Page 134 of The Lies We Play

The room looks no less empty. Halston’s voice is still in my ear.

If I forget this tomorrow⁠—

My phone rings.

For one insane second, I think it is him again.

The screen lights.

Fitzhenry Everhart.

I answer at the third ring.

“Everhart.”

“You sound terrible.”

“I feel worse.”

“Have you thought about retiring?”

I groan because, honestly, I don’t know if I have the energy to fill him in on what just happened tonight. It was not the game. It was the call.

I close my eyes.

Fitz has never wasted words when a knife will do. It is one of the reasons I hired him. Or he hired me. With Fitz, the line gets blurry. He is my agent when contracts need teeth, my attorney when money starts speaking in clauses, and the only man I know who can make a billionaire, a general manager, and a federal investigator feel equally underdressed.

“That’s not really—” I stop myself. “Halston—Halston Saint Claire called.”

“He did, huh?” he sighs.

“You gave him my number.”

“That was years ago.”

I look toward the window. Rain keeps moving down the glass in thin silver lines, blurring the city into something almost gentle. New York lies well from a distance.

My hand tightens around the phone. “Fitz.”

“Yes?”

“You want to explain that?”

“I would love to explain several things. Unfortunately, at least one of us needs to avoid committing felonies tonight.”

A male voice murmurs in the background. Low. Controlled. Not Fitz. Fitz has put the call on speaker—he does that when Lang is in the room, and the matter on the line involves both of them.

“Babe,” Byron Langdon says, mildly. “We’re on it.”

I sit up. “Lang?”

“Hi, Creed.”

“It still surprises me you have a husband, Fitz.”

“Yes. Many people are surprised.”

Lang says, dryly, “Including, occasionally, Fitz.”