Chapter 9: Everybody Lies - Part 1
The conference room smells like dry-erase markers and ambition.
Rebecca Adler sits in the chair across from House's desk, trying not to look as terrified as she obviously is. Twenty-nine. Blonde. Professional clothes slightly rumpled. Her hands won't stop moving—fidgeting with her purse strap, touching her hair, wrapping around each other.
She's terrified. Not just of the seizure. Of being here.
House leans against the conference table, studying her like she's a particularly interesting specimen. Foreman, Cameron, and I stand in a loose semicircle. First case. First real test of what this team can do.
"So." House doesn't bother with pleasantries. "You had a seizure in front of twenty-three kindergarteners. Tell me why."
Rebecca's composure cracks slightly. "If I knew, I wouldn't be here."
"Everybody knows something. They just don't know they know it." House grabs a whiteboard marker and tosses it to Foreman without warning. "Diagnose."
Foreman catches it reflexively, walks to the board. Starts writing in neat, precise handwriting.
"Grand mal seizure, single episode, no prior history. Differentials: epilepsy, brain tumor, infection—meningitis or encephalitis—metabolic disorder, toxin exposure." He turns back to House. "We need imaging and labs."
"Boring but thorough." House looks at Cameron. "You?"
Cameron steps forward, her voice gentler than Foreman's clinical recitation. "Could be autoimmune. Lupus can cause seizures. Or it could be related to medication interactions, birth control combined with something else."
"Less boring. Still probably wrong." House's attention shifts to me. "Chase? You've been quiet."
I've been watching. Learning the rhythm. Understanding how House operates—throw out theories, watch reactions, eliminate the impossible. Every patient is a puzzle where the missing piece is always what they won't admit.
"Need more information before making guesses," I say. "Patient history's incomplete."
House's eyes narrow slightly. "Scared to be wrong?"
"Prefer to be right." I meet his gaze. "Wild guessing wastes time. Patient's sitting right here—let's ask better questions."
Something shifts in House's expression. Not quite approval, but interest.
He turns back to Rebecca. "Miss Adler. Recent illnesses?"
"No."
"Drug use?"
"No." Her voice is firm. Defensive.
And then I hear it.
Sharp. High-pitched. Like someone driving a needle through my eardrum straight into my brain. The ringing splits my skull, and I have to lock my jaw to keep from reacting.
She's lying.
The pain fades after two seconds, leaving a throbbing ache behind my eyes. I adjust my stance slightly, shift my weight, pretend I'm just getting comfortable. Nobody notices. They're all focused on House and Rebecca.
"Healthy lifestyle?" House continues. "Exercise, good diet, plenty of sleep?"
"Yes." No ringing. Truth.
"Sexual activity?"
Rebecca's cheeks flush. "I don't see how that's relevant."
"Neither do I, but I'm curious." House grins. "Multiple partners? Recent changes in relationship status?"
"No. One partner. Stable relationship." Truth. No ringing.
"Supplements? Herbal remedies? Vitamins?"
"Just a multivitamin." Ringing. Another lie. The pain hits harder this time, and I have to turn slightly toward the window, pretending the morning sun is too bright.
What's she lying about? The drug use question or the supplements?
House is watching her face. Reading her body language. He sees the same defensive posture I do, the way her hands tightened on her purse when he asked about drugs, the brief eye movement toward the floor when he mentioned supplements.
"You're lying about something." House states it as fact. "I don't care what it is unless it's killing you. But if it's killing you, I need to know."
"I'm not—" She stops. The ringing starts before she even finishes the denial, and I wince involuntarily. "I told you everything relevant."
"Doubt it." House straightens and looks at us. "Everybody lies. Find the lie, find the disease. Foreman, get an MRI. Cameron, full bloodwork including toxicology. Chase, physical exam. I want every test back in three hours."
We move into action like a choreographed dance. Foreman's already calling radiology. Cameron's pulling out requisition forms. I grab a clipboard and head for the door.
"Chase." House's voice stops me. "You winced. Twice."
My stomach drops. He noticed.
"Bright lights." I gesture to the window. "Migraine starting. I'll take something after the exam."
House stares at me for a long moment. Then nods slowly. "Don't let your headache miss anything important."
I leave before he can ask more questions.
The walk to the exam room gives me time to think. Process.
Rebecca Adler lied about drug use and supplements. At least two lies, maybe more. The ringing triggered both times, sharp and immediate, leaving throbbing pain in its wake.
What is she hiding?
In the original timeline, I know it's neurocysticercosis. Tapeworm larvae in her brain from contaminated pork. House figures it out by breaking into her house, finding evidence of travel or diet that explains the infection.
But I can't just jump to tapeworm. No way to explain that leap without exposing metaknowledge. Have to let the case develop. Have to use my abilities naturally—deduction, observation, careful questioning.
The lie detection gives me an edge. I know she's hiding something. I just have to figure out what without revealing how I know.
The exam room is small, sterile, fluorescent-lit. Rebecca's already there, sitting on the examination table in a hospital gown, looking small and scared.
"Hi." I close the door and set down my clipboard. "I'm Dr. Chase. I'll be doing your physical exam."
"Another exam?" Her voice is tired. "I've been through this at three other hospitals."
"I know. I'm sorry." I wash my hands at the sink. "But we need fresh data. Sometimes things change, or previous exams missed something subtle."
She nods, resigned. I dry my hands and turn to face her.
"Before we start—any pain right now? Headache, nausea, vision changes?"
"No. I feel fine. That's what's so scary." Her hands twist in her lap. "I felt fine right before the seizure too. No warning."
"That's common with certain types of seizures." I pull out my penlight. "I'm going to check your neurological function. Follow my finger with your eyes, don't move your head."
She does. Tracking is smooth. Pupils equal and reactive. No nystagmus.
"Stick out your tongue."
She does. Midline. No deviation.
"Touch your nose with your finger, then touch my finger." I hold up my index finger. "Back and forth. Fast as you can."
She completes the test perfectly. No ataxia. No tremor during the movement.
But when she drops her hands back to her lap, I notice it. A slight tremor. Fine, barely visible, in both hands.
Anxiety? Or something else?
"Are you nervous right now?" I ask.
"Of course I'm nervous. I had a seizure in front of my class." She pulls her hands into fists, hiding the tremor. "I teach kindergarten. Those kids were terrified. I was terrified."
Truth. No ringing.
"Understandable." I move on with the exam. Reflexes—normal. Strength—equal bilaterally. Sensation intact. Everything neurologically normal except for that tremor.
And her defensiveness.
I decide to push. Gently.
"The doctors at your previous hospitals—did they ask about substance use?"
Her shoulders tense immediately. "Yes. I told them the same thing I told Dr. House. I don't use drugs."
Ringing. Loud and sharp. The pain spikes behind my eyes, and I have to look down at my clipboard to hide the reaction.
She's lying about drug use. But what kind? Recreational? Prescription? Something over-the-counter?
"What about supplements?" I keep my voice neutral, clinical. "Herbal remedies, vitamins, weight loss pills, energy supplements?"
"Just a multivitamin." Ringing again. She's lying. "I take a women's daily vitamin."
"Which brand?"
"Generic. From CVS." No ringing. Truth.
"Anything else? Fish oil, vitamin D, calcium?"
"No." Ringing. Another lie.
I write on my clipboard, buying time to think. She's taking something she won't admit to. Something she's categorizing as "not a drug" in her mind, even though it might be medically relevant.
Weight loss pills? Herbal supplements from questionable sources? Alternative medicine?
Can't push harder without making her defensive. Need another angle.
"Any recent travel?" I ask. "Out of the country, different regions of the US?"
"No. Just work and home." No ringing.
"Diet changes? New restaurants, different foods you don't normally eat?"
She hesitates. "I've been trying to eat healthier. More vegetables, less processed food."
Truth. No ringing on that.
"Where do you shop for groceries?"
"Whole Foods, mostly. Sometimes the farmer's market."
Still no ringing. But something in her body language shifts when I mention food. Her eyes dart left for a fraction of a second.
There's something about food. Or diet. Or supplements related to diet.
I finish the exam—lungs clear, heart regular, abdomen soft and non-tender. Nothing remarkable except the tremor and the lies.
"Okay." I set down my stethoscope. "You can get dressed. We'll have you wait in the consultation room while we review your test results."
"And then you'll tell me what's wrong?" Her voice is small. Scared.
"Then we'll figure it out." I meet her eyes. "That's what we do here. We figure out the impossible cases."
She nods, not entirely reassured. I leave her to change and head back to the conference room.
She's lying about supplements. Something related to diet or health. Something she doesn't think of as a 'drug' but won't admit to taking.
The pieces are there. I just can't put them together yet.
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