Page 82 of Never Lie
But Patricia Lawton isn’t a victim. When she found out her best friend was cheating on her with her fiancé, she didn’t let either of them get away with it. Over the last three years, I have informally diagnosed her with antisocial personality disorder, based on her impaired empathy for other people, her aggressive and criminal behavior, as well as her history of lying and deception. Like many other people with antisocial personality disorder, Patricia is charming and attractive, with above-average intelligence. If she didn’t have that going for her, she might not have gotten away with it.
There have been several clues over the years to her diagnosis. When her grandmother died from a heart attack last year, she cried very convincing tears during our session, but she didn’t mention that she had been the one responsible for helping Grammy with her heart medications—I only found out when I called Mrs. Lawton to express my condolences. She also failed to mention the considerable estate she inherited. When I asked Patricia about it during her next session, she crossed her right leg over her left and told me how terrible she felt that she might have gotten her grandmother’s medications mixed up.
Mrs. Lawton was always a wealth of information about her daughter’s troubled history. Playmates with mysterious injuries. Pets that died suddenly.Poor Tricia has had such bad luck.
On some level, I’m sure Mrs. Lawton knows what her daughter is. She’s not a stupid woman. But denial is a powerful defense mechanism. I could hear the relief in her voice when she told me the stories—finally unburdening herself and passing the buck on to me.
And I knew exactly what to do with this information.
When I open the front door to greet Patricia, she doesn’t look happy. She’s tugging on the too-short hem of her skirt and glares at me under my porch lights. “He’s in the car.”
“Still passed out?”
“Yes. But he’s waking up.”
“Did you have any trouble?”
“No. It was easy.”
Despite her being so pissed off at me, I believe on some level, Patricia enjoyed the challenge I gave her. She dolled herself up, drove to the casino, and sidled up next to EJ at the poker table. Just like in his fantasy, she didn’t even tell him her name. Then she lured him to her vehicle, with the promise of going back to her place. I told her exactly what to say.
During the car ride, he would have become more and more drowsy from what Patricia had slipped into his drink at the casino, until he finally lost consciousness. I swear, it gets easier every time I drug EJ. You would think he would see it coming by now.
“Did you check him out of the hotel?” I ask.
“Yes. I used his phone.” She looks down at her fingernails, which are painted blood red. “And I moved his Porsche to another lot with long-term parking. He’s paid up for a month.”
EJ has no friends and no job. His parents are gone. Nobody will even notice him missing for weeks if not months.
I follow Patricia to her Audi. A dark shadow of a man occupies the back seat. That’s him. She did it. She really did it. She did what Luke couldn’t—or wouldn’t—do.
“I duct taped his hands together,” she tells me. “I did his legs too, but there’s a bit more give so he can walk. I stuck a piece over his mouth, but you can’t see it because he’s got the sack on his head.”
She’s got guts—I’ll give her that. She drove all the way here from Connecticut with a man tied up in the back seat. Yes, it was the middle of the night. But if she had gotten pulled over, that would’ve been the end.
“I only tied him up about twenty minutes ago,” she says, as if reading my thoughts. “He started stirring, and I didn’t want to take a chance.”
“His phone?”
Patricia reaches into her purse and pulls it out. She drops it into my waiting hand. I squint down at the black screen in the darkness. “You powered it down?”
“I did. But I’ve heard they can sometimes track a phone as long as it still has a battery. So be careful.”
I’ll be very careful. I fully intend to pulverize this phone until it’s unrecognizable.
When we get closer, I see the paper sack on EJ’s head. The paper crinkles slightly as he shifts in his seat. It’s hard to tell how awake he is since he’s immobilized. I sort of hope he’s awake for this next part.
Patricia pulls the back door open. Now I can see the duct tape securing EJ’s hands together. She kicks him in the calf with her high heels, hard enough to leave behind a bruise.
“Get up!” she barks at him.
His head snaps up, but he can’t get out of the car without help. She kicks him again, and he groans, but he still doesn’t move.
I end up grabbing his legs and shifting them outside of the vehicle. He still can’t get up on his own without the two of us hauling him to his feet. Muffled noises come from inside the paper bag. His light gray T-shirt has sweat stains under his armpits.
We walk him into my house and into my office. Because his ankles are partially bound together, he has terrible balance and has to walk with small shuffling steps. When we get into the office, Patricia stops short. She looks around. “Did you change something in here?”
“No,” I say.
