Page 116 of The Lies We Play

My mouth goes dry.

Of course.

Of course.

I had already known it in that awful corner of the mind where competent women store the conclusions they refuse to say aloud because saying them makes them real. Still, hearing it from him makes the apartment feel smaller. The walls draw nearer. The window reflects a woman I recognize and don't.

A woman alone in the dark with a phone, a tremor, and the sudden understanding that her name has been moving through documents without her.

“Do you know where Halston is?” I ask.

A quiet inhale.

“Not precisely.”

I close my eyes. “Not precisely is lawyer for yes.”

“Not precisely is lawyer for ‘I will not say more until I know the line is safe.’”

My fingers tighten again.

“Is he in danger?”

“Probably,” Fitzhenry says.

The word is clean. Brutal. Almost merciful because it doesn't pretend.

My stomach drops, and for one second ,I am back in the old life, back in the place where Halston’s silence meant injury and Creed’s restraint meant he was trying very hard not to break something with his hands.

“And Creed?” I ask before I can stop myself.

Another pause.

Too long.

“Don’t call him tonight,” Fitzhenry says.

I almost laugh.

It comes out closer to a breath with an attitude problem.

“Everyone keeps making bold assumptions about what I will or won’t do.”

“Ms. Crane, if you call him right now, you will not ask about the foundation first.”

I hate him.

A little.

Accurately.

Because he is right, and there are few things more offensive than a man being correct when I am trying to maintain narrative control.

If I called Creed now, I would mean to ask about the foundation. I would prepare a numbered list. I would use words like unauthorized access, amended protocol, and fiduciary obligation.

Then he would say my name.

Not Livia.