“Why do you call me that?” She says softly. It almost doesn’t sound like a question.

“What?” He looks at her, worried. I wish he wouldn’t.

“Jessica, why do you think I’m her?”

“Because you are.” He answers her confused. I know the feeling.

“No, I’m not. Jessie’s dead.”

“What?” I stop, in my tracks. I look at her, then at Matt. Don’t, I want to say. But she continues.

“Jessica, she died.”

He looks at me, no idea how to respond to what she just said, so I do. “No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, she did.” She says confused at why I refuse to agree with her.

“Why?” I think indulging her might do the trick, to go along with her game. She always liked those. Messing with people, lying to them.

“She wasn’t a good person. She lied to them, made them care about her, then she betrayed them. She had to die.” She didn’t understand my question, she thinks I’m asking why she died instead of why she thinks she did. I go along with it. Her look is so peaceful. He voice is calm. She looks at me in the eye. Intimate, personal. Jessica was never like that.

“She didn’t have a choice!” He burst out. I put my arm on his shoulder and he lowers his head. She had pitied her, I never had. She was a liar. I’ve never had pity for liars.

“Yes, she did. Because we always do. We always have a choice. Always. Yes or no; this or that; to steal or starve; to live lives we’re not happy with or die on our own terms. The problem with people is when a choice is put in front of them they don’t like or don’t want to make they look away and pretend it’s not there. They resume with the pretense that they never had one, to begin with, they turn themselves into victims. But make no mistake, we always have a choice. We can always choose. The problem with people like Jessica; is that they don’t always want to.” She says it so matter-a-factly. She knows or thinks she knows this is true. I know it is. I’ve known enough people to know it is.

“Tell me,” I ask her. I’m beginning to understand.

“What?” She asks innocently.

“Tell me how she died.”

She says nothing at first. “Horribly…That’s how all liars die.” This alone would have sufficed, this alone would have given us both nightmares for days, him especially, but she goes on, “Tied to a chair and beaten; cut and sliced and minced into a million pieces until their very soul is raw and bleeding.” Even I want her to stop. If this is what they did to her, I don’t want to have to picture it, “It’s funny how many try to hold on to the lies they tell, isn’t it? They’re the ones whose deaths are carved in marble, whose blood covers the walls. She tried to hold onto her lies. She did it to herself, really. Every cut and every bruise; every scar.” I look at him, my friend. The look on his face makes me want to slap her. “They say all liars go to hell, we just made so that hell came a little sooner than expected.”