The Empty Chair

Thomas arrived exactly seven minutes early to the session, as he always did. The community center's fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting everyone in a sickly pallor that somehow felt appropriate. He selected his usual chair—third from the left, the one with a slight wobble that no one else wanted—and arranged his notebook and pen at precise right angles on his lap.

Diana was already there, of course. She practically lived in the building if her stories were to be believed, which they weren't. She nodded at him with that enigmatic half-smile that suggested she knew something he didn't.

"You're looking well," she said.

"No, I'm not," Thomas replied. It was their usual greeting. One of them lied, the other called it out. A small ritual among people who couldn't help themselves.

Michael shuffled in next, wearing what appeared to be a genuine NASA jacket despite the unseasonably warm March weather. His latest persona. Last month he'd been an ex-MI6 operative. The month before, a disgraced neurosurgeon. Thomas had to admit the man committed to his fabrications with admirable thoroughness—the jacket had the appropriate patches and even looked authentically worn.

"Mission control sends their regards," Michael said to no one in particular as he lowered himself into a chair, wincing theatrically at what he'd previously described as "microgravity-induced spinal compression."

Aisha arrived precisely on time, immaculately dressed in a charcoal business suit that may or may not have been her actual work attire. She claimed variously to be a barrister, a biochemist, and once, memorably, the illegitimate daughter of a minor royal. Today she carried a leather portfolio that could have contained legal briefs or grocery lists or blank paper for all Thomas knew.

"Has anyone seen Dr. Marsh?" she asked, glancing at the empty chair where their therapist usually sat.

"She called me," Diana said. "Car trouble. She'll be fifteen minutes late."

Thomas checked his watch. "Did she really call you?"

Diana's smile widened a fraction. "What do you think?"

Rebecca was the last to arrive, five minutes after the session should have started. Her hair was a different color than last week—platinum blonde instead of auburn—and she'd added a nose ring that Thomas was almost certain was fake. She carried a plate covered in cling film.

"I brought lemon bars," she announced. "My grandmother's recipe. She won the Kentucky State Fair with these three years running."

"You told us your grandmother died when you were an infant," Michael pointed out, already reaching for a lemon bar.

"Different grandmother," Rebecca said smoothly, setting the plate on the circle of chairs. "And they're actually from Tesco, but they're quite good."

Thomas took one. They were good, though he'd never admit it.

The five of them sat in the circle, eating supermarket lemon bars, pointedly not looking at the empty chair where Dr. Marsh should have been. Ten minutes passed. Then twenty.

"This isn't like her," Aisha said finally. "She's pathologically punctual."

"Maybe she finally had enough of us," Michael suggested. "I mean, we're hardly model patients."

"Speak for yourself," Diana said. "I've made tremendous progress. I've been completely honest for..." she checked her watch, "...nearly forty minutes now."

Thomas snorted. "The session hasn't even started yet."

"I was counting my commute here," Diana replied. "Complete honesty includes internal monologue."

Rebecca had been unusually quiet, Thomas noticed. She was staring at Dr. Marsh's empty chair with an intensity that seemed genuine, not part of whatever character she was playing this week.

"Something's wrong," she said finally.

"How would you know?" Michael asked around a mouthful of lemon bar.

Rebecca turned to face the group, and Thomas was startled by the expression on her face. Fear, he thought. Actual fear.

"Because I saw Dr. Marsh yesterday," she said. "At Caffè Nero on High Street. She was meeting someone. They were arguing."

"And you just happened to be there?" Aisha asked skeptically.

"I follow her sometimes," Rebecca admitted. "It's part of my process."

"Your process of being a complete stalker?" Thomas suggested.

"My process of understanding her," Rebecca countered. "She knows things about all of us. Real things, not the bullshit we feed her. I wanted to know what she does with that information."

An uncomfortable silence fell over the group. They all lied to Dr. Marsh, certainly, but they also told her truths sometimes. Truths they didn't share with the group. Thomas felt a cold sensation spreading through his chest.

"Who was she meeting?" Diana asked finally.

"A man. Mid-fifties, expensive suit, government type. They were looking at a file. A thick one."

"Did you see whose file?" Thomas asked, his mouth suddenly dry.

Rebecca shook her head. "But she looked upset. Really upset. And when she left, she forgot this." She reached into her bag and pulled out a small leather-bound notebook. Dr. Marsh's notebook, the one she always kept on her lap during sessions.

"You stole her notebook?" Aisha sounded genuinely shocked, which was rich coming from someone who'd claimed last month to have once stolen a Picasso "for the thrill of it."

"I was going to return it today," Rebecca said defensively. "But then I made the mistake of looking inside."

She placed the notebook on her lap and opened it carefully, as if it might contain something volatile. The group instinctively leaned forward.

"It's not her patient notes," Rebecca said. "At least, not the kind you'd expect."

Thomas could see the pages from where he sat. They contained what looked like complex diagrams, lines connecting names—their names—to locations, dates, events. Some were circled in red. Others had question marks. It looked less like therapy notes and more like...

"That's a criminal investigation board in notebook form," Aisha said, her voice uncharacteristically small.

"Exactly," Rebecca nodded. "And look at the last page."

She turned to the final entry. A single sentence, written in Dr. Marsh's precise handwriting:

One of them is telling the truth, and it will get me killed.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Outside, rain began to patter against the community center's windows. Five liars stared at each other, suddenly unsure of everything.

"Well," Thomas said finally, breaking the silence. "I suppose we should figure out which one of us is the truth-teller."

"And why that truth is worth killing for," Diana added.

Michael laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Bold of you to assume any of us would recognize the truth if we heard it."

Rebecca closed the notebook carefully. "Dr. Marsh would have been here by now if she could be. Something's happened to her."

"Or someone's happened to her," Aisha said.

The empty chair seemed to grow larger somehow, dominating their circle like an accusation. Five people who had built their lives around deception faced the possibility that, for once, the truth mattered.

Thomas straightened his notebook on his lap, aligning its edges perfectly with his knees. "I suggest we start by each telling the group who we really are," he said. "And this time, no lies."

Diana's enigmatic smile returned. "You first, Thomas. If that's even your name."

Thomas took a deep breath. "It isn't."

Outside, the rain fell harder, drumming against the windows like impatient fingers. The truth, it seemed, was finally ready to be heard.