For Forty Years He Trusted His Best Friend — Then He Found What Was Killing the Man’s Wife
It is not grief, exactly, because the person is not dead; it is worse, because the person you are grieving is standing in front of you, wearing the face you have always loved, and turns out never to have existed at all.
I grieved my best friend that morning while he was still alive, because the man I had believed him to be had died the instant I read the name on that patch — had, in fact, never lived, had been a performance staged for my benefit for forty years.
I made the call.
And then I sat in the empty trauma bay and mourned a friendship that, I now understood, had been a lie from the beginning.
Chapter 9 — The Detective
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