The Good Lie

by A.R. Torre

Obsession, as I frequently told my clients, never affected outside situations. They only made your internal struggles—and resulting personal actions and decisions—worse.

After all, their thoughts weren’t actions. People didn’t die from mental activities. It was only if those thoughts turned into actions . . . that was the dangerous risk in this game I played with clients on a daily basis.

Part of the game, for many killers, is the con of the innocent, the hiding of the monster, the successful deception that proves to them that they are smarter and therefore superior.

“With this glass, rich and deep, we cradle all our sorrows to sleep.” I gave a wistful smile. “My dad used to say that. Though he was a scotch man, not Bud Light.”

Robert threw an arm over the back of the booth, and his jacket gaped open, revealing the expensive lines of his vest. A custom suit. The glint of a Rolex peeking out of the sleeve of his jacket. A comfort level in this atmosphere where he obviously didn’t fit, bred from pure confidence. A businessman or attorney. Probably the latter.

The missing kid. Not Gabe, who hadn’t been able to escape. Scott Harden. Lucky Scott Harden.

“They found a shoebox in his house.” He met the man’s eyes. “It had souvenirs from each of the boys, including Gabe.”

I’d treated a few parents after the loss of a child. The grief wouldn’t go away. It would dilute in his eyes. He would grow better at masking it, disguising it, but it would always be there. Losing a child was like losing a limb. You were reminded of it every time you moved, until the consistent adjustments to life became a permanent part of you.

“I don’t see them as vile,” I answered truthfully. “I see them as human. We all battle demons. If they’re in my office, it’s because they’re trying to fix that part of them. I can relate to that. Can you?”

“The death of a loved one can eat at you,”

The stranger was right. It was amazing, but also . . . unbelievable. Scott was lying about something, and she still couldn’t put her finger on what it was. Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe Scott was saying whatever he needed to in order to mentally block out the truth. The pit in her stomach grew sharper, and she pressed a hand to the pain, willing it to fade.

So, Robert Kavin meets Natasha. Graduates from law school. Practices criminal law for three years. She gets pregnant. Has a child—Gabe. When Gabe is ten, Natasha is murdered. Case goes unsolved. Seven years pass, and Gabe is kidnapped, then killed. Nine months pass, and Robert sleeps with me, then shows up in my home, asking me to do a psychological profile on his son’s killer.

What was his father’s game, and why was he pulling me into it?

“You manipulate people for a living. Manipulation to fit and believe your narrative. You play with emotions and, sometimes, facts.”

We were a wrecked car, barreling down the highway without lights, our steering locked into place. I could put a seat belt on. I could reach out and jab the hazard lights on. But I couldn’t turn off the car, and I couldn’t seem to open the door and fling myself out. There was calamity ahead—I just had no idea what it would look like.

And there was something deeply personal about the archetype of the boys that triggered something in the killer. My hypothesis was that the killer’s high school years had been traumatic with respect to his mental growth.

“People have always fascinated me. Their motivations. Decisions. I like figuring out how their brains work.”

Then again, the death of a child could cause anyone to lose their mind.

William S. Burroughs once said that no one owns life, but anyone who can lift a frying pan can create death. He was right. Killing is the easy part. The act of living—of finding happiness in life—that’s the hard part.