“Listen, Katie, there’s no point in dragging this on. You know why these meetings are necessary. It’s been months since the incident, and things are getting out of hand.” The incident. She always calls it that. She probably thinks avoiding the subject will reassure me, remind me that they don’t think it’s all my fault. She couldn’t be more wrong.

“I know you don’t trust me. That’s to be expected, given your.... prior experience with law enforcement. But they’re going to prosecute soon, and to our knowledge, you were the last person ever to see your husband alive.”

“Well then, it seems your knowledge is incorrect. I’d imagine whoever killed him saw him after I did,” I reply coolly. The woman blinks, adjusting her glasses and leaning back in her seat. They’re new ones, rounder this time, with plastic red-coloured frames. She looks like an insect, a beetle or ladybird maybe. Yes, a ladybird, that was it. Her polka-dot cardigan doesn’t do much to distract from that impression.

She sighs, opens her notebook, and scribbles something down.

“Alright. It’s clear that no progress is being made here, Katie. I think we’d better-”

“Kate,” I interrupt. She watches me expectantly, bulging eyes squinting at me through her thick glasses like I’m some fascinating new strain of bacteria under a microscope. No, actually, not quite like that. More like I’m something interesting, maybe a butterfly or pressed leaf or flower or something, that would have to be pinned up and dried and hung on the wall of her office in a pretty glass frame. I avoid her prying gaze, looking vaguely out through the window into the corridor instead.

“No one calls me Katie. It’s just Kate.”

“I see,” she replies, smiling pointedly, before scrawling more words down. She’s an awful liar. She always just agrees with whatever other people say. The real art of the lie isn’t to make yourself sound good. It’s to make yourself sound believable. I’ve often heard that the best lies always have a little bit of the truth in them. I don’t think that’s necessarily true, although it’s definitely easier to stick to a simple story that sounds true, even if it isn’t. I should know. I mastered the art of the lie long ago.

“Listen, it really is a waste of time having these sessions if you’re just going to sit in silence all the time,” she chuckles awkwardly. “Things aren’t looking great for you at the minute, especially since the police say your neighbours are willing to testify that they heard you arguing with your husband the night of the incident. If you would just talk to me, then I’m sure we can explain to them that it was just a petty fight, nothing important, just an insignificant misunderstanding. I know that you think whatever you say is going to be used against you. Trust me, it won’t be. These therapy sessions may be court-appointed, but I just want to help. I truly believe that you’re innocent, Kate.”

She’s always lying. It’s ridiculous. She wants me to like her, I can tell. It’s obvious that she cares too much what other people think of her. Photo of her husband and kids on her desk, turned not to face her chair where she can see them, but out towards the corridor, so her coworkers can. Hell, I’m soon to be on trial for murder and she still wants my approval. She thinks that she knows everything, with her oh-so-sympathetic smiles and nods. Little Miss Understanding.

I sense her watching me again. This time, I look straight back at her, unsmiling. “We’re all guilty of something.”