Author's note:

I'm sorry I took so long updating, and REALLY sorry I didn't post an author's note before the first chapter. I keep forgetting how to work this thing properly, plus every time I come, the format's a bit different and throws me off a bit. That, endless business trips AND the inconvenient forgetting of my account password were responsible for the delay. I'll try to do better next time.

I'm grateful for everyone who read the first chapter, even more grateful to those who favorited/followed, and ETERNALLY grateful to those who reviewed. Hope you keep reading!

Disclaimer: I don't own Lie To Me. Obviously. :(


2.

"Son of a bitch!"

Gillian Foster wasn't usually fond of profanity, but this guy was too much, even for someone long trained in patience and empathy like herself. Loker gaped, wide-eyed, probably waiting for her to lose it. She wouldn't, of course. She was in control—she was always in control. It was one of the first things they taught you as a psychologist. Being in control didn't mean you couldn't rant and rave. Everyone did it once in a while. Some—like Cal—indulged in it way more than they were supposed to. Gillian herself usually didn't, but after what she'd been through, she felt more than entitled to some quality fuming time.

At least it was a relief to have the whole affair out in the open, unsavory though it might be.

It had been hell, this past month, fighting this thing brought on by Ackerman's sleazy attorney. Although she knew it was wrong, and her whole being rebelled against it, she hadn't had anything tangible to latch on to for the longest time. It's hard to defend yourself against an invisible foe. After a while she'd actually begun to wonder whether it couldn't all be some paranoid figment of her imagination.

In some ways, it had been almost liberating when he finally upped his game and made it physical. It proved it wasn't all in her head, gave her something concrete to pounce on. That slap to his face had been more satisfying than she could express. You think I'm up for grabs? Take that, asshole.

But now it was back to the mind games.

In the cube, with his client, Stanton was a paragon of virtue and decorum. Standing roughly 6 feet, he wasn't even a bad-looking man—middle-aged, slate-haired and muscular, his practice could evidently afford some pricey suits and cologne, and his appearance was always impeccable. He never said a word amiss, and except for that time he'd "accidentally" brushed her leg under the table, had never been even remotely improper. How, then, did he manage to disturb her this much? She, a grown woman—married, educated, worldly—found herself reduced to a jumpy, queasy mess by his mere smirk and the lingering shake of one of his well-manicured hands. It was ridiculous.

"Are you okay?" cautiously queried Loker.

"Yeah," she muttered. "I just… can't wait for this to be over. What do you have on Ackerman?"

Poor Loker had nearly jumped out of his skin that morning, when she'd ordered him into her office and with no further preamble, burst out, "I know you told Cal about Stanton."

Loker was nobody's fool. She knew he'd been privy to her situation for a while. The kid was a good judge of character, and she wasn't as skilled at hiding her feelings. Somehow that had made it worse—knowing she was being humiliated and in front of her subordinate no less. Now that there was no point to further secrecy, it was almost a relief to not have to explain.

"I know you told Cal, and it´s okay," she added, before she could lose her nerve. "I'm glad you did. I'm glad you know. I should have outed the situation ages ago. Guess I was just in denial. It was childish of me."

To give credit where credit was due, though obviously flustered, Loker managed to keep a professional demeanor. "So… what happens now?"

She shrugged. "Nothing happens. We keep on doing our job. Ackerman's our priority—not Stanton. Stanton is nobody. Once we're done here we won't have to see or hear from him again."

And that was precisely what she'd tried to do all interview. But the man just kept pushing all her buttons. The suave way he sneered, the revolting way his groomed fingers moved along the table. It made her skin crawl.

"Well…" Loker began, tearing his eyes away from her and back to the screen. "Good news is, this is our fifth positive interview. His vitals were all stable—blood pressure, skin temp, pulse. No unexplained vocal spikes. No visible ´tells´. He looks like he's telling the truth. At least, I can pretty confidently say he's not telling any lies. Not about anything pertaining to the investigation."

"It's a good enough case to hand over to the FBI," Gillian said contentedly. "Let's type up our reports. I can't wait to put this behind me."

Cal came up to them just as she was showing them out, a brief spark of anger in his eyes when they settled on Stanton. She knew he'd come to check up on her, and didn't know whether to feel grateful or insulted.

"All good?" he asked, once the door was safely shut behind them.

"Yeah. We're done here. Now we just gotta present our findings to the FBI."

"Great."

His gaze was still raking over her curiously, making her slightly uneasy. "What?"

"Nothing, luv. Just glad to see this end."

"You and me, both."

Her cell phone chirped to life and, eyes falling on the caller ID, she subtly steeled herself before answering.

Alec.

Her husband hadn't been himself since the whole Sophie catastrophe, but lately he'd really been slipping. It had been a month now since he'd confessed to falling back into his cocaine habit, though she'd been suspecting as much for at least three. It was like suddenly the devoted, orderly family man she knew and loved had vanished—replaced by a jittery individual who lied and binged and snuck out after dark like some love-ridden teenager. She couldn't really blame Cal for thinking he was having an affair—the notion had crossed her mind as well. Now she knew better—or thought she did. She wasn't sure she approved of the person he'd chosen as his sponsor—but theirs was a relationship that predated their marriage, so she had to accept it. Anything to make him stop. As much as she loved him, she was no saint. If he continued using, the situation would eventually become untenable.

"Yeah, honey, what's up?" Syrupy-sweet chipper. She felt like a two-faced phony for putting up such a front.

A phone call this early could only mean one of two things: either he was blowing her off for lunch, or he was blowing her off for dinner. A pit settled in her stomach at the thought of either. And the pathetic excuse of a lie that was sure to follow.

Predictably enough, his first words were, "I'm sorry, I can't make it to lunch. Lawrence scheduled a meeting and…" Yadda, yadda, Gillian rolled her eyes, tuning out the rest of his rehearsed speech. But the next part surprised her. "Listen, Gill—I know I haven't been the best husband lately. It's been hard. But I'm doing better. And I wanna make it up to you. Let's go out to dinner tonight. I made reservations for Tosca. Pick you up at 7?"

Surprise made her blurt out, "sure."

Afterwards she realized she'd caved too easily. Was it wrong that one small attention from her husband still had the ability to make her melt? She guessed it was—after all it was what she'd so ardently criticized about Cal and his relationship with his ex-wife. But that's completely different. They're divorced. We're not.

She allowed herself to bask in the glow of her husband's love for the rest of the day, eliciting more than a few curious glances from her coworkers. After her previous bitchiness, she couldn't blame them. They probably thought she was the one on drugs.

Getting the desired attention from the right man, rather than unwanted attention from the wrong man, would do that to you.

It was near the end of the day when Torres traipsed in with a flower arrangement —a beautiful fragrant pile of lilies and jasmine. She felt a twinge of jealousy—it had been years since any man had sent her flowers. The perks of young love.

"You holding out on me, Ria?"

Ria evenly surveyed her, in the unnerving way naturals had. As if they could see into your very soul. "They're for you, actually."

"Oh?"

Though delighted, Gillian couldn't help a stirring of uneasiness. A phone call, dinner and flowers? It was overcompensating to a fault. Alec only did that when he'd been especially dissolute. What could he have done to promote this much devotion?

The small card attached only read, "thinking of you". No name, no signature, no endearment. Nothing.

Weird.

Ria was still staring at her, though pretending not to. Sometimes Gillian longed to knock her upside the head and tell her to cut it out. But what was the point? It was instinctive to her. She could no sooner quit reading people than she could stop breathing.

Alec arrived just then, all seductive smiles and expensive aftershave. He was on his best behavior and looking… well… scrumptious. There was a reason she'd married the man after all. Oddly enough his smile faded a little when he saw the flowers.

"Thanks for the bouquet, honey. I loved it."

The words rang false to her ears, and the blank stare he gave her confirmed her suspicions. She glanced back at the sprig with trepidation, and when her eyes met Ria's, she knew the protegè had reached the same conclusion.

If Alec hadn't sent the flowers, then who?

Stanton?