never get past the cop outside the door. My right foot tap-danced on the floor.

Marty’s dead. Two days ago.

EVANS IS DEAD AND YOU WILL BE, TOO, IF YOU COME BACK.

I closed my eyes and gripped the seat of my chair.

Marty was playing chicken and ran his car off the road. He was drunk. She swiveled back. Mr. Christopher, she announced this as if it were his fault, he left a boy behind.

My brain clicked on the printout of airline flights in Marty’s duffle. It all made sense. Marty had been planning on doing a shakedown in Evansville. I swallowed hard. Had he planned on taking me with him? All my life, he’d told me I was on borrowed time. Maybe he’d been planning to dump me for good.

Mrs. Spears listened, gave an eye roll, flipped the file open, and rifled through some papers. A wife? More rifling of pages. If so, she’s gone. She shot a pale hand up in the air, and then slapped it down on the desk in front of her. How hard is this to decide? she whispered to me.

Take your time.

Mr. Christopher, I don’t have all day, she pressed. The pencil was back. Do you want the kid or not?

Say no. 

She hunched her round shoulders forward, her voice firm, Look, you need to decide. Her hard mouth broke into a red watermelon smile. Wonderful, Mr. Christopher. He’ll be on the 4:18 train from Las Vegas today. She covered the mouthpiece with her plump hand. Congrats, kid. You’re going to Evansville.

I tilted back in my chair so she wouldn’t see me smirk and stared at the ceiling. No way was I getting on that train. As soon as we stepped outside, I was hitting the bricks.

CHAPTER TWO

Picking up my duffle, I thought I must be the first person to feel sad about leaving jail. On the way out, we stopped at the front desk so Mrs. Spears could sign my release papers. That was all I needed for my lucky break. I charged out the front door and to freedom. In seconds, hot sun blasted my face.

No, you don’t. 

Mrs. Spears’ gorilla paw grabbed the back of my shirt and hauled me backward so fast my feet left the pavement. A vicious twist to my collar brought me to my knees. Before me the gaudy purple, red, and yellow neon signs of the casinos blurred into a splotchy rainbow. I fell forward, my palms scraping the pavement.

What the? The voice belonged to a pair of men’s boots barely sidestepping my fingers. Watch where you’re goin’. 

A tinny buzzing was in my ears, but it wasn’t coming from the flies on the half-eaten bagel in the gutter. Blinking my eyes only made everything fuzzy. 

Had enough?

Ugh. I shook my head a few times to make sure it was still working. Since it was humiliating to get caught in broad daylight by an old woman in orthopedic shoes, I got to my feet.

Mrs. Spears kept her grip on my shirt and turned me around. Like a two-person marching band, we went back inside.

She pointed to a vacant chair by the front desk. Sit here and reflect upon the error of your ways. Mrs. Spears gave me a little shove. Officer Diaz?

The cop on duty looked up from his Guns and Ammo magazine. Yes, ma’am? 

Shoot him, if you have to. She went inside Chief Brennan’s office, slamming the glass door behind her.

Officer Diaz dog-eared the page and gave me a big grin. Will do.

The cop patted his holster and although I was pretty sure he was kidding about using the gun, I plopped down in the chair. 

My guess was he was still sore about losing at poker yesterday. It bothered me a little that I’d taken his last ten bucks, but he shouldn’t gamble with a kid—especially Marty’s kid. Besides, the money would come in handy if I ever managed to run away. Dropping my head into my hands, I rolled it from side to side and tried to think.

Okay, so my getaway plan hadn’t gone well. I could see that now. I’d made the mistake of assuming that since Mrs. Spears was easily a hundred years old, escaping would be easy. 

Rocking my head back and forth, I let out a sigh. I couldn’t believe what crummy luck I was having. Two days ago, I was living with Marty and for the next few hours, I was in the clutches of Mrs. Spears. Different prison, different warden, but the same sentence.

The minutes dragged by. I was considering asking the cop for a glass of water so I could try another escape when the door to Chief Brennan’s office opened.

Thanks, Chief. Let me know when you hear from Evansville.

Criminy. That town again.

Mrs. Spears strode over and planted herself in front of me. I’ll take it from here, Officer. 

Fear clutched my heart. It was only a matter of time before Chief Brennan and Mrs. Spears figured out what Marty had been up to. I needed a plan fast. One that would get me as far away from them as possible.

Officer Diaz gave her a mock salute and went back to his magazine.

She tilted her head to the side. What are you waiting for? Let’s go.

Hefting my duffle, I followed her out.

Something told me the banged-up Honda was hers. I walked over, flung the door open, threw my duffle onto the back seat, and got in the front. Mrs. Spears slammed my door shut. As soon as she did, I scrambled into the driver’s seat. Reaching down to start the car, all I got was a handful of air. She hadn’t left her keys in the ignition. She had to be the most distrusting person I’d ever met.

When I looked up, her moon-pie face filled the open driver’s side window. Sage, Sage, Sage. She gave a weary shake of her head. Her flabby jowls flapped back and forth like a dismayed bloodhound with no prey to hunt. You never fail to disappoint.

I stayed put.

She wrenched the door open and snapped. Don’t make me tell you twice. Get over.

I had no choice and did as I was told.

When we got to the Children’s Home Society, I was surprised at all the kids. They filled the playground, hanging from monkey bars and chasing each other around, yelling and screaming like they had something to be happy about. No one looked at the new kid being dragged across the lawn by Mrs. Spears. Inside the building, there were even more kids. It was strange to know I wasn’t the only unwanted kid in this world.

Going down the hall, Mrs. Spears pointed out the cafeteria and the classrooms. Since I wasn’t staying, I tuned her out. The hall dead-ended, and we stopped in front of a heavy, glass door marked Showers.

She walked over to a locker, rummaged inside, and handed me a towel and half a bar of soap. Pushing past me, she opened the door to the showers. Put your clothes in the hamper. She pointed. "You’ll need some decent clothes to make a