The Marriage of Lies
I knew one of them was the killer within fifteen minutes. I was wrong.
That's the genius of His and Hers. The show is structured around two unreliable narrators—a husband and wife who each tell us their version of events. And both versions are lies.
Alice Feeney's source novel plays with reader expectations brilliantly, and the adaptation follows suit. We see the story from "his" perspective and "her" perspective, never quite trusting either. Small details don't match up. Timeline gaps appear and close suspiciously. Every revelation makes us reconsider everything that came before.
The marriage at the center of His and Hers looks perfect from the outside. Successful careers, beautiful home, the kind of couple neighbors envy. But the foundation is rotten. Both partners have secrets. Both have lied about their pasts. And now a body has turned up that threatens to expose everything.
I spent the entire season convinced I knew who the killer was. The show anticipated this. It set up its reveals like dominoes, each one toppling the theory I'd carefully constructed.
When the truth finally comes out—when we learn not just who killed, but why, and how it connects to the lies at the heart of this marriage—it reframes everything. The killer isn't a monster. They're a person who believed they had no other choice.
That's almost worse.