<span class="fixed-color" style="color:orangered">"Very psychiatrist-y,"</span>he remarked with a laugh.  He was smart, clever to be more accurate.  He'd been analyzed before.  He knew the game.  His eyes landed on hers, and then they were gone, and then they were back again, but mostly they shifted about.  He had something to hide.  That was not surprising.  Most people in prison had demons to keep under wraps.  He spoke well of his mother, perhaps even fondly but he still seemed to carry a detachment.  He certainly didn't blame her for any of his problems.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:orangered">"My sister made it out alright, it's just me who wound up a fuck-up."</span>The comment drew a trace of sympathy in Terrilee's brow and the corners of her mouth.<br/><br/>So he had grown up with a single mother, a sister, an absent father and a string of pseudo-father-figures.  His story betrayed no roots of misongyny in his upbringing that would contribute to his chronic use of women but perhaps his lack of a male role model did.  Mother drank.  There could have been something there.  She tapped a few more notes then looked up from her screen again, still casually posed, elbows on the table.<br/><br/>"And how is your sister?  Where is she now?" she posed.  "What's her name?"