True Lies

"My name is Jonathan Blackwood," Thomas said, the words feeling foreign in his mouth after so long. "Not Thomas Elliot, as I've been telling you all."

No one looked particularly surprised. They'd all assumed each other's names were fabrications anyway. It was the details that followed that would matter.

"I was an accountant for Harrington Global Investments until eighteen months ago." He paused, measuring his words carefully. "I specialized in their offshore holdings. The kind that don't officially exist."

"Tax evasion?" Aisha asked, leaning forward slightly.

Jonathan shook his head. "That would have been relatively benign. No, I handled accounts that moved money for people who needed certain... services. Untraceable services."

"You laundered money for hitmen," Michael translated bluntly.

"Among others," Jonathan admitted. "I didn't know that's what I was doing, not at first. The accounts were coded, compartmentalized. But I'm good with patterns. Too good, as it turns out."

Rebecca had taken out a small notebook of her own and was writing rapidly. "When did you figure it out?"

"When my colleague David started asking questions about the same accounts. He disappeared three days later. Police said he'd likely committed suicide, jumped into the Thames. No body was ever found." Jonathan's voice remained steady, but his hands had begun to tremble slightly. "That's when I knew. And that's when I started copying files."

"Blackmail?" Diana suggested, her tone almost approving.

"Insurance," Jonathan corrected. "I hid copies of everything, then walked away. Changed my name, moved across London, started attending this group as part of my new identity. A man with anxiety and compulsive lying draws less attention than an accountant who knows too much."

The room fell silent as they absorbed this. Rain continued to drum against the windows, providing a rhythmic backdrop to Jonathan's confession.

"Why tell us now?" Aisha finally asked.

Jonathan gestured to Dr. Marsh's notebook. "Because if she's been investigating us, if she somehow found out who I really am, then her disappearance might be connected to my former employers. And that means all of you could be in danger too."

Michael snorted. "Convenient narrative. Very thriller-novel. Complete with shadowy financial conspiracies."

"You don't have to believe me," Jonathan said quietly. "But I've just told you more truth than I've spoken in eighteen months."

Diana studied him with narrowed eyes. "Let's say you're being honest. Why would Dr. Marsh be investigating you? She's a therapist, not a detective."

"Unless she's not actually a therapist," Rebecca interjected. Everyone turned to look at her. "What? It's a possibility. Has anyone here actually verified her credentials?"

An uncomfortable silence followed. None of them had.

"Right," Rebecca continued. "So who's next? Diana? Care to tell us who you really are?"

Diana's perpetual half-smile flickered briefly. She smoothed her skirt—an expensive-looking tweed affair that she'd previously claimed was a Chanel original—and straightened her posture.

"My real name is Diana Mercer. That much is true. I find it easier to keep track of lies when some elements remain constant." She paused, as if deciding how much to reveal. "I was a research psychologist specializing in deception studies at University College London. My work focused on pathological liars—what motivates them, how they construct and maintain their falsehoods, the neurological patterns associated with habitual deception."

"You've been studying us," Aisha said flatly. "This whole time."

Diana inclined her head slightly. "Not officially. My academic career ended rather abruptly three years ago after an ethics violation. I designed an experiment that the review board found... problematic."

"What kind of experiment?" Jonathan asked.

"I wanted to see if I could create pathological liars through environmental conditioning. The university disagreed with my methodology." She waved a dismissive hand. "Academic politics. The point is, I continued my research independently. This support group provided a perfect observational opportunity."

Michael laughed, a harsh sound without humor. "So you're not a compulsive liar? You've been faking it?"

"Oh, I'm absolutely a compulsive liar," Diana said with that enigmatic smile. "The most interesting research comes from participant-observation. I've always had the tendency, but I cultivated it deliberately. The best way to understand a condition is to experience it."

Rebecca had continued taking notes. "Did Dr. Marsh know about your background?"

"I don't believe so. I was careful."

"Not careful enough, apparently," Jonathan said, gesturing toward the notebook.

Diana's smile faded. "Perhaps not. But I fail to see how my academic history would warrant any kind of dangerous attention."

"Unless your ethics violation was more serious than you're suggesting," Aisha said.

Before Diana could respond, Michael stood up abruptly and began pacing the small circle. The NASA jacket seemed to hang more heavily on his frame now.

"This is ridiculous," he said. "We're sitting here spinning conspiracy theories when the simple explanation is that Dr. Marsh had a family emergency, or car trouble, or simply got tired of listening to our bullshit week after week."

"Then why the notebook?" Rebecca challenged. "Why write that one of us is telling the truth that could get her killed?"

Michael stopped pacing and turned to face her. "For all we know, you wrote that yourself. You 'conveniently' had her notebook. You're the one pushing this whole mystery narrative."

Rebecca's face flushed. "I didn't—"

"Enough," Aisha interrupted. "Michael, if you think this is all nonsense, why don't you tell us who you really are? Since we're all sharing."

Michael stood still for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a sigh that seemed to deflate him, he returned to his chair.

"My real name is Peter Dalton," he said. "I was a journalist."

"For NASA?" Jonathan asked dryly.

Peter shot him an irritated look. "For The Guardian. I covered political corruption, financial crimes, that sort of thing. Not the glamorous international correspondent role I may have implied in previous sessions."

"May have implied?" Diana echoed with raised eyebrows. "You told us you were embedded with rebels in six different conflict zones."

"Yes, well." Peter looked uncomfortable. "The point is, I was working on a story about money laundering through London real estate. High-end properties purchased through shell companies, that sort of thing. I was getting close to connecting some very powerful people to some very dirty money when my editor killed the story."

Jonathan leaned forward. "What kind of powerful people?"

"Politicians. Oligarchs. A certain family with banking interests that go back three centuries." Peter's eyes met Jonathan's. "The Harringtons were on my list."

A chill seemed to pass through the room despite the community center's overactive heating system.

"That's... quite a coincidence," Jonathan said carefully.

"Is it?" Peter challenged. "Or did Dr. Marsh put us in the same group deliberately?"

Rebecca was writing so quickly now that her pen made scratching sounds against the paper. "When did you stop being a journalist?"

"Two years ago. After the story was killed, I kept digging on my own. Then my flat was broken into. Nothing valuable was taken, but my laptop and all my notes disappeared. A week later, I was fired for 'fabricating sources' on a previous story." His laugh was bitter. "The irony of being accused of lying when I was actually telling the truth was not lost on me."

"So you developed a pathological lying disorder in response to being called a liar?" Diana asked, her researcher's interest evident.

Peter shrugged. "I developed a protective coloration. If everyone thinks you're the person who makes up crazy stories about being an astronaut or a spy, they don't take you seriously when you talk about financial crimes and corruption. It's the perfect cover."

"For what?" Aisha asked. "What are you covering?"

"I'm still investigating," Peter said. "Just more carefully now."

The group fell silent again, absorbing this new information. The connections between their stories were becoming harder to dismiss as coincidence.

"Aisha," Jonathan said finally. "Your turn."

Aisha's perfectly composed expression didn't waver, but her hands clasped together more tightly in her lap. "I'm not sure my story connects to this... whatever this is."

"Tell us anyway," Rebecca urged. "Please."

Aisha sighed. "My name is actually Aisha Kazmi. I'm a barrister specializing in financial regulation and white-collar crime. That part was true, at least."

"You don't seem like a compulsive liar," Diana observed.

"I'm not," Aisha admitted. "I'm here because I'm preparing for a case. A major case against several financial institutions for systematic money laundering. I needed to understand how skilled liars operate, how they construct their narratives, how they deflect suspicion. What better place to study that than a support group for pathological liars?"

"So you've been studying us too," Jonathan said. "Just like Diana."

"In a sense. Though my interest is professional, not academic. I need to be able to recognize deception when I see it in the courtroom."

"Which financial institutions?" Peter asked sharply.

Aisha hesitated. "I can't discuss the specifics of an ongoing case."

"Is Harrington Global among them?" Jonathan pressed.

The slight widening of Aisha's eyes was answer enough.

"Christ," Peter muttered. "This can't be coincidence."

Rebecca had stopped writing and was looking pale. "So three of you have connections to the same financial institution, all involving potential criminal activity. And now our therapist is missing after writing that one of us is telling a dangerous truth." She swallowed visibly. "I think we need to call the police."

"And tell them what?" Diana asked. "That our therapy group for liars thinks something bad might have happened based on a cryptic note and the fact that our therapist is late? They'll laugh us out of the station."

"Besides," Peter added, "if what Jonathan and I suspect is true, the Harringtons have connections throughout London's power structures. Including the police."

Jonathan turned to Rebecca. "You're the only one who hasn't told us who you really are."

All eyes turned to Rebecca, who had gone very still, her notebook clutched tightly in her hands.

"My real name is Emma Marsh," she said quietly.

The name hung in the air for a moment before Diana broke the silence.

"Marsh? As in—"

"Dr. Eleanor Marsh is my mother," Emma confirmed. "And I haven't been entirely honest with any of you."

The rain outside had stopped, leaving an eerie silence broken only by the fluorescent lights' persistent hum. In that moment, the empty chair at the center of their circle seemed to hold more weight than ever.

"My mother didn't miss this session because she's in trouble," Emma continued, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "She missed it because she's dead. And I think someone in this room killed her."