Page 136 of The Lies We Play

“She found provenance irregularities. Her credentials appear to have been used repeatedly on Saint Claire-funded authentication work she says she didn't perform.”

That should be the part I focus on.

Fraud. Foundation. Documents. Credentials. Danger.

Instead, I hear only one thing.

She is alive.

She is awake somewhere.

My Liv is alive during the same night Halston called me.

The room tilts again.

I grip the edge of the counter.

“Creed,” Fitz says.

“Did she ask about me?”

The question leaves me stripped.

I hate that it comes before the strategy, before the danger, before every useful thing I should be asking.

Fitz is quiet.

A second too long.

“Yes,” he says. “She asked if you were safe.”

I press my fingers to my eyes until color sparks behind them.

Safe?

No.

I have not been safe in ten years. Not in a way she would mean. Not in a way Halston would know. I have been functioning. Paid. Applauded. Insured. Monitored by trainers, doctors, and coaches who care about my body because it wins games.

Safe is something else.

Safe was an apartment in Chelsea with a couch where Liv’s bare feet were tucked under Halston’s thigh, and my hand on her knee while Halston read legal clauses like he could bore evil into surrendering.

Safe was her laughing when I said love should be grounds for suing the Saint Claire estate.

Safe was Halston’s mouth on mine after he said never.

“Give me her number.”

“You can’t call her tonight.”

I lower my hand. “You don’t get to tell me that.”

“I do if you want her alive.”

The room goes silent.

I stand.