All the Lies - Charlotte Byrd Page 0,38

on why I’m here.

The beauty of the desert is undeniable.

There are enormous boulders and tall leaning cacti springing up from the hills and valleys with an almost endless blue sky up above.

Whatever clouds hovered over Santa Monica have all burned off. Out here, the sky is huge and my mind clears immediately.

Suddenly, I don't feel this oppression of thought as if something from the heavens is pushing down on me. There are no low hanging clouds, just a bright and unforgivable sun.

The road leading up to Pioneertown is winding surrounded by enormous boulders. When I get to the top of the hill, I see the famous Pappy and Harriet’s and all of the Harley-Davidson motorcycles parked in a neat row in front.

I've never been to a biker bar before so I promise myself that no matter what happens today, I'm going to come back here and have lunch. My stomach rumbles and I consider having some lunch before going to the house, but I'm too nervous to prolong this meeting anymore than I absolutely have to.

Driving to the parking lot behind the restaurant, I pull up next to the dusty unmarked main street of the Old West town and look at the big sign that prohibits cars from driving through.

Proceed on foot or horseback only

I slow down and look out of the window at the little shops selling turquoise jewelry. One of the places has a big leather saddle out front, the exact one that I saw in my Instagram search.

There's also supposedly a church and a saloon further down the dusty road, but I don't get out of my car to investigate. I drive back out onto the paved road and let GPS lead me to my address. If this is all fake and there is no writer living at this house, then I'll have plenty of time to tour the town.

The directions lead me a few miles down the road and then instruct me to turn left up an unpaved, desert path. There's a dip and the bottom of my car scrapes along the ground.

I consider parking and then walking the rest of the way, but I don't see the house from here and according to the GPS, it's another few miles away. That's a long walk under the hot desert sun so I get back into the car and keep driving.

A very bumpy two miles later, I reach a wrought iron gate, placed almost arbitrarily in the middle of the road. If I were in a different type of vehicle, I could easily drive around it and onto the property, but there are cacti, shrubs, and all sorts of other vegetation blocking my way. I get out of the car and look for the button to call the owner.

There isn't one.

I walk around and put my hand over my forehead to block some of the sun, peering into the distance. There, on top of the hill, I see the house sitting on at least five acres of property.

The gate doesn't have a way to call, but it also doesn't have a lock so when I pull up one of the latches it swings inward, welcoming me inside.

Back home, I would not have dared to walk through a gate without first trying to reach the owner because I know that they will call the police.

Out here?

The consequences are probably more dire. I'm pretty certain that almost everyone owns a gun and isn’t afraid to use it.

But I get into my car and drive over anyway.

The house is a modern masterpiece. It’s made entirely of glass resembling those rectangular mansions they have scattered over the Hollywood Hills.

I park my car out front and walk down the carefully manicured desert landscaped yard full of barrel and saguaro cacti.

When I step on a twig, it cracks underneath my foot. A black crow takes off from the roof, startling me.

I take a deep breath and look up at the couple of stairs leading to the enormous distressed wood double doors, which look more like an entrance to a castle than a single-family home in the desert.

There's a small doorbell to one side and when I press it, an antique sounding bell reverberates throughout the house. A dog runs up to one of the windows adjoining the doors just as I peek through. All I spot is the large foyer before a toy Australian Shepherd jumps up on her hind legs and launches herself at the window, barking her head off.

The dog is