Chapter 10: Everybody Lies - Part 2
The team reconvenes in the conference room forty minutes later. Test results spread across the table like evidence at a crime scene.
Foreman puts the MRI films up on the light box. "Minor abnormality in the right temporal lobe. Could be artifact, could be early inflammation. Not definitive."
Cameron adds her results. "Bloodwork mostly normal. Slight elevation in eosinophils, but that could be allergies. Tox screen negative for common drugs of abuse."
House studies the MRI, eyes narrowed. "Minor abnormality. My favorite kind of result—tells us nothing useful."
"Could be early tumor formation," Foreman suggests. "Or the beginning of an infection."
"Or dust on the scanner." House turns to me. "What'd the patient tell you, Chase?"
Everyone looks at me. This is the moment. I have to contribute without revealing too much.
"She's hiding something." I keep my voice measured. "Defensive body language when asked about drug use and supplements. Slight tremor in her hands—could be anxiety, could be something else. Neurological exam otherwise normal."
"Defensive how?" Cameron asks.
"Shoulder tension, fist clenching, eye movements." I point to the relevant body language markers. "She's not lying about everything. Relationship status, recent travel, general health—all seemed genuine. But supplements and drug use questions triggered clear defensive responses."
House's eyes lock onto mine. "How do you know she's lying?"
Careful.
"Body language. Micro-expressions. When someone's telling the truth, their face is relaxed. When they're hiding something, muscles around the eyes tighten, breathing pattern changes, hands move more." I keep my tone academic. "It's basic behavioral observation."
"You learned that in seminary?" House's voice is skeptical.
"I learned that working emergency medicine in Brisbane. When you're trying to figure out if someone's actually in pain or just seeking drugs, you get good at reading people fast."
It's plausible. True enough to sell. And it doesn't reveal the actual mechanism—the ringing that tells me exactly when someone lies.
Foreman leans forward. "So she's taking something she won't admit to. What? Herbal supplements?"
"Possibly. Or weight loss pills. Maybe something for focus or energy." I pull up her chart on the computer. "She's a kindergarten teacher. High stress, long hours, dealing with parents and administration. People in that demographic often use supplements they don't think of as 'drugs.'"
"Supplements can be contaminated," Cameron adds. "Chinese herbal medicine has been linked to heavy metal poisoning, liver failure—"
"And parasites," House interrupts. His face shows the beginning of interest. "Contaminated herbs from overseas. Dried, powdered, no quality control."
He's getting there. Let him piece it together.
"Worth investigating," I say carefully. "If she's taking something imported, it could explain the eosinophil elevation. Parasitic infections trigger eosinophilia."
House taps his cane against the floor. "Tapeworm?"
My heart rate spikes, but I keep my face neutral. "Possible. Some tapeworm species can migrate to the brain. Neurocysticercosis from pork tapeworm, for example."
"Causes seizures," Foreman says slowly. "And would show as abnormalities on MRI."
"But the MRI was pretty clean," Cameron counters. "Wouldn't we see more obvious lesions?"
"Not if it's early stage," House says. "Or if the larvae are small. We need a brain biopsy."
Cameron's face shows immediate concern. "That's invasive. Risky. Can't we try something less dangerous first?"
"Like what? Ask her nicely to tell us what supplements she's taking?" House's voice drips sarcasm. "She's already lied to four doctors. She's not going to suddenly get honest because we say please."
"We could search her house," Foreman suggests. "Look for pill bottles, supplement containers."
"Illegally breaking and entering?" Cameron looks shocked. "We can't do that."
"Not we. Me." House grins. "You all have plausible deniability. But first, Chase is going to assist Wilson with the biopsy."
I blink. "I am?"
"You volunteered. Just now. Didn't you notice?"
"I didn't—"
"You did. With your face. When I said brain biopsy, you got that eager look. Like you wanted in on the surgery." House's grin widens. "Eager or stupid?"
He's testing me. Seeing if I'll back down.
I don't.
"Thorough," I say. "If we're going to biopsy her brain, I want eyes on the tissue. Want to see what we're dealing with firsthand."
House studies me for a long moment. Then nods. "Surgery's in two hours. Try not to kill her."
The pre-op area is all hushed voices and beeping monitors.
Rebecca Adler lies on a gurney, sedated but awake. Dr. James Wilson is explaining the procedure—small incision, needle biopsy of the temporal lobe abnormality, minimal tissue removal.
"It's relatively safe," Wilson says in his reassuring oncologist voice. "We'll have you under general anesthesia. You won't feel anything. The whole procedure takes about an hour."
"And you'll know what's wrong?" Rebecca's words are slightly slurred from the pre-med sedation.
"We'll know more." Wilson glances at me. "Dr. Chase will be assisting. He's one of Dr. House's fellows."
Rebecca's eyes find mine. "You're the one who did my exam."
"Yeah."
"You were nice." Her voice is small. "Not like House. He's scary."
Despite everything, I almost smile. "He grows on you."
"Like a fungus?"
"Exactly like a fungus."
She laughs, then her face gets serious. "Am I going to die?"
The question hits harder than it should. She's a real person. Not a character. Not a plot device. A twenty-nine-year-old woman who teaches kindergarten and is terrified of what's happening to her body.
"No." I keep my voice firm. "We're going to figure this out. You're going to be fine."
"Promise?"
I shouldn't. Can't promise outcomes in medicine. But she needs something to hold onto.
"Promise."
The pre-op nurse comes to wheel her to the OR. Wilson and I scrub in, the ritual of soap and sterile technique giving me time to center myself.
"First brain biopsy?" Wilson asks while we're elbow-deep in surgical soap.
"First one I'm assisting on here." I keep scrubbing. "I've observed before."
"House says you're good. Notices things others miss." Wilson's tone is conversational. "That true?"
"I pay attention."
"That's not the same thing as being good."
"No. But it helps."
We finish scrubbing and head into the OR. Rebecca's already under, head secured in the stereotactic frame. The neurosurgeon—Dr. Martinez—is marking the entry point on her shaved scalp.
"Small target," Martinez says. "Abnormality is roughly three millimeters. We'll go in lateral approach, avoid major vasculature."
The surgery itself is precise and tense. I assist with retraction, maintaining the surgical field while Martinez inserts the biopsy needle. The tissue sample is tiny—barely visible to the naked eye.
But as Martinez withdraws the needle, I notice something. A slight discoloration in the surrounding tissue. Subtle inflammation that wasn't visible on the MRI.
"There." I point with a sterile instrument. "That area looks inflamed."
Martinez adjusts his microscope. "Good eye. I see it. Definitely inflammation, possibly infectious origin."
He takes a second sample from the inflamed area. Both specimens go into specimen jars, labeled and sent to pathology.
The rest of the surgery is routine. Close the dura, bone flap back in place, staples in the scalp. Rebecca Adler's vitals stay stable throughout.
But I can't shake the image of that inflammation. It looked like something was there. Something the MRI barely caught.
Larvae. Please let it just be larvae.
Back in the conference room, House is gone. Cameron says he left an hour ago, "running an errand."
Which means he's breaking into Rebecca Adler's house.
I should feel guilty about that. Should object to the illegal search. But I don't. Because he'll find the evidence there—whatever she's been taking, wherever she traveled, whatever explains the tapeworm.
If it is a tapeworm.
What if I'm wrong? What if my metaknowledge is faulty? What if this case is different from the show?
I push the thought away. Can't second-guess now. Have to wait for the biopsy results and House's "errand."
Foreman and Cameron are reviewing Rebecca's old medical records, looking for patterns. I sit at my desk and pull out my coded notebook, making careful observations while they're not looking.
Case: Rebecca Adler
Lie detection: Triggered on drug use, supplements, possibly food-related questions
Deduction: Defensive posture, eye movements, hand tremor suggest genuine deception, not fabrication
Biopsy observation: Inflammation in temporal lobe, subtle but present
Hypothesis: Parasitic infection (neurocysticercosis likely), but cannot reveal this without justification
I close the notebook and look up to find Wilson standing in the doorway.
"Pathology's fast-tracking the biopsy." He looks directly at me. "You've got good eyes. That inflammation you caught might be the key."
"Hope so."
Wilson hesitates, then comes fully into the office. "House thinks you're hiding something."
My stomach drops, but I keep my face neutral. "Everyone hides something."
"That's House's line."
"It's also true."
"Yeah." Wilson studies me. "Just be careful. When House gets curious about someone, he doesn't stop digging until he finds what he's looking for. And sometimes what he finds destroys people."
It's a warning. Kindly meant.
"I'll be careful," I say.
Wilson nods and leaves. I'm alone with Foreman and Cameron, waiting for pathology results and House's return.
The case is developing. Staying close to canon. I'm contributing naturally—observation, surgical assistance, careful deduction.
But House is watching. Wilson's watching. Everyone's watching.
And I still don't know if I'm good enough to walk this line without falling.
The clock ticks toward evening. Somewhere in Rebecca Adler's house, House is finding evidence. Somewhere in pathology, a biopsy slide is being prepared.
And somewhere in my head, the lie detection waits to trigger again, reminding me that everyone lies.
Including me.
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