I have thought that perhaps this is how it often works, that the buried self we once were leaves marks the person we become cannot erase, and that no one, however skilled a liar, can fully outrun the evidence of who they used to be.

Chapter 9 — A Motorcycle Spill

“What is that?” I asked.

I kept my voice very light, or tried to.

“That scar, on your hip.

I don’t think I’ve ever noticed it before.”

He looked down at it, and there was a hesitation, just a fraction of a second, the smallest possible catch before he answered, but I was a woman who had spent fifteen years teaching teenagers to lie badly and I knew a caught breath when I heard one.

“Oh,” he said.