“Yep.” There’s a flash of something in his eyes, a sense of kinship perhaps.

“So. You are saying that your wife, Megan, found out that you were having an affair with her twin, Leah.” He nods and so I continue. “So, Megan killed Leah.” I wait for another nod. “But, now Megan is pretending to be Leah—”

“She’s lying—”

“Just let me finish, OK? So, Megan is pretending to be Leah, and framing you for murder while also claiming you held her hostage and that you were abusive toward her during that time.” At that last part I watch a dark cloud pass over his face. In a normal person, I would say it was shame. But I don’t think Chris is normal. Nor do I believe he deals in shame. Oh, no. That black cloud was anger. Chris isn’t used to losing.

“So, how do we prove it?” I ask.

“You believe me?” He sounds surprised.

I shrug. “It isn’t me we need to convince. So, why are you convinced it’s actually Megan?”

“We’re married. I know my wife.”

I have a sly smile on my face. Husbands always think they know their wives. I’ve seen enough to understand what a load of bollocks that sentiment is. I don’t say it though. “But she’s never done anything like this before?”

“Murder? No.”

“I meant violence, blackmail, self-harm, erratic behavior, you know, anything that might indicate she’s unstable.”

“Her mother lives in an assisted care facility. She has a delusional personality disorder and extreme paranoia. There were signs of it in Megan, but she always tried to cover it up, make me think everything was OK. But… I always worried that one day she would snap.”

“What kind of things?”

“Mainly forgetting things or thinking things had changed when they hadn’t. She accused me of moving the living room furniture around once, and she thought I might be poisoning her. Which, of course, I wasn’t.”

“Violence?”

“She had a temper and held a grudge unlike anyone you’ve ever seen.”

I laugh. He has no idea of the totally fucked-up shit I’ve seen. My practice are specialists in domestic abuse and prenup agreements. That shit gets nasty very quickly.

“This isn’t funny.” He shifts in his chair. That bad loser side might end up being a problem.

“No, it’s not,” I agree. Remember to always placate the client. That is rule number one with my boss. He decides my bonus so I can’t help but obey. He will also need to agree for me to front this with the press, be the person on camera, sweeping into court in robe and wig. Pure theater. But stodgy old Mr. Geoffrey Billington will have to sign it off and agree to hand me the limelight he could choose to take for himself. I should probably start buttering him up, even though this will take a long time to get to court, especially if Chris refuses to plead and wants a full trial. And I’m pretty sure that is where this is headed.