Page 117 of The Lies We Play
Not Ms. Crane.
Liv.
And I would become every version of myself I have tried to outgrow.
The woman in the hospital.
The woman was waiting for an explanation.
The woman who loved two men and somehow ended up with neither.
“What happens next?” I ask.
“I verify what I can from New York. You preserve the folder exactly as received. Tomorrow, you document your travel and location for every file where your credentials appear. Privately.”
“And then?”
“And then,” he says, “we determine whether Cornelius built us a door.”
Us.
The word is small.
It is not nothing.
I stare at my reflection in the window, at the woman sitting too straight on the edge of the bed, because if she bends, she might fold completely.
“Mr. Everhart?”
“Yes?”
“Why are you helping me?”
He is quiet so long I think the line has dropped.
Then he says, “Because ten years ago, I failed to help all three of you fast enough.”
My hand goes still.
Bella does too.
The whole apartment seems to stop with us.
“All three?” I whisper.
But the line has already gone dead.
Chapter Seventeen
Creed
Then . . .
I knock when I arrive at his room.
It takes him a few seconds to answer.
Long enough for me to look down at myself in the hallway mirror opposite the door and wonder why I’m suddenly aware of the way my suit fits after a game. I’ve been photographed like this a hundred times. Postgame suit. Tie loosened. Hair still a little damp from the arena shower. Body tired enough that every muscle has an opinion.
