Chapter 81

“All of it,” I said.

“You always wait until the end to make the big revelations.” Lisa, my shrink, was no nonsense. I’d half-assed my psychiatric treatment at the beginning, right after. November and December of 2018, even into January and February of 2019, I swore there were no aftereffects of the shooting, no nightmares, no PTSD, no extra anxiety, no suicidal thoughts. All of that was a lie, too, one with awful consequences. I’d bullshitted my way through mental health evaluation those five months in Florida, too. Now finally, in August, I was finally trying to do it right.

“I’ve been talking. I told you all about the case I should be out investigating, instead of sitting here. Now, I’m telling you everything except spending the night in a chair beside Archie in his attic bedroom last night all happened just in my head.”

“Nothing else is true?”