“Which we proved by three o’clock the next day,” D.D. assured them, “by pulling records of all calls, texts, and voice mails from Wrobleski’s cellular provider. We never did find his phone, by the way. But as Wrobleski’s wife learned the hard way, we don’t need the physical unit. Just the call records, available from any cellular provider company.

“And the final nail in the coffin?” she called out as people gathered up their belongings.

“Silver glitter,” volunteered the tall man with the mop top.

“Silver glitter,” D.D. agreed. “Recovered from the silk tie forming the tourniquet, remember? Except Harmony never helped tie off the leg. The transfer of evidence came from the killer—when she was pulling out the pen, loosening up the knot in order to hasten her husband’s demise. We executed a search warrant on Eve Wrobleski’s home and recovered a bloody Canyon Ranch tracksuit from her garbage, complete with glittery trim. After her husband had called her, panic-stricken, she’d told him to wait, she’d come help. Together, they’d get this done. She knew where he was because she’d sent him there. Making it very easy for her to park blocks away, walk down the back alley, and shimmy in the rear window left open by Harmony LaFab. She approached her distressed and doped-up husband, splayed on the edge of the tub. Maybe he thought she’d hold his hand until the ambulance came. Or talk him out of his madness. Instead, she picked up the hacksaw and did it. Sawed through the limb. The damn offending limb that had become the bane of her existence. In her own words, if she had to listen to him talk about his right leg one more time . . .

“Wrobleski might have lost his courage that night. But his wife hadn’t. Unfortunately for him, she wasn’t just over the leg; She was also over him. Leg off, she loosened the tourniquet around his thigh, picked up his phone, his wallet, and disappeared back through the rear window. Given his long history of actively discussing self-amputation, she figured his death would be ruled accidental. Just another BIID sufferer driven to extremes.

“Her husband would be dead, his leg buried with him, and she could finally get on with her life aided by a multimillion-dollar life insurance policy. Frankly, it wasn’t a bad plan. If only she hadn’t been so partial to expensive tracksuits with shimmery trim.”

D.D. picked up her bag. Time was up, her audience moving toward the door.

“Wait, wait, wait!” Several of the writers halted. “What’s the lie? You said three truths and a lie. So what part of the story is a lie?”

“You tell me. That’s the deal.”

“The wanting to cut off his own leg. That was real.”

“BIID is very real,” she assured them.

“Seedy motel is probably real.”

“Have a couple of those in Boston, definitely.”

“Shaggy the drug dealer?”

“Nah, he’s both real and still out there. Can’t solve all the problems in the world.”