She hears the psychologist’s voice in her head. No sign of weakness.
She ignores it.
“You know,” she says. “I am cold. This building is the coldest building I’ve ever been in.”
She puts her arms around herself. Shivers a little.
He turns his face toward her again. His eyes, on the other side of his glasses, narrow a bit, as if bringing her more clearly into focus.
“Investigator Luptack,” he says. “May I ask you something?”
“Yes.”
“Are you a virgin?”
Judy feels a rush of humiliation. The blood comes to her face, as if she’s been slapped. At twenty-six, she is, in fact, a virgin. She wants to deny it, but thinks of the microphone in the room, the speaker just outside it. She thinks of the four men, her colleagues, standing there and listening to every word.
She says nothing.
“I’m sorry,” says Sluiter. “Have I embarrassed you?”
“Yes,” says Judy. “I feel embarrassed.”
He smiles. Shifts in his chair.
“You won’t tell me?”
“I’ll trade with you,” says Judy. “I’ll tell you if you’ll tell me a few things first.”
“What’s that game called?” asks Sluiter.
“Truth or dare,” says Judy.
He grins. Adjusts his glasses, as if readying himself for some fun.
• • •
Judy does not recognize anything about this version of herself. She’s playing a part. She has no experience with men, or women. When she was twelve years old—already aware of her place in the middle of things, as someone not too pretty, but pretty enough—her father had given her one piece of advice about dating: Don’t write boys checks that you don’t want to cash.
She had found the phrase grotesque. But it stuck with her. Perhaps it’s one of the reasons she now dresses as she does, in garments designed to obscure. Perhaps it’s why she hunches her shoulders, lowers her head around men she doesn’t know or trust. Which is most of them.
Today, for the first time in her life, she sees her sexuality as something useful. She wants a confession. Wants it as badly as anything she’s ever wanted in her life.
“Truth or dare?” Sluiter says.
“Truth.”
“Are you a virgin?”
“Yes,” says Judy. “I am.”
In her mind, she blocks out the image of those men, her superiors, in the other room. Her hope is that they’ll let her work awhile, that they won’t come barging in too early, mistaking her acting skills for genuine distress.
He clears his throat. “I could tell that about you,” he says.
“My turn,” says Judy. “Truth or dare?”
“Dare.”
“I dare you to tell me about everyone you ever killed or kidnapped.”
A heavy silence fills the room, and she wonders immediately if she’s gone too fast. Quickly, she contorts her mouth into a small smile—something meant to convey insouciance.
After a long beat, Sluiter matches her smile, wags a finger in the air. “No, ma’am,” he says. “That’s cheating.”
“Why?”
“The word dare implies action,” he says. “Not confession.”
“I can dare you anything I want,” says Judy. “There’s no rule against it.”
He clears his throat again. “Didn’t you do your research?” he says. “I’ve never killed or kidnapped anyone.” He grins. Flirting. Her stomach clenches: nausea, or nerves, or both.
“You never confessed to it,” says Judy.
“That’s right. I never.”
“But now,” says Judy. “With all the evidence. The second time you’ve been caught. Isn’t there anything you’d like to get off your chest?”
