Two months in the psychiatric ward of the hospital undergoing treatment and analysis hadn’t revealed the slightest bit of light on his case. He knew the symptoms, the diagnosis…but every test that his fellow (estranged) doctors had given him pointed out one blatant truth.

He was mentally healthy.

And one truth led to another. He was a liar. And worse.

His lawyer was talking, gesturing animatedly towards the jury, pointing at a picture set on a stand. A woman. Glassy blue eyes, wheat-blond hair caked with dried blood. He closed his eyes.

I know her, don’t I?

He looked at the lawyers notepad, saw the date and shook his head again. How can you explain three missing years of your life?

What did I do?

A flash of memory, a shock of truth. Of life, ebbing, beneath his hands. Of scared eyes, whimpered pleas.

“Oh god, Heather!” He stood abruptly and knocked his chair over. Everyone stopped and looked at him.

“Your honor, I’d like to change my plea,” he heard himself say. “I plead guilty to all charges.”