CHAPTER 55

PERLA

You know, one thing about Perla is that she didn't have any close friends. I mean, she went to lunches with us and would host parties and such, but if you asked who her best friend was? I don't think she had a consistent ongoing friendship with anyone. Which is sad, but I think she liked it like that. She had a wall up around her, and no one had the mental energy to scale that thing.

—Morayi Keita, retired model

I had some pep in my step when I walked into Dr. Maddox's office. Murder Unplugged had been talking about the Folcrum trial nonstop, and two other podcasts had picked up the scent. I smiled at the psychiatrist, not even bothered by her zebra-striped top and pleated pants.

My mood dissolved with her first statement.

"I was thinking that our sessions might be more productive if Grant was here." Dr. Maddox delivered the opinion with a cheerful beam. "Sometimes it helps to have a dialogue with both parties. It also allows me the chance to see how you two interact with each other." She smiled encouragingly, as if she expected me to just nod like a marionette, pull out my phone, and set up something on Grant's calendar.

"Oh, I don't think so," I said quickly. "I mean, Grant can't know that I've even been coming here. He would be ..." I inhaled sharply. "He can't know," I said, softer this time. I kept my gaze down. There was no way she was missing this clear sign of spousal trauma.

Couples counseling with Grant was definitely not going to happen. For one, it would destroy the picture I'd so carefully drawn for her. Plus, everyone always loved Grant. I didn't need Dr. Maddox warming to Grant. I needed her to see him as a control freak with dark and adulterous tendencies. One who might seduce a nanny and plot the murder as a way of unburdening himself and honoring the past crime. Whether or not he went to prison didn't matter; I just needed enough doubt cast on him so that I would shine as the pillar of strength and sorrow, one the public would cheer for. One who could divorce her husband without scorn, given all the shadiness he'd been up to.

"Well, okay, now." She switched the cross of her legs. "We don't have to have him here if you aren't ready for that. But you have to realize that everything I hear from you is from your perspective."

"Yes." I didn't know where she was going with this, but I didn't like it.

"And we all have biases on our perspectives. Most of the time we can't even see our own biases. Some of them were built decades ago. Some of them were created more recently, as a result of trauma or circumstance."

My hand instinctively went for my neck, but I caught and disguised the action, pretending to brush something off the breast of my ebony sweater.

I waited for her to continue—I'd been through this song and dance before. She wasn't going to put out a net and have me fall into it. I was the one with the hook here, and I'd put in all the work to make sure it was pierced in her psyche, the line taut.

"Can we talk about your history with men, before Grant?"

I sighed, settling back against the soft leather chair. "There isn't much to tell. I had a few boyfriends but nothing serious. I was a virgin when I met Grant."

She flipped a few pages back. "Oh, that's interesting. So you were ... let's see ... twenty-one when you met Grant?"

"Yes."

"Was he your first love?" She peered at me. Today she was wearing black-and-white-plaid eyeglass frames. They looked ridiculous.

Grant wasn't my first love, but I couldn't tell her that. If I said that, she'd want to know the intimate details, and I didn't talk about that love with anyone, especially not her. "Yes." I delivered the lie with a wistful smile.

"And how close were you with your father?"

"Excuse me?" I tried not to recoil, not to show too much, but it felt like her pen was pulling open my stomach and examining the contents.

"When we look at a woman's adult relationships, they can sometimes be influenced by the most powerful male figure in her life, which is typically her father."

"My father died shortly after I met Grant."

"Did you have a good relationship with him?"

I thought of George, and this time, the smile that pulled at my lips was genuine. "Yes. He was wonderful. We were very close." I flicked my gaze back to her, and my anger flared. "No daddy issues, if that's what you're asking about."

Definitely not. I didn't have daddy issues; I had a fucking daddy tsunami that was six layers deep and capable of decimation.

"Would you like some tea?" She placed her notebook on the small gold table beside her and stood. "I'm going to pour myself a cup."

"No." I glanced at my watch, irritated to see that there were still eighteen minutes left in our session. Maybe this would be our last. The point had been to establish a key witness for the defense, and Dr. Maddox was getting a little shaky on that front.

"I'll be right back." She walked toward the office door and I saw she was wearing glittery white Birkenstock sandals, each toe painted a different color. Ridiculous.

I spoke just before she reached it. "Actually ... I would love a cup of tea. With whatever diet sweetener you have. Preferably Splenda."

She nodded and closed the door behind her, and I immediately stood, taking three short steps over to her chair, resting my weight on the arm of it as I looked at her notepad.

There were only three words on the pad. Three words, neatly written in her clean block writing, with dozens of question marks framing the question.

I stared at the words for a long moment, then returned to my seat, the phrase burning into my mind.

Is she lying?