Page 110 of The Lies We Play

There is a contact form. There is also a direct email.

I copied the email address.

This is the part where a sensible woman would call her supervisor, notify the director, document the irregularity internally, and wait for institutional procedure.

Fortunately, I have never claimed to be sensible.

Also, institutional procedure is how people with money buy time, and I have just spent ten years not having any of mine.

I drafted the email.

Then delete it.

Then draft it again. Too emotional. Delete. Again. Too vague. Delete. Again. Too much like a woman trying not to sound afraid.

That last one makes me angry enough to get it right.

Subject: Saint Claire Foundation / Cornelius Saint Claire original trust language

Dear Mr. Everhart,

My name is Livia Crane. I am a senior conservator and provenance researcher at Bianchi Conservation Institute in Florence.

For several years, our institute has worked on restoration and authentication projects funded in whole or in part by the Saint Claire Foundation. During a routine review of an amended access protocol received today, I discovered irregularities in the provenance documentation of multiple foundation-linked projects. Specifically, my name and credentials appear to have been used to authenticate chain-of-custody work I didn't perform, on more than one occasion.

I have also reviewed public copies of the foundation’s original governing documents and noted language attributed to Cornelius Saint Claire that appears to prohibit restricted access to conservation, ownership, and authentication records where provenance is incomplete, obscured, or subject to unresolved claim.

Your name appears on the original filing materials connected to the trust. I realize this message is unusual. However, if you have any knowledge of Cornelius Saint Claire’s original intent regarding access, provenance integrity, or independent review, I would appreciate the opportunity to speak with you confidentially.

I can provide documentation upon request.

Regards,

L. Crane

I read it three times.

It is cold.

Professional.

Useful.

It says nothing about Halston’s signature. Nothing about Creed’s number sitting inside my phone like a loaded match. Nothing about the fact that I was once Livia Saint Claire on a courthouse document no one in New York seems to remember unless it is useful to them.

It will have to be enough.

I hover over send.

For ten years, this body has carried evidence no one knew how to read. A tremor. A scar. A headache in storms. A sudden nausea at certain legal phrases. A complete inability to sit in hospital waiting rooms without wanting to climb out of my own skin. Everyone wanted to make it medical because medical things can be managed. Named. Scheduled. Billed.

But bodies remember context even when people lie about facts.

Mine has been trying to tell me all day.

Creed’s voice.

Halston’s signature.