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Whatever the reason, I couldn’t stand by and do nothing. He could have told the truth. Even a tiny truth. He made his bed. He needed to lie in it. Now, it was my turn. It was my move. My chance to advance on the chessboard. But first, I wanted to understand why. I wanted to understand the decision behind the lies. You consider the action of a lie and you take a step back.
It’s important to look at the decision to lie.
Then take another step back.
What were his choices? What analysis led to that decision? What was going through his mind?
Then, take one more step back.
What information did he analyze to make the decision that led to that action? Then you go back to the action and take a step forward. What result did he expect from lying?
After that you look at intent. Like the courts do. They dole out a variety of punishments depending on reason. When someone gets killed, the court wants to know why. They seek to understand intent. Accidental? Negligent? If so, third-degree. A crime of passion? Second-degree. Maybe third. Malice aforethought? Cold-blooded and premeditated? That’ll net you first-degree. The worst kind.
It doesn’t even matter if the initial crime was third-degree, if a worse one followed. You’re judged on the worst one. If a first-degree crime took place to cover up a third-degree crime, you’re judged on the first-degree crime.
That he was guilty of. It didn’t matter how his lies started out; they had become first-degree. They were told on purpose. Which showed intent. His intent mattered for a practical reason: it was a clue as to how he would proceed.
I needed to know how he would approach things once we were on equal footing.
What would he do next? How would he play his hand? What was his next move?
These were strategic questions on my part, because the answer affected what I would do next. Whether you’re trying to make a sale, or win a war, you have to be strategic. You have to ask pointed questions. Loaded questions. Leading questions. This is how you beat them at their own game. You use their answers to predict what they’ll do if you do X. If you do Y, you gauge how they might respond. You add it all up and choose the best route forward. You build a strategy. Which is easy, if there’s a predictable route for your opponent.
With him, there wasn’t. There was a hitch with this particular liar—a hitch that took away the predictable route. A hitch that made it difficult to build a strategy. The hitch was that the liar knew that I knew he had lied. He knew he had been caught. He knew that I knew.
This could only mean one thing: He was already thinking about what I was going to do about it. He was thinking about how bad it could get. He was contemplating worst-case scenarios.
He was thinking strategically. This meant he could deviate from any predictable route I’d considered, and probably would. This made it risky—dangerous.
He’s a smart man. Professionally. In all ways that count, really. He’d been in conflict. Conflicts he’d won. Conflicts he’d lost. He understood what all well-trained fighters know: whoever is the first to strike usually wins. If he thought a fight was on the horizon, he’d make the first move. He’d throw the first punch. Which meant I had two choices: wait for him to strike or strike before he did.
He was aware of this, of course. If he anticipated me choosing option two, he’d hit sooner. He would hit before I could. That’s the logic of first strikes. If we both thought that going to battle was inevitable, one of us would strike as soon as there was a chance.
A dangerous game.
For both of us.
Which is why I needed a good strategy.
For that, I had to understand his strategy—which was proving to be a real problem. I’d missed it so completely the first time.
Chapter Three
Dr. Max Hastings
AFTER
“Did she draw blood often?”
Rubbing my sweaty palms against my scrubs, a different kind than I’m used to wearing and yet still kind of the same, I study a sliver of tile that’s visible between the table and the chair. When I look up from the floor, I stare unblinkingly at her as she repeats the question. Her voice is monotone, drab and uninspiring, not unlike our surroundings. She utters the words calmly, speaking slowly, as though I simply missed them the first time. As though maybe I really am, as they claim, crazy.
Placing my hands on the table, palms flat, I roll my shoulders and stretch my neck. After, I make sure to sit up a little straighter. She stares at my hands. I follow suit, the both of us wondering what they’re capable of. “You wouldn’t happen to have any nail clippers, would you?” I ask.
My nails have grown longer than I’d like.
A steely glare is offered but not an answer. We are both aware clippers are not allowed in a place like this.
“Didn’t think so,” I say before sticking one finger between my teeth, slowly chewing the nail to the quick. Nearly the entire thing comes off. Not as clean as I would like it to, but it will do. I look up at Dr. Jones and smile. “Problem solved.”
